Archive of Our Own

“There's something better in this heat,

Getting it on,

I feel the warmth, I feel the greed,

And I fear the fall,

I hold this window wide enough,

To keep the whole world,

I want to spit out all this stuff,

And keep the girl.”

Vertical Horizon - Sunshine

The first time he sees the Kid again, he barely realizes it’s him before he’s gone.

He’s on Tatooine—nothing to do with Fett, for once—and the sand has been seeping through the edges of his beskar, and sucking the sweat out of his skin for hours. Almost as long as he’s been negotiating with two armor-clad Weekays at a secluded table in the corner of the local cantina. They’re escorting a Nemoidian whose cover is flimsy enough that he noticed it the second he stepped into the dimly-lit hall. They want his protection through the desert to Bestine in exchange for what the Nemoidian’s family can provide for the effort to reclaim Mandalore.

The news of their recent settlement on the surface of the glass planet has been around the galaxy twice.

They assume he isn’t alone. They’re right. Bo-Katan is right out of atmo, on the cruiser—the one she kept for lack of ripping the Darksaber from his cooling corpse, or that of Moff Gideon—and Paz remained outside, scouting the vicinity for information about the Nemoidian’s latest whereabouts, as well as the paralegal activities of his family. Bo-Katan wants all the resources she can get, but she won’t associate with slavers, and they are legion on Tatooine.

The New Republic has been trying to eradicate slavery, but the senators are too busy squabbling among themselves to put in any real effort. Right. He wouldn’t have known anything of it if Bo-Katan hadn’t sunk her claws into him to have him listen after—after.

Now he’s there, sweating in his beskar in the dim lighting of the cantina. The Nemoidian watches him from the back of the alcove he’s prostrated in, while his bodyguards try to wear him down. They want a whole platoon to cross the desert, whether or not that’s wise. He can’t remember the Nemoidian’s name. Bo-Katan is the one who knows, and when she doesn’t remember, Koska does. He wishes she wouldn’t demand that he put himself in this situation—or the others.

“You’re Mand’alor, now, you must care for your people,” she told him, once the Kid was gone—swept up in black-covered arms—and his bucket was back where it belonged.

“This is the way,” she told him, when he offered her the sword—the kriffing Darksaber—again, and she refused it with the cold resolve of an alpha without a choice.

She could have fought him for it. Alpha to alpha, Mandalorian to Mandalorian, but she didn’t, and now he’s here. In the cantina, in the dark, with a sword he cannot and does not want to use strapped at his waist, and the weight of centuries of war he barely knows anything about weighing on his shoulder.

The fight breaks out in an instant—on the other side of the hall. It comes from the streets. Or perhaps it just explodes the way rage does. With blasterfire and shouting that pulls his hackles up before he realizes. Paz is close in an instant—must’ve been around before the fighting started. He crosses the room in strides, less to protect him, and more to make sure he doesn’t fight alone if shit comes to that.

The Weekays rise to action, blasters ready to protect their charge. He watches the closest one fall under a lost vibroblade. Ducks under a table, and blasts his way out of the cantina when the Nemoidian hits the ground.

Outside, it’s chaos.

“Let’s go, vodbrother," Paz grunts behind him, and he feels the warmth of his gloved hand on his shoulder blade where the beskar gives space for the thermal underneath.

They make a way through the frenzied crowd. Whatever started the fight—or whatever the commotion is—it isn’t confined to the cantina, or even this street. Everyone’s aiming at each other, firing at each other, and it’s almost refreshing how, for once, there’s no blaster directed at him or intentionally, anyway.

He feels it before he sees them.

Among the chaos of sand, dust, and inarticulate growling from nearby alphas going at each other like feral animals, the silhouette catches his eye, and he stops.

Black. All black, and a single splash of pale green, bundled up among sand-colored fabric.

The Jedi.

He’s standing there among the whirlwind, and his eyes—he didn’t get to see his eyes before—they’re something in there, something bright and yet, dangerous like the glow of the Darksaber.

“Jetii,” Paz hisses in his ear, growls, almost, and his hand inches toward the blaster strapped to his thigh before Din can grab the wrist and squeeze.

“No.”

Paz—strong, loyal Paz—growls at him, and he can hear the bared teeth in his voice, “We have to go,” but he knows. They don’t have anything to fear from the Jedi, not even when his eyes find the Kid through his tinted visor, and his big brown eyes shine like a thousand beacons in the void.

“Din,” Paz growls again, but he doesn’t move.

He can’t.

The Jedi is watching them, and his eyes—they’re not glowing, not exactly, but they’re on him, and Din Djarin is only a man—only an alpha launched at the head of a Tribe that barely wants him.

He knows this gaze.

The Jedi doesn’t see him—cannot see the way his lips stretch over his teeth in a display so useless he hasn’t let himself do it in years, not since he was a foundling and eager to prove himself to the Tribe that had saved him. He simply looks, and his cape billows in the sand-dry heat of Tatooine before a bantha charges across the street, and Paz pulls him out of the way by the back of his beskar.

When Din catches himself on the closest wall, gloves scraping against the coarse surface, his eyes jump back, if only to catch a last glimpse—

The Jedi is gone.

What he was doing there, why he stood among the furious turmoil the way he did—placid—Din leaves Tatooine without knowing.

He wishes he’d never let the Kid go.

Bo-Katan doesn’t notice it, or perhaps she ignores it the way he tries to, but he does. He is only a man, an alpha without a clan, where he used to have someone. A foundling. A child. A son.

A kih’jetii padawan.

Paz doesn’t take the helmet off in front of any of them, not the way Koska and Bo-Katan do. He keeps it on, solidly anchored to his head the way Din always has. They work together—Bo-Katan and the Covert. The armorer left Nevarro, never came back. Finding her again was hard—she doesn’t leave her new forge, on a relatively lonely desert planet of the inner Rim—but not too much once he found Paz. Once Paz found him.

He didn’t expect his first fight for the damned sword to be with his childhood comrade, but here they are. He won, if only because he couldn’t die by Paz’s hand. Now, the other Mandalorian alpha shadows him—loyal, yes, because he remains a man of honor despite his bitterness.

The Darksaber used to belong to his clan—clan Vizsla. Now, it belongs to Din, and Din has no clan.

The second time he sees the Kid, he’s dreaming.

He knows he’s dreaming because he’s never experienced anything like this in his life.

He sees the Kid in a clearing, but he also sees himself in the strange way that only dreams can achieve. He doesn’t wear his bucket—that would have tipped him off if he didn’t already know what was happening. He walks anyway. The scents are elusive around him, and so are the edges of the clearing. The grass is lush, though, and the air is crisp.

The Kid is watching him among the grasses, and Din kneels on the green, stretching his hand out until three soft-clawed talons wrap around his finger, pawing at him to come closer.

Hugging the Kid feels like coming home.

Ad’ika, he thinks. My child. My son.

“Buir,” is what answers in an echo, and though it’s just a dream, Din holds his son against his chest like his body could protect him from the rest of the universe.

It doesn’t. Wherever the Kid is, he’s not there.

Din wakes up with the faraway scent of grass in his nose and wonders if it would have been preferable not to dream at all.

“Once they take your ad’e children,” Bo-Katan tells him, “you can never see them again.”

Din doesn’t answer, but he wishes for a split second that she would have told him before he put his son in the arms of a Jedi. He also wishes she would take the sword from him and leave him alone.

She doesn’t.

She wants Mandalore. She wants her people back, and her Creed, and her history, and her power. She wants to sit on the throne as an honorable alpha to guide their people. She wishes he would be more of an honorable alpha himself.

“I won’t fight you for the Darksaber until you can actually wield it.”

“And how do you expect me to do that?”

She raises an eyebrow at him, “By training with it, for one,” and Din grimaces under his bucket.

On the other side of the room—they’re still on the cruiser, and Din hates that it’s become familiar over the last months—Paz grunts, and Axe Woves marches over without looking at him. He’s a beta. Competent, but loyal to his alpha, and reluctant to acknowledge the power Din supposedly has since he bested Moff Gideon in combat.

“Bo-Katan, the New Republic has sent a request for an audience.”

Din’s gaze remains trained on the emptiness outside the cruiser’s window.

Bo-Katan clicks her tongue, “This is addressed to the Mand’alor,” and though he doesn’t turn around, he feels the tension rise in the air.

“I know who I speak to,” Woves says, and the growl in Bo-Katan’s chest has him stomping down the urge to answer with one of his own.

“Do not dishonor me, Axe, I do not challenge.”

A pause.

“You should.”

“Wanna try it yourself?” Din asks without as much as stepping away from the window, and though Woves stiffens under his gaze, filtered by his visor, he doesn’t pursue—only lowers his gaze.

“No, Mand’alor.”

Without the helmet, he looks vulnerable.

Din doesn’t want the sword, but the beta could not take it from him. He wouldn’t let him, and he hates that he knows that.

At night, he sits in his quarters—the ones he was given on the cruiser—and stares at the Darksaber like it will speak to him.

It doesn’t.

When he ignites it, standing alone and without his helmet in the privacy of his quarters, he is prepared to feel something, something different from the adrenaline-fueled nothingness of the last time he held it after defeating its master.

Nothing comes. It’s just a sword. He feels nothing from it. No adequation, no animosity, nothing. And yet.

As he stares at the lightning-dark blade of it, his mind is assaulted with images of the Jedi. Of his billowing cape, and the stark contrast of his blue eyes with the darkness within them. He puts down the sword and makes himself sleep the images away.

He leaves the cruiser in a shuttle two days later.

Bo-Katan knows. She watches him leave with a smirk as she crosses her arms over her beskar chest plate.

“I trust you’ll come back when you’ve found them.”

How she knows, he can’t begin to decipher. What’s on the datastick she throws him from the landing bay, he only discovers once he’s in hyperspace.

Information. Information about the Jedi, and what’s left of them after the Empire wiped them out—or almost did, since Din at least knows of two.

He learns of their ways before the Empire and the Clone Wars. He learns they used to take children from their families and train them into their order of sorcerers. He learns they can feel the minds of all creatures and cause great destruction. He also learns they used to be healers, and remembers the Kid’s exhaustion after he mended the wound on Greef’s arm, back on Nevarro.

Din doesn’t trust Bo-Katan’s information—doesn’t allow himself to. He needs a teacher, though, or someone will end up killing him for the damned sword, or it might fall into the hands of someone cruel enough to break what’s left of his people.

Din sits at the controls of the shuttle and sighs.

He needs a teacher, and Ashoka Tano could be that.

The Togruta isn’t on Corvus anymore, and Din doesn’t know if he should like the fact that Bo-Katan knows so much of her whereabouts.

He only takes the lead she slipped among all the data. A lead that takes him to the base planet of a Twi'lek smuggling ring in the Corellian system.

It’s a humid planet. One that’s suitable for their constitution, and that of many other species. From what he knows, they don’t deal souls, only other material goods—drugs, machines, weapons, and other valuables. He finds his contact in an underground market, where the air smells moist and full of the scent of spices and pheromones. On the side of the market hall, bars and shops sell all kinds of alcohol and foods—from Sacorrian liquor to roasted Kowakian monkey-lizard—and yet, the air still stinks.

People don’t use inhibitors here—Twi’lekes don’t care for them—and Din activates the ventilator within his bucket before the smell can give him a headache.

Doesn’t stop the girl behind the counter from eyeing him like she might eat him when he sits near his contact.

He doesn’t need to speak. The Rodian is a female. Old enough to know her way around these parts, though her species ages faster than his. She beckons him to the back of the hall, into an alcove with sticky benches, and Din sits in front of her before throwing her a coin of local credits.

She grabs it, presses her fingers to the surface, and nods.

“You want the Jedi,” she says in rusty basic, and he nods.

“Where?”

She eyes him, cocks her head, and sniffs the air in his direction.

“The Jedi was last seen on Coruscant, but who knows how long she will remain.”

So hurry the kriff up, she doesn’t say, but he hears it anyway. He nods, accepts the grim reality of the information, and takes his leave. The Twi’lek is still watching him, and a shiver of discomfort slithers up his back.

Omega. He cannot smell her, thank kriff for that, but he knows that look. Nifa Hindes had the same when he met her, and she would have used him until he died if he’d let her. Her brother was a beta, but he carried some of that deadly fire within. Din can’t say he’s sad the asshole’s dead.

He leaves the planet with an uncomfortable urge to wash the pheromones away, and switches ship on the next off-map harbor he can find, on a secluded planet of the galaxy.

The ship is smaller than the Razor Crest, but she’ll do. She’s comfortable enough, though he misses his old cockpit, his old bed. He misses the Kid and his near-obsession with the metal ball he only recovered by chance, misses the small feet pattering around the gridded floor, hiding behind boxes, and the brown eyes watching him as he pilots.

Din misses it all like a limb, but he sets course toward Coruscant and prays he’ll get there before the Jedi leaves.

His rut takes him by surprise.

He wakes from a fitful night of sleep on the second day in his new ship, covered in sweat, and catches himself growling at his own scent as he peels himself from his bedding. It reeks.

Din hasn’t had a rut in a while. He’s always been irregular. The ventilator and discouraged physical contact with other sentients don’t help with his cycle. At thirty-nine, he somehow remembers his last rut being two years ago. Usually, he deals with them by procuring cycle-suppressing meds, but they make him drowsy, and when the Kid was there—he didn’t feel the need, and his cycle didn’t bother him.

Ad’ika, he thinks, as he eyes the blanket he used to cover the Kid with, and the churning irritation in his belly flares at the sight, making him growl and grimace at his own stupidity.

Of course, you didn’t rut while he was there; he’s your child.

Din doesn’t have a child anymore. He’s alone, and an alpha, and he’s in rut, and everything hurts.

He uses his hand to relieve the pain—bites into his thumb to keep his mind from wandering. Paz used to help when they were teens. There were others, over the years—other alphas, betas, sometimes, but never omegas.

The widow on Sorgan, Omera, would have taken him. She wanted to. She didn’t use inhibitors—none of her tribe did—but Din would have never dishonored her in such a way. Not even when her comforting scent of meadows and pine wrapped around him in a gentle attempt to have him stay. He thinks of her as he squeezes his shaft, pressing his thumb on the ridge of the head.

She was beautiful. She wanted him, and he could have wanted her, but—but.

Omegas deserve only the best, and Din, no matter what the sword at his side says, isn’t that.

He pushes the thought of her away and comes to the usual scenario he only seldom uses, when his body demands it.

His rut lasts two agonizing days, and Din spends too long in the fresher washing the scent of himself away—the sweat, the cum, the need screaming for release in every cell of his body. He washes it off and still wishes he’d had actual water to do it. Maybe he’ll find somewhere on Coruscant when he gets there.

Maybe not.

He reaches the atmosphere of the city-planet a few days later, states his business as he circles a lesser space port, and is allowed to land without worry. The information he gives about the ship is forged, of course. He’ll choose a new one once he is trained with the Darksaber.

When he opens the hatch, the sounds of the city-planet assault him first, and he grits his teeth. He hasn’t been on Coruscant in years, and the buzzing and growling of engines whizzing by is a lot to get used to. He didn’t miss it. The smell alone—it’s got him turning on his ventilator within seconds.

Din starts his search in a cantina—the best place, some would say—and though he hasn’t been around in a while, his bucket tells the patrons all they need to know about him. He usually finds what he needs in such places, but there, today, he’s only sent further down under the outer level of the planet.

Who knows how many there are, and what secrets they hold? He’s assured that he won’t find the Jedi too deep within the planet, though, only that those who know where she might be live down there. The streets are winding, and the people are poorer the deeper he gets. On the way to the lowest he’s ever been, he meets all kinds of beings, though he avoids the droids when he can. A Togruta elder sends him deeper than he ever hoped to go for scraps of info that leave his skin crawling. A couple of cyborgs send him back up with enough to know he isn’t about to be arrested when he reaches the surface.

When he finds her, the Jedi is far higher than he’d anticipated.

She sits in a garden up in the clouds, on top of a tower covered with glass and silvery metal. The wind sweeps through the nearby trees in bloom with the scent of concrete and too many souls, and Din almost starts when she looks at him over her shoulder.

“Mandalorian, I’m glad we can finally meet again.”

Din stops in the shadow of a stone column. Studies her. She is the same, though her clothes aren’t those of a wanderer this time—rather those of a lady of some station. Her smile is serene. He approaches, but declines to sit with her when she gestures at her bench.

“You were waiting for me.”

It’s not a question, and she knows it.

“I had a feeling.” She smiles. “There is something you wish to ask of me.”

Din doesn’t nod. She isn’t much older than him—or perhaps she is. He doesn’t know the intricacies of a Jedi’s life—if their sorcery lengthens it, strengthens them, or something else. He shows her the Darksaber, though, ignites it to let her see the burden it is.

Her eyes do not widen, nor does she look surprised, but she cocks her head.

“Ah, I see Bo-Katan Kryze has found herself a new Mand’alor.”

“I don’t want it,” he replies, before turning it off. “I offered it to her, but she—”

“Believes she should earn it the way you did?”

Right.

He doesn’t reply—doesn’t need to—and she hums.

“You wish for me to train you with this saber, correct?”

“If it is within your power to teach me, then yes.”

Ashoka Tano is no Mandalorian, but the durasteel in her gaze tells him she would be a formidable teacher. She stands, and in her hand, one of her star-white lightsabers ignites.

“Then come, Mand’alor, and show me what you’re made of.”

Din follows her lead, and the starlight blades collide with dual shrieks that make him wish he could crawl out of his skin.

The fight is short. Din fights with what he is given, but the Jedi is made for her weapons, and if she had not taught him respect back on Corvus, she would have taught him now. Her lightning blade dances in the declining sunlight, lighter than a feather, and more deadly, he knows, than any other weapon. Without his beskar, Din would have died many times over, he suspects, and in his hands, the void-bright sword that made him king remains just that. A sword.

It has none of the grace of Ashoka Tano’s blade. None of its soul.

She puts him on his knees within seconds—or that’s what it feels like—and as he looks upon her, he feels within himself that she is older. Much older than he is.

“You fight well, Mand’alor,” she states as her lightsaber retracts, and he accepts her offered hand with a grunt.

“You flattened me in seconds.”

“A minute,” she replies with the barest hint of a smile, and he huffs, staring at the Darksaber in his hand with a scowl he knows she can’t see.

“I don’t like this weapon.”

She hums, “Neither do I,” before opening her hand to let him give it to her. “This blade has been filled with much sorrow—much pain.

“I cannot train you with it, nor will I take it from you, as the customs of your people would demand.” She sighs. “I have sacrificed much to remain within the Light, and training you—an alpha so attached to his son with a weapon so full of darkness, it would keep me from honoring the Order that raised me, and from what I wish to accomplish.”

Dank farrik.

Din steps back, retrieving the saber.

“So you will not help me?”

“I did not say that,” Ashoka Tano replies with a hint of a smile. “I said that I would not train you, but that doesn’t mean I cannot show you to someone who can.”

Oh.

“There are other Jedi?”

He knows there are. He’s seen one. A Jedi clad in black with eyes the color of the bluest skies. He means other Jedi, but Ashoka Tano only hums.

“I know of one, though he is much younger than I am; we were—trained by similar people, and most importantly, I know someone who can lead you to him.”

Right.

“I cannot see him.”

She blinks at him.

“Why not?”

“He has my ad—the Kid, Grogu, I was told I could not see him again.”

“Ah,” she replies, before shaking her head. “Those were the ways of the old Order, my order, the Jedi you think of is of another creed, as you’d say, he will not stop you from seeing the Child again, nor will he turn you away should you still wish to train with him once you meet him.”

Din stops, “Why would I not?” but she only smiles.

“You shall see, now come, I need to introduce you to someone.”

She leaves without further ado, and Din is left to follow her through the garden and into the tower.

Of all people, he did not expect Ashoka Tano to introduce him to none other than Counselor Leia Organa, late princess of the fallen planet of Alderaan. She did not tell him, and Din is met with the fact when the Jedi takes him through hall after all of a Coruscanti palace that is emptier than Din would’ve thought it should be.

He doesn’t recognize her—isn’t used to the professional yet luxurious cut of her dress—but Ashoka Tano bows her head in respect, and when the woman looks up after doing the same, Din is struck with a feeling of deja vu that sends a shiver down his spine.

He’s seen this gaze before. Her eyes are brown, and yet, the glint there, it reminds him of someone.

“Mand’alor, this is Leia Organa, Counselor of the New Republic, General of the Rebel Army, and princess of Alderaan.”

Din is almost too stunned to speak. Luckily for him, the Counselor cocks her head in greeting.

“Mand’alor, it is an honor to meet you, though I suspect this encounter is far from official.”

As she speaks, she glances at the Jedi, and the latter nods.

“The Mand’alor wishes to train in the way of the lightsaber, but I cannot give him the teachings he seeks.”

Counselor Organa blinks, then. Her eyes—bright, bright like someone else’s—glint in the dim lighting of the hall, and she hums.

“So you brought him to me, so I could bring him to him.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” She hums, nods. “Very well, I shall let him know that you’d like to speak to him, but—his response might take a moment.”

Ashoka Tano frowns, “Is he unwell?” but the Counselor shakes her head.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, but he tends to get—territorial, even with me sometimes, we were raised differently after all.”

Right. That explains nothing. Din doesn’t interfere, though. This conversation is none of this business.

“In the meantime, Mand’alor,” the Counselor declares, then, smiling at Din though the weight of her gaze hasn’t dissipated. “I would be glad to invite you to my lodging so that you might enjoy a comfortable stay until I receive a response.”

Din surveys her. She isn’t threatening him, and yet, he feels something there. A heaviness. The Jedi emits something similar, but this is deeper—more raw, and powerful in ways that show Ashoka Tano’s control over herself. The Counselor, whatever she is, isn’t to be trifled with.

