Idk dude

a @dieterbravobrainrotclub Secret Santa exchange gift for @perotovar - hi my love, tis I your Secret Santa! 🎅 I hope my silly anon messages were entertaining enough while I was working on this. I SO wanted to have this finished earlier, but Dieter had a lot more to say than I originally thought. 😅 I hope you enjoy this silly, fluffy (with a touch of angst), borderline crack-fic AU written straight from my heart to yours. I was ECSTATIC when I found out I would be your secret santa, you have been such a great friend (despite my lacking communication skills) and the greatest cheerleader when i come to you with any fic ideas or kinky thots that pop into my mind and I hope this fic can help convey just how grateful I am to have you in my life! ❤️ I took some different Yule traditions and legends I had found and mixed them together to create the town celebration, and I so hope it reads well. This is also in a way an ode to a pairing I never would have been obsessed with if it weren't for your fantastic mind - Dieter x Din, and I had to make them poly. AND I couldn't resist writing Grogu and Dieter. I hope you had a joyous Yule and a bountiful feast, here's to many more my friend 🫂🥰

Tucked away in the northernmost valley of Washington lies the quaint mountain town of Mandalore. A place rich in community where the people, most often referred to as Mandalorians, value honor, tradition, and the seasonal festivals within the Wheel of the Year. A charming little town currently coming closer and closer into view as the airport taxi crawls closer to its outer limits before coming to a stop.

The crisp chill of the air bites at Dieter's nose as he steps out of the dry warmth of the cab, his barely worn leather boots crunching into the thin layer of freshly fallen snow; it's here, the first day of Winter.

The solstice, you would remind him, and along with it Yule— a celebration that honors the rebirth of the sun, where people come together in merriment to feast and rejoice in the promise of more light, hope, and new beginnings.

A celebration that you and Din so graciously invited him to without a second thought, so easily extending the reaches of the generosity the two of you have already shared with him within the last eight months Dieter has known the both of you.

If anyone had asked Dieter this time last year where he would be spending the holiday season he would have rolled his eyes and walked away, grumbling under his breath something trite and sadly cliched such as "probably at the bottom of the finest bottle of cognac," or "lost in a coke fueled haze," or even the all too mature response of "balls deep in your dad while your mom watches in the corner."

That last quip landed him in the hospital for a short stint after some drunken asshole thought it best to sort his feelings out via fist to Dieter's mouth.

Nothing new for the Oscar winning actor though, that moment was just another notch in that increasingly shitty year since his divorce had finalized.

Things with Anika… well, they just didn't work out. It was a whirlwind romance bred from hero worship; his guardian angel saving him from an accidental overdose. But that's all it sizzled out to be— a flash in the pan, too much too fast, and by the time it was all over Dieter was… lost.

And the drugs and alcohol were all too enticing.

"BREAKING: DIETER BRAVO GOES ON BENDER, AGAIN!"

Splashed across every tabloid, a headline on every news station almost every week. Day by day someone new would drop out of Dieter's life. Some left quietly, without warning. Others thought it best to throw every wrong doing back in his face, as if he were unaware of his own actions. At the end of the day it didn't matter how they left, they left all the same— one by one until there was no one left in his corner.

Dieter couldn't even blame them, he envied them. If it was possible, he would have left him behind too.

After he was released from the hospital, he took some time to truly be by himself— sold his house, fucked off and booked a one-way flight to somewhere in the PNW where he could peacefully dive deeper into rock bottom and luxuriate in it. He almost convinced himself it was more comfortable by his lonesome down there, that being holed up in his own misery and self-loathing was some form of karmic retribution he was destined to live out. He very well could have lived the rest of his life that way if it weren’t for one fortuitous outing: an emergency grocery run Dieter begrudgingly took on after being blacklisted from every grocery delivery service within the area.

Turns out people don't take too kindly to a drunken middle-aged man dressed in a threadbare green robe yelling at them to "get the fuck off" his property after simply doing their job dropping off his groceries.

And he was out of mac and cheese.

One barely half-assed shower and a 30 minute cab ride to the nearest store later, Dieter had found himself squinting over his sunglasses at two boxes in his hand, stuck between the tried and true Deluxe Original Cheddar and the intriguing Pepper Jack promising a "subtle jalapeño kick." He continued to weigh his options, about to throw both of them in his cart when he felt a small thud against the lower half of his leg, followed by the tiniest oof echoing from below him.

