The Mandalorian, Book of Boba Fett: Canon Universe, Not Canon Compliant.
Established Relationship, Domestic
“What are you doing all the way over here?”
Boba doesn’t turn, he doesn’t need to. There’s only four people who would address him with such a casual level of familiarity — there used to be more, enough to fill an entire planet, but there also used to be none — and, currently, two of them were off-planet and not projected to return for a handful more days and one is busy terrorising every spice trader from here to the edge of the [Dune Sea]. Only one of them had footsteps that had gently padded their way up to Boba’s side several minutes before the man had ever emerged from their bedroom. “What does it look like?”
Luke kisses the back of his teeth, the sound so reminiscent of a Tusken curse that Boba’s hand twitches towards his blaster, a reflexive burst of pain along already torn and tattered muscles. “If you were one of my students, I’d put you in timeout.”
Teaching hadn’t come easily to Luke, stumbling his way through fits and starts, an ageing speeder engine coaxed into life and strapped to a generator to run at full-tilt. He trips over his words and pushes his laugh through a strainer before he lets it escape, the resulting sound thin and wavering, but he’s growing comfortable enough with the concept. Boba knew Kenobi in passing, remembers him as a flash of blue amidst a grin that wound up plastered over the holo-net, and his attention had never lingered for too long on the Jedi, straying to the other clones clustered at his side and trying to see his father in their faces, in the way they moved, in the forlorn dedication they looked at Kenobi with, love and exasperation in equal terrifying measure. He knows he looks at Luke the same way, watching the slip of a Jedi like he hung the twin suns in the sky and set the stars spinning because it took his fancy but also that he had forgotten how doors work for the seventh time that day and was also wearing some important item of clothing inside out. He doesn’t think about Kenobi much.
“Timeout?” Boba asks. He reaches for Luke with the hand that strayed too close to his blaster, fingers spread as wide as he can, palm up. There’s a splash of acid burn across his skin that still puckers the flesh, restricts the full spread of movement, but the skin is beginning to darken into a familiar range. “Not going to make me run drills until I drop?”
“Not unless you ask me nicely,” Luke croons. His smile is sleep-slow, his eyes half-lidded but there’s a flicker of something dark passing over his features, a rage that runs deep that it can be felt through vibrations in the sand instead of witnessed. He could tear apart the threads of the universe if the mood took him, reweaving it into something recognisable but fundamentally changed for the act of it. His fingers are cool against Boba’s skin, always running a few degrees cooler than would be expected, and he sighs as Boba pulls him closer.
Boba kisses the back of Luke’s hand, tastes salt on his skin, and presses their joined hands to his chest. Luke moves with the motion, leaning forwards to rest over Boba’s shoulders. His hair, fluffed due to his handful of hours of restless sleep, brushes against Boba’s cheek, the edge of his scalp, one of his eyes. He peers through gold and fawn for a moment before he closes his eye, waiting for the other to focus before he picks up his datapad once more. It’s an older ship manifest, trying to pass off one restricted shipment as another, and Boba can feel the revelation somewhere in his mind like a notch in his armour, something to run his fingers over and dig his nails under until he can pry it loose. He’s been staring at the same piece of text for some time before Luke shifts once more, pressing a kiss to Boba’s cheek that is mostly an impression of his teeth.
“Come to bed.”
“I’m working.”
“No.” Luke pushes himself upright, drawing Boba’s hand with him. He’s careful with Boba’s range of emotion, the same level of focused dedication he applies to the ruin of Boba’s knee where muscle and bone have been sheared away leaving a void that still aches whenever there’s a sandstorm brewing on the horizon. “It will look better in the morning.” Luke’s metal fingers flicker in front of Boba’s face, the light catching off them strangely, almost like they were fluid, their form and shape changing.
Boba blinks. “Don’t try that Jedi banthashit on me, bunny.”
“Don’t have to.” Luke kisses him again, lower this time, catching the corner of Boba’s mouth with the pointed edge of his canine. Boba turns toward him, licking over Luke’s bottom lip. He lets the datapad drop onto the desk, the screen flickering off in the corner of his vision.
Luke sighs, sinking further into Boba’s hold. He presses his face into the crook of Boba’s shoulder, idly mouthing at the rough topography of the scars that cross over the edge of his collarbone. “Come back to bed.”
Boba makes to stand, bracing himself against the carved arms of the chair, and Luke moves with him. His grip drops to Boba’s hips, his thumbs tracing the exposed swell of his hipbones above the loose tie of his trousers, and Luke hums appreciatively. He looks up, catching Boba’s gaze, and winks like he’s some credit-holo hero ready to coax some damsel into a world of saber duels and fucking in well-kept castles. It could work. He is pretty enough, after all.
“Flirt,” Boba accuses him, no heat to his words. Standing takes time when he’s like this; every nerve jangling in the base of his skull with an alarm he can’t shut off, his prosthetic exchanged for something stripped down and just functional enough. He leans onto Luke, breathing through gritted teeth, and presses his eyes closed until sparks blur across his field of vision.
They walk slowly towards the bed, a hulking sweep of a thing, piled high with blankets and pillows. Boba reclines back first and Luke flows over him, pushing his head beneath Boba’s chin like the hollow there had been worn away for him, by him.
Sleep takes him quickly when he lets it, warm and blissful and Luke heavy on his chest until he wakes with a mouthful of pale hair and sweating through his shirt.
Calling all the bobaluke (idk the ship name) peeps for help! I am in a mood™ lately, but don't have the strength to scour the internet for some juice!
Can y'all recommend me a good fic: spiciness is ok, but no non-con/weird dynamics, I also don't love the whole a/b/O and mpreg things; I do love me a good enemies to lovers, but canon divergence or AUs are welcome; pls no underage stuff🙏🏻
For those that might not have seen the original message on discord, we are going to be shutting down the BobaDinLuke server on
Friday Feb 2, 2024
Everyone that's currently a member is cordially invited to join us on that day for one last Friday Dance Party before I send our server-- lovingly-- into the great beyond.
It has been an absolute honor to host so many amazing talents and humans who contributed their art, care, and attention over the last few years, making the BDL server into a truly magical place to be. But, alas, the time has come to blast it into oblivion, Razor Crest-style.
In the meantime, please reblog so we can get the word out, and then stop in, say good-bye, and pick up anything you might have left laying around.
Love and beskar,
Your Mod'alor
Dark.
(art credit goes to the indomitable @maikaartwork )
The Luke/Din/Boba fic I never expected to write just keeps on coming. Chapter 3 is up now on ao3! I had dreams of getting this whole thing done before May4th but it just keeps getting longer...which is hopefully not a bad thing for those reading along ;-)
The best is yet to come
Luke wakes from the darkness and immediately wishes the darkness would take him back.
His head is stuffed with enough wool to cover a bantha, his eyes ache at the thin light that is edging through the window’s drawn blinds, and he has the vague, terrible feeling that he’s done something he should be ashamed of but can’t for the life of him remember what it was.
The sound of a whistling kettle comes from somewhere beyond the closed door of the room he’s in but doesn’t recognize, followed by the familiar ping of a comm going off.
“Su cuy'gar, ner runi,” a deep voice answers and Luke’s Mando’a is absurdly terrible, but even he can recognize the greeting and endearment from all the times he’s overheard Din and Fett talking before.
Boba Fett. Shit. He’s in Boba Fett’s bed. He’d kissed Boba kriffing Fett on the cheek and somehow didn’t take a blaster bolt to the gut for it. The rest is coming back to him now and he doesn’t like what he’s remembering at all.
Read on ao3