“I would be honored to reside within your home, but I can’t; my helmet mustn’t be removed in the presence of another,” he replies, bowing his head as much as he can muster in the presence of two very real threats.

Slowly, the Counselor cocks her head, “I see,” before smiling. “Then allow me to recommend you to some inn, I shall send you someone when I get an answer.”

“Deal,” he replies in the customary way, and the crinkle of amusement in the corner of her eyes warms him in a way he cannot explain, before the Jedi leads him out.

They come out into the Coruscanti night. Din breathes in the scents, the polluted wind, the smell of engines—grimaces at them—and the Jedi chuckles next to him before facing him in the light of the nearest street lamp.

“I will leave you now, Mand’alor, but I should warn you before you carry on your journey.”

As he nods, she studies him with a steady gaze.

“The Jedi you are set to meet is young, but powerful, and tormented—he has been through many hardships, and he might demand of you more than he can take for himself.”

“Should I expect to meet an enemy, then?” Din asks, but she shakes her head.

“No, but you should be ready to be tested in your body and soul.”

Right.

Din leaves her with a heaviness in his chest. He finds the inn easily. Its prices are high, but he discovers, upon reaching the counter and asking for a room, that the Counselor has already paid for all his expenses. He isn’t the type to take charity, but something tells him that’s not what this is.

The room that awaits him isn’t grand, but it is larger than what he is used to and clean.

Din doesn’t remove the beskar. He checks everything for bugs first. The furniture, the doors, the ceiling. The fresher—which is an actual bathroom, color him surprised—and every corner that comes to mind.

Only does he relax when he is certain not to be watched or listened to, and even then, he only does so marginally.

The Counselor sends him someone later—days later—and the someone in question turns out to be kriffing Han Solo. With a Wookie, not less.

“Hey pal, I’m told you wanna meet my best friend,” the man—human beta, smiling and friendly in ways that are almost disturbing considering his reputation—greets him without preamble when he sits at Din’s table in the cantina he was eating at.

Din doesn’t ask how he knew he was there. Solo orders food for himself and the Wookie while bickering with him all along, and Din cocks his head.

“The Counselor sends you.”

“Yes, my wife sent me,” Solo replies, blunt as can be, and Din blinks.

His wife. Han Solo, the smuggler, is married to an Alderaani princess.

“And you know the Jedi?”

Solo blinks up from his food, “Luke? Sure, that’s my best friend,” and Din blinks again.

Luke.

“Can you bring me to him?”

Another pause. The Wookie growls something—whines, more like—but Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook, and Solo’s reactions are his only hint at what’s being said.

“Come on, old pal, the Mando’s not gonna try to kill Luke—” He raises an eyebrow at Din. “Are you?”

Din only stares back, “I need information from him,” and the smuggler snorts.

“Sure thing, pal, but I’m gonna need more than that.”

The Wookie growls—honks? Wails?—again, and Solo clicks his tongue.

“What? S’not because the princess says something that I can’t make sure.”

Din doesn’t sigh, but he wants to.

“I need specific training that only he can provide.”

A pause. Solo surveys him. Studies him. Pokes his tongue in his cheek as the Wookie eats.

“Be on your ship tomorrow before first light. I’ll escort you out and send you the coordinates when we’re out of atmo.”

On these words, he throws a few credits to a passing droid and leaves with his Wookie in tow.

Din is on his ship before sunrise the next morning, and he stiffens when a familiar voice crackles in his radio, full of haughty laughter that leaves him more uneasy than he’d like.

“This is the Millennium Falcon, Mando, d’you copy?”

Din takes no time to answer.

“I copy.”

“Good, get your ass into gear and follow me, we’ve got some way to go before I can give you the coordinates.”

The Jedi is located on Ossus, a forest and ocean planet in the Adega system.

Solo only gives him the coordinates once, when they’re in outer space and Din knows there aren’t any planets or stars around for parsecs.

“Better get going now Mando, he knows you’re coming,” the smuggler says—gloats, almost—like Din is going after something he can’t handle, but he cares little for the opinion of Han Solo.

He doesn’t bother with goodbyes, and neither does the pilot.

Making his way to Ossus takes days.

Din sleeps when he can, and works his way through the data on Bo-Katan’s datastick when he cannot.

When he reaches the planet, he finds it peaceful, from space. Green and blue. Almost uninhabited, though it could have been a capital planet had it been closer to the core of the galaxy. One of its two moons is covered with forests, and the sole sun at the center of the system bathes them all in a golden glow. Perfect living conditions.

Din enters the atmosphere with the intention of following the coordinates given by Solo. They direct him to what seems to be a plateau of forests and natural fields among a landscape of mountains near a blue ocean. When he finds the X-wing among the greenery, Din knows he’s in the right place.

His ship lands easily on a flat patch of tall grasses, and when he climbs down from the hatch, the scent of forests and clean wind wraps around him like a glove.

The X-wing is old.

He approaches it gingerly, without daring to touch.

This is no mere ship—it’s an artefact of war, and no Mandalorian would dare disrespect such a thing.

“It’s served me well, I usually have my Astromech with me, but he’s in maintenance,” comes a voice from behind him, and Din almost jumps, stiffening before his hand can close around the handle of his blaster when his eyes find the familiar silhouette of the Jedi among the grasses.

Ka’ra, he is so young. Ashoka Tano told him he would be, and without the black cape and durasteel gaze, he looks like it.

“Jedi,” he greets, and the man—the jetii—slowly approaches before bowing his head with a smile.

“Mand’alor, you honor me with your presence.”

Right. He is different from the last time Din saw him—he seems softer, now clad in grey and maroon robes that hide the shape of his silhouette—but his eyes are the same. The same blue pools of lightning-bright darkness, the same whirlwind of power and danger.

“The Counselor told you I would come,” Din says, and the Jedi smiles again.

“And I felt you arrive when you entered atmo,” he chuckles. “I’m not the only one.”

Oh.

Din’s heart lurches. He steps forward, and the Jedi steps aside, extending a hand toward the nearby edge of the trees.

“Come, the little one would like to see you.”

Din doesn’t run after him, but it’s a near thing.

The trees are tall on Ossus. Taller than they were on Sorgan, and older too. The Jedi leads him through them, past a stream and vegetable garden that seems to grow well. What he finds at the end of the dirt path isn’t one of the temple-palaces of Bo-Katan’s data on jetiise, only a mud hut with a round roof that must only be tall enough for a man to stand in, and reminds him of somewhere. It’s got a few rooms, a bigger one at the centre, and a chimney, poking out from the back. The glass windows show a dim interior, and the Jedi opens the door—sliding metal, like those on Tatooine—for him, smiling when Din cocks his head as thanks.

“Ossus used to be one of the old Jedi Order’s bases,” he says as Din takes in the almost spartan interior. “The old temples still exist, but I didn’t feel comfortable making a home in them—not when they hold so many ghosts.”

The entrance hall walls are bare, but the main room is warm from the flames of the fire in the hearth at the back, and the floor is covered with a pelt of some sort. On the sides, windows allow some light to get in between the doorways leading to other rooms.

Din nods, “This seems—comfortable,” and the Jedi chuckles.

“You can say it looks like a dump, my friend Han says it does when he comes over; he and Leia have been trying to get me to decorate since I built the place.”

Leia. Counselor Organa. Din nods.

“You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” the Jedi replies. “You wish to learn how to use the Darksaber, the weapon that’s made you Mand’alor, right?”

“Right.”

He nods, “Then you’ll need to stay a while,” before smiling as he looks over his shoulder. “But look who’s there.”

Din follows his gaze, and his heart lurches the same way his entire being does when he finds the Kid—Grogu, ad’ika—in the doorway of one of the other rooms.

He doesn’t wait for the Jedi’s approval, and neither does the Kid.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he mutters when the small body is gathered between his arms and gently held to his chest, and the Kid’s excited coos bring a burn to his eyes as he kneels on the earthen floor.

Ad’ika, his heart screams. Ad’ika, my son, he breathes into the Kid's fuzzy-haired head, and when a soft-clawed hand touches the edge of his helmet, he can only hum and hold his son tighter as the Jedi softly pads away behind him.

“He’s been calling you buir,” he says as his voice grows farther away, “we have discussed much, and I didn’t have the heart to keep you separated; secure attachment should be encouraged in younglings, and it’s clear he is very attached to you.”

Right. Attachment.

“Is it not forbidden?” Din asks, and when the Jedi comes back, he’s carrying a tray with three cups of what Din suspects is tea.

“It was, before the Wars, and I suppose it should still be, but—well.” He shrugs as he sits on one of the round stuffed pillows around a small wooden table. “It was the rule against attachment that hastened the fall of the old Order, and I’m not eager to repeat the experience.”

Right.

“He calls me buir?”

The Jedi smiles, “He does, it means parent, right?” to which Din can only nod while carrying the Kid to the small table. “Sit, I made this from local plants; it’s a little sharp, but not too bitter.”

Din thanks him as he sits the child in his lap, and appreciates the softness of the pillows as the Jedi sips on the warm tea.

“How long can you stay?” he asks without looking at him, and Din observes his body language as the Kid grabs his own cup. He’s relaxed, and yet, there’s a tension within his limbs, something strung tight without an outlet. Din wonders what it is, but doesn’t find it in himself to ask.

“I’ll remain as long as it takes for you to train me.”

A pause.

“It could take months.”

“I learn fast.”

The Jedi presses his lips tight, “Right,” before huffing. “Drink your tea, I’ll turn around.”

Oh.

Din blinks.

“You already saw my face.”

“You didn’t show it to me,” the Jedi replies, “and Grogu explained.”

Right.

Din watches him turn around as he said he would, and finds the Kid staring at him the same way he used to when he was waiting for something. He huffs, quiet, takes the helmet off—if only to drain his cup—and grimaces at the burn it leaves on his tongue.

The scents of the hut hit him unfiltered, and he takes a deep, grounding breath. He’s Mandalorian, but he doesn’t rely on smell to hunt as a bounty hunter. His nose does pick up the homey scent of the space, though—the way it wraps around them like a blanket. The Kid coos at him, raises a hand toward his face, and Din almost sobs to feel his soft talons against his jaw as he lowers himself to the Kid’s level.

“He missed you,” the Jedi says, without looking, and Din puts his helmet back on as he nods.

“So did I.”

A chuckle, “I could tell,” then the Jedi sighs and stands up. “The little one will show you your room. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

Din watches him go, “So you will train me?” and the Jedi shakes a hand at him as he gathers supplies from the side of the entrance hall.

“Yes, yes, we’ll start tomorrow, you arrived on my day off.”

Jedi have days off?

“Patoo,” the Kid chirps from his lap, waving his master goodbye, and the smile the Jedi throws over his shoulder is warm, though he doesn’t say another word.

Din is left there with the Kid, and follows him through the mud house until he’s finally shown to his room—a simple circle with a dome roof, tall enough for him, and a window on the side. A bed that’s comfortable enough, and a fresher he didn’t expect to find here. Perhaps the Counselor helped the Jedi gather supplies before he built this place. Perhaps he had other people to help. Perhaps.

Din spends the rest of the day with the Kid.

Ossus is a quiet planet. Outside the hut—house, something—the forest bustles with the wind, and the faraway singing of birds or other creatures. Din sits on the grass near a wooden table, supposedly built by the Jedi, as the Kid plays with wooden balls and rocks a little further away. Sometimes, he will toddle over to hand him one, and pull it out of his hand with his mind—or however it is that his powers work.

The Jedi comes back when the sun starts falling, carrying a hairy creature over his shoulder like it weighs nothing as he marches out from between the tall trees. He wears the same clothes he did earlier, minus the robe, and his lightsaber hangs from his waist.

Perhaps it is how he killed the beast.

Din offers his help to prepare dinner. The Jedi accepts with a nod and a smile as he brings his kill around the house and to what Din assumes to be the kitchen. The animal is a mud yak. A male, killed further in the forest away from its herd. The Jedi hunted it for its meat, as well as its bones and fur.

“I’m from Tatooine,” he explains as they prepare the meat he’ll freeze and store away so as not to waste anything. “When you grow up in the desert, you learn to use every part of the rare animals you come across.”

Din knows. He nods anyway. The kitchen area is big enough for two, and well-equipped. The domed ceiling is higher above his head, and the neon lights above the kitchen counter provide the lighting that the windows on the sides cannot. The Jedi also possesses a large freezer and cupboards filled with various spices and vegetables. He doesn’t use the saber to prepare the meat, and Din wonders, in passing, if it’s because it would cook it. The knife he does use is sharp, though, as sharp as Din’s, and as efficient in the way he wields it.

“What will you do with the bones?”

“Tools, I think, toys for the little one, if he so wishes,” the Jedi replies, and Din nods.

The Kid will like that.

“I will help, if you like.”

The Jedi blinks at him, “With the toys?” and Din nods.

“With the hunt too.” He catches himself and amends. “If I’m not overstepping, of course.”

“Of course you’re not,” the Jedi replies with a chuckle, “I’m always glad to share work.”

Alright. He cuts another piece of red meat into small dice and huffs as he puts them into a wooden bowl.

“I must apologize in advance, I have not used inhibitors in a long time, and I might need to order some if my—scent bothers you.”

A pause. The Jedi nods as he stacks containers of meat on top of each other to put them in the freezer.

“It’s no bother, but you can borrow some of mine before Han brings me more.”

Oh.

“You use them.”

The Jedi hums, “Of course, I wouldn’t want to bother the little one with such things, and it’s more practical to hunt,” to which Din can only cock his head.

“As you say.”

“You shouldn’t worry though,” comes the playful addition, then, as the Jedi grins at him. “From what I’m smelling, your scent isn’t bad—s’quite fitting, even, and the little one likes it.”

Oh.

Din doesn’t reply—doesn’t need to, he knows—but his belly and chest flare with warmth, and he swallows.

The Kid chirps from the kitchen doorway, and the Jedi marches over to perch him on his shoulder.

“He likes to see what I’m doing when we aren’t training.”

“How do you do it, training?” Din asks, then, and he hums.

“You’ll see tomorrow, now c’mon, chop some veg’ for me, I’ll heat the pan.”

Din cocks his head and complies.

They eat near the fire. The Kid perched himself on Din’s crossed lap when the Jedi served up the food, and now, Din listens to the sound of the fire slowly consuming the wood in the hearth. It smells good. Homey. Comfortable.

Night is falling on Ossus, and the skies erupt with aurora borealis that stretch across the night, visible through the windows.

“I’ll turn around so you can eat,” the Jedi declares as he does just that, and Din shakes his head, gently holding the Kid on his knee so he can be the one to do it.

“Don’t, it’s your house.”

“I insist,” comes the answer, and Din grits his teeth.

“Jedi—”

“It’s Luke.”

A pause. Din blinks. Blue eyes staring at him—piercing through him. Blue, holding the weight of a thousand storms within. Blond hair that’s longer than it was the first time Din saw him—that gleams with the glow of the flames. Covers the back of his neck. His clothes are worn, but well-maintained, and the stiff fabric collar hugs the shape of his nape like a hand. His skin is gold.

Din licks his lips.

“Luke.”

The Jedi—Luke—smirks at him over his shoulder, and finishes to settle with his back turned as he hums.

“I’m not aware of many of your customs, Mand’alor, but if you’re to train with me, then you might as well know me by name.” He scoffs and waves a hand at Din without looking again. “Now eat, I can speak without watching you.”

Din doesn’t argue—and why would he? He pulls off his helmet, sets it aside, and makes himself look at the steaming bowl of stew in his hand. Next to the Jedi, he feels overdressed.

“You shouldn’t give a stranger your back,” is what comes out the next time he speaks, and Luke only chuckles as he eats.

“I’m not giving you anything other than privacy; you and I both know you wouldn’t try to hurt me, and even if you did, I’m sure I could deal with it.”

Right. Din breathes in—finds no scent to study even though the Jedi sits inches away from him—and huffs.

“You’re right.”

The Kid chirps again, pawing at him, and Din raises him to his shoulder so he can touch his face as Din brings the first spoonful to his mouth.

It’s good. The Jedi—Luke—is a good cook. The Kid devours the contents of his bowl, asks for seconds, and is rewarded by a floating ladle directed by the tip of Luke’s finger. Din watches it happen while munching on meat and vegetables, and though the Kid chirps at him, he knows it’s Luke he’s speaking to. He knows by the way the Jedi’s shoulders shake when he chuckles, the way he hums, nodding his head like the Kid is telling him a story.

Din watches him more than he does the Kid. His son has no scent, other than that of a baby. He smells young. Clean. His own scent will develop with age—in a century or two, if he’s to trust how old the Kid already is. The Jedi, though—Luke. He doesn’t smell like anything. Inhibitors. Din prefers to work with those who use them, as there are other ways to know where someone stands, but here, now? He doesn’t know and it’s—

Bothering him.

Swallowing, he takes another deep breath and lets the bothersomeness of it ebb away. He won’t ask. You don’t ask these things. People just know, and if they don’t, they learn about it soon enough if they stick around to know you. That’s how it is for Din anyway. He huffs, finishes his bowl, and helps clear the table once he's put his bucket back on.

Nights on Ossus are as calm as the days. Din falls asleep on his back in his room, staring at the ceiling, and wakes up with the Kid curled into a ball on his chest—as he did many times over the months they spent together on the Razor Crest.

Ka’ra, he misses his old ship.

He finds an unopened box of scent inhibitors on the floor in front of his door when he comes out of the fresher, and places it on the small table near his bed.

He doesn’t take them. He doesn’t know why.

The Jedi doesn’t start training him right away. He takes care of the Kid’s training first, and Din watches them go through their morning routine, feeling like an outsider. They have breakfast in the yard, on the grass. The Kid eats his eggs, and Luke explains that he’s been raising chickens brought by Solo when he moved in.

“I spent days building an enclosure so they wouldn’t get eaten. These little shits are more protected than the kriffing Naboo Counselor.”

Right. Din nods and stands to the side while the Kid levitates various objects in various patterns under Luke’s approving gaze.

They start two hours later.

“Grogu needs recreation time, and you’ve been getting restless.”

Have I?

Din doesn’t protest, and finds himself with the Darksaber in hand as the Jedi master stands before him on the green grass, greener saber on guard as he smirks.

“Now show me what you’ve got.”

The fight is much the same as it was with Ashoka Tano, except Luke doesn’t fight like her per se. He has none of her age-hardened ease, none of her calm focus. He’s younger, brighter in ways that contrast with the obvious violence of his blows—he doesn’t aim to kill, not exactly, but his strength hits the same.

The sword is just a sword in Din’s hand, but the Jedi wields his own like an instrument.

Blades crash against each other as they stomp the grass to a pulp, hiss like feral animals as they whirl around each other, sharing blows that vibrate deep within the bones of Din’s arm. The scent is strange and all-encompassing—a mix of ozone and sulphur, something alien and deadly.

He doesn’t kneel in the end—and perhaps it’s not what Luke intended for him—but the green light gleams off the beskar of his helmet, too close, and the Darksaber isn’t nearly close enough to cause damage. Luke steps away with half a smile.

“You fight well.”

Din huffs, mimics him, “Ashoka Tano said the same, yet you’ve both bested me in seconds,” to which the Jedi chuckles.

“We’re simply more experienced; it’s no sin to start from the beginning.”

Right.

“I’m Mandalorian, wielding swords is taught early.”

“Same with most Jedi.”

“Not you, though,” Din replies, to which Luke shrugs.

“I started late, it’s true, but well—” He scoffs. “You don’t have time for doubt at war; you learn, or you die.”

Right.

Din nods, “Again,” and though the Jedi huffs a laugh, he raises his saber, and they start over.

How long this goes? Din doesn’t stop to check. He ends up on his back more times than he cares to count, and the scent of lazer-burned beskar soaks him through, to the point that he stops noticing it after an hour.

They eat when the sun reaches its peak in the sky. The days are slightly longer on Ossus than they are on planets like Coruscant. It doesn’t matter. Din helps prepare lunch and watches the Kid stuff his mouth with relish, enjoying the contented warmth in his chest while the Jedi sits with his back turned to them. Again.

Ka’ra, I hate this.

“Jedi.”

The man hums, “It’s Luke,” but Din grits his teeth.

“I did not give you my name,” he says, before sighing. “Will you eat like this every time?”

Luke shrugs, “If it allows you to be comfortable, then yes,” and if that isn’t a load of banthashit.

“It can’t be comfortable for you. I can eat somewhere else—”

“But you won’t,” the Jedi deadpans, “because it isn’t uncomfortable for me.”

Din blinks.

“You can’t see the Kid.”

“I don’t need to.”

A pause.

“What does that mean?”

The lines of Luke’s shoulders tremble with silent laughter; he hums, “He’s strong in the Force, bright, and—so are you,” and Din has to scowl.

“You realize I still have no idea what that means.”

“Ashoka didn’t tell you?”

Din glances at his hand—gloved—on the table, and the Kid looks up from his lap, with a piece of meat still hanging from his mouth. His eyes are huge, expressive. Din’s gaze finds the back of the Jedi’s neck again.

“She explained that the—Force, as you call it, is like an energy field?”

“Exactly,” Luke replies, before humming around another mouthful of stew. “Grogu is strong in this energy field, bright, as most children are; I’m sure his being force-sensitive adds something to that, but you—” He chuckles. “You’re almost the opposite; you hide.”

Oh.

“If I didn’t know who you are, I’d almost have trouble figuring you out because you see, most creatures project outwards, they emit energy to communicate with others but you, you project inwards, so it’s almost like everything you’re feeling isn’t there—it’s fascinating.”

Right.

“And you know that how?”