He looked down and was frozen on the spot. He didn't remember dipping into his stash of mushrooms before heading out, but tripping balls could have been the only explanation for what Dieter had been looking at in that moment.

A small frog-like creature? No, it looked nothing like a frog save from its green skin and giant black eyes. And it was wearing clothes. Clothes that looked specifically made for the little thing; a tiny black knit jumper featuring a- oh, a frog, how hilarious, a pair of black trousers that looked so cozy Dieter started to wonder where he might be able to find some of his own, and a little yellow knit hat that had to have held no purpose besides being adorable because the poor things ears were way too big to fit under. Wait, no, Dieter was wrong, there were slits in the hat specifically to fit around its ears. If that didn't make his heart grow just a tiny fraction bigger.

This…thing continued to stare back at him, almost as if it were also trying to figure Dieter out, its head cocking to the side as it conducted its own exploration of Dieter's features, looking at him from head to toe. A puzzled expression as if this thing found Dieter familiar, but confusing.

"Grogu! Where did you wander off to this time? I told you, we don't have any more room in the pantry for a tenth bag of parmesan goldfi- oh there you are!"

And then there you were. A somewhat flustered thing dressed in various textures of all black, the different fabrics highlighted your curves in ways that had Dieter gripping the macaroni boxes even harder in hopes his usual smart, and incredibly filthy, mouth wouldn't scare off the first person that had intrigued him in a long time.

You bent forward, scooping the creature up and cradled it in your arms as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it was, maybe Dieter was the one out of touch. He had spent a better portion of his time up until that moment blasted out of his mind in one way or another, perhaps these little beings, Grogu you had called it, were normal in this part of the country?

Either way, he couldn't keep his eyes off of you. The way you fussed over the thing in your arms, fixed its clothes as you chastised it for running off, the various rings on your hands glinted in the fluorescent light of the store, the chipped black polish on your nails took hold of his interest even more— was it a by-product of working with your hands, or an insight to a possible nervous habit you were trying to kick?

It wasn't until his gaze traveled to your face that he realized you had been talking to him. A poorly hidden smirk twisted your features when you caught him staring. He felt a long forgotten heat creep up his neck as he cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't catch that."

Your eyes, so gentle, softened even more when you smiled at him.

"I said, I'm sorry about this little guy running into you. Hopefully he didn't bother you too much."

He shook his head, working up the courage to introduce himself when a hulking figure rounded the corner right behind you, placed a hand on your hip, and presented what looked like a pre-prepared meal for four in front of you.

"Cyare, what about this for dinner?"

Cyare, was that your name? If so, it was fitting, a uniquely beautiful name for a uniquely beautiful person.

Your eyes never left Dieter's when you responded, "that looks delicious, my love."

Ah, of course you already had someone. Dieter gave you a slight nod as he stepped back towards his cart, he was just about to turn around when you continued.

"But don't you think that might be too much for just the three of us, Din? Maybe we should invite our new friend over for dinner?"

With that you looked up to this other man, Din, as he in turn gave you a puzzled look.

"What new friend?"

"This new friend," you held a hand out gesturing towards Dieter, the little one in your arms babbled joyously at the suggestion.

Dieter froze in his spot once more, not really knowing what to do. Were you punking him? Did that annoying show get green-lit again? Was that bastard Ashton Kutcher about to pop out, or did they get someone new and equally as terrible to host this reboot? The lights in the store suddenly felt too bright, Dieter's clothing felt a tad too tight, and he had a fleeting thought that maybe chucking the boxes of macaroni at the family of three before him might be a reasonable enough distraction for him to make his escape, but then your voice sounded out once more, mooring him to his spot.

"I mean, c'mon ner kar'ta, it's not everyday you get to dine with your doppelganger."

Din finally looked at Dieter, really looked at him, Dieter doing the same. The man beside you was most definitely taller than Dieter was, a bit more broad in stature, but there was no denying the many similarities between the two. Even their names were similar; obscure and starting with a "D."

He wasn't certain what possessed him to speak, but he couldn't help it when he shared, "I-I'm, uhm, I mean, well- my name is Dieter, by the way."

Your eyes widened just a fraction in delight, Din murmured a noise caught somewhere between bewilderment and wonder, and Grogu clapped his tiny palms together as if he had won a prize.

"Well," you started, "what do you say, Dieter? If it makes you feel more at ease, you can bring over some mac and cheese."

And that's exactly what he did.

