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omgahgase · 6 months

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always you - dinluke

cross posted on ao3 already, can be found here. i'm still really tired and still really emotional about finishing a fic after everythings that happened, so go easy on me and give me head pats bc, honestly? i kinda deserve it.

fic is under the cut!

Din has a scar. He has a lot, actually, littered across the length of his body in blaster bullet shapes and knife-sharp lines. Some of them even have razor-teeth patterns that Luke immediately latches onto with the same hungry intensity, salivating for a story only Din can tell.

This scar, however, is small. It’s right on the bridge of his nose, laid jagged across haphazardly repaired skin in a tone just a shade too light. It’s a few scants below his eyes, lined up perfectly to his crows' feet, crooked in that intimate way Luke knows resulted in a broken nose. Luke knows this—he knows this better than he knows his own scars because Din’s scar is barely noticeable and it’s sorta adorable and because it’s Din’s.

Luke can retain light years' worth of knowledge on Din. Because, when allowed to learn everything there is to know about a person in all their entirety, on someone he loves and who loves him back just as hard, it’s a pretty easy decision to make.

Luke knows Din has a nose scar because he kisses it every morning when they wake up tangled in each other’s arms and tied to the hips by sheets. Luke brushes a feather-light thumb over the slightly raised skin any time he cups Din’s face and is reminded what it means to hold his world in the palm of his hands, a sweet caress followed by an even sweeter, longer kiss. And Luke stares at it. He looks and stares and admires how such a small, almost invisible piece of someone’s past could capture his attention for unimaginable amounts of time. How Luke—prompted with the almost unfairly handsome face that is his husband, his Earth-rich brown eyes and bed-tousled hair, his smile that makes Luke feel like a star erupted somewhere out there in the universe—could whisk past all the features that make him jelly-legged and punch-happy giddy in favor of staring doe-eyed at a tiny, barely there, blemish of skin.

Over the years, Luke has come up with a few conclusions.

The first one is this: because even if Din doesn’t wear his helmet at home anymore, now well past the few years of dating and blindfolds and eyes screwed shut so tight Luke used to give himself vision blobs of varying degrees, each time Luke looks up and sees Din’s nose scar first, then the rest of his face second, he feels as if he’s taken back to Gideon’s cruiser, laying eyes on the Mandalorian for the first time all over again and zeroing in on that rough, sinewy, line of skin. Even from well over ten feet away, Luke could see it, he stared at it for a moment too long for he’s always one to notice the small things of a person first before realizing the tiny green sentient in the man’s arms was the spitting image of one of his late masters. Thinking back on it, Luke probably should’ve opened his horizons on that one instead of gawking at the gorgeous, crying man saying goodbye to his son.

Luke’s second conclusion is less winded and lacking waxed poetry, providing a more sensible idea as to why he’s constantly transfixed to Din’s scar: it’s a part of Din and Grogu. It’s a remembrance of a time when they both decided that they’d do anything for the other, risking their lives for a chance to save one they love more so than their own.

And because of that, Luke loves them, so he loves Din’s nose scar just as much.

“You know,” Din begins, pulling Luke out of his mindless ramblings and back to Yavin where he started before Din unlocked a whirlwind of words, “you could also just say, ‘It’s cool.’ Saves you more energy.”

Luke nuzzles into Din’s hair, buries his nose into the familiar scent of beskar and berry shampoo, and scratches at his scalp with blunt nails. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that? I can’t string lines of devoted poetry into a lame reason like that.”

“You could try.”

“It would suck.”

“I would still read it.”

Luke gives a disbelieving snort, only to have Din raise his head from Luke’s chest and look him dead in the eye. Luke has the urge to squirm away because it’s been nearly eleven years of marriage and fifteen of being together and he still can’t look at Din without blushing like a schoolboy with a playground crush. So he does the most reasonable thing that pops into his head.

He looks at Din’s scar like a marvel and cherishes it like a treasure. Which, to Luke, it is.

“I would,” Din repeats.

“Would what?” Luke asks, too busy tracing the outline of pale skin across a regal nose for the umpteenth time.

“Read your sucky poetry.”

Luke smiles, hugs Din a little harder, and tightens his thighs on either side of Din’s strong middle. His lips are on Din’s hairline when he says, “So you think my poetry is sucky.”