Luke shrugs, “I’m a Jedi, I’m trained to sense the Force around me and around others,” before the pot of stew on the tables starts levitating over the wooden surface, holds a few seconds, and then comes back down without a sound. “I can’t see you like this, but I can still feel you, ‘causeI don’t need my eyes for that.”

Huh.

Din thinks of Bo-Katan, of her datastick still stored in his ship, and cocks his head.

“Can you read minds?”

Luke snorts, “No I can’t read minds, where the kriff did you hear that?” and Din shrugs.

“I needed to ask.”

“Right.”

The next day goes the same way.

Din wakes up without his helmet, in his dome room, with his son on his chest and the fresh scent of Ossus in his nose. Luke prepares breakfast—meat sometimes, eggs, or porridge, the rest of it. The Kid trains his powers for most of the morning, lifts rock, mimics the Jedi as the latter practices a series of slow movements in the rising light, and stops for the day. Then comes Din’s turn, holding the Darksaber, and getting his ass handed to him for a few hours until the Jedi is satisfied with him.

He learns.

In three days, he can hold his own for more than two minutes. In a week, he doesn’t get put on his back as easily anymore. Luke teaches like he fights, fully, with all he can show, tell, and give of his person, and Din finds out that the Darksaber is less of a sword and more of an instrument when Luke’s the one showing him the way to use it.

“You’ve gotta realize that it’s not just a piece of metal,” he explains while wrapping a hand around Din’s wrist and guiding it through the motion. “It’s a story, one that belongs to you now, but only if you learn to listen.”

“What should I even be listening to?”

With storm and lightning in his blue eyes, the Jedi smiles.

“I don’t know, you tell me when you hear it.”

Din scoffs, shakes his head, and gets used to wipe the floor in the next round as well.

The Kid nuzzles the Jedi a lot. Din doesn’t notice it at first, but the motion is repeated enough times in his presence to have him wondering what’s wrong with his scent.

He doesn’t ask though, just like he doesn’t ask about the scars he catches a glimpse of on the Jedi’s arms, when Luke takes off his robes during a spar, and ends up in a sand-colored tank top and simple linen pants on the green grass. Din smells nothing in the air around him either that time, and it makes him grit his teeth as he prepares for another round.

When he stumbles upon Luke in the kitchen, later, the Jedi is scowling as he twists and turns the point of a screwdriver in his right hand. Din stops.

He’s got a cybernetic.

Frozen in the doorway, Din watches Luke poke his tongue out between his teeth as the cybernetic buzzes under whatever he’s doing to it.

When he looks up, his eyes are circled with paler skin, denoting a lack of sleep, and he gives a tired smile, “Ah, Mand’alor, I didn’t hear you come in. Do you need something?” to which Din looks at the cybernetic and the parted skin around the mechanics inside.

“Need a hand?”

A pause. The Jedi cocks his head, “Was that a joke?” and Din shifts on his feet.

“Not my best one.”

“I see,” Luke snorts, before throwing a critical look at his open hand. “I might need help, yes, the joint’s been bothering me since yesterday when you knocked my ‘saber out.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Luke retorts, shaking his head as he smiles. “Means you’re learning, now come and lend me some Mandalorian knowledge, I don’t think I can handle that by myself without setting something on fire.”

Right.

Din nods again, sits at the kitchen table to gently pry the screwdriver out of Luke’s other hand, and when he takes a closer look, he hums. Some wires seem to have caught on one of the tendon mechanisms, and judging by the look of things, the issue might be too finicky to fix with just one hand.

“Do you handle maintenance alone?” he asks, and Luke shrugs.

“Usually, I’m from Tatooine, so you know, there isn’t much more to do around there than target practice, drink, and tinker with whatever-the-kriff you find in the desert.”

Right. Din remains focused on the hand, snorts, “You forget fight, if I’m to trust the last time I’ve seen you on Tatooine,” to which the Jedi flushes as he averts his gaze, grimacing.

“I’m sorry we didn’t stick around, back then. I was looking for info and I didn’t have time to waste.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” Din replies, shaking his head. “I found you again, so kih'parjai—no problem.”

A snort. Luke nods, “Sure, mister bounty hunter,” to which he huffs without thinking.

“It’s Din, Din Djarin.”

Under the screwdriver, the wires finally release the tendon they’d caught on, and as the mechanism eases back into its natural position, the Jedi’s breath hitches.

A tension seeps into the space between them.

“Din,” he huffs, slowly, as if to taste the word, and Din doesn’t look up, but he feels the weight of his gaze when the Jedi cocks his head in acknowledgement. “Thank you.”

Din lets him close up the synthetic skin of his hand—watches him glue it shut with something that smells like a factory—and manages to disarm him once on the three rounds they go through before lunch that day.

After three weeks on Ossus, Din no longer wakes up with aching muscles, and it’s almost refreshing to feel new teachings get in at his age.

He comms Dune around that time, lets her know he’s alive, and to mislead any other Mandalorian on his whereabouts if any comes sniffing around on Nevarro looking for him or the damned sword.

“Go kriff yourself, Mando,” she sends back the next day, but she’s smirking as she speaks, and seeing her face eases some of his previously unknown worries as he surveys her image from the fresher. “What the kriff do you think I’ve been doing until now? Send Skywalker my greetings, by the way.”

Who this Skywalker is, he supposes he’ll discover soon, if that’s someone he’s supposed to meet.

The days keep coming and going, though, and his skills with the sword sharpen.

Din catches himself getting used to it. The fresher near his room has actual running water from the stream nearby, which helps get the grime out of his skin and hair after a hard training day. He smells cleaner than he has in a long, long time, from drinking and eating fresh water and food, and the Kid seems to like it better too, since Din catches him bundling up among his blankets one rainy evening.

When he doesn’t train with the Jedi, he hunts or wanders around Ossus.

The planet is covered in lush green forests and meadows, and dotted with ruins hidden among all the greenery. Villages, with their curved roofs covered with vines, roads and bridges paved with stones that disappear more often than they peek through the dirt and grass. Palace-like temples soaring above the trees with their bell-shaped roofs. Din doesn’t linger.

Luke told him. This place is full of ghosts, and he finds some of them in the presence of lost bones, lying in a pile half-eaten by moss and weeds at the centre of a nearby village.

He doesn’t linger there either.

“So what’s the biggest thing you’ve hunted, mister bounty hunter?” Luke asks him one night, as they polish two matching bowls of stew, though Din cannot see how far the Jedi is, since he’s still eating with his kriffing back turned.

He hums, “I killed a dragon on Tatooine, a few months ago,” to which the Jedi chokes on his mouthful, stopping himself by a hair when he almost turns around—no doubt to gawk at him.

“Seriously? You killed the krayt dragon? What the kriff, man.” He shakes his head, but Din hears the grin in his voice. “That kriffing thing’s been terrorizing the desert for years. How did you manage that?”

Din cocks his head, “Tusken raiders, a bantha, and a shit-ton of explosive,” to which Luke laughs, and the way he throws his head back—Din knows it exposes the line of his throat. A throat that’s protected by nothing, not the collar of his robe, or the beskar of Din’s helmet.

Kriff.

“You need to tell me that story one day,” Luke exclaims, and Din can almost see the mirth in his eyes, the laughter, the joy.

He swallows, and there’s too much spit in his mouth.

“I can tell you now, if you’d like.”

“Please do,” comes the answer, and that’s how he finds himself recounting the story, and then another one, and then another one until they’re both tired, and slouched on the pelt-covered earthen floor with Grogu fast asleep on a pillow near the hearth.

The night has fallen thick, by then, covering Ossus in a deep velvet blanket. Inside the house, the air is warm, and the red-brown walls are tinted gold by the glow of the flames. Din watches the way the light paints the Jedi’s robes, plays off the slope of his clothed shoulder, shining off his hair. Copper and gold. 

Luke is a good listener. His back is still turned, and he rests the side of his head on his arm as he hums along to his story.

Huffing, Din rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling as he sighs.

“You know, I was told I would never see the Kid again.”

The Jedi responds in kind, “The old masters would’ve made sure of that,” to which Din hums.

“But not you.”

“No, not me.”

He hasn’t put his helmet back on. The beskar sits close, gleaming in the firelight. Din glances at the Jedi’s back—the shadows carved there by the folds of his clothes—and swallows.

“Why didn’t you? Because you had to train me?”

Luke huffs out a laugh.

“I didn’t have to do anything—” He catches himself, sighs, and Din watches him deflate, almost curl on himself as he runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t get to know my father, as a kid, didn’t even know who he was before it was too late, and I wouldn’t prevent a child from having that, especially if the child is as loved as Grogu is—by you.”

Right.

“Was your father from Tatooine?”

Another huffed-out laugh, “In a way, he was born there, but—” He shrugs. “I don’t think he ever set foot on it again after my mother died—I don’t even know where he was born, in what city.”

“And nobody told you?” Din replied, scowling, to which Luke shrugged again.

“I didn’t even know his name, for most of my life, I lived with my aunt and uncle, and Ben—my old master—he barely wanted to speak of him at all, also there was a whole lot going on so I didn’t exactly have the time to chat about it, and then Ben died, and then Yoda did and—”

Once again, the Jedi cuts himself off, and Din’s stomach sinks as he grits his teeth.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Luke shakes his head, though, “Nah, you’re fine, just—” He huffs. “It’s a complicated load of bantashit that nobody should’ve had to go through, but I’m alive, and that’s what matters in the end.”

Right. Isn’t that grim. Din hums, “I was a foundling,” and when the Jedi makes a questioning sound, he licks his lips. “My parents were killed during the Clone Wars in a raid against our village, on Aq Vetina—have you been?” When Luke shakes his head, he sighs. “Everyone was massacred, I must’ve been eight? I only survived thanks to the Mandalorians.”

“They took you in?”

“Yes,” Din replies, nodding though the Jedi can’t see it. “They housed me, fed me, trained me, and then I swore myself to the Creed when I completed my resol’nare.”

Din still remembers it—putting the helmet on for the first time. Remembers belonging for the first time in years, and vowing that he’d honor it until death.

Next to him, Luke sighs, “My aunt and uncle knew who my father was, but they never told me—only that he was an alpha who’d left during the Clone Wars, then when Ben started training me, I thought—” He scoffs. “I thought he was my father, only, well, he was an omega and still very in love with his lost mate who wasn’t my mother, so.”

Wait.

“Can jetii mate?” Din asks, scowling as he glances at the Jedi’s back, and Luke chuckles, though his voice takes a distant quality—like his memories aren't as light as he’s pretending they are.

“They weren’t supposed to, back then, but Ben told me he’d always been good at circumventing the rules, so.”

So he’d mated.

“Was your father a jetii?”

Luke stiffens, and Din—he does the same. In the light of the fire, the Jedi’s voice is like a curse.

“Yes.”

“Is he alive?”

A pause.

“No.”

“Did you ever—meet him?

A scoff, Luke shifts on his side, stretches his right arm over his head.

“He’s the one who cut off my hand.”

Shit.

Din blinks back up at the ceiling, pressing his lips tight as he scowls.

“I’m doing a great job at upsetting you, aren’t I?”

Snorting, Luke shakes his head, “I upset myself,” then he rolls onto his front, and Din finds his eyes closed when the Jedi pushes himself up to crawl towards the Kid and gather him in his arms. “Well, on these merry memories, I’ll turn in; the little one needs to train tomorrow and I have work to do.”

“Won’t you sleep?” Din asks, though, and the Jedi chuckles as he stands.

“I’ll meditate on some texts my sister got me from the Coruscant Archives, but don’t worry, I’ll be ready to kick your ass into the dust tomorrow as well.”

Sister. Right. Din rolls his eyes, “You said I’m getting better,” to which Luke snorts.

“You are, but I’m still beating you—not by much, you’re a fast learner as you said—but I’m still teaching you.”

Right.

“What happens when I reach your level, then?” Din can’t help asking—and it’s almost funny, the way the Jedi navigates the room with his eyes closed, like he can still see what’s around him as he directs plates and cups and other utensils back to the kitchen with a thought.

Luke shrugs as he stops in the kitchen doorway, humming, “Then we spar,” before Din can see him grin over his shoulder—eyes as closed as they were before. “And when you think you’re done, you can go back to do whatever it is you Mandalorians do when you’re done learning a new set of skills.”

Right.

Din scowls, “And that’s it?” to which Luke shrugs.

“I don’t know, Din, I’ve never had a padawan other than Grogu, and you’re not exactly my padawan either, you don’t want to become a Jedi.”

Raising an eyebrow, Din cocks his head as he sits to watch the Jedi do his thing in the kitchen.

“Could I, if I wanted to?”

Luke pauses.

“I don’t think so? You aren’t Force-sentitive.”

“I’m not like the Kid, you mean.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Can you teach it?”

The Jedi stops again—he’s still holding a plate—and though his eyes are closed, he scowls like he knows exactly where Din is.

“How many more Jedi do you think there would be if I could?”

Right.

“Then I guess I’ll hang around until I can best you in combat, huh?”

“Sure,” Luke replies, snorting. “Good luck with that with your current form.”

Kriff off, Din thinks, and though he doesn’t say it, the Jedi laughs like he did, and Din finds he doesn’t mind being goaded if Luke’s the one doing the goading—and especially if it’s about a skill he knows he’ll master in no time with the teacher he’s been blessed with.

The next day, he walks into the kitchen in the morning to find Luke sitting at the table in a tank top and pants, absently munching on eggs as he reads what seems to be an old scroll of yellow paper on which Din can barely read any words. He doesn’t speak, only observes the Jedi until he’s noticed, and when Luke does, his face lights up with a grin—glorious and bright. Din can only join him at the table, though he refuses to allow the Jedi to turn away.

“Eat, I’ll wait until you’re done.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Finish up first, I’ll eat later.”

Luke chuckles, shakes his head, “Alright, mister alpha man,” and though he’s surprised, Din doesn’t react. He hasn’t been hiding, and Luke is right.

“Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“My designation.”

The Jedi shrugs, “It doesn’t, you don’t smell bad,” and the question is on the tip of his tongue, but Din doesn’t let it out.

What are you? Are you an alpha, like your father? A beta, like your friend? I can’t smell you and it’s driving me insane—

“I should be asking you something.”

Luke blinks up at him, “Ask away,” and Din licks his lips under his helmet.

“Where should I go if I start—rutting?”

Blinking again, Luke cocks his head, “Is that about to happen?” but Din only presses his lips tight.

“I don’t think so, but I’d rather be prepared.”

“Would you use suppressants?”

“I usually don’t.”

“Right.” The Jedi scowls, as if deep in thought, and huffs. “How bad does it get?”

Din shifts on his chair, “Uncomfortable, but I won’t challenge for your territory, if that’s what you’re worried about,” to which Luke snorts.

“I wasn’t, but that’s not what I’m asking. Do you need company?”

Ah.

“No,” Din replies as he shakes his head. “I don’t—no.”

“Good,” comes Luke’s answer, though his grin is sheepish. “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with inviting an unknown omega over, sorry.”

Right. Din clicks his tongue, “I wouldn’t ask, omegas aren’t tools,” and when Luke blinks at him, he huffs. “Mandalorians value omegas as much as other designations, if not more because—well.” He sighs. “Ad’e cuyir te ven’cuyot, children are the future, and a warrior who can nurture life is better than one who knows only to take it.”

Slowly, Luke straightens on his chair, “Why should you not—have one with you during your rut, then?” and Din grimaces.

“An omega deserves to be cherished by one who is honorable.”

“And you aren’t?” comes Luke’s next question as he raises an eyebrow, and Din shrugs.

“They deserve better than me.”

A snort.

“You’re the Mand’alor.”

“By mistake,” Din replies, before sighing. “I won’t disrespect an omega by asking them to share my rut, it’s uncomfortable enough as it is for me.”

Huffing, the Jedi nods, “I get it, don’t growl at me,” and Din has half the mind to glare at him. He wasn’t growling nor entertaining the thought of growling, but he stands, and Luke blinks at him as he goes to leave the kitchen.

“What would you do if an omega asked you to help with their heat, though?” he asks before Din can leave, and Din stops there, unable to read into the way he spoke—like there’s something he isn’t telling him.

He swallows.

“Then I’d consider it a great honor.”

He walks out into the forest and leaves the Darksaber behind.

Thanks to the Ka’ra, Din doesn’t rut that month.

That doesn’t stop a special kind of hunger from making a home in his bones and guts—one he knows better than to indulge, especially considering who it’s directed at. It’s a slow thing, a craving he doesn’t realize has taken him until he’s met with the sight of Luke chuckling as he reads something to the Kid in his lap, and the craving hits him right in the kriffing face.

It gets worse from there.

Din has never been more grateful for his helmet when he catches his gaze following the Jedi’s movements on a bright morning, as the latter demonstrates a series of katas for the Kid, clad in the usual tank top and pants, and too focused, hopefully, to notice the hunger in Din’s gaze.

At lunch and dinner, when they’re pleasantly tired by their daily sparring, Luke sits on the green grass in front of his house and recounts stories of his childhood on Tatooine, or his war against the Empire. He doesn’t tell Din of his father, but Din understands enough to know the alpha must’ve been an Imp, and one dangerous enough to pose a serious threat to the Rebels.

He never tells Din about his encounter with Darth Vader either, but Din understands they must have met. That Luke must’ve met the Emperor as well, though it isn’t clear whether he did kill the bastard or not.

“I had help, you know,” he says, one evening when they’re sitting down after a spar, panting, and when Din questions him with a sound, he leans on his left hand and exposes the golden line of his throat to look at the sky. “People say I destroyed the Death Star and killed Palpatine by myself, but I didn’t—it was never just me.”

Din’s mouth is full of spit. He makes himself look away.

“Is that why you’ve isolated yourself?”

“That too, yeah,” Luke laughs, and Ka’ra, he sounds like bells on a golden morning. “But I also couldn’t stay on Coruscant, I drew too much attention, and the senate was thinking about using me as alliance material, so Leia let me leave when I told her I needed to go.”

Din scowls, “Could she have stopped you?” and he laughs again, though this time, it’s fond.

“Well, she’s my sister, she could kick my ass into the ground if she wanted, and I’d probably let her.”

What the kriff.

“Counselor Organa,” Din repeats, “is your sister?”

Luke blinks at him, “Yes? Didn’t she tell you?” and Din only gawks.

“She didn’t.”

“Well damn, she’s my twin; we were separated at birth.”

Right.

“Does that mean you’re a prince of Alderaan?”

The Jedi snorts, “Hell no, I’m just a Tatooine hick,” and when Din scowls again, he shakes his head. “Leia was adopted in the Organa family, but I wasn’t, I’m just Luke, even if, you know—” He grimaces. “I’m a Skywalker.”

What. The kriff.

“You’re Skywalker?”

Ka’ra, Din needs to catch up on what goes on in the galaxy before something else falls on the side of his face like this. Gawking at him, Luke smiles, “How could you not know?” and Din only raises a helpless hand to wave at the clearing around them.

“I spent the war bounty-hunting on the outer rim. How was I supposed to know?”

“What the kriff,” comes Luke’s bewildered answer, and when Din mutters a disgruntled something, the Jedi dissolves into laughter and falls flat on his back on the grass. “Sith-hells, Din!” he exclaims, “You’ve been here a month!”

“I know,” he grunts, and the Jedi laughs some more.

He’s gorgeous.

Din would pinch the bridge of his nose, but he can’t. Luke laughs, and laughs, and laughs at him on the grass, golden blond hair spread out in a halo around his face, and Din watches him thinking he’d make a fool of himself every day of his life if it meant he could see this again.

Kriff.

At dinner that night, Luke explains how he spent most of the war fighting on the front lines without knowing that Leia, Councilor Organa, and General Extraordinaire of the Rebel Army, was his twin sister, separated from him at birth. Throughout the story, Din listens with rapt attention and wishes he could see his face as he speaks—the way his mouth shapes his sister’s name, the expression he makes as he remembers his best friend’s jealousy back then.

“Han thought we had feelings for each other,” he chuckles, and Din raises an eyebrow at the thought.

“Was he jealous of you, or her?”

At that, Luke bursts out laughing, and the sound fills the room with warmth as the Kid chirps in Din’s lap.

“Oh, Force,” he wheezes as he pours himself a cup of water, still giggling. “He was jealous of me, him and I—it would have never worked.”

Right. Din snorts, “I can’t imagine why,” and Luke responds in kind as he shakes his head.

“No, no, it’s just, I realized pretty early on I wasn’t much into betas, it’s got nothing to do with him.”

Oh. What are you into, then? Din won’t ask, Ka’ra’s sake, he won’t. He clears his throat, “I’ll take your word for it,” and Luke hums.

“Plus, it was pretty hard to ignore the fact that he was very much into my sister, would’ve been kind of weird to pursue anything with him.”

Fair. Din cocks his head, hums, and pretends the statement doesn’t bring him more satisfaction than it should. He isn’t for you, he thinks—or at least tries to. Luke sits there, his back turned as he eats, humming with every mouthful of stew when the Kid toddles over to babble at him, and Din watches them both with a distinct urge to gather them to his chest and squeeze.

He doesn’t.

He wants to. Ka’ra, he wants to.

It all comes crashing down on him a week later, after a storm rolls through the plains of Ossus and drenches the nearby forests in the scent of rain and mud.

Din wakes to grey skies and a pervasive chill that makes him wonder if the Kid will be comfortable training today, and finds Luke already dressed in the kitchen with the Kid securely tucked into a burlap satchel at his side as he shoves various bundles into a sand-colored backpack.

“Ah, Din,” he exclaims upon finding him in the doorway, “I was just thinking about you. Would you like to come with us?”

Din pauses, “Where are you going?” and the Jedi hums as he ties a utility belt around his waist.