You and Din took a chance on this physical embodiment of a scared, wet raccoon with his defenses up, and in turn Dieter took a chance on opening himself up again. Little by little, each day he got to hang out with you two, he felt more and more like he was coming home to himself. You opened your hearts, home, and relationship to him, unknowingly helping him repair pieces of himself he thought might forever remain fractured.

Yet now, as Dieter stands before your door, that worry that lives in the recesses of his mind claws its way to the forefront. Sure, eight months is a good amount of time to figure out if someone is worth keeping in your life, but… what if you and Din are still deciding? What if this invitation to celebrate Yule with your town is some kind of… test? Not that he believes you or Din are in any way cruel enough to put him through something like that, but… he's had longer relationships disintegrate over less. Maybe they just weren't as strong as what he believes he has with you and Din. Just maybe.

"Welcome back home!"

Dieter drops his bag in time to catch you in his arms, his chuckles turning into a sigh as he holds you closer to him, breathing in your scent— orange and clove. Your warmth enveloping his senses and wrapping around his heart. Home. The sentiment not lost on him as he squeezes you tighter.

"Come, come, let's get you out of the cold," you laugh as Dieter shoves his chilled nose into the warmth of your neck.

You grab his bag from the snow before he can even make an attempt to get it himself and take him by the hand over the threshold, leading him into the effortlessly cozy abode. You gently grab his chin, guiding his lips to yours for a kiss, melting into him for a moment before leaning back.

"We missed you, Dee. Din and I are so glad you were able to make it back in time to celebrate with us."

His breath hitches, the ease in which you can be so sincere and open with him never fails to catch him by surprise. He had missed you too, all three of you. He just had some loose ends left in California that he had needed to take care of; closing that chapter of his life and wiping the slate clean in a way, making way for this new, and maybe even the best, chapter to come.

"I'll take your things to the bedroom. You know the drill, go make yourself cozy. You can dress down if you want, but just warning you we'll be heading back out in the snow once Din is finished, which should be soon."

Your voice fades slightly as you bring Dieter's stuff to the bedroom the three of you will be sleeping in, Grogu getting his own room of course. The guest room is always there if Dieter ever wants some space of his own, but so far he's found nothing but solace in yours and Din's bed.

He walks closer to where that scent you were wearing smells stronger: the kitchen. Trays of dried orange slices sit on the stove top, while the counter is filled with jars of whole cloves, star anise, and bundles of pine. He wonders what you might need with all this, but before he can voice his question, someone interrupts his thoughts.

A tiny tapping on his shins brings Dieters attention away from the objects. Tilting his head down towards the source, his eyes lock with the giant obsidian of the baby's. Grogu's ears perk up in intrigue as he continues to tap Dieter's shins. Grogu's eyes stuck on the man's face, just like they always seem to do when Dieter visits. Before he has the chance to fight the urge, Dieter finds himself bending forwards, hands outstretched. Grogu raises his little arms in excitement, a cheerful "Patu!" exclaimed in response.

Dieter chuckles, taking the child's quirky little noise as a green light and scoops him up in his arms.

"Patu to you too, little one."

Grogu giggles, clearly thrilled as he excitedly pats Dieter's face while babbling away.

"Brrr… brrrr!"

Dieter can't help but laugh along with the kid, he's too cute for his own good. This isn't the first time the child has tapped at his face, babbling and making the very same noise, yet Dieter never questioned it before. His brow furrows as he speaks.

"Are you trying to blow raspberries?"

"He's trying to say buir."

Suddenly you're right next to him, your left hand coming to gently rest in the hollow of Dieter's lower back. Your head laying on his shoulder as you bring your other hand to Grogu's face, lightly pinching his cheek, eliciting another round of giggles from the baby.

"He looks awfully a lot like your papa, doesn't he Grogu?"

You get your answer when he shrieks excitedly, patting Dieter's face again as he continues to repeat "brrr! bbfrrr!"

Dieter's heart suddenly feels like it might burst, this is all too good. What if it's too much, too soon again?

He clears his throat, trying to distract his racing thoughts from ruining this moment for him.

"So, uh, where is Din anyway?"

The smirk on your lips matched with the mischief dancing in your eyes should worry him a bit, he thinks, but it only ever excites him. You guide him with your palms on his hips towards the giant glass window of your reading nook, and points his gaze towards the forest. It takes Dieter a moment to realize what it is he's looking for, but once he does oh is he done for.