“Only because you said you’d write some.”

Luke hums and skims his lips over Din’s forehead. “Thank you.”

Din shifts, stretches his neck until he captures Luke's mouth with his own, and kisses him until Luke’s upper lip is rubbed raw by his mustache, stinging with that pleasant after-burn he only ever wants to feel from his husband.

“I also think it’s cool,” Luke adds when Din parts from his lips with one last fleeting kiss and returns to resting his head on Luke’s chest, ear pressed firmly above his heart. “I think all of your scars are cool.”

“But you’re obsessed with this one.”

“For obvious reasons.”

Din chuckles, the deep rumble reverberating so far behind Luke’s ribs he can feel the sound pulsate in every active artery and blood cell in his veins.

“I can list them for you again if you’d like.”

Din doesn’t move, which makes Luke assume he’s contemplating his response, then he pulls the blanket that’s fallen loose around his bare waist up to his shoulders and wraps his arms back around Luke like they never left. His answer, despite being devoid of a verbal reply, is clear enough for Luke. Luke kisses the top of Din’s head again because he can, reverts to his earlier musings of running his fingers through Din’s hair, and melts into the couch once again, content to have this moment alone with his husband.

Training the next generation of Jedi can be exhausting, especially considering how Ben and Grogu still argue over petty squabbles at their grown ages of 70 and 21. And also because Rey and Finn are in their “rebellious years,” which just means they’d rather listen to Grogu and totally ignore Luke.

Which is fine, really. Luke is more than happy for his oldest to take his sister and her best friend to the other side of the planet for a cycle or two, and get some good training that doesn’t involve frog hunting or Force throwing Ben clear across a field. That local boy, Poe, the one that’s deathly attached himself to Rey and Finn, a problem Luke will most likely have to observe under a better lens’, will probably follow them, so that leaves Luke child-free until they and the rest of the padawans return from their monthly visitation with their families.

Luke is grateful for this break. He’s not as young as he used to be anymore, so any moment he can spare away from the kids is spent either sleeping or here, with Din. Wrapped up in each other’s arms on the couch, watching a stupidly cheesy Holomark movie about true love and a small town’s spirit to save the last remnants of what once was. Happy. Pleased to be able to have this. All of it, with Din.

As Luke rakes his fingers through Din’s hair, scratches at the salt and pepper curls resting just above his nape, and genuinely tries to enjoy the hilariously cringy film Din chose, mind you, he feels fingers slide down his side and dip under the hem of his shirt. Din’s hand doesn’t go below his hip, if anything, Din doesn’t seem aware of his actions until Luke starts giggling under his breath due to nimble fingers mapping out the branches of scars he knows are there. Luke makes it to the overly dramatic betrayal of the male lead and his plans to buy the last known family bakery in town before he has to squirm a little, trying to put distance between himself and Din’s curious fingers.

Din doesn’t like that, it seems, because Luke feels the downward pull of his frown. “Stop moving so much.”

“Stop tickling me.”

“Stop trying to get away.”

Luke barks out a laugh with a throw of his head, neck going long and feet kicking up in that way he thinks is weird but Din thinks is adorable.

“I like feeling them,” Din muses.

“Oh, yeah?” Luke retorts, wiggling when Din gets to a particularly sensitive spot near his ribs, below his pectoral, and down again to his navel. “What’s there to like about them?”

“A lot.”

“Care to share a few examples?”

“They’re pretty, for one.” Din punctuates his spoken fact with a quick kiss to Luke’s collarbone, right atop the most visible lines of lightning striking across the skin above his nightshirt.

Luke smiles, all goofy and giddy, feeling butterflies erupt in the center of his stomach. “You think all of me is pretty.”

Din looks up at him with dark, soulful eyes, lips still pressed to Luke’s chest when he says, “Of course I do.” He said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, with a sureness that makes Luke believe him. “And because they’re yours. Because they prove that you’re still here.”

Luke arches just the slightest bit when Din’s fingers stake over to the small of his back, up up up until they reach his middle, and wide palms splay over thousands of branches that Din’s spent years memorizing, storing even the smallest offshoot into the deepest files of his brain.

“With you,” Luke says, breathy, almost in a whisper.