“I was thinking of taking Grogu to meditate in one of the old temples, there’s one an hour or two from here.”

Right.

“Didn’t you say you’d rather avoid them?”

Luke shrugs, “I don’t want to live in them, but you can visit them alright,” to which Din nods.

“What do you need me to pack?”

“Just yourself,” the Jedi replies with a kind smile. “I have no doubt you’ll easily hunt us something if we get hungry up there, and I’ve already got everything in my pack.”

Right.

“Then I'll be right behind you.”

“Great.”

They leave a few moments later as thick gray clouds roll over the mountains in the distance. The storm has left no wind behind, and the air hangs humid over the clearing and house as Luke hikes his backpack up on his shoulder. The Kid babbles at the world as they make their way through the yard, and then the nearby woods. Din follows the Jedi through the trees, watches him climb fallen trunks covered with moss with a light jog, and focuses on the line of his legs through the loose pair of pants he wears, right above the edge of his boots—and no higher. He won’t look. No.

He walks fast, like he knows these woods by heart, and he must. He’s never told Din how long he’s lived here, but Din suspects it must’ve been a few years.

The Kid is lulled to sleep by the hike at some point. Luke checks on him when they take a break at the foot of one of the tallest trees Din has ever seen. Around it, the grass is tall and lush, and yet, the trees are evenly spaced, as if they know to give each other room to breathe.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” the Jedi huffs as he pulls a canteen from his pack, face raised toward the top of the trees. “These trees are thousands of years old, some might be as old as the Jedi Order.”

Right.

“How old is that, exactly?” Din asks, and Luke chuckles.

“Some ten thousand years, give or take? I’m not really sure. The Empire had most of the Order’s resources destroyed after the Clone Wars.”

Din cocks his head, “So you’re left to rebuild alone,” and the Jedi shrugs.

“I’m not alone, Ashoka is still alive, but I am kind of on my own here if I want to build something good.”

“Would she help?”

“I don’t know, perhaps, but she knew the old Order, she’s—” Luke cuts himself off and scowls. “She suffers from the pain it caused, even though she still believes in it.” He sighs. “She wouldn’t have trained Grogu or allowed you to see him had she accepted, and I don’t want to be like that.”

Humming, Din approaches as he extends a hand, “Give me your pack, I’ll carry it until we’re there,” and the Jedi blinks at him.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Din takes the backpack, and they resume their hike through the forest as the Kid snuffles in his satchel, occasionally extending a hand to try and catch a passing insect. The higher they climb, though, the rarer they become, and the cooler the air grows in the shadow of the trees. The forest gets denser and denser, and quieter, until it suddenly isn’t—until the treeline opens onto a valley of ruins that steals the air from Din’s lungs.

“There we are,” Luke huffs, leaning against a boulder on the side of the path, and Din can only nod.

The view is—grandiose.

This valley must’ve flourished in the past. Castle-like towers with metal bell-shaped roofs sprout from the rocky cliffs on the sides of the left valley, and stone bridges arch above a steep drop, overlooking the faraway river down in the gorge. Terraces flank it on each side, overgrown with green grass and young trees, separated by once-resplendent stone walls. Din knows this place must’ve been a great temple of peace and learning. He can almost smell it in the air, but then again, peace must’ve found its home there after all the residents were massacred by the Empire.

“Come, and mind the holes,” Luke says as he climbs down, and Din follows him toward a dirt path that snakes among the trees, boulders, and decades-old holes left by bombings.

He doesn’t need to look to find bones. He knows they’re here, among the grass, under stones, in the cracks of the pavement when Luke takes him across a bridge, and pieces of metal still dangle from the forgotten carcass of a droid.

“Have you thought of clearing up this place?” he asks, keeping his voice low out of respect for the dead, and Luke doesn’t look at him, but he nods.

“Yes, but the task would take years, and that’s years I wouldn’t spend looking for younglings to train. The dead deserve respect, but there is none to give if one forsakes the living.”

Right.

It’s only when they reach the temple gates that Din realizes just how big it all was. It must’ve welcomed hundreds of Jedi, and hundreds of their younglings. Everywhere, the nature of Ossus has taken back control. Vines crawl up the stone walls, and moss has made a home in the dents left by blaster fire in the heavy blocks of white rock. Most spaces lay in ruin. Archways collapsed upon themselves. Doors kicked in before the elements took down the rooms after them.

Only the main building seems to stand as tall as it used to, and even then, the sight that welcomes them past the front gates has Din hesitating.

“I cleaned up the path,” Luke says without stopping, but he slows down when Din makes no move to follow. “I couldn’t leave them all here.”

It’s been years. Some say thirty. Some say less, or more. The Empire rolled through the galaxy like a storm of horror and pain. This temple must’ve been left open for nature to come in, but the traces—they never left.

The expanse of rot-dark stone before him is proof of that.

“They didn’t always use blasters,” comes Luke’s subdued commentary, and Din swallows.

“What did you do with the remains?”

The Jedi turns away, but his shoulders shake all the same.

“Brought them outside in the fields so they can help new life grow.”

Right.

Din nods, “Better than rot in pain,” and he hates how nothing—not his body, not his soul, not the damned sword at his waist—tells him of the lives that were lost as he walks across the blood stain in the stone floor under his feet.

How many died in this entrance hall, he’ll never know, and Luke wouldn’t tell him anyway.

“Come, I’m taking Grogu to the fountain garden.”

Din casts one last glance at the temple gate—at the torn hinges and rotten wood—and follows the Jedi into the building.

Around them, the temple is quiet. They bypass some birds, some small herbivores, and more plants than Din cares to count. The Kid perks up at the sound of frogs in the distance, though, and Din wonders if they’re native or something the Jedi brought to their temple to terraform the planet. Perhaps they did, perhaps they didn’t. Luke lets the Kid walk on his own two legs from there, chuckling when the little one scurries toward the noise as he chirps in delight.

“He’s going to eat them all,” Din huffs, and when he looks, the Jedi harbors a fond smile as he shakes his head.

“There are too many, but that means he’ll have snacks if he does well.”

The fountain garden, or whatever it used to be, is beautiful in all its ruined glory. The inner courtyard is a circular space surrounded by a cloister, only separated from the courtyard by hexagonal stone columns. It would’ve been serene, without the frogs. It still is, in a way. The courtyard holds a network of freshwater springs—noticeable by the slow dance of sand at the bottom of the fountain—that flow into maze-like canals. The Jedi walks upon the flat white stone slabs there like he’s done it dozens of times before.

The Kid follows him the same way.

“We’ll be here a while, you can explore, if you’d like,” Luke says as he sits at the centre of the courtyard, and the Kid mimics him, sitting across the centremost spring.

“Is the water pure?” Din asks, and Luke nods.

“Pure enough to drink, but it might taste like frog.”

Right.

“Can you comm if you need me?”

The Jedi smirks, “I think you’ll hear me shout,” and Din nods again before he turns heels.

Ka’ra, this place is eerie.

The Jedi temple is despairingly empty. Din wanders around, visiting room after room of ancient ruined glory. When he stumbles into a vast, empty hall, the mosaic on one of the walls catches his attention. What it depicts, he can’t be sure of, but the story seems to be that of a journey. A being wanders through stars and planets before they encounter a sword—the color of it makes him think of a lightsaber—and with this sword, they build an order, and a temple, and then their many disciples build many other temples, before a people of dark-cloaked figures attack.

Din doesn’t know much about the Jedi, but Bo-Katan’s datastick taught him enough—these must be the dar’jetii. The Darksiders. The Sith.

Luke wears their black. He isn’t a dar’jetii, though. His saber is green. The color of things that grow. The color of his son’s skin.

Din touches a gloved hand to the mosaic of the fresco. It’s coarse, and cold, but he follows it around the room anyway. The floor used to be beautiful—the tiles have lost none of their colors. Blue, red, yellow. Small star-like patterns etched under hundreds of feet that no longer roam it. The hall is empty, save for broken pieces of furniture. Din finds a small skeleton in the corner near the window, still wrapped in rags, and stares at it until he can shake himself and walk away.

These aren’t his dead to bury, or burn, or dispose of the way the Jedi do. Or did. Luke chose to leave them here, and it’s not Din’s call to make to go against that.

When the Jedi finds him again, Din has climbed up in one of the towers and sat at an open balcony. The bell-shaped roof hangs over his head, whole, unlike that of the next tower over. That one must’ve been bombed open, and Din doesn’t want to know how many bones he’d find were he to check it out.

“How’s the view?” Luke asks upon entering the circular room, and Din glances at him over his shoulder.

“How did you find me?”

Luke leans against the wall next to him, smiling, “Felt you here, and before you ask, Grogu is snacking on frogs in the fountain garden,” to which Din nods.

“Thank you, how was training?”

“Good,” Luke replies, “he progresses, and I learn much from him as he does.”

“Does he have knowledge that you weren’t given?”

The Jedi nods, “Yes, but it’s mostly practical stuff that I’ve picked up by myself.” He shrugs. “All the theory, all the philosophy and such, he was too young to be taught, and still is, now.”

“I suppose you’ve already scouted the place for written information,” Din says, and Luke hums.

“I have, do you want to come down? I’ll check the council room, so it might take a while.”

Din cocks his head, “Do you want me with you?” and Luke shrugs.

“You can come, but it might get weird.”

As opposed to what?

Din stands, gestures in the direction from which they both came, “Lead the way,” and though Luke doesn’t speak again, he smiles, and the warmth in his gaze almost makes him shiver.

They don’t talk on the way down. Din should ask. There is much Luke could tell him about this place—its people, the things he found inside, the memories he might sense through the Force. He asks nothing.

Luke takes him through corridors and halls. They bypass the fountain garden where the Jedi tells him he let the Kid know where they’re going.

The council room is wide and circular, but dark. Like a great tragedy happened inside. Din finds no blood on the tiled floor, but he senses it in the air anyway. There is no need for the Force. It’s in the atmosphere. Luke places himself at the center while he remains at the entrance, and what he witnesses next has the hair on his arms rise, like that on the back of his neck.

“Masters,” Luke declares in the silent darkness, and though he speaks as he always does, his voice takes the depths of something greater. “I come before you for counsel. I know I haven’t been here in a long time, but there is much I’d like to ask, and much I believe you could teach me.”

Din doesn’t see anything. Nothing changes. Only the Jedi.

He stands before Din, his back turned. He’s still clothed in his sand-colored clothes, but the line of his shoulder is easy to track. Stiff at first, it relaxes when he sighs.

“Hi, Ben, how have you been?”

Who’s Ben?

Din knows only of Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke’s old master, but the old Jedi is dead, and there is no one here save for him and Luke.

“Yes, I took him with me. What else was I supposed to do? Leave him at home?”

A pause. Luke doesn’t turn around, but Din could swear he’s rolling his eyes.

“Force, Ben, I’m not you—you can’t even criticise me for that, you did way worse—” He gasps. “It’s not the same now either! These rules were your rules, they’re not mine, and I don’t have to follow them, especially when you consider where they took you.”

A gasp. Luke’s shoulders stiffen again. He hisses, “Keep him out of this, it’s not why I’m here, I need guidance,” and then his voice turns bitter. “You gonna let me ask, or not?”

Another pause. Luke huffs, “Thank you, I need to know about the Sith—you know who I need for that,” to which there’s—something.

A shiver. Din turns away and leaves.

That’s not for me.

“Hello, father.”

“Hello, Luke. What do you need?”

“You’ve seen the little one, he’s in danger as long as the dregs of the Empire aren’t neutralized, and I can’t let anything happen to him—not when his father’s counting on me, not when I’ve barely rebuilt anything and Leia’s too busy with politics to lend a hand.”

“Strong in the force, the little one is, but use strength without cause, the Jedi cannot.”

“Thank you for the advice, Master Yoda, but I was talking to Anakin.”

A pause. Force, even dead, his father looks exhausted.

“Yoda’s right, you need to investigate.”

“And perhaps to get your other issue out of the way first.”

“Din isn’t an issue.”

“He’s bound to become one if you don’t break the status quo, son. They’re right.”

A sigh. Ben’s appearance changes from time to time. Often, he’s the old man Luke knew on Tatooine. Others, he’s younger, brighter. Today is an old day. He stands further from Anakin than he does on young days.

“Then what should I do? He can’t be the Mand’alor if he can’t wield the saber, and he can’t wield the saber if I don’t train him.”

“You can’t remain his teacher, Luke, you’re already getting attached.”

“Like you did with Satine? And Cody?”

“I wasn’t their teacher.”

“You were her ally, and his commander—per your own teachings, you should have pulled away, but I know you couldn’t.”

“Still pull away, you can.”

“But I won’t, Masters. It’s too late already.”

“Then what will you do?”

Luke sighs again and shakes his head.

“I’ll train him until either of us calls the charade, and if more must happen, then the Force will guide me, and I believe that a solution will present itself.”

Anakin shifts on his feet. His cheeks are sunken. His smile is sad.

“I can’t give you much on the Sith, but I’ll tell you this: if you find a thread, pull it.”

Right.

“I will, thank you—and I’ll do my best to keep the killing to a minimum.”

“May the Force be with you, Luke. We’ll keep watch.”

“I know, father.”

Luke leaves the council room with the bitter taste of failure in his mouth.

Din doesn’t startle when Luke almost runs out of the council room. He barely allows himself to twitch—especially when the Jedi bypasses him, and he catches a whiff.

Just a whiff, and it’s enough.

Annoyance. Anger.

Din should be alarmed, but right now he’s just glad. Luke smells like something.

He doesn’t stop, though, so Din follows him out into the nearest courtyard. The Jedi isn’t paying attention to him, and it’s so uncharacteristic that it gives him pause.

“What was that?”

Luke glances at him over his shoulder—storm-like eyes, and the unnatural glow of something within. He doesn’t bare his teeth, but Din feels like he might have.

“I asked for counsel and got nothing but criticism and crumbs.”

He isn’t shaking. There is no tremor within his body that Din can notice, but the scent of him—for a man starved of it since they met, it’s enough to know. Luke is angry. Luke is agitated, as some would say. Din isn’t one to pride himself on the stirring of his alpha instincts. He doesn’t usually heed them when they're not part of his intrinsic personality. Here though—he revels. He can smell Luke, and Luke is angry.

“Who were you talking to?” Din asks, and when the Jedi sighs, only some of the tension he holds seeps out of him.

“My old masters.”

“Aren’t they dead?”

“They are.”

Din watches him breathe—watches him put himself back under control—and licks the faint taste of anger off of his lips.

“Then how does it work?”

“It’s complicated,” Luke mutters before shaking his head. “The Force is in everything, and Jedi-training allows us to embody the Force.” He shrugs. “Some, not all, have learned to conserve their individuality after death—like my old masters, Ben and Yoda, and my father, Anakin.”

What.

“Your father,” Din repeats. “The one who cut off your hand.”

Luke grimaces, “It’s not—he wasn’t really himself at the time,” to which Din scoffs.

“On which planet does a father deserve the defense of a child he hurt as he hurt you?”

Din doesn’t bite his tongue, but it’s a near thing. The Jedi wears a glove on the hand that his dar’buir lit: dishonorable parent cut. He carries the storm in his gaze from horrors beyond Din’s comprehension, and yet—he speaks the man’s name with affection.

“He was hurting more than I ever did,” Luke hisses through gritted teeth, and this time, they’re bared, and Din almost wishes he was growling. “You don’t know who he was—what he was made to do by Darth Sidious, he wasn’t himself—he didn’t know how.”

“And yet you still ask for his counsel like his death absolved him,” Din retorts, to which Luke rubs a hand over his face as he sighs.

“No, that’s not—there’s no absolution in death, but he gave his life for mine, if you must know, and the Force took him back because of it.”

Right.

Din’s lips curl over his teeth. Luke can’t see it, but he must feel it, and that’s satisfying enough to know.

“But he’s no help.”

“No,” Luke mutters, scowling at nothing. “He and the others, they were too busy—” He cuts himself off, sighs. “Forget it, let’s just get Grogu and go home, alright?”

Din scowls, “You’re done for today?” and Luke nods.

“Yes, I did all I came here for. Now, unless you want to catch frogs with your son, I suggest we get going.”

“Luke.”

Din can’t stop himself.

The Jedi looks at him, blinks. Din swallows.

“Spar with me.”

“Why?”

“I’m asking.”

He cocks his head, “Don’t you enjoy your day off?” and Din doesn’t scoff, but it’s a near thing.

“Mandalorians don’t get days off.”

Luke blinks again, huffs, “Alright,” and when he ignites his lightsaber, Din is ready.

They collide right then and there. Blades hiss, their boots scrape against the tiled floor and the accumulated dirt there. The smell of burnt beskar fills the air around them, covering that of Luke’s frustration, but Din holds his ground.

He holds it, and holds it until Luke’s gaze darkens. Until the storm becomes thunder. Until he kicks Din’s legs under him and pins him to the floor with a knee to his chest and a deadly green ray at his throat—between flightsuit and helmet.

“I have you,” he rasps, and Din retracts the Darksaber—light, so light—before relaxing under the Jedi’s knee.

“You have me.”

Luke doesn’t move. His eyes are blown. A ring of blue around the dark of the angriest of storms, as the scent of his anger pours and pours all over Din. He doesn’t move, and Din lets him. Lies there. Helpless. Throat bared and stomach kicking for him to move—to do something. Like get his teeth where the scent is the strongest and squeeze. He’s not doing any of that. He’s watching.

He’s watching and Luke’s watching back and Ka’ra, Din would only need to rise a few inches. They’d meet, then. They’d meet, and perhaps Din would finally know.

Jedi, what is it you taste like?

“You want a rematch?” Luke rasps when he finally slides his knee off of his chest, and Din only grunts as he sits up.

“I’m good.”

A snort.

“S’what I thought.” Din takes the offered hand to stand up and meets the Jedi’s gaze through his visor. Luke grins, “You’re getting better every day.”

Right. Like that helps.

Din huffs, “Not enough to best you,” but Luke shrugs.

“You could, but that’s not what you were trying to do, was it?”

Huh.

He’s watching. Din looks back, lets his shoulder sigh as he exhales.

“I guess it isn’t.”

The Kid asks for uppies the moment they find him back in the fountain garden. Din takes him, inhales his baby-scent to wash out that of beskar and Luke’s frustration, and when Luke grabs the backpack he left on the side of the fountain, he runs a hand through his hair and hums.

“Let’s go home, we can eat if you catch us something on the way.”

Din nods, secures the Kid in his arms, and follows him back out of the ruined temple.

Throughout the hike back, he remains behind the Jedi, and his scent is weak, so weak, but Din laps it from his lips like an animal.

Underneath the frustration, he smells like—

Like sunshine.

Din only stops for a brief moment and closes his eyes as he sighs.

Dank farrik.

Luke must’ve stopped taking inhibitors.

Din, consequently, carries on with his life like he isn’t slowly going insane.

“Hey Din, can you lend me a hand?” the Jedi asks, one morning, while tinkering with some of the machinery near his X-Wing in a tank top stained with engine grease, and Din has to pretend he doesn’t hold his breath when he leans over him to see what he needs help with.

He barely registers what Luke wants from him. All he knows is his own want and the way it tugs at him, as he watches Luke’s mouth form word after word of explanation.

His neck is bare. His skin is golden, and it looks soft—

Din does what he’s asked even though he has no clue what it is. Luke smiles at him when he’s done, and something in his belly dies at the sight.

Ka’ra. He showers the scent off of his skin and wraps a hand around his hardening cock like it’s an afterthought. Like he needs to get it out or so help him—

He comes with a bitten-off grunt, spilling white all over the shower stall, and makes himself think of something other than the way he imagined Luke’s plush lips wrapped around him as he did so, before joining the Jedi and his son for dinner.

Luke’s scent is like the dune sea of Tatooine. It changes with the days, sometimes warm and earthy, when the Jedi is at ease, and sometimes full of the ozone and spices like a faraway storm, when Din finds him brooding by the kitchen window on a rainy day. They don’t speak of what’s bothering him, but  Din drinks it up, and wonders if his own scent trails after him the way Luke’s does—like a shawl brushing his skin and everything else on his path.

He wonders if it clings to his clothes, to his bed, the way it clings to the inside of Din’s nostrils.

Din’s almost forty. He’s Mandalorian, an alpha, and unmated. Until now, he’s never remotely entertained the idea of a mate. Of wanting someone enough that their scent would drive him to waking up, heaving, in the middle of the night, with a tent in his pants and an ache in his guts that doesn’t want to leave.

He’d thought he’d found everything he could ever want with the Kid. Clan. Family. Fulfilment for his aimless life. He’d thought wrong.

The first time he puts Luke on his back during training, he’s so stunned it doesn’t kick in right away.

Din doesn’t even know how he did it.

The Darksaber is light in his hand—lighter than it used to be. More intuitive now that Luke’s beaten the shit out of him enough times. He holds it better now. His grip is firm, confident, and the sword isn’t quite an instrument yet, but he's getting there.

Luke’s staring at him.

The lightning-bright edge of the Darksaber paints his face silver, and his eyes—they’re aflame with that glow Din remembers from that distant time on Tatooine. Thunderstorms and darkness and raw power within.

Din stares right back at him—he’s never been the one to loom over the Jedi like this. Has never pressed a knee to the ground to trap him with the edge of his blade. Has never won once. Not like this.

He exhales, “I have you,” the Jedi—he doesn’t bare his teeth, the way Din’s old Mandalorian mentor did the first time he put them on their back.

He barely moves—shivers. His lightsaber retracts with a subdued hiss, he blinks, and Din’s guts shouldn’t swarm the way they do at the way his gaze flicks over him, while his tongue—pink, pink, pink—darts out to moisten his lips.