Din is a vision in a tight, thick-knit deep crimson sweater, his coat laid off to the side. His nose and cheeks dusted red, no doubt from the chill in the air, yet he wipes at his brow as if he were sweating. Peculiar, Dieter thinks before taking another moment to glance at what Din was holding in his occupied hand. The sun gleams off the silver of an ax, the reflection flashing as Din moves about, setting a log in place before he grasps his hold around the wooden handle, his shoulders moving underneath his sweater— rippling under it like the still water of a lake being disturbed by a pebble. The fabric around his arms tightening as he swings the blade back before bringing it down dead center in the log. If Dieter wasn't holding the cutest baby he's seen in the world, he would be barking like a damn dog.

It also helps when Grogu starts pounding his tiny palms against the glass, chanting "brrrr! brrrr!"as he looks out at his papa chopping wood.

You laugh sweetly, absentmindedly rub Dieter's back as you take the scene in for yourself. You turn your head towards Dieter, melting his heart even more with the way you're looking at him. As if he hung the moon for you. He can't help but think he really would if it were possible, for both you and Din, and even Grogu too. He would do anything really, for this little found family who welcomed him in with open arms.

"So the town Yule Log for the festivities tonight will be chosen by The Armorer this year, but Din and I already discussed it, and we would be honored if you would like to choose the Yule Log for our home. Only if you want to, no pressure of co-"

"I'd love to. I can't believe you would even consider me for something that seems so special, I mean…" Dieter laughs at his own ramblings, takes a moment to pause and take a breath before continuing. "What I mean is, I would be honored to."

You lean into him then, nuzzling your nose into his arm before placing a kiss there.

A rap at the window pulls yours and Dieter's attention towards it, Din there on the other side smiling and waving for the three of you to join him outside.

Your voice whispers excitedly next to him.

"Let's bundle up and join the others."

Turns out all the dried oranges, spices and greenery in your kitchen Dieter was wondering about before were all gathered for the townsfolk to peruse through and choose as decorations for their trees and Yule Logs for their own private celebrations at home. You had him help you gather everything together and bring them to the town center as Din followed behind, balancing sacks of chopped wood in his hands and Grogu in a baby harness across his chest.

Neither Dieter nor you were great at hiding your cute aggression when getting Grogu dressed in his little snowsuit.

After debating what was probably a little too long over two different logs, Dieter finally chose one he thought would be perfect for the four of you. You then ushered him back to the table where you dropped off your contributions for the decorations, pointing out different options and the many different meanings behind them: the dried citrus for happiness or prosperity, the star anise for clarity or luck, the cloves and sticks of cinnamon for wealth or abundance, the pine for strength, protection, or fertility. He also noticed other contributions that must have come from some of the others— poinsettias, holly, mistletoe, nutmeg, and cranberries.

Din joined the two of you after dropping the extra firewood off for the ceremony, making it in time to help Dieter decide on some green and gold candles for the altar back at the house. You had brought a bag specifically for this occasion, Dieter and Din laying everything in there carefully so you all could enjoy the festivities without anyone having to drop everything off at home.

"Come," Din hums, the clouds of his breath floating in the air. He grabs Dieter's hand in his, intertwining their fingers together. You loop your arm through Dieter's on his other side, smiling at the two men. Din continues, "Let's grab some ale and find Grogu a spot for the show."

"Okay wait, but if the Holly King's… 'powers' are at maximum capacity on the Winter Solstice, then how does the Oak King defeat them?"

You had tried explaining the legend of the Holly King and Oak King to Dieter before the show started, but your obvious excitement over the many different versions and interpretations of the story got the better of you ending in an information overload word vomit. Dieter wasn't complaining though, he could get lost in your ramblings for as long as you'd let him.

But now he was still a little confused.

"Okay, well, I wouldn't say the Oak King 'defeats' the Holly King necessarily. It's more of a… succession? Mmm no, not the right word… Din?"

"More like a 'handing off of the baton.' Until the Summer Solstice, that is."

"Yes exactly!" You whisper excitedly, trying to keep your conversation just between the three of you.

Grogu sits in a group towards the front with the other children of the town, while you, Dieter, and Din hang out standing towards the back of the crowd. Others are seated on the logs that were placed down for this occasion, most of them busy with their own murmured conversations.

Bo-Katan flits about the open "stage" as the Holly King, dressed in heavy green robes, wearing a crown made of evergreens and holly. The Armorer moves about directly opposite of her as the Oak King, dressed in a old brown coat and donning a helmet made of gold— specially made by The Armorer herself to represent the gold of the sun.

You continue your explanation, "you see it's more of a dance than a battle."