“With me,” Din confirms, moving until their noses slot together and their foreheads touch. “Always with me.”

Luke feels fingers dance across his back, feels the breadth of Din stretch himself across Luke so he can reach every scar he can and backtrack until he’s had his fill. Over shoulders and arms, the soft spots of elbows and the dip of Luke’s neck, the lean cut of his abdomen and the soft squish of his chest. Din goes until his hands have outlined and traced and mapped, until he’s touched every flaw of skin on Luke’s upper body like it’s his first time feeling them all over again.

Luke smiles to himself at this wonder, nuzzles closer so he can feel the phantom touch of Din’s scar brush over Luke’s nose.

“One more example?”

Din chuckles, and no matter how many times Luke’s heard it, it still sends his heart into a tizzy.

“Fishing for compliments, cyar’ika?”

Luke takes a fistful of Din’s hair and tugs, guiding him above his mouth. “Always, my love.”

Din shudders, which doesn’t go unnoticed, and drops a quick kiss on his lips before saying, “I love you.”

Luke kisses him back easily, naturally, like it’s the easiest task in the galaxy. Which, for them, it is.

“I love you too, Din.”

“No, cyar’ika,” he says, “I love your scars—all of them. Because they’re a part of you. So I love them. And you.” He kisses Luke again, says ‘always you’ between every pass of lips and tug of his hair.

When they separate, Luke feels dazed and kiss-drunk, but that’s normal for them, as normal as breathing. It’s simple science. The grass on Yavin is green. The sky above is blue. When Din kisses him, Luke feels as his entire world stops on its axis.

“You’re taking a page out of my award-winning poetry book, buddy. That’s plagiarism, a crime punishable by folding laundry for three days.” Luke nips Din’s lips, then flicks his tongue over the bite, soothes the skin before it gets redder than it already is.

Din growls and the sound zips through Luke like a livewire. “Just three days?”

“Keep stealing my flow and I’ll make it a week. It’s very rude to steal another man’s hard work—”

Din kisses him again as a sort of apology, or to make him shut up, but Luke accepts it nonetheless. He accepts all of it.

They stay like that until their lips forget how to move and the heat trapped between the two of them, the warm couch, and a fuzzy blanket is too much to bear. In one swift motion, Din tosses the blanket somewhere over his shoulder and drags Luke until they’re sitting upright with Luke in his husband’s lap and Din with a handful of Luke’s ass. Din claims it’s easier to talk to him like this. Luke thinks Din just can’t keep his hands to himself. Which he can’t. Fact-tested and proven.

Luke makes the best of it, however, by smoothing his palms up Din’s chest, over his shoulders to cup his face and place one last soft peck to the marred skin of his nose. Din leans into the touch like he does every time they find themselves like this, rumbling something deep in his chest that Luke always thinks is a purr. Or some sort of happy sound Din makes when he’s content and placid.

“I really do love your scar,” Luke says eventually. “It’s cool.”

Din scrunches in a way that reminds Luke of Grogu, big brown eyes and all. “Out of all the ones you could’ve chosen, why choose that one?”

Luke thinks for a moment, then, “That’s like asking why you chose me. Out of all the beings in the galaxy, why’d you choose me?”

“I didn’t choose you,” Din reasons easily, moving his hands so he can circle Luke’s hips, holding him there as if he thinks continuing the conversation might make him miraculously disappear. Like some sort of broken No Backsies promise. “I didn’t have a choice in who my heart chose to love. But if I did…”

Luke looks down at him, eyes swimming with something that makes Din’s own sparkle and shine brighter than a kyber crystal. “Always me?” Luke asks.

Din nods, holds him steady, holds him fast. “Always you.”

And Luke knows this. He knows a lot about Din. He knows about the small, faint scar across the bridge of his nose. He knows what Din’s lips feel like against his, soft and perfect and made for Luke to kiss as if he’s dying and Din’s his last lifeforce.

And Luke knows it’s Din. Always Din.

#dinluke #din djarin #luke skywalker #the mandalorian #star wars #omgahgase writes #i'm proud of this even if it's not my best writing but more so that i sat down for over 3 hours and wrote #that hasn't happened in a long time #so excuse me for crying on here and ao3 but i'm SOBBING

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