“You do.”

Kriff.

Din retracts his blade, shifts back, and blinks when a wave of warmth hits him.

Oh.

Spices from Tatooine, sunshine on a bright day, the scalding warmth of amber resin in the shade.

He almost falls back on his ass, and blinks again when the Jedi bolts away, scurrying back inside the house like Din just burned him.

“Wait, Luke, wait!” Din calls after him, striding into the house to find him hunched over the kitchen counter, and when the scent hits him, he grits his teeth and stops.

It’s like being hit by thunder. Din almost struggles to reconcile the sight of him with the taste that spreads on his tongue. The line of Luke’s back is stiff, and he doesn’t look up, but the scent in here is so pungent it’s a punch to Din’s guts.

He swallows it, struggles against his first instinct to turn on his ventilator as he speaks, “I’m sorry I offended you.”

A pause. The Jedi scoffs, “Force, Din,” and when the latter gets ready to ask—what the kriff is going on—Luke looks at him with these storm-eyes of his, and oh.

Kriffing oh.

Din is an idiot.

“You’re an omega.”

A huff. Luke looks at the sink in front of him, hums, “Took you long enough,” and Din can only blink. Gawking.

“You never told me.”

“Can’t you smell it?”

I can. Din’s lungs are overflowing with it.

“Are you—”

“In heat? Not yet, but soon, thanks for that, by the way.”

Dank farrik.

“I should’ve taken my inhibitors—”

“Don’t you dare,” the Jedi growls before he’s even finished his sentence, and the glare—the glare he sends his way—it makes Din shiver in his boots. “It’s bad enough to see you stomp down your alpha every kriffing day the Force makes, don’t you dare pretend to be something you’re not when I’m like this.”

What the kriff.

When the Jedi groans, Din watches him curl in a ball at the foot of the kitchen counter and doesn’t think before rushing to his side.

“Do you need suppressants?”

“No,” Luke replies, and Ka’ra, he’s already sweating, and the scent of spices is so strong it coats everything else in the kitchen, “what I need right now is a shower.” He huffs, pulls himself back up, and when Din tries to help, he snaps his teeth an inch away from his hand, “Hands off.” When he glares at him, Din catches a glimpse of the thunderstorm in his eyes.  “You’re gonna get Grogu, tell him we need to talk, and then wait for me outside, alright?”

Yes. Din doesn’t say it, but he lets the Jedi stomp off toward the fresher and shivers from head to toe when Luke disappears behind the door.

What the kriff.

Luke is an omega. Like his twin sister. The sister he’s so different from. Luke is an omega. Din almost regrets never asking, though something tells him he should have known. Luke is an omega. An omega from Tatooine, no less, and now he’s going into heat, and Din is an unmated alpha on his territory.

Dank farrik.

He closes a hand around the Darksaber and swallows.

Luke never tried to kill him before, but now he’s heating.

He might start when he gets out of the fresher.

Shit.

Din turns heels and sets out to find the Kid.

He’s already in the yard, close to the entrance door. Watching.

Din kneels before him on wobbly legs, huffs, “Hey Kid, I—uh, I think your teacher and I are gonna have a chat, okay?” and when the Kid cocks his little green head, cooing, Din grimaces under his bucket. “He’s not sick, he’s fine, but I think I might have offended him, and we’ll deal with this as adults, alright? It’ll be okay, I promise.”

He can’t promise that.

He’s an unmated alpha on the territory of an unmated omega, who’s going into heat, and who’s also a Jedi.

Here’s to hoping he doesn’t skewer me the second he comes through that door.

When Luke does come back, he’s freshly showered, but the scent of him has deepened enough that Din smells him from the other side of the yard, where he went to be away from the Kid. Luke sees him immediately, but Din doesn’t expect him to grab his lightsaber and ignite it as he marches toward him with thunder in his gaze.

“Luke? What are you doing?” Din grits out as his hand inches toward the Darksaber, but he barely has the time to speak that he’s being attacked.

It’s as senseless as it’s abrupt. Luke throws himself at him with a kind of abandon Din’s never seen coming from him. He swings his saber without focus, almost like he’s testing him, and it’s not long before Din understands he’ll have to actually attack if he wants to know what’s going on.

So he fights. Uses all the teachings he was given—the footwork, the anticipation, the jumping and running and rolling away—until he finally trips the Jedi and finds himself with his blade mere inches away from his neck for the second time today.

“I will not hurt you, Luke,” he hisses, though, because he won’t. He can’t. Luke—whatever his designation is—is his friend. He’s learned to believe that.

When the Jedi retracts his saber, pupils blown wide and chest heaving, Din does the same, and almost gets whiplash when he’s suddenly being flipped over so that Luke’s the one pressing him down into the dirt.

What the kriff.

He’s sitting on his hips. Sitting on him. Oh shit. Bad plan, Djarin. When Din tries to grab him—to push him the kriff off—Luke’s hands fall to the top of his chest plate and his face almost cumbles as he curls over him.

“Help me.”

What.

“What?”

“Help me,” Luke repeats, before slowly looking up at Din like he can see his eyes through the visor of his helmet. “I’m going into heat, Din, please help me.”

Din is almost too stunned to speak.

“You want me to—”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

Rolling his eyes, Luke sits up on him and huffs, “Yes, Din, how is it hard to understand?” to which Din has to scoff as he gawks. 

“You're a Jedi!”

“I’m aware,” Luke replies before raising an eyebrow at him. “And you’re the Mand’alor, as well as my friend, and an unmated alpha who bested me in combat and whom I’ve deemed worthy of sharing my heat with, is that not how Mandos do things?”

What the kriff.

“Since when do you know that?” Din mutters, to which Luke huffs.

“Leia sent me stuff about Mandalorian customs so I’d avoid kriffing it up.”

Oh. Luke’s cheeks are flushed, and he’s got hair in his eyes and Ka’ra, Din can barely take it all in. He asked his sister about our customs. He asked enough to know about courting customs, because that’s what it is, what he mentioned. He’s sitting on Din’s lap, warm, and pouring pheromones all over him, and he let himself be put on his back by Din because—what?

“Why did you let me best you?” Din mutters, unable to move or even pretend to try to dislodge him, to which Luke grits his teeth as his face turns three shades darker.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Looking away, he shakes his head and grabs the hem of his tank top to bring it up, and up until he’s exposed his whole chest and—

Oh.

“Look, look what you did to me,” he rasps as he avoids Din’s gaze, but it wouldn’t matter because Din’s found what he wanted to show him and—

Kriffing hell.

“You’re—Luke, you’re—”

“I know.”

He’s holding his shirt up, exposing the gorgeous expanse of his chest—golden and beautiful, and perfect with all its scars, even those that snake like lightning over his skin. Din isn’t looking at everything though, no, his gaze is stuck on something—something dark like burnt earth, puffy too, and there, just there—

Luke presses his fingers around it, gently digs his thumb around the puffy mound of his left nipple, and a drop of white pearls at the top before it rolls down, and down until it’s gone, sucked by the warmth of his skin.

“You’re nursing.”

“It’s your fault,” Luke hisses, glaring at him, though his scent has taken the color of embarrassment. “You’re an unmated alpha on my territory, and I have a child at home, and your scent’s been all over that child since I got him, and now you’re here, and your scent is everywhere and—”

“Luke, Luke, slow down,” Din hears himself say, and he’s still staring at Luke’s chest, but he won’t let him throw himself into a panic like that. “I’m sorry my scent’s been doing this to you, I’m sorry I allowed it to.”

Luke shakes his head, though, “It’s not bothering me, Din, Force’s sake, will you stop your self-depreciation for a minute?” but Din scowls.

“Why? I’ve allowed my designation to inconvenience you.”

“You haven’t,” comes the hissed response as the Jedi drops his shirt back down. “I stopped taking my inhibitors. I refused to let you know your scent was affecting me; it’s not on you.”

Huffing, Din pushes himself up on his elbow, “Why did you do it?” and though he does shuffle back, Luke doesn’t hop off out of his lap.

“Why does an omega allow himself to go into heat near an alpha if he can avoid it?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, and Din bites the inside of his cheek as he exhales.

“I can’t do what you’re asking of me, I can’t remove my helmet—”

“And I don’t care!” Luke replies before rolling his eyes. “Take me from behind if it makes you feel better. I literally don’t care.”

Right. Din scoffs, “You deserve an alpha who’ll treat you right,” but the Jedi only snorts as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m from Tatooine, I know what I deserve and I know what I want.”

Gritting his teeth, Din brings his hands to the omega’s waist, “And what is that?” and the Jedi only sighs before his expression morphs into something like exasperated fondness.

“Well, if I must ask again,” he replies, before cocking his head like a predator that knows it’ll be fed. “Din Djarin, Mand’alor, will you help me through my heat?”

Dank farrik.

“I won’t be able to bite you with the helmet on,” Din huffs as a response, pressing his beskar forehead to Luke’s, and the Jedi only hums as he presses right back.

“I’ll close my eyes; you can bite me however many times you want.”

Shit.

They wind up in Luke’s room—the room Din’s never seen, and that, unlike the rest of the house, feels inexplicably lived-in when the omega pulls him inside. It’s dim. The window is covered with a cloth, and the floor, by a thick carpet, while intricate woven tapestries hang from the walls, nailed to it by the corners.

“Leia gave them to me, they’re from our mother’s family on Naboo,” Luke sighs in Din’s neck when the door slides shut behind them, pushed by the Force, and Din only hums as he strokes the omega’s nape with a thumb.

Luke’s bed is large enough for two, on the opposite side of the room. The Jedi doesn’t pull him there, though, rather presses himself to Din’s front like the beskar grounds him. Ka’ra. He smells like the spice markets of Tatooine and the deep desert at midday.

“Let me take this off,” Din mutters, and the omega hums, though he barely shifts on his feet to let him access the clasps of his armor.

His hands are shaking.

Luke watches him undo the clasps of his chest plates, vambraces, and pauldrons, and watches him peel off the beskar with unsteady hands as he hangs at Din’s side. Pursing his lips, he cocks his head, “You okay?” and what should Din answer to that?

Huffing, he nods, “I wasn’t lying when I told you—helping an omega through their heat is an honor,” to which Luke hums.

“You done it before, then?”

“No, that’s what I just said.”

A pause. Din keeps working through his armor, but Luke grabs his hand, and he’s still flushed from the heat, but his eyes are wide as he gawks at him.

“Wait, you’ve been with an omega before, right?”

Din doesn’t even pretend to try to pull away.

“I haven’t.”

“You’re a virgin?” Luke hisses, to which Din almost rolls his eyes.

“I’m thirty-nine, Luke. I’ve been with people before.”

Another pause. Luke frowns, purses his lips, “No omegas though?” and Din snorts.

“Alphas and betas only, yes, you get to claim my first heat, congratulations.”

The Jedi blinks at him, blinks again, then fists the fabric of the flightsuit on his chest before licking his lips as he sighs, “I’m so wet right now.”

What.

Din blinks at him under his bucket, “Are you in full heat?” but Luke shakes his head before walking backward toward his bed while pulling off his shirt.

“Getting there, now please get naked and kriff me.”

Right.

Din sighs, shakes his head at how unreal this all is, and stops as he unclasps his belt, “Should I get something for your eyes?” to which Luke hums.

“I’ve got it.”

He pulls something out of his bedside table, a blindfold, and Din raises an eyebrow at him, though the Jedi can’t see it.

“Should I ask?”

“Shut up,” Luke chuckles as he puts it on. “It’s to train your Force-sensitivity. Ben gave it to me during my training and I’ve kept it.”

Ka’ra. Din sighs again, “Lay back, I’ll finish up,” before pushing down his pants while thanking fate that Luke isn’t watching him waddle around his room with a semi in his boxers.

“Don’t take too long,” Luke sighs as he takes off his own pants, and Din will not look, not when his beskar is still lying discarded on the side. He’s not leaving his things in a heap in the corner of Luke’s room like some knothead.

Pulling off his helmet gives him pause, and he almost glances over his shoulder to make sure Luke isn’t looking.

He isn’t. He wouldn’t.

Din puts the helmet down on the pile on the chair in the corner near the room, and pads to the bed as he makes himself breathe in Luke’s scent—rich and spicy, sunshine and heat flowing into his lungs and making him breathless.

“Took you long enough,” Luke groans when Din sets a knee on the bed, and Din doesn’t speak, for fear he might swallow his tongue when the omega spreads his bent leg to accommodate him, and Din finds him hard and wet, already glistening on the bedsheets.

His hair is blond too, down there. Darker, though, and curling as it frames his cock, resting hard and as heavy as Din’s—if not a little thinner—on his lower belly, and the slick folds almost hidden among the gold. The hair is lighter on his spread thighs, thinner too, but just as fitting. Din’s mouth waters at the sight, and he wants to taste to see if Luke moans as well as he fights, but one thing at a time, Djarin.

“C’mon, don’t make me beg,” the omega sighs, as if on cue, arching off the mattress, and Din must close his eyes when arousal hits him like a punch in the guts.

“Give me a moment.”

“What? Too much for you?” Luke taunts, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing—he must—and Din grits his teeth as he nods even though he knows the Jedi can’t see him.

“Yes—you smell—kriff.”

Luke is still smirking, “That’s the idea,” and Din snorts before shuffling over to him and pressing a kiss to a golden knee—if only to let Luke know he’s not about to take him right there. He wouldn’t.

The pleased shiver he gets settles some of his nerves, though, and he gets comfortable between the omega’s thighs while taking in the gorgeous sight he makes—spread out and languid among his blankets and pillows, almost glowing in the dim light of the day. It’s still a few hours before sundown. Din presses his palms to Luke’s naked waist and swallows at the sight they make on him.

His hands are callused, thick, and dark against the golden hue of his skin. He trails them up and down, savors the way the Jedi shivers under his touch, until Luke groans, and he allows himself to go up to his chest and to the swollen nipples waiting there, puffy and hard.

“Is this okay?” Din hears himself ask as he thumbs at them, idly, and he already knows the answer if the way Luke arches into his touch is any indicator, but he must ask.

The Jedi hums, though, “Yes please,” and Din groans when he finally pinches the nubs between his thumb and forefinger, holding his breath at the way Luke gasps.

He’s swollen—on both sides. Din feels the tension under his skin, like there’s too much for too little space. Male omegas rarely produce milk without being pregnant first. Din knows that, but here—he pinches a nipple, gently rolling it between his fingers, and Luke lets out a bitten-off sound under him as a drop of white leaks through, moistening his finger and bringing water to his mouth.

“Yep—yep, keep doing that.”

Like Din would stop without being ordered to.

He swallows, does it again, and allows himself to groan at the scent mix of spices and sweet milk that coats his tongue.

Ka’ra. He bends down, covers Luke’s chest with his own as he buries his nose in the omega’s neck, and though Luke could throw him off—would have every right to do so—he only bares it further as Din licks the sweat off his skin.

“Tell me you’ll stop me if I do anything you don’t like,” he rasps, and the chuckle that answers makes his knees weak.

“Like you don’t know I could throw you across this room.”

He can. Kriffing hell, he can, he could, and Din would thank him for being allowed to touch him like this even once.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against the Jedi’s lips, and Luke only hums before darting forward and prying his mouth open with his lips and tongue.

Din’s been kissed once, before—before he swore himself to the creed. It was nothing spectacular, children’s lips meeting with nothing but curiosity and innocence. He heard stories of Mandalorians who learned to kiss with their riduur’e, or still don’t know how to, years after swearing the riduu’rok. Luke doesn’t let him doubt himself, though, and Din barely thinks of it as he kisses him back—tongue and teeth and spit and the feeling of plush skin beneath his hands.

“Don’t stop,” Luke sighs in his mouth, and it’s music to his ears.

Humming, Din presses hard enough to feel warmth trickle down on his hand and fingers, and he has to look, if only to let himself taste the side of the omega’s jaw—the taut line of his throat, and the dip where he smells just like the spices of the desert as he coaxes more of Luke’s milk out of his chest.

“Tell me to stop,” Din murmurs against the skin there, holds himself back from biting down, but Luke only shakes his head as he snakes an arm and leg behind him to pull him close without warning.

“Kriff no.”

Shit. Din slips, his knees slide lower, and he almost chokes when his cock—the aching thing he’s been trying hard to ignore—is pressed against something warm. Dank farrik. He’s wet.

“Luke, I’m not taking you like that,” he grits out, holding himself upright with an arm and a prayer, but the Jedi groans as he presses himself harder against his cock—grinds his cunt against him like it’ll bring him relief—and a growl is pushed out of his chest before he can control it. “Luke.”

The answer is immediate. Luke bares his teeth at him, growls back, “What?” and Din presses his hips down in retaliation.

“Don’t push me, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can’t hurt me, I’m in heat,” Luke hisses back, fisting the sheets around them in a white-knuckled grip, to which Din pinches a nipple just a little harder as he nudges the omega’s cock with his own.

“I could, but I don’t want to, so please let me work my way there,” he says, trailing his breath over the Jedi’s agape mouth, “can you do that for me, cyar’ika?” beloved

Luke makes a face, “S’that mean?” and Din huffs as he rubs a moist thumb over a nipple.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about.”

Bending down, Din licks over the other nub, groans at the sweetness of Luke’s milk on his tongue, and holds back a grunt when the omega whines as he wraps his lips around it. He doesn’t have much—not with his flat chest—but it’s enough for Din to get a taste. Enough for him to toy with his nipple with the tip of his tongue, and roll the other one between his fingers, if only to ease the pressure and coax more of these sounds out of him, too.

Luke enjoys it well enough. He arches under him, rolls his hips against Din’s—his cock, mostly—and gasps each time Din flicks or twists his nipples the way he likes it. The scent of milk, coupled with that of his slick, coats the spices of his heat with a sweetness that’s making Din lightheaded. Ka’ra.

When he releases the nub to lick the taste off of his lips, it throbs, but Din knows he won’t find much else to drink if he takes it again, no matter how part of him wants nothing more than to try until he does.

“Din, Din c’mon,” Luke sighs, rutting against him, and Din can only hum as he kisses the pulse on the side of his neck.

“I’m here, cyar’ika, be patient.”

The omega grunts, “I’ve been patient. Are you chickening out?” so Din huffs as he kisses his way down the Jedi’s chest.

“Relax, I’m working on it.”

“Work faster,” Luke replies—hisses, really—and Din bares his teeth though he knows it’s unwise.

“Alright.”

He nips at the skin of Luke’s belly, licks around his navel, and sighs when he slides just a little lower, and finds himself faced with the omega’s beautifully hard cock.

His skin is the same color there as it is on the rest of him, but the scent—it’s muskier. Earthier. The spices are blended in with the desert heat, and Din doesn’t wait for more invitation from Luke. He caresses the sides of his thighs, relishes the softness of them, the knowledge of the muscles underneath the skin—of their strength—and presses his nose into the curls at the base of the omega’s cock.

Inhales.

“What—” Luke gasps, but Din kisses the side of his dick and lets himself savor the tremors that rack through his body when he mouths up the length before wrapping his lips around the tip with a sigh.

Sunshine.

Ka’ra. He tastes like salt, and skin—every bit the man he is—and yet, the scent of him drenches Din’s taste buds in pure sunshine from Tatooine.

Din’s never done this before. He couldn’t without breaking his vow, nor did he want to. He’s received it enough times, though, and if it was never that enjoyable for him, he knows it should’ve been, if the enthusiasm with which it was given was any indicator. He tries, therefore. Tries his damn best to mimic what he was given, and thanks the universe for Luke’s enthusiastic voice as he swirls his tongue around the tip, and makes sure to keep his teeth away as he gently bobs his head.

“You don’t—have to,” Luke rasps, even though he’s trying to thrust into Din’s mouth, and the latter only pulls off to lick at the underside of his cock and hums.

“I’ve told you you deserve to be treated with respect.”

The omega chuckles, “You show respect by sucking dick?” and it’s almost ridiculous, the sight he makes, with a blindfold on and flushed cheeks as his hips twitch under his hand. To Din, though, it’s gorgeous.

He huffs, “I’m only treating you as I would any man who’d honor me the way you are,” but Luke hums again, arches as he spreads his thighs apart, and his grin is warm as it’s taunting.

“Yet you’ve never taken off your helmet for anyone else—and I’m lying there, wet, and empty—”

“Alright,” Din grumbles.

Brat. When he bends back down, it’s to press the flat of his tongue at the centre of the cleft hidden among the damp curls under his cock, and Luke’s entire body shivers as he hiccups a moan that goes straight to Din’s cock.

“Kriffing sith-hells!”

Din feels himself smirk, “You asked for this,” and presses his tongue in again.

He’s never done this before, either, but kriff. Spices explode in his mouth. Spices, and sand, and burnt sugar and Ka’ra sake. He closes his eyes and presses forward, mapping Luke’s cunt with his tongue as the Jedi curses and whines and squirms above him.

Luke’s thighs twitch, and Din kisses the base of his cock where the smaller folds of his cunt meet the satin skin of his shaft. Male omegas’ bodies are masterpieces of enhanced human biology—theirs and alpha women’s. Din’s been with one, once. She was fierce and demanding. He was young, less experienced, but she knew what she wanted. He didn’t observe her as much as he could have—they had no time, back then, not as two young adults in a damp hideout, trying to catch a moment of respite in the middle of a job.

Now, Luke’s giving him all the time he might need, and Din savors it the way he savors the taste of his slick—laps it up until his chin is drenched with it.

Part of him hopes it’ll stain. That it’ll claim him the way some believe an alpha’s semen can stain a virgin omega’s scent like a brand, on their first heat. Din never paid enough attention to know whether or not it’s true. He wouldn’t mind being marked by Luke, though, not when he wraps a hand around the omega’s dick, pushes his tongue in the tightness underneath, and the Jedi cries out in pure bliss as he arches off the bed.