"Okay, but they are literally dueling with spears right now-"

"Staffs, not spears," Din cuts back in.

You giggle as Dieter rolls his eyes petulantly, his gaze returning to the play duel at the front. He can't stay quiet for too long, a smirk stretches across his lips as he turns his head towards the two of you again.

"How much you wanna bet that The Armorer is gonna end the night slinging Bo-Katan over her shoulder and whisking her away from the rest of activities early, tonight?" Dieter mutters under his breath, wagging his eyes in gesture towards you and Din.

You scoff dismissively, the ale loosening your composure in a way Dieter always finds amusing. "Oh please, we both know Bo-Katan is more likely to do the whisking away," you retort as you fix him with a stare that all but screams duh, idiot.

Before Dieter could start poking fun at your sudden attitude to rile you up even more, Din cuts in, sounding a bit annoyed when he whispers "could you both please knock it off? They're like vod to me, like sisters."

Dieter never knowing when to leave well enough alone can't help but deadpan, "Well, Din, I hate to break it to you, but your sisters are fucki- ooof."

The shock of frigid snow meeting the small sliver of skin on Dieter's belly is enough to shut him up, but the weight of Din spread across Dieters back, his arm coming around to hold Dieter in a light choke-hold, is what really turns his mind to mush, loosening his tongue once more.

"Y'know big guy, I don't think this is having the effect you were hoping for."

"Actually," Din all but croons in Dieter's ear, his weight shifting as he gently but firmly pushes his knee between Dieter's thighs, "I think I'm having the exact effect I was shooting for."

Dieter has to bite his lip to keep a pitiful whimper at bay, the small amount of ale in his system doing fuck all to keep his mind out of the gutter. But can you really blame a guy when he's got a full blown hunk pinning him to the ground?

It doesn't last long though. They hear your mischievous giggle of "it looks like you two could use some cooling off," before they feel a pile of snow being dropped on the both of them.

You bring your hands to your mouth, attempting to muffle your fits of laughter, but a snowball hitting you square in the back cuts you off. The three of you turn to find Paz Vizla and Boba Fett attempting to look unbothered and innocent, but the snow on Boba's gloves are a dead giveaway.

More snowballs start flying from different directions before everyone hears Koska and Fennec shout "snowball fight!"

Luckily the impromptu snowball fight didn't put a damper on anyone's celebration; in fact most of the townspeople joined in. The Armorer took advantage of the diversion to get the last finishing touches for the Yule Log ceremony in place, only regaining everyone's attention when Bo-Katan rang the bells set out for the band.

The night goes on as the Armorer and Bo-Katan speak some words of wisdom, and recite a poem of gratitude honoring the return of the sun and the longer days that come with it before lighting the Yule Log together in front of everyone in the town as they cheer.

The band takes their place around the fire and starts up their joyous melody, a spirited tune to celebrate the resilience of the people and their hope during these darker months.

And it suddenly occurs to him.

Dieter thought that true love would hit him like a freight train, that when people said "you know when you know" it meant it was loud in its arrival; a howling, shrieking thing that made sure its presence was known.

And maybe in some cases that's true, maybe that's how it is for others.

But for him? It's this moment right here. A quiet warmth, wrapped up in the embrace of his two lovers— you snuggled in his arms as Din envelops the both of you in the wide breadth of his hold. Din's face nuzzling into Dieter's hair, Dieter's hands pulling you closer into his chest. The three of you swaying in time, enjoying the sounds of the band playing and the joy of the children as they dance and laugh along. The warmth from the fire almost feels like a physical embodiment of the warmth Dieter feels whenever he's with his three favorite people. He knows now there's nothing to be afraid of with his little family here. It's not too much too soon, too good for him to deserve.

It's simply perfect, exactly where he needs to be.

Where he belongs.

You wouldn’t say that you have favourites, per se. It’s hard to describe a casual situationship as anything but that, but you’d say that Jack Abbot treats you better than every ex boyfriend you’ve ever had.

You’d met him by chance, in the most ridiculous meet cute way. Something you’d write about, in fact.

You had been in your local bookstore, silently celebrating your first traditionally published novella. After three years of self publishing, dealing with Amazon (ew) and indie contracts, you’d scored a deal with a traditional printing house.

It had been kind of surreal, seeing your name on a book in a chain bookstore, something you’d dreamed of since your age had been in single digits. You’d been stealthily signing a couple of copies, hiding them in the stack, too lost in your own world to notice the older man when you’d taken a step back and almost tripped right over him.

Holding a copy of your book to your chest, you’d felt warmth rush to your face, embarrassment almost entirely overwhelming you when you realised he wasn’t not just some older guy, but handsome. Broad shoulders, salt and pepper curls, bright hazel eyes, and, if the black scrubs he was wearing were any indication, a doctor.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you had said, mortified, but he had just smiled at you, a lopsided little smirk that made the creases at the corners of his eyes more prominent.

“Don’t be. Yours?” He had asked, nodding at the book and pen in your hands.

You had been surprised, nodded, half expecting him to say something derisive about chick lit and porn in written form, but he hadn’t. He’d just smiled at you again, told you he’d noticed you signing a couple of the books.

He had been curious, sweet, bordering on flirty, and when he’d picked up a copy of your book and asked you to sign it for him, you’d taken a risk and added your phone number beneath it. You’d never expected anything to come from it, but he’d sent you a text just a few hours later.

Over the next few months, you’d gotten to know Jack better. He was an emergency medicine physician, a senior attending at a level one trauma centre. He worked the night shift. He was an army veteran, a widower, an amputee.

He was your friend, first and foremost, but you were comfortable enough with each other to let that friendship blur into sex without any sort of expectations.

Jack was still grieving his late wife, and you weren't really looking for anything serious; you wanted to primarily focus on your career, on letting your creativity bloom.

It was a good, practical, happy arrangement. Jack was lonely, you were lonely, and he made far more money than a guy who was technically single could ever need, in his words.

So while a lot of your relationship was built on friendship, on keeping each other company, there was also a part of it that was decidedly built on erotica.

Sexts, heated makeouts, long afternoons or, on his days off, nights of multiple rounds of mind blowing sex. You had no idea how a man of fifty had the stamina that Jack does, but you sure as hell had no complaints.

While you weren't together, there was an exclusivity to your arrangement. You both had attachment issues, but the maturity to know it and discuss it.

Said discussion had come about when you'd been discussing the idea of not using condoms anymore; you had had permanent contraception done in your late twenties, so it wasn't like you were going to get pregnant any time soon. Or ever, for that matter, which you preferred.

"Why would I seek out anyone else's company, sweetheart? We get along just fine, don't we?" Jack had said.

Regardless, he'd provided you with a screening to put your mind at ease, even though you hadn't asked.

You'd been pretty upfront; like him, you weren't looking for a label, but you liked the relationship you had. You weren't interested in having this sort of thing with anyone else, not when Jack was so good to you.

He took you out to nice restaurants, occasionally bought you little gifts. Jewellery, books, little trinkets for your bookshelves at home.

For a not boyfriend, he was considerate, too. He'd bought your favourite skincare products and perfume to leave at his place, bought you flowers for each chapter of your next novel you finished.

When your laptop had crapped out on you, he'd replaced it as soon as he'd heard about it. 

You sometimes weren't sure if you felt right about letting him spend so much money on you, but he'd just waved his hands.

"Don't exactly have anyone else to spend it on. Besides, I like spoiling you. You deserve it, and you don't expect it. Just like I don't expect anything in return."

Sometimes you accompany him to events if he wants a plus one. You're beautiful, according to Jack, and he likes showing you off.

"My girl's a writer," he would say proudly each time he introduced you to somebody, so open and confident that nobody judged your choice of career.

Tonight is one such night; Jack tells you he has an old army friend coming down from Boston for work. A chef, he says, owns a Michelin star restaurant up that way.

They're catching up for a couple beers and rounds of pool at a bar Jack likes, and he wonders if you'd like to come along.

You don't see why not. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary; you hang out with Jack often enough, have met his best friend once or twice. Besides, you know – and like – the bar he’s talking about.

By around six thirty, you’re stepping into the bar in a pair of high-waist jeans, a deep wine red tee that shows just a peek of midriff, and a washed out black denim jacket. Cute, put together, but casual enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.

That’s another thing you like about Jack; you never feel like you have to be someone you’re not. He’d told you once – whilst he was inside you, of all times, your wrists pinned above your head in one big, gentle hand – that he didn’t care if you were wearing a casual grungy look or a pretty dress, he was always one step away from pushing you against the nearest wall. That he thought you were beautiful no matter what you wore.

It was difficult to hear things like that and not feel a little something for him, though you knew that was pretty natural, and not something to be explored. Not right now, or necessarily ever.

You spot Jack by the bar, leaning against it casually, looking far too good in a black t shirt and cargo pants, talking to someone you can’t quite see.