“Don’t stop—oh my gods, Din, kriff—”

Din doesn’t stop. He strokes Luke’s dick, presses his thumb on the underside of the head, and rises to coat it with spit before mouthing back down and getting back to work. Further up on the bed, the Jedi mumbles incoherent words, some in basic, some in Huttese, and others that make no sense to Din, but he doesn’t pay much attention anyway.

His voice is music, and Din could lose himself in this if it meant he’d never stop hearing it.

“Slow down,” Luke moans, though, at some point, and when Din blinks back up while stroking his shaft, the omega is panting at the ceiling. “C’mon, you proved your point—m’gonna come—”

"Isn't that the point?” Din asks as he smacks his lips, and the Jedi laughs, though the sound breaks off in a moan when Din idly sucks the head of his cock into his mouth.

“I don’t wanna—come empty.”

Right. Din nods, “Then you can have my fingers,” and when he pushes one—just one, Djarin—inside, the omega groans, and his finger is immediately drenched in slick.

It’s mesmerizing. Din shuffles closer, pushes his finger as deep as it’ll go, and then adds another when Luke encourages him with a pleased hum, “Yep, that works, move now, move—”

Kriffing hell. What’s Din supposed to answer? Nothing.

He complies with a series of dazed blinks, and the pink flesh of Luke’s cunt throbs around his knuckles when he gently twists his fingers inside. Din watches it ooze, and enough to coat his hand as the omega begins to roll his hips.

“C’mon, give it to me, c’mon.”

“Pacience, tran'ikasunshine,” Din replies as he tests it out, and though Luke’s insides quiver as he prods them, pressing the pad of his fingers deep within, he feels no tension, and the Jedi expresses no pain.

Rather, the opposite.

“Force’s sake, Din, hurry the kriff up—”

“Behave,” Din growls while curling his fingers inside him, and the omega groans as he nods, shifting his hips to amplify the feeling.

“I’m being so good right now, come on—”

Din does it again, pulls his fingers out, and then thrusts them back in while stroking the upper walls of Luke’s cunt as he goes. The omega arches as a response, gushes more slick around his fingers, and Din hisses when he wraps a hand around his own cock and squeezes.

Kriff.

This is going to drive him insane before he’s kriffed the brat.

“That could—be me, you know?” Luke rasps then, as if on cue, and though he’s still blindfolded, Din can almost feel his gaze on him as he smirks. “That could be my—ah—pussy, if you moved things along—”

“Not yet,” Din mutters back, hooking his fingers to coax one more whine out of him, but Luke groans.

“Why not? I know you want to.”

I do, Din thinks. His cock throbs at the thought. Almost aches. He wants to. More than he’s ever wanted to with anyone.

“Want doesn’t mean should,” is all he says, thrusting his fingers a little harder, a little more targeted where he knows the omega wants it most, and when he wraps his other hand around Luke’s cock, teasing the head with his index, the latter bucks his hips and mewls.

“You kriffing—asshole!”

When he comes, he does so with a gasp like it took him by surprise.

His mouth falls open, he stiffens, and the gasp turns into a drawn-out moan when Din keeps stroking him while thrusting his fingers into his tight heat. It’s magnificent. He trembles, shakes from head to toe, and Din can’t resist the urge to bend down and latch his lips around the head of his cock to catch the cum dribbling there—a little salty, a little tangy, and yet, smelling sweet enough that Din’s reminded of the taste of Luke’s milk.

At some point, the Jedi relaxes under his hands, exhaling near-pitiful whines, and when Din pulls his fingers out of him, Luke hiccups, “No! No, no please don’t pull out—don’t pull out—”

“I’m there, tran’ika,” Din soothes while gently stroking his inner thigh as he positions himself better between the omega’s legs. “I’ll need you to relax for me. Can you do that?”

He can. The Jedi gives a frantic nod, “I’m so relaxed, so relaxed just please kriff me—” and Din makes himself exhale as he lines himself with the omega’s cunt.

There we go.

Din pushes in and grits his teeth hard enough to feel the pressure in his skull at the sheer warmth engulfing him as Luke sighs, “Kriffing finally—”

Yeah. Ka’ra.

“You can move whenever,” Luke adds, a little airily, perhaps, a little primly too.

Din raises an eyebrow, “How many times can you come?” and the Jedi lets out an almost languid chuckle when he shifts under him, adjusting to the girth inside him.

“As many times as you can make me, Mand’alor.”

Then I shall put it to the test.

Huffing, Din nods, swallows the tightness in his throat, and grabs ahold of Luke’s hips to hoist him a little higher and get more leverage.

“Let’s see how many of yours for one of mine, shall we?”

Luke licks his lips, “Wait what?” but Din only pulls out near-completely before sliding back in in one smooth motion that has Luke’s mouth gaping around a moan. Smirking, Din does it again, and again, and why should he stop when the omega under him sounds so beautiful?

The Jedi—Luke, omega, tran’ika—takes his cock like he was made for it, and some part of Din wants to believe that perhaps, he was made for Luke too. He was born first. He’s older, and his hands fit so well around Luke’s waist, and Luke’s voice sounds so good in his ears when he angles himself well and his cock reaches just right inside of him—

Ka’ra.

“Like that—that, Din, oh my gods,” Luke whines when Din applies just a little more weight to press him into the mattress.

He doesn’t have a favorite position—only limited experience and a vague sense of what works. Luke’s body communicates, though. It shakes and trembles with his mounting pleasure, twists and stiffens when he reaches the deepest part of him. Din grits his teeth, therefore, and focuses on what he’s doing well, namely grinding the head of his cock deep inside him in short, hard thrusts that have Luke gasping in rhythm with the sound of skin slapping skin.

Luke comes a second time like this, nearly folded in half under Din’s weight, and his voice breaks around a moan when he suddenly squirts all over himself.

Ka’ra.

He trembles with it, gasps and shakes as it rolls through him, and the scent of him grows so thick it’s like it’s stuck to the inside of Din’s nose—of his throat and lungs too. Din tumbles over the edge at the mere sight he makes, flushed and wet and full—drives his cock in the omega’s cunt one last time before the pleasure can overwhelm him too.

He can’t stop it, only groans, and laps at the omega’s neck when he finds himself nosing at it—dinking in the sweet-spicy scent of a contented omega as his cock throbs in ways he’s seldom felt out of his rut.

The moment comes and goes.

“Holy—holy kriff, Din,” Luke mutters, at some point, in the sound of their panting, and Din’s still coming down from it when the Jedi twists under him. “Din, Din, tell me you can knot, tell me you’re gonna knot me, I’m begging you.”

Ah.

“Full heat just hit you?” Din croaks while carefully pushing himself up to see the omega’s face, and what he finds contents him too, though Luke’s still wearing his blindfold. He looks blissed-out, flushed, and happy if a little cranky at the moment.

“Yeah, yeah it’s there,” he replies as he swallows, sighs, almost, as Din feels him tighten around his softening dick, and Din grunts when he eases himself out before snaking a hand between them and pushing three fingers inside Luke’s cunt.

He licks his lips—tastes the slick left on his moustache—and nods, “Alright,” before curling his fingers in the omega’s heat to keep the cramps-induced pain at bay. “Do you have a substitute until I can knot you?”

Luke shakes his head, “None I want, just give me your—your fist if you have to,” to which Din grimaces.

“Will that be enough?”

“No,” he replies, rolling his hips on Din’s fingers, “but if you try to put plastic inside me, I’ll rip your dick off and eat it.”

Okay.

Right. Din cocks his head, “Understood,” before adding another finger and drinking the whine from Luke’s lips when the omega wiggles beneath him in an effort to get him deeper.

Kriff. His cock is hard again, leaking on his belly, and Din might have to change these sheets soon if he keeps slicking around his fingers like this, or even if he squirts again. Kriff. He huffs, nips at the side of Luke’s neck, and pinches one of his nipples with his lips before sucking a mouthful of milk out of him.

“Kriff yes—” Luke whines, spreading his legs as far as he can, and Din growls in turn as he laps sweetness from his skin.

His cock is hardening again. Good.

“Wanna stay on your back?” he mutters under the omega’s ear, nosing at the damp hairline there, and Luke gives a weak nod while positioning himself—as if sensing that Din’s getting ready to take him again.

“Yeah, knot me this time.”

“I‘ll do my best.”

He pushes back in, groans, and resumes where they left off—mounting him with all the strength and precision he can muster to give him what he needs.

Din might not have been honored with the task of aiding an omega in heat before, but he knows the basics about the biology of it—how theirs, and alphas’ as well, was tweaked thousands of years ago by the first human explorers among the stars. He knows about the template used—a mix of various species, adapted to the human genus—to engineer the sub-genders’ attributes. He knows that ruts and heats were implemented to ensure the population would reproduce quickly in even the less colonizable areas, such as inhospitable planets and faraway systems.

He knows ruts and heats, if avoidable, are a whole pain in the ass to deal with, and especially so for omegas since heat comes with a stigma that’s still very real on secluded planets and among less interconnected communities. Like Tatooine.

He also knows that if some omegas don’t require sex on their heat, those who do will be in pain if not properly taken care of.

Din will not let anything like that happen. Not if he can avoid it. No matter how good, or how right it feels—to be honored, to be wanted like this—his pleasure isn’t what matters right now.

When Luke comes for the third time, white splatters on his belly and chest before he squirts again at the feeling of Din’s knot finally burying into his cunt. Luke cries out, wraps his arms around Din to keep him there—“kriffing stay I swear to the Force”—and bites hard in his shoulder as he clenches again and again around his shaft like he’s sucking the cum out of him.

Din’s vision goes white for a second, but he doesn’t move, wouldn’t dare to.

They can’t separate until it goes down, but it doesn’t stop Din from stroking the omega to completion another time as he drinks the noise from the Jedi’s lips. Luke welcomes the touches with heat-dazed mewls as he sucks on his tongue, and Din happily holds back his oversensitive hisses when the omega clenches around his knot in drunken bliss.

He didn’t expect to knot right away, but he won’t complain.

When his knot starts coming down, Luke is well on his way to fall asleep, so Din gathers him into his arms and makes to roll them away from the wet patch on the sheets until he can strip the bed and air out the bedroom.

“Dun’ leave,” Luke mutters in his neck when Din settles on his back with the omega tucked into his chest, on his front, and Din hums as he strokes his hair.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me, cyar’ika.”

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, doesn’t mean to do it with his nose in the omega’s hair, but sleep does take him, and Din doesn’t realize—and will not realize before a while—that he hasn’t slept this well in years.

“So you’ve done it, Luke, really.”

“What? I want him, he wants me, what’s the harm?”

“He could leave you with child.”

An eye roll. The void is comfortable around him—them. Warm. Safe. He isn’t alone, and how long has it been since he’s wanted that? How can it be wrong? He huffs.

“I have an implant, and he’s already got a kid.”

A sigh, “This action will have consequences,” but he only shrugs.

“They all do. I’m ready for whatever happens.”

“As you wish.”

When Din wakes, it’s to Luke’s warm body wiggling against his chest.

He smells good—warm, safe, happy. Huffing through his nose, Din lets the omega free himself from his arms, and blinks his eyes open when Luke rises to his knees, dislodging Din’s limp dick from his cunt as he does so.

“Nice nap?” the Jedi asks in a soft yet playful voice, and Din rubs his eye with the back of his hand as he nods.

“Yes, how long?”

Luke shrugs, “Not long, are you hungry?” to which Din scowls.

“You should rest. I’ll make food.”

Chuckling, the omega cocks his head, “Why? Can’t I cook in my own home?” and Din clicks his tongue as he pushes himself up on his elbows.

“You’re in heat, I should help you be comfortable.”

“Is it an alpha thing, then? Are you trying to provide for me, Din Djarin?” Luke laughs, softly, and Ka’ra, he’s beautiful, like this—sitting on Din’s hips in the afternoon light.

His golden skin is flushed in the cheeks and shoulders, he carries some marks left by Din’s teeth and lips around his neck and chest, and he’s glorious.

Din huffs, “It’s my honor as an alpha to be tasked with helping you on your heat. Any Mandalorian would offer to care for you like this,” to which Luke cocks his head.

“Then is it a Mandalorian thing? What do Mandos do? Do your omegas stay tucked in their nest while you alphas handle everything during their heat?”

As he speaks, he trails the pads of his fingers over Din’s chest—up and down his sides, around his pectorals—as if mapping it out, and the scent of spices and heat hasn’t exactly lessened, but it’s more subdued, now, almost quenched. Din appreciates the respite. He isn’t as young as he once was, and content Luke is as pretty a sight as heating Luke was, so he will not complain.

He hums, “I understand heats take much energy; it’s only natural that the alpha you choose should take care of the logistics while you rest,” to which Luke chuckles again before arching into a stretch, groaning, and hopping off of Din’s lap.

“Well, I won’t complain, it’s always nice to be right about an alpha.” He hums and clears his throat as he stretches again, standing off the bed. “Do your thing, I’m going to the fresher.”

Right.

Din sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and watches the omega grab his discarded clothes on the floor and put them away. Nesting. Good to know.

He clears his throat, “What did they do then?” and Luke pauses to listen as he cocks his head toward him.

“Who?”

“The last alpha you took to help with your heat.”

A second passes, Luke licks his lips, bends down to gather his discarded pants, “I’ve never taken any alpha on my heats,” and Din has to blink.

“What?”

Luke can’t know what expression he’s making, but he laughs anyway, “Din, you’re the first and only alpha I’ve wanted and trusted enough to let you close,” and when Din makes a sound—something encouraging but also disgruntled—he shakes his head. “I’m from Tatooine. If an alpha tries anything with me, I maim them, or at least I almost did last time, I wasn’t even in full heat yet.”

Holy kriffing hell.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Luke agrees, snorting, as he puts down his now neatly folded clothes and waves at the bedroom around them. “There you have it, it’s my first time allowing an alpha this close—in my space—while I’m like this, usually I either deal with it alone, or I get a friend to help when I feel like the heat won’t be getting sexy anyway.”

Din blinks, “Is that why you don’t want to use a substitute?” and the omega nods before shrugging.

“Kind of, yeah, but, well,” he scoffs. “Pardon my Alderaani, but I’ve waited for more than a month for you to get the hint, finally, so I’m not about to settle for anything but the best I can get from you.”

“And my knot is the best?” Din has to ask, though he can feel himself begin to smile, and the smirk Luke throws his way warms him to his core when the omega makes his way to the bedroom door.

“Kriff yes, you know it is.”

Right. Din nods, shuffling out of sweaty bedsheets, and grimaces when his back cracks as he stands.

“Then get into the fresher while I change these sheets,” he says, though, before marching to Luke and kissing his shoulder as he stares at the dark fabric of his blindfold. “You’ll eat your food and drink your water afterwards, alright?”

Luke snorts, “Alright, mister alpha man, but don’t you dare take the pillows out,” and Din can’t resist a smirk as he leans against the doorframe.

“Feelin’ broody?”

“Feeling possessive, more like,” Luke replies with an adorable sniff of distaste, before stopping at the fresher’s door, “Join me when you’re done?”

Golden skin and flushed cheeks—Din can almost see the blue of his eyes in his mind. Ka’ra. He opens the fresher’s door, and Din realises the warmth cannot seem to leave him as he does.

“I will. Now go, cyar’ika.”

“Still wanna know what that means!”

Right.

“Get in there, you menace.”

Luke laughs at him from the closed room, and Din rolls his eyes as he takes in the state of the bedroom. Well, he thinks. I’ve got my work cut out for me. He huffs and grabs the edge of the nearest bedsheet to get started.

The water’s still running by the time he’s taken and replaced every linen, and Din opens the nearest windows to air out the bedroom before scratching the back of his head as he sighs.

He asked me to join him.

He presses his lips together, huffs, and shakes his head.

Right.

Where’s the Kid?

In his bedroom, apparently, playing with wooden blocks of various sizes like he didn’t mind the time spent alone. Din—now clad in a pair of wide pants he found in Luke’s closet—knocks on the bedroom door before letting himself in at the joyful sound the Kid makes upon seeing him.

“Hey, Kid, you okay?”

I should’ve checked up on him.

The toddler chirps at him, waddling over on small feet, and Din sits down to be at his level so the Kid can climb into his lap and come to nuzzle at his chest. Ah. He’s never seen Din without his armor. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though—on the contrary. The Kid rubs his green little head to Din’s belly and chest, grumbling as he does so, and Din lifts him a little higher so that he can smell his neck.

“You’ve been missing this, haven’t you?” he mutters, almost to himself, and scowls at his own stupidity.

The Kid might not be human, but he’s still his child. A parent should share their scent with their ad’e no matter the species, especially if the child’s species requires it. As if to agree with him, the Kid gives a contented purr against his neck, and Din sighs when he puts him back down on his crossed knees.

“Listen,” he says, as gently as he can, while staring into the child’s wide brown eyes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, but Luke—your master’s not feeling too well, and he needs me to take care of him until he’s better.” Blinking at him, the Kid cocks his head in question, so Din sighs. “Can you let me know if you need me when I’m with him? I’ll make you food and do my best to stay with you, but there will be moments when I might need to be with Luke—like earlier.”

The Kid doesn’t indicate that he’s understood anything, but Din feels—knows—that he can, somehow. He hums, nods, and takes the child to the kitchen to give him an early snack. It’s still some time before dinner, but who knows when Luke will have another flare.

“Here,” he says when he puts a reheated bowl of stew in front of the Kid, and the latter giggles, happily digging in, to which Din sighs. “Leave the bowl when you’re done. I’ll check on Luke.”

When he opens the fresher door, he’s engulfed in a cloud of steam, and blinks the moisture out of his eyes.

“Luke?”

In the utter sauna the room has become, Din must take a moment to find the omega under the shower spray.

“Yeah?” the latter replies without turning around, and his voice—kriff.

The air is full of steam and the scent of water and spices, and Din licks his lips.

“Are you flaring?” he asks as he undoes his pants, and the Jedi hums, head rolling forward when he sways on his feet under the spray.

“Yeah—missed you,” he drawls without turning around.

Din realises he’s taken his blindfold off when he steps into the shower stall. His hair is drenched, his skin flushed where the hot water’s been hitting it for however long. He’s pressed his hands to the wall of the stall, in front of him, and he doesn’t flinch when Din touches his back, only presses into it as he sighs.

Licking his lips again, Din huffs, “You okay?” and the omega hums as he leans back into his chest.

A peek past his shoulder tells Din’s he’s hard again, and that he must’ve been handling it on his own in there. He scowls, “You should’ve called me,” but the Jedi only chuckles, eyes closed when he lets his head loll back to Din’s shoulder.

“You were with Grogu, I can take care of myself for a minute.”

“It’s been more than a minute,” Din retorts, only for a warm, wet hand to close around his hardening cock as Luke hums.

“And you’re gonna make it up to me, aren’t you, alpha?”

Oh kriff. Din swallows, “Yes,” and when the omega guides his cock to his cleft and the sticky-wet patch of soft skin among the curls there, he sighs and allows himself to grind against it, savoring the softness against the head of his dick as Luke moves with him—teasing himself.

“Like that—yeah, like that,” Luke sighs, head swivelling forward as he arches his back, pressing his hands to the wall, and Din hums, gently wrapping his hands around the omega’s hips.

“In?”

“Yeah,” Luke replies, nodding. “Inside, inside.”

Alright.

Din takes a breath, braces himself, and pushes in.

As expected, Luke’s full heat keeps him loose, and the omega lets out a breathy moan when Din bottoms out after a long, long second.

“Kriff me,” he demands, then, and Din nods.

Yes.

He does just that—pulls out, slides back inside in a smooth motion, and does it again until the sound of skin slapping skin fills the bathroom like the scent of Luke’s heat.

It’s almost suffocating. Din does his best, focuses on the breathy moans pushed out of the omega’s throat into the shower wall—ah, ah, ah like music to his ears—instead of the pleasure in his groin, or the way Luke squeezes around him. He’s just so warm and so good.

“Harder,” the omega mewls at some point, arching his back as much as he can to take Din’s cock as far as it’ll go, and his face ends up smushed against the wall when Din obliges, applying every bit of strength he can without making it hurt.

It might. Luke wouldn't tell him, though—he’s too busy moaning.

“Kriff, gods Din yes—”

“More, more right there—”

“Knot me, knot me please, Din I need—”

Din can’t. He wants to, though, Ka’ra, he wants to, but he’s not twenty anymore. Pleasure swells and swells in his belly, pulls at him to just give in and give him what he wants, and it would be different if he were in rut, but he’s decidedly not. He won’t knot this time. Luke begs for it like he needs it, however, and Din knows he does. Nothing eases the pain of heat-cramps like a knot, the same way nothing eases the pain of rut-aches like knotting something does.

When he comes, the wind is knocked out of his chest, and Din bites hard in the back of the omega’s shoulder, only avoiding his nape and the scent-glands there by a pinch. He trembles with it, groans because he won’t growl—not when the omega’s been so good to him.

Blindly, he manages to replace his cock with his fingers—all of them—before he’s even done spilling white in Luke’s cunt. It doesn’t matter that he might get coated in cum and slick—it doesn’t even matter that he didn’t get to fully come inside. Luke takes his closed fist like he’s been craving it, and Din’s mouth waters at the way he squirts all over the shower wall and dissolves into wanton mewls.

Mesh’la. Beautiful.

Din gently tugs on his fist a few times, circles it into his tight heat, and savors the way Luke shivers around it, gasping and whining into the wall. The water’s still pouring on them, warm, so Din leans forward to lower the pressure of the spray.