You’re not too sure what to expect; he hadn’t told you much about his friend, only that his name was Grant, he was ex army like Jack, they’d done a couple of deployments together, and he was from Boston.

You were expecting another guy around Jack’s age, like his friend from the trauma centre, sure. What you decidedly were not expecting, was for him to so closely resemble Jack.

Grant stands a little taller, has a bit more ease to his posture, which after spending so much time with Jack, you recognise as a trait the latter doesn’t have due to being an amputee.

His hair is a little longer, more of a tangled mess of salt and pepper curls than Jack, but he’s no less built, has stupidly thick biceps that are on the border of obscene peeking out of a white t shirt. White shirt, black jeans, laced up dark boots.

You’re staring and you know it, cough and blink rapidly, completely missing the almost knowing smirk that the two gorgeous older men share.

The bar is a nice temperature, the music loud enough to be heard but not overbearing, so you can still hear each other talk.

You slot into the conversation nicely, find Grant just as easy to talk to as Jack, even if he seems a little more cautious, a little more careful.

Two pints and a couple of games of pool later, and the three of you seem to be getting along just fine, all comfortable with each other, laughing and joking. You can tell they’ve known each other a long time – over twenty years, Grant tells you when Jack goes off to grab another round of drinks after they finally get you to agree to play a round, rather than just watching.

That explains their easy dynamic, you think as you step around the pool table, try to balance the cue properly in your hands.

It’s not that you don’t know how to play – you most certainly do – it’s just been a while and you’re not so confident around this incredibly handsome near stranger. After a couple of failed attempts at lining up a shot, you huff, consider just giving up.

Grant watches you for a moment, as if trying to decide something, then circles the table and tilts his head slightly, before he steps behind you, your back against his chest.

His firm hands are gentle as he adjusts yours, guiding your body into a different stance. “There you go. Now try.”

His voice is low, raspy, just like Jack, but there’s a little more hoarseness to his. You suppose that’s to do with having to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen, which must be deafening.

Close to your ear, you have to resist the shiver that threatens to run down your spine. He’s so warm and solid against your back, his arms against yours as you line up your shot with his help. You sink the right ball, look up just in time to meet Jack’s eyes as he returns from the bar; you feel your face heating again, feel almost guilty, until you notice the smirk on his face, the glint in his eyes.

For the first time this evening, you start to wonder whether he has an ulterior motive for inviting you out tonight. More importantly, you realise, you want that to be the case.

You get your wish at around nine, when the bar starts to get busier, filling up with college students, and Jack suggests heading back to his place. Not just you and him. The three of you.

The suggestion isn’t entirely surprising; he’s made a comment or two about the idea of bringing a third person into the mix once or twice. Never another woman, though. Jack gets off on getting you off, on having control of the situation, sure, but he’s not interested in making you watch him fuck another woman.

However, what he does like is the way you look when you’re overstimulated, totally fucked out and needy. He likes spoiling you, after all, and this is no different.

You end up sitting between the two older men on Jack’s couch, feeling a little nervous and giddy until Jack kisses you first, clearly the more extroverted of the pair. That or perhaps he’s simply more comfortable with you.

Regardless, when you break apart, it’s entirely clear that the other man is interested, based on the way his hazel eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you.

Somehow, you get the feeling that he won’t be the one to initiate; he seems kind of shy, at least not the same kind of introvert as Jack. That doesn’t bother you, not in the slightest. In fact, you think it’s kind of endearing. Endearing and attractive.

You lean in to kiss him, brush your lips against his at first; it’s not a case of you being nervous, more the idea of making sure that he’s okay with it too.

At first, he doesn’t move, but then perhaps two heartbeats later and he’s pulling you in closer. Two pairs of big, warm hands roam your body as you lean into him, part your lips and let him lick into your mouth.

He kisses differently to Jack, of course. Jack kisses with a sort of self assurance, a quiet confidence. Grant is a little more cautious, not quite hesitant, but with the air of taking his time to figure out what exactly you respond best to.

Idly, you hope that translates over to everything else, too.

You find yourself pressed between them both, alternating between who you kiss while the other kisses your throat, only pausing when the three of you get to your feet, stumble, all three of you almost giggly, to Jack’s bedroom.

“’s easier in here,” he’d said, nodding down at his right leg, or rather, the half of it that’s titanium. Not like you needed an explanation; you’d long since learned to adapt to the physical limitations that came with Jack’s disability.