He doesn’t ask if Luke’s okay. He can only smell heat in the air, and the breathy moans coming from the omega’s throat are enough indicators. His eyes are closed, his cheeks flushed. His shoulder sports the bright red imprint of Din’s teeth, and the latter licks over it, reverent, when he gently pulls the Jedi to his chest to lower them to the wet floor.

Luke goes without protest. Sags into it.

They remain like this for a moment. Quiet. Din noses at the side of Luke’s face and neck, licks the sweat off of his skin, and hums when the omega whines at him—not out of it per se, but heat-dazed, as anyone would be after spending so long in the shower while in heat. He’s beautiful anyway.

Din only pries his hand out of him when the omega starts to stir, grimacing at the girth inside of him.

“Ow,” he mutters when he shifts under the trickling shower spray, and Din gives him a moment as he rinses his hand off.

Luke doesn’t comment on it, only settles more comfortably against Din’s chest as he sighs, “Thanks,” to which Din hums.

“Don’t mention it.”

“How are your knees?”

“Better than my hips when you’re done with me.”

The omega snorts, “You’re not that old,” and Din hides a smile in his neck.

“I could’ve knotted you again, if I’d been younger.”

Luke clicks his tongue though, “I don’t care about that, you’ll knot me when you knot me, your hand works well enough,” and right.

“As long as you still want me, I’ll do my best.”

A moment passes. Din keeps them gently pressed together, caressing the skin of Luke’s belly and his sides with a hand while he idly plays with the golden hair on Luke’s thigh with the other.

The omega keeps his eyes closed, but he’s scowling.

“Can you tell me something?”

The fresher is quiet, save for their breathing and a single drop of water hitting the floor once in a while. Din hums, “Ask,” and Luke purses his lips.

“What color are your eyes?”

Oh.

“Don’t you already know?”

He must.

Din took his helmet off in front of him, on the cruiser, all these months ago. Since then, he’s been to the birthing waters, bathed in them, and become Mandalorian again. Luke must have seen.

He huffs, though, “I didn’t exactly pause to check, I was focusing on Grogu,” and oh.

“Brown,” Din murmurs then, before letting out a shaky exhale. “Tran’ika, can you do something for me?”

Humming, Luke nods, “Of course,” and Din swallows.

“Turn around.”

The Jedi obeys without a word, keeps his eyes firmly closed as he faces Din—cross-legged and naked on the floor of the shower. He’s flushed, golden, and content. Din watches him like a man watches the open world after the edge of a cliff, on the razor edge of something. 

He takes a breath, raises a hand, and gently lets his fingers graze the edge of Luke’s jaw—his chin, the apple of his cheekbones, and the gold of his eyebrows. His skin is soft, but the grain of it is mature under his fingers. Touched by sand and tears and sun. Din swallows again.

“Open your eyes.”

Luke hesitates, “You sure?” and Din nods, though the Jedi can’t see him.

“Yes, Luc’ika, I’m sure.”

Luc’ika. The name suits him.

Oh, has Din missed these eyes.

Luke stares back at him with these storm-blue eyes of his, blinks his vision back into shape, and flushes when he meets Din’s gaze after a moment.

“Oh.”

Din’s fingers twitch, where they lay on his knee. He’s exposed, like this. Naked. Vulnerable. He’s never been naked in the presence of another being before—not since he was a babe, washed by his mother.

He’s nothing like the Jedi before him. Luke’s golden, and bright with the vigor of youth. Din’s not that old, it’s true, but he’s older, covered in scars, and many of them less appealing than those on Luke’s body.

They stare at each other. Din allows Luke to observe him, to trail his storm-blue eyes all over him, in the damp air of the fresher.

There’s nothing between them, and yet, something hangs there.

Luke watches, licks his lips when he meets Din’s gaze again.

“Hi.”

Din blinks back at him, “Hi,” and the Jedi cracks a smile.

“Won’t you get in trouble for this?”

Right.

Looking away, Din gives a one-shoulder shrug, “Not if—” He cuts himself off. “Mandalorians are allowed to share their face with clan.”

A pause.

Luke cocks his head, “Am I clan?” and Din—Din hasn’t felt his heart hammer like this since he pulled off his helmet to show his face to his son.

“If you want to be.”

“What does that mean?” Luke asks then, blinking, and Din grits his teeth.

“You’re taking care of my ad, and you’ve housed me, and fed me, and—honored me by sharing your heat with me.”

“That’s true,” Luke agrees, before raising an eyebrow. “But that doesn’t tell me how that makes me clan.”

Right.

Din looks away—hates being so exposed for such a discussion, well done, Djarin—before nodding.

“You’re right, I’m terrible at this.”

“Not too terrible,” Luke says, though, smirks even, and Din has to narrow his eyes at him, has to make sure he’s hearing this right.

“You’re enjoying this.”

The omega’s eyes sparkle with mirth, “C’mon, we’re naked, we just kriffed, and you’re being all awkward and cute, of course I’m enjoying this,” to which Din can’t help but scowl.

“Don’t mock me.”

“I wouldn’t.” At his disgruntled huff, Luke giggles. “I swear, Din, I wouldn’t—I just want to hear you say it.”

Right.

“Hear me say what?”

“That you want me too,” Luke replies, smiling, and Din raises an eyebrow at this, while looking him up and down.

“Wasn’t that obvious?”

“Not just for my heat, you knothead,” the omega groans, then, before making a face as he flushes. “I know I asked for that, I meant—for more than my heat.”

Oh.

I did not think that through.

Din exhales, “How about we discuss it after it’s done?” and Luke frowns at him as he purses his lips.

“Did you think about that before allowing me to see you? I can’t just forget I saw your face now.”

“I know,” Din replies, grimacing, “I didn’t—exactly plan any of this.”

Snorting, Luke shakes his head, “I noticed,” before huffing when he leans back on his hands. “We can discuss it when I’m done heating, I s’pose, so long as you don’t chicken out on me.”

As if.

“I wouldn’t have asked you—this, if I didn’t want it.”

“I’m sure,” Luke agrees, before cracking a smile. “But I assume it’s been a lot, being here, dealing with me on my heat and all, I don’t want you to regret anything,” to which Din blinks at him.

“What’s to regret? I didn’t bite you, you didn’t bite me, and we’ve—” He licks his lips, turns his gaze away. “We’ve been clan since the Kid decided to keep you as his teacher.”

A snort. Luke nods as he rolls his eyes, “Well, I’m not complaining, I’ve been trying to get you to notice since you arrived,” and Din blinks.

“To notice what?”

“Me wanting you?” Luke deadpans, and right, that.

Huh.

“Do you want a towel?”

Another snort, “Din,” but the latter only huffs as he stands up.

“Yes, Luc’ika?”

Luke raises a sardonic eyebrow at him, “You’re aware that I want you, yes?” and Din tries—and fails—to school his features at the thought.

“I’ve—entertained the idea.”

“Force,” the omega sighs, then, smiling, before shaking his head as he stands up. “I want you, Din Djarin, and not just because you’re an available alpha on my heat; I already wanted you when you stepped down from your kriffing ship.”

Oh.

Din blinks, looks at his hand holding a towel, and then back at Luke.

“I want you too.”

The Jedi nods, “Good,” and when he takes the towel, bringing it to his hair to rub the moisture off, Din finds his eyes wandering to the unblemished side of his neck. He shakes his head.

Not now, Djarin, you just allowed him to see you. Have some restraint.

Lower, much lower between the omega’s thighs, slick and cum have trickled down among thin blond curls, and Din licks his lips at the sight, freezing when Luke catches him.

“Like what you see?”

Who wouldn’t?

Huffing, Din nods, “You know I do,” and Luke hums as he pads closer, pressing his chest to Din’s with a smirk.

“You gonna let me watch you do anything about it?”

Well then.

“Yes.”

Blinking slow and content, the Jedi hums, “Good,” before wrapping the towel around his waist and walking out of the fresher—unbothered, like he isn’t still covered in various fluids, and less than clean despite the time spent in the shower. He smells like spice markets, sweat, and cum.

Din hesitates between staying to clean up and running after him like a lost pup. Grits his teeth when the fresher door loses with a hiss. Paz would suffocate himself with his laughter if he knew, but Din makes himself stay put, and doesn’t leave before he’s aired out and tidied the fresher, no matter how his guts pull at him to find Luke and get on his kriffing knees right there—

Ka’ra.

Luke’s still in a towel when Din finds him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug of water in his hand. The golden light of a nearby lamp shines off the curve of his shoulder, off his slowly drying hair, while his blue eyes gaze in the distance, but the Kid is nowhere to be seen.

“Grogu went off outside to chase a frog,” he says upon finding Din—cleaner, with pants on—in the kitchen doorway. “He understands you’re busy, I’ll eat something here, and then you can put him to bed when I go.”

Right. Scowling, Din cocks his head, “Can’t you see him?” to which the Jedi grimaces.

“I can—I’m not, like, aggressive with children while heating, I just—” He cuts himself off, and Din realises, belatedly, that he’s flushing when he averts his gaze. “It’s just that I probably smell a lot, which Grogu doesn’t deserve to be subjected to, but I don’t want to wash it off.”

Oh. Oh.

Din swallows.

“I understand.”

Luke side-eyes him, still blushing, “You do?” and Din nods, though he’s pretty sure his face must be as red as the Jedi’s.

“Yes. I’ll feed the Kid when you’re done here. Call me if you need me.”

“Right,” the omega snorts, before putting his mug down. “Roger that, alpha.”

Kriff. Din licks his teeth, “You don’t have to call me that,” but the Jedi hums.

“I know, but I like it, and you like it too, don’t you?”

I do.

“You haven’t bitten me either.”

Luke shrugs, “You’re uncomfortable about it, I won’t do anything you don’t want,” to which Din grits his teeth.

“I’m not—uncomfortable with biting.”

“You are,” the omega replies with a smile, though, “but it’s alright, we can discuss it when I’m done heating—lay down some ground rules and all that, okay?”

Right. Din sighs, “Okay,” and Luke trails featherlight fingertips on his chest and shoulder when he goes to sit at the kitchen table with his mug.

“So what’s for dinner, chef?”

Din bits back a warning growl—the omega still smells like heat—and serves him the rest of the last day’s stew, before watching him eat it with growing hunger of his own, simmering in his belly. Once Luke retires to the bedroom after kissing his cheek, Din clears the table and goes to fetch the Kid in the garden.

Stepping outside into clean air disorients him. There’s no sand, there, no spices, and the coolness of the evening replaces every hint of sunshine in Din’s nose the moment he opens the entrance door. He hates it.

The Kid gives a happy gurgle when Din finds him playing in the grass, though. He doesn’t seem to care about what his buir and teacher have been doing, and Din can’t seem to be bothered about it when he’s smiling like that—so happy. Night is falling around the house, and Din carries him back inside before serving him his food, and gently chiding him about his local frog consumption.

The Kid doesn’t care much for his fond admonishment either, and inhales his stew before demanding that Din carry him to his room.

“Ready for bed, you little womp rat?” Din murmurs in his child’s wrinkly head, and the Kid coos while nuzzling into his neck, already drowsy after a long day playing around the house.

Din puts him to bed with a kiss to his forehead and watches him close his big brown eyes before closing the door on his way out. Ossus has two moons, and one of them is full tonight, high in the sky among colorful aurora borealis. The green moon shines like a beacon—much darker than Luke’s lightsaber, and Din wanders back into the kitchen to prepare a water bottle before he heads back to Luke’s room.

Without his helmet, armor, and flightsuit, he’s naked.

The pants he borrowed from the omega—partly to be decent, and partly to carry his scent on him—are meant to be folded around his waist to accommodate any size. His bare feet hit the smooth earth floor as he pads around the Jedi’s bedroom door, and Din thinks of him—of the scent of spices and desert, so omnipresent in the house that it’s become part of it now. He smells it, would have to burn his nose not to, but it's not aggressive per se, not after spending a few minutes in the middle of it.

The notes of it are subtle, blended in with those of the house, but Din can still find them—can still tell them apart like pieces of a puzzle.

When he pads into the bedroom, he finds Luke spread out on his bed in the golden light of a bedside lamp, comfortable, as the omega thrusts three fingers into his cunt while fiddling with the head of his cock with his other hand. There's white smeared on his belly and the sheets, and a small patch of dark fabric under him.

“Hi,” he murmurs with a smile when Din closes the door, and the latter doesn’t bother speaking. Only lets his pants fall to the floor before climbing on the bed and crawling up to kiss him.

The sigh on the Jedi’s lips makes him shiver, and he groans when two rows of teeth close around his lower lip.

“You sure you don’t want me to get the blindfold?” Luke whispers in Din’s breath, and the latter only jerks his head to the side before dipping down to kiss the pulse that throbs in his neck.

“Am I so ugly to look at?”

A snort.

“You’re far from ugly,” Luke croaks, but Din nips at the junction of his neck and collarbone, and he gasps. “You look just like—my wildest wet dreams—”

Right.

Din doesn’t roll his eyes, but he wants to.

“No need for flattery, you have me right there.”

“I’m not flattering you,” Luke replies, though, sliding a hand up Din’s arm to bury it in his hair and tug until their eyes meet—golden brown on sky blue. “You’re all I could ever dream of—I’ve dreamt of you, Din Djarin, I wouldn’t lie about that.”

Oh.

“You’ve dreamt of me?”

The Jedi nods, smiles against Din’s lips, “The Force gives me visions, sometimes,” and that shouldn’t make sense, but it does.

“It told you about me?”

“Not in so many words,” Luke chuckles, then, before licking his lower lip and sucking Din’s tongue into his mouth when the latter tries to kiss him again.

He’s so gentle, and yet so firm with it. Nips at the tip before sucking on it as he would with Din’s cock. When he releases it, his gaze burns like he wants to set his insides on fire, and Din almost jumps when a slick hand comes to wrap around his hardening shaft.

“I would have wanted you whether or not the Force showed me the way, but I’ve gotta admit I ain’t sad it did.”

Right.

Din swallows, nods, and when Luke wiggles under him, he stops the omega from positioning himself on his cock with a hand around his wrist, “Wait,” before dipping down, sucking a mark on his neck, and rolling onto his back.

“Come here.”

Luke blinks at him, “You want me to ride you?” but Din only blinks back as he tilts his head against the sheets.

“My face.”

“Oh.”

Din’s never seen the Jedi scramble up so fast, but he isn’t complaining when a gorgeous pair of thighs straddles him until his entire sight is absorbed by the image of Luke’s cunt, surrounded by dark blond hair and slick skin.

“Don't you want to hold yourself up with the wall?” he mutters, though his mouth salivates, and Luke only hums, swaying his hips like he’s wondering how to proceed.

“No, I want to suck you off, can I do that?”

“Sure,” Din replies, but it’s an afterthought.

Above him, the folds of Luke’s cunt glisten, dark red and mouth-watering. His cock is hard—must’ve been for quite a while—and the shaft hangs heavy between his thighs, dark at the tip. Din barely thinks of the way the omega’s skin feels under his hands when he strokes Luke’s thigh to gently press him down, inhaling the cloying scent of heatdesertspices before he can finally bury his tongue in the heavenly taste again.

“You’re really—good with your mouth,” Luke moans above him, softly, and Din hums.

If he is, it’s simply due to sheer enthusiasm.

Din laps at him, tastes the folds, and suckles them in his mouth before circling his tongue around the omega’s entrance and plunging it in. The omega is no screamer, but he mumbles in basic, Huttese, and Alderaani too, as he loses himself in his pleasure. When he folds on himself to mouth at the head of his cock, Din twitches, moans, and allows himself to shallowly thrust into the soft warmth of his mouth as he laps up the omega’s slick.

I could remain here, he thinks, and the idea makes him feel so light. Like that’s where he belongs.

“Give me—a finger,” the omega sighs against the side of his shaft, at some point, when his hips start swaying in tandem with the movements of Din’s tongue, so he obeys.

What else should he do?

It’s no frenetic mating. There’s no hurried slide of skin on skin, no begging, or crying out at the ceiling. Luke kisses the head of Din’s cock before gently sucking it into his mouth, and sighs, open and raw, when Din presses two fingers inside him to stroke against his quivering walls. He doesn’t touch the omega’s dick but savors the steady dribble of precum trickling into his neck and sinking into his skin as he works his tongue between Luke’s folds.

It’s slow. It’s gentle. It burns so bright in Din’s guts that it makes him lightheaded.

At one point, Luke gasps, noses at the base of Din’s cock, “Wait, wait, Din, I need your knot,” and the latter only hums before caressing his ass to let him know he can sit up.

“Go on, m’ready for you.”

He is.

The omega crawls down his body, humming when he presses his soppy cunt to the head of Din’s cock before lowering himself down on it.

Twin moans echo in the bedroom, and Din exhales when he bottoms out, admiring the gorgeous expanse of Luke’s back.

“Alright?” he murmurs, and the omega hums as his head rolls to the side.

“Feels good.”

Anything for you.

Din licks the taste of amberdesertspices from his lips, “Make yourself come, tran’ika,” and the omega gives a breathy moan when he pushes himself up with his thighs and eases back down.

“Yes—yes, alpha—”

Ka’ra.

Din groans and lets his head fall back onto the bedsheets.

For you, I’ll be anything.

Luke bounces on his cock like he was made for it, and there’s no finesse or seduction about it, but Din’s mesmerized all the same. The omega’s ass jiggles when it slaps his hips, and his messy riding jostles the entire length of his spine as he gasps, mewls, and moans. Din grabs his hips to guide him at some point, mutters, “Slow down, Luc’ika,” but the Jedi only whines while rolling his hips into his grip.

“M’almost there—lemme do it, alpha, m’almost there—”

“You’re okay,” Din sighs, then, pushing himself up as he plants his feet into the mattress. “C’m’here.”

Gently, he wraps an arm around the omega’s torso, brings his hand up to roll a nipple between his fingers and wrap the other hand around his leaking cock, and when he brings them both back down, Luke gasps, “More, alpha, more, I need—”

“I have you.”

Grunting, Din gives an experimental thrust, and when a surge of precum dribbles down on his fingers, followed by a choked-off moan, he does it again, until he gets the hang of it and manages to focus on using both his hands and hips for different things at the same time—stroking the omega’s cock, pinching his nipple to let the milk flow, and thrusting into his tight cunt like he’s on a damned mission—

Hells. Luke’s hips answer him well enough. The omega rolls them back onto him, whines when Din noses at the back of his ear before licking the side of his neck. The angle makes it easy to reach where Luke needs it most, and soon, both of Din’s hands are drenched—one in precum, and the other in milk from his puffy nipple.

“Yes, yes, yes,” sings the pretty omega plastered against his chest like the most precious thing, but Din doesn’t bite down on his offered throat, no matter how much he wants to.

Luke moans his name like a prayer, “Din, alpha, Din, Din,” and this time, Din comes first with his nose buried at the base of Luke’s skull, inhaling the scent of sunshine as his vision goes white. It’s a quick thing, but it feels like it lasts hours. He comes, and comes with a garbled growl, pushed hard out of his chest, and the primal sound has the omega mewling as he clenches around Din’s knot, cumming as well with an obscene Huttese curse.

It’s almost out of place in the lingering sound of their ragged breathing, and Din can’t help it. He laughs in between pants, and Luke dissolves into giggles in his arms, relaxing under his hands when Din lets go of his shaft to come up and caress the other side of his chest. It’s still tight, but the omega sighs his assent when he coaxes more milk out of him, letting it trickle down on his hand and the bedsheets.

“You okay?” Din murmurs in his ear, and the omega hums, nodding though he keeps his eyes closed.

“Never better.” Din accepts the answer, keeps massaging his chest in circles he hopes are soothing until the omega chortles. “If I didn’t have my implant, I’d be pregnant by now.”

Oh.

Right. Din kisses the soft skin behind his ear, “Have you ever thought about it?” and the Jedi shifts on him, as if to test the give of his cunt around Din’s swollen knot. Nothing budges. Din’s cock only shifts inside him, making them both shiver, but they’re still tied together, and Din knows that contents them both.

“Being—pregnant?”

“Yeah.”

“All omegas do,” Luke sighs. “On Tatooine, it’s almost expected of us, as if we’re meant to breed the moment we present.”

The way he says it—almost clinically, with an underlying sense of distaste—it tells Din all he needs to know, but he presses on either way.

“I get it you don’t like the idea, then.”

“Kark, I don’t,” the omega replies with a snort. “I have no ill feelings for younglings, but pregnancy? Force, I’ve seen what it’s done to my sister, and I don’t want that for me, no thanks.”

Ah.

“Did she have a difficult one, then?”

Luke sighs, “She hated every second of it,” and when he chuckles, Din allows himself to stroke his sides, to let him know he’s listening. “Han was desperate to be a father, and he’s great at it, but Leia? She hated the weight, the aches, the whole not being allowed to do stuff when she got to the last trimester, she was as insufferable as it was insufferable for her—” He cuts himself off and hums. “I already knew it wasn’t for me, but that shit made me think about getting my tubes tied.”

“You haven’t, though,” Din huffs, and the Jedi shrugs.

“Implant works fine for now, and I’ve got an advantage.” He smirks. “I can defend myself.”

Blinking at the ceiling, Din thinks of the storm in Luke’s eyes when he marched out of the house to fight until Din put him on his back, at the beginning of his heat. He purses his lips and cocks his head.

“I figured.”

As if knowing what he’s thinking, Luke snorts, “I wasn’t trying to kill you,” to which Din smirks against his neck.

“I know.”

The omega sighs, relaxing further into his arms, and when he tries to roll his hips, Din’s knot slips out of him, and his twinkling blue gaze grabs Din’s attention when he arches his neck to look at him over his bitten shoulder.

“Think you can go again?”

Kriffing hell.

Din huffs, “You’ll be the death of me,” but he kisses the omega’s lips—more like smears his own over them with the shit angle they’re in—and pushes him off to the side to sit up. “I won’t knot you, but I can suck you off and use my hand, if that sounds alright.”

“Sounds good to me,” Luke agrees with a wicked grin, and when he positions himself face down, ass up, and legs spread, Din only has a moment to gawk before his mouth runs away from him.

“I can’t suck you off like that.”

“I know.”

“I can’t knot you either.”

“I know, and I don’t care.”

The Jedi’s voice is laced with as much desire as mischief, and Din sends a silent prayer to whoever may listen when he positions himself behind the omega and caresses the plump globes of his ass.

Luke chuckles at the motion, arches his back further into him, exposing his cum-and-slick-smeared folds, and Din sighs.

Kriffing hell.

He doesn’t knot this round either, but manages to pop one a little later, and another one that same night. They don’t sleep much. Luke’s heat demands that he gets kriffed or knotted or both every other hour, if not all of them, and Din barely has the time to get him to drink and nibble some food before he’s spreading himself out and demanding his cockagain. It’s maddening. It’s heaven. Din’s never had so much sex in his entire life and isn’t sure he’ll miss it when it’s over.

Overall, Luke comes enough times to get through the worst of his heat in another day.

Din checks on Grogu often enough to make sure the Kid isn’t wanting for anything, or feeling neglected. When he’s seized by anxiety at the thought, Luke reassures him, pausing whichever act of debauchery they’re engaged in—usually some form of oral sex—to let him know everything’s alright in the house.

Din’s grateful for it.

By the third day—around the time when he starts worrying his dick may fall off—Luke’s heat breaks, and he’s left with only more of the subdued remnants of it.

It’s morning, and the skies are pink outside the window.

Din fell asleep with his knot buried deep in Luke’s cunt yesterday. They’ve slept in a tangled mess of scents and limbs, exhausted and content. The bedroom smells like slick, cum, and desert spices, and when Din opens his eyes, he finds Luke sitting slouched on the bed with a dazed expression on his face. The sheets are rumpled around him, and though the bedroom is dim, Din could trace the edges of Luke’s silhouette with his eyes closed.

“You alright?” he asks, still slow from sleep, and the Jedi hums.

“Heat’s breaking.”

“Ah.”

Din sits up, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs, “Slept well?” to which the omega nods.

“Neve better.”

“Hungry?”

“For actual food, yeah,” Luke replies with half a grin, so Din leans over, kisses him, and stands up with a grimace at the ache in muscles he didn’t suspect he had before the omega demanded his assistance.

The Jedi snorts, “You alright there?” and Din grunts while stretching out his back.

“Fine, I’ll make breakfast while you use the fresher.” Blinking, he glances at the omega. “Will you flare again?”

The latter shakes his head, “Don’t think so, the worst of it’s behind us, don’t worry,” and Din huffs.

“I’m not worried, but it’s good to hear.”

“Right,” Luke snorts. “Go now, I can hear your hips creaking from here. I’ll freshen up and fetch Grogu; he’s still sleeping.”

Right.

Din rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, and he watches Luke make his way out before getting started on his latest morning routine—namely stripping the bed, airing out the room, putting the sheets to wash, and changing them for new ones. At this point, he knows this bedroom—the wardrobes, the cupboards, all the nooks and crannies—by heart, and his own scent has permeated every inch, mixing with the brightness of Luke’s.

When the Jedi exits the fresher, now clean and smelling more civilized than they have in days, he kisses the back of Din’s neck as the latter sets the table in the kitchen, and noses at his hair with a hum.

“Go get washed, I’ll finish up here.”

Din glances at him over his shoulder, “You sure?” and the omega snorts.

“Yes, Din, go.”

He goes.

Scrubbing off the sweat, slick, and other fluids off his skin feels perhaps as good as getting them there in the first place, but Din doesn’t scrub too hard—doesn’t feel comfortable cleansing himself of Luke’s scent yet. Wearing it is one of the easiest things he’s ever done in a long time.

When he comes out in clean pants and a shirt Luke lent him, he pads to the kitchen and finds the omega feeding his son, perched on his lap and babbling at him while waving his wooden spoon in the air.

“Hey there, Kid,” he says upon meeting the child’s gaze, and the Kid gurgles a happy sound upon seeing him, as Luke smiles.

“He’s saying hello.”

Din smiles back, strides over to kiss the top of the omega’s head, “I figured,” and then freezes before he can fully step away.

Luke blinks up at him, “You okay?” but Din can only think of the Kid.

“Does he know what’s going on?” he murmurs, almost to himself, as his gaze darts at the curious expression of his son, and Luke only cocks his head before his eyes widen in understanding.

“Oh my gods—” He stops himself and beams. “Din, he’s been calling us clan for months!”

Oh.

He has—

Oh.

Din gawks at him, “Then why did you—”

“Ask what you meant by clan?” Luke finishes for him, and Din’s mouth closes with a click.

“Yes.”

The Jedi smirks, “Because I wanted to be sure,” and Din can only shake his head before looking at his son.

“Your teacher will be the death of me, kiddo.”

The Kid laughs—bright and happy and utterly uncaring for his inner turmoil—and Din sits down at the kitchen table to have breakfast with them.

He doesn’t think of his helmet once.

He doesn’t need to.

When Luke sits outside the house under an ancient tree, later, he breathes in the scent of the forest, the warmth and life of it, and exhales.

Anakin is standing next to him in the shade. They’re both watching Din familiarize himself with the Darksaber outside of his armor. Luke suggested it. The Mandalorian isn’t used to fighting without his beskar. His movements are a little awkward, but he gives his entire focus to the task. Luke wishes they were sparring. He knows that’s not a good idea, not in his current condition, Ben would’ve said.

Ben isn’t there.

“He’s good to you?”

Anakin always looks tired. Decades of pain and suffering will do that to you, Luke figures.

He hums, “I think he will be,” and his father nods, before pressing his ghostly hand to his shoulder.

“Keep him.”

Luke doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The wind of Ossus sweeps over the clearing around his house, and he thinks he was right to trust in the Force.

If Ben weren’t so busy sulking at him, he'd probably praise him for it.

Han Solo lands his freighter on the surface of Ossus some two days later. By then, Din has resolved to wear his beskar again, and watches from the stoop of Luke’s house when the Jedi greets his brother-in-law with a bright grin and a hug. The pair is familiar with each other. They speak some, laugh some, with an ease that speaks of agonizing months spent in close quarters and fear during the Rebel War.

The Wookie—Chewbacca, he’s called—helps them bring crate after crate of goods down from the ship, as well as a white and blue Astromech droid that rams itself into Luke’s legs the moment he touches the grass. Din watches the merry reunion, but doesn’t offer to help, not when Luke uses the Force to hasten the process while exchanging quips with his brother-in-law and Artoo, the droid.

“How long are you staying?” he hears the omega ask Solo, though, when he brings the smuggler and his tall furry friend back to the house, and when the smuggler speaks, it’s with his gaze planted in Din’s through his visor.

“Not long, wouldn’t want to intrude upon your lovebirds’ private time.”

Shit. Din stiffens at that, grits his teeth, and ignores the way the droid comes forward to size him up. Luke hasn’t been taking inhibitors, and neither has he, and though the droid can’t smell them, Solo can. They kriffed for two to three entire days for Luke’s heat, and Din could’ve retreated back into his armor after that, but he hasn’t, and the number of times they’ve kriffed again since then would shame him if he wasn’t much too satisfied with it.

The Jedi only chuckles, oblivious to his irritation—or perhaps simply uncaring for it.

“If you were, I’d have already maimed you, Han.”

A pause. The smuggler smirks, “I’m sure you wouldn’t be the only one,” but Luke tuts while elbowing him in the ribs.

“Stop antagonizing Din.”

Is that what he’s been doing? Solo snorts, rolls his eyes, but he obeys, oddly enough. Din follows them and the droid inside the house, and soon finds himself watching them debate the last New Republic decision around lunch in the kitchen like it’s the most normal thing in the world—like Luke isn’t a Jedi, or Solo, the husband of a princess and New Republic Counselor.

The Wookie interjects sometimes, and either Luke, Solo, or the droid answers without breaking the flow of the conversation. It’s fascinating. Din speaks enough languages to make his way from one side of the galaxy to the other with ease, but he’s never learned Shyriiwook—or Binary, for that matter. Watching Luke—beautiful, strong, and smart Luke—speak to his brother-in-law is like seeing through time, and catching a glimpse of the Rebel Hero that must’ve been Luke Skywalker in a not-so-distant past.

“You don’t eat, Mando?” Solo asks at some point, and Din only stares at him as Luke snorts in a mug of cold tea.

“He won’t unless you’re fine with eating with your back turned.”

The smuggler blinks at him, “Why the kark is that?” and the Jedi smirks.

“Mandalorians of his sect don’t remove their helmet in public, but this one’s too nice to ditch us and go eat somewhere else.”

Sitting near Solo, the Wookie shrieks something while giving Din an almost polite nod, and Luke hums as he side-eyes him, “Chewie’s thanking you for your kind gesture,” to which Solo scoffs while putting down his own mug.

“You shoulda told me, I would’ve hurried things along instead of letting ya hang around until we’re done.”

Huffing, though it’s quiet, Din cocks his head, “I’m used to it,” but the smuggler grimaces.

“Not an excuse, you’re family now.”

Oh.

Din blinks at the man, wonders what he should answer to that, but Luke clears his throat.

“Han, can you—wait a bit until you make statements like that?”

The smuggler blinks at him, “What? Your scent’s all over the poor bastard, you can’t tell me you aren’t making this a thing, kid,” to which Luke—beautiful, gorgeous well of sunshine that he is—flushes while running a hand through his golden hair.

“I am, but I—we haven’t talked about it yet, I shouldn’t—” His gaze turns to Din, he licks his lips, and Din knows he’s being addressed when he speaks again—almost muttering to himself. “I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

Right.

Din clears his throat, “We’ll speak of it,” and Solo looks between them, squinting, before he smirks while leaning back into his chair.

“I see, well, I hope to hear the good news soon, huh?” He snorts before raising an eyebrow at Luke. “You told Leia, right kid?” A pause. The Jedi grimaces as the droid beeps at him, and Solo groans as he hangs his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“I forgot!” Luke replies, only for Solo to raise a hand and aggressively ruffle his hair while hissing at him.

“You—she’s going to skin you alive!”

The omega groans, “I know!” but the Wookie intervenes, then, and he flushes so dark that Din wonders what enormity the giant might’ve said while Solo bursts out laughing.

The action is a solar thing, something Din’s seen in Luke before. He throws his entire body back into his chair, shakes his head, “Oh kriff—” before wrapping a hand around Luke’s shoulder as he wheezes. “Chewie’s right, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d done it on purpose.”

Right. Din scowls, and when Luke glances his way—still flushed in the face—he looks down at his empty food bowl.

“Chewie said Leia might’ve—uh, thought about what might happen, uh, between you and me.”

Oh.

The Alderaani princess. Thinking of Din and Luke. Happening.

Din looks away from the table, blinks, thinks of his son and his unfathomable powers, and glances back at Luke.

“Does she—see things too?”

Luke licks his lips, shrugs, “She’s Force-sensitive, yes, but she doesn’t have visions, if that’s what you’re asking,” to which Solo snorts.

“Speak for yourself, your sister’s a damn witch, she knows everything.”

The Jedi only smirks, though, “That’s just ‘cause you’re predictable,” and Solo scoffs at him.

“Right, as if.”

Sighing, Din pushes away his chair to stand, “I’ll check on the Kid, tran’ika, call if you need me,” and though Luke hums, engrossed in whatever the Wookie is saying, Din hears the way Solo hisses when he exits the kitchen.

“He gives you Mando’a nicknames?”

He doesn’t stick around to hear the rest.

Outside, the Kid is playing in the grass, under a smaller tree. He perks up upon hearing the sound of Din’s steps, and coos when his buir sits cross-legged in the grass next to him. The air smells clean, like grass and forest. Din starts missing the scent of sunshine from Luke’s skin as soon as he’s away from it, but the Jedi told him Solo would be there soon, this morning, and Din’s had the helmet on since he got dressed.

He should have asked Luke to wear his flight suit for a day or two, if only to have the last dregs of his heat-scent permeate and mark it. He didn’t, and now, he’s left with only the ghost of a memory, crumbs of it in the unshaven hair of his moustache, and a craving he knows will stay until he gets to satiate it again.

“Hey there, Grogu,” Din says upon taking the Kid on his lap, and the latter snuggles into him before Force-pulling a rock into his hand.

The feat would have surprised Din a few months ago. Now he only huffs a laugh.

“Do you want to show me your latest trick?”

The Kid blinks up at him, smiles, and makes the rock float a few inches from his green palm.

Back inside the house, Luke and Han watch the Mandalorian—Din Djarin, fierce warrior, Mand’alor, and kindest man Luke believes he’s ever met—speak in a hushed voice to his son, while the child shows him the latest pattern Luke’s taught him to make using the Force.

He’s huge, next to Grogu. Protective in ways only fathers can be.

Luke holds back a shiver at the memory of his larger frame covering his own—blanketing him in his scent even after his heat was done and Luke was sated and content. He doesn’t allow it to show on his face. Han’s in the room, and he’s more perceptive about these things than Luke is comfortable with.

“Don’t go too far in your head, kid,” Han snarks, as if on cue, and Luke glares at him, though he knows his cheeks are red.

“What?”

The smuggler snorts, “Look at you, making moon-eyes at him across the garden,” and when he sighs, it’s fond. “Did he bite you yet?”

Ah.

Luke shakes his head, “We haven’t talked about it,” to which Han raises an eyebrow as Chewbacca makes a questioning sound.

“Does that mean he doesn’t want to? ‘Cause I ain’t one of you special freaks, but it’s not what his scent’s telling me.”

Right. He might not be Force-sensitive, but Han Solo is way too perceptive for his own good.

“I think he does,” Luke replies, before worrying his lower lip as he glances at Din again. “It’s not that simple, though, it’s complicated enough for him to be—you know, involved with me when I’m not Mandalorian, considering I’m a Jedi, of all things, and he’s the Mand’alor.”

“All I hear is banthashit, you realize?” Han deadpans, though, while Chewie nods. “So you’re a Jedi, and he’s the king of the Mandos, then what? Didn’t stop you lots from kriffing until you made the damn house smell like a Twi’lek market, or him from letting you near his kid, which is a big deal for these guys, I’ll have you know.”

Luke rolls his eyes, “I know that, Han, it’s just—” He sighs. “He’s in a delicate position, and I’m his first omega—as he’s my first alpha, you know that—so I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

“Right,” Han quips, dubious, before turning his gaze toward Din, still sitting in the grass. “I don’t think the bastard’s finding it very difficult, if you want my opinion.”

Right.

“What do you know?” Luke grumbles, to which his friend—best friends, really—snorts.

“I married your sister, kid, and she’s as much of a Skywalker as you are.” He sighs. “Loving her and Ben is the easiest thing I do every day, and I’m sure your Mando’s the same.”

Right.

Luke grimaces, “We aren’t talking about love,” but Han scoffs.

“He’ll get there, and don’t make that face at me, you already are.”

What.

“No I’m not.”

Han raises his eyebrows at him, “Kid,” but Luke only scowls.

“I’m not in love with him, I like him, yes, and I trust him, but trust and love are two very different things.”

“Sure,” Han replies with a smirk. “But he’s an alpha, and you went in heat for him, and don’t think I can’t smell you nursing from here, you and I both know what that means.”

Oh Force.

“Han!” Luke hisses, self-consciously crossing his arms over his chest as his face heats up. “Keep your kriffing nose to yourself!”

His brother-in-law only laughs at him while Chewie agrees, and Luke gets relentlessly teased about it—his relationship with Din and the rest—until the Mandalorian brings Grogu back inside, and asks that someone keep an eye on the child while he’s gone to comm a few people.

“Don’t you worry your tin can head, Mando,” Han replies with his trademark mischievous grin. “We’ll watch him like milk on the fire, go do your big Mand’alor stuff.”

Growling his assent, Chewie salutes him as well as Artoo beeps, and Din gently lays Grogu in Luke’s arms before pressing the cool beskar of his helmet to his forehead. It’s gentle. He doesn’t speak, but Luke’s belly fills with fluttering warmth anyway. When Din’s gone with a quiet sound of boots on the earthen floor, he finds Han and Chewie staring at him with knowing eyes and smiles.

“Shut up,” he mutters, and two low snickers answer instead of words.

Whatever.

“Mand’alor,” Bo-Katan Kryze greets him upon answering the comm transmission, and Din doesn’t miss the faint accent of disdain in her voice, though he doesn’t react to it.

“Kryze.”

“What do you want?” she says, and Din sighs as he prepares what he’ll tell Luke once he’s done with her in the corner of his mind.

“I might have found allies for your campaign to reclaim Mandalore the Cursed.”

A pause. Bo-Katan can’t allow herself to refuse help, or at least, she couldn’t last time he checked. She sighs, “You’re thinking of your jetii,” and Din nods.

“Yes.”

“Why would he help us?”

“He believes in helping those in need,” is all Din answers, and in truth, he doesn’t know if Luke will help, can only hope he will, really, but he wants to ask. If only to have a reason not to leave alone when he finally does leave Ossus.

If only not to be separated from my clan when destiny calls me away.

Bo-Katan hums, “Will that be enough?” and Din thinks of Luke’s face when he sleeps, of the taste of his skin, and the sound of his voice. He swallows.

“It might not be, but I’ll never know if I don’t ask.”

Another pause, then Bo-Katan scoffs, “You kriffed him, did you?” to which Din bares his teeth under his helmet.

“Enough.”

“It’s alright, don’t growl at me,” she laughs, and though the sound is cruel, it has no edge, or perhaps her edge just doesn’t reach him anymore. She sighs. “I should have known you’d get attached, just—don’t swear the riduu’rok before you’ve rallied the clans, can you? It’ll be hard enough to explain why we have a jetii in your midst.”

Right. Don’t swear the riduu’rok, is that all? Din scoffs, “I’ll do whatever I damn please, Kryze. Just be ready to play nice with him when I bring him over,” to which Bo-Katan groans.

“I knew you’d say that.” She sighs again. “I’ll let the others know, try not to get lost on the way back, Mand’alor.”

Of kriffing course. She cuts the communication, and Din lets himself lean back against the wall of his room—the one he hasn’t been sleeping in for the past few days.

Here, it doesn’t smell like anything. Only clean linens, earth, and wood. There’s no spices, no desert, no sunshine here. Din used to hate the sand, and perhaps he still does, but right now, what he misses is—Luke. Luke’s scent, Luke’s laugh, Luke’s storm-bright eyes gazing at him in the distance. The omega is right there in the next room over, and yet Din feels like he should check that he’s still there, as if anything could have happened in the ten minutes he’s spent away.

It's ridiculous. Din scoffs in the silence and shakes his head. How is he to keep his head if the Jedi lets him go?

He sighs and exits the room.

Solo leaves some hours after lunch. Squeezes Luke between his arms, and ruffles his hair with a warm bout of laughter that fills the space around the house with the steady, comforting warmth of an engine. The Wookie does the same, honks another salute at Din before climbing back into the freighter ship. They’re leaving the Astromech with Luke. “He’s mine,” the Jedi chuckled when Din raised an eyebrow at him under his helmet, and Din understood the droid must be the one he sent away for maintenance—the one who flies his X-wing.

Din doesn’t expect Solo to care much for him, but the man stops in front of him before he and his second finally leave. His gaze is a steady thing. Han Solo sizes him up for a long minute, arms crossed over his chest in a mix of defiance and stern appreciation, then he smirks and cocks his head in a nod.

“You’ll take care of him,” he says, not an order, not even a request, but a statement, and Din nods right back.

“I swear it.”

They understand each other.

When the ship disappears in the sky of Ossus, Luke stands next to Din, presses his shoulder to his beskar pauldron, and smiles.

“You want to take care of me, Din Djarin?”

Din doesn’t allow himself to move, but he knows. Luke can read him like an open book, no matter the beskar.

“I said what I said.”

The Jedi chuckles, “So you did,” and if he sees his father, or his masters, in the shadows at the edge of the nearby wood, he doesn’t say. Only presses closer into Din’s side, and kisses his lips when Din finally takes off his helmet again.

They’re alone here. The Kid is chasing a dragonfly-shaped insect somewhere behind them. The wind carries the scents of the forest, and sunshine from Luke’s skin, and they’re alone here, and it doesn’t matter who Din is, or what weapon hangs unused, but not alien, at his side.

When Din leaves, he’ll ask Luke to come along. Will kiss him hard enough to feel it tingle on his lips long after, and put his bucket back on. If Bo-Katan grumbles about it, about them, he’ll ignore her. If the Covert disapproves, he’ll ignore them as well.

He bathed in the waters. By creed and tradition, he’s bound to be Mand’alor whether he likes it or not, and after weeks here, on Ossus, the Darksaber is lighter than it’s ever been at his waist. Familiar. Full of the soul it perhaps lacked before.

The Jedi next to him is a steady presence, a smile, and a gaze he wants to keep close. Din hates sand, but Luke brings a desert that only makes him burn inside, and Din won’t say the riduu’rok without telling him about it first—without laying ground rules and making sure they’re on the same page—but something tells him Luke will be clan before the armorer can question this relationship they have.

No matter.

His name is Din Djarin. He’s the Mand’alor, and he’s a father, and he isn’t a lonely alpha anymore.

Luke—Jedi master, omega from Tatooine, Rebel hero, and brother of a princess—is standing right there with him in the sunshine.

The End.