Grant doesn’t question it either, but that isn’t surprising – they’ve known each other for so long, you suspect since before Jack lost his leg.

You expect there to be a certain amount of awkwardness, or at least to be a bit uncoordinated, considering there’s three of you. Somehow, though, it just works, and you manage to get both of them shirtless.

That in itself is an achievement, considering they work together to get you naked; you’re gently pushed backwards onto the bed while Jack sheds his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic, before he’s settling himself behind you, unclasping your pretty lace bra and tossing it aside.

His warm hands cup your tits as you feel his hardened cock pressing against your ass, making you inhale sharply. You love his cock. Are intimately familiar with the thick, heavy length of him, the freckles at the base, the vein along the underside that, when you drag your tongue along it, always makes him groan.

The mystery here is Grant.

The other man removes the rest of his clothing with that same sort of quiet caution, that same caution finally giving way to blatant desire when he sees the way you look him up and down, slowly.

Fuck, he’s handsome. His biceps and pectorals look like they could be carved from marble, there’s a slight softness to his belly, and like Jack, he’s covered in freckles.

“Beautiful,” you breathe before you can help yourself, and only then do you let your gaze wander further south.

With the physical similarities between the two men, you shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that his cock is pretty, too. Just as thick, slightly curved, achingly hard.

You’re about to say something else, but then he’s joining you on the bed, gives Jack a look before the latter is adjusting you so that the other man can settle comfortably on his belly between your thighs, nudging them apart and settling there.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he brushes two fingertips along the damp fabric of your panties, has the audacity to smirk as he looks up at you. “Soaked,” he all but murmurs, raspy voice soft as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.

He waits for you to lift your hips so he can pull them down slightly, then tugs them the rest of the way down with his teeth.

You whimper softly as the ruined fabric is tossed aside and he settles himself back between your spread legs, planting open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.

That he’s a tease doesn’t remotely surprise you. What you like is the way he occasionally glances up at you as he kisses inwards, as if silently checking in with you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re so used to Jack, who knows you and your body so well by now that he touches you with a sort of ease that only really comes after months of intimacy, but this sends a thrill through you.

Speaking of Jack…

He resettles himself behind you, leans in to kiss along your bare shoulder, up your neck, his hands still cupping your tits, thumbs brushing back and forth across your nipples slowly.

“You gonna be good for us?” He breathes into your ear, just as Grant presses an open mouthed kiss to your core, making you whimper and nod.

“No, you use your words,” Jack corrects you almost immediately, settling into that comfortable, confident dominance that you adore.

Just as you open your mouth to answer, Grant chooses that exact moment to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, moaning as he drags his tongue through your slick folds. You whimper again, go to roll your hips without even thinking about it, but then just as quickly as he started, he’s pulling away from you, just a little, looking up at you with a little smirk on his face. “Jack asked you a question, honey.” His warm breath fans across your sensitive skin. In that moment, you think you might do anything, say anything, so long as it results in getting his mouth back on you.

“Y-yeah, I’ll be good.” You answer shakily, breath catching in your throat as you feel the purr of approval rumbling in Jack’s chest as he resumes kissing your throat.

Based on the way he touches you, featherlight brushes of his fingers across your nipples, smoothing his palms over your curves and back up again, he’s pleased with your answer. He keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other resting at his side.

Meanwhile, Grant resumes the slow, almost languid licks of your folds, intermittently sucking on your clit, moaning into you as you drip slick onto his tongue.

He’s so busy with work, the first to admit he has no life outside of his restaurant. No real hobbies, certainly no time for anything resembling a stable relationship. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he spent a night with someone that wasn’t just a quick hookup.

Grant’s always loved going down on his partners. Loves the way it makes them react, loves the intimacy, and there’s a part of him that just loves the taste. You’re no different, reacting beautifully as he makes out with your pussy, drinking down your slick and teasing your entrance with two fingertips.

He eats you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, making absolutely zero effort to disguise the way he moans into you, the obscene slurping of his tongue and the filthy groan he gives you when he finally pushes his fingers inside you.

“Ohhh, god-” you gasp as he presses one last kiss to your puffy clit before he’s wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, sitting up as he slowly curls his fingers inside you. Jack shifts behind you and you realise he’s stroking his cock with his free hand.

“’s okay, baby, ‘s okay to want him, too-” Jack purrs into your ear, the hand that isn’t wrapped around his thick shaft sliding down to circle your clit in time with the warm fingers pressed knuckle deep inside your pussy.

You kind of assumed that was the case, but it’s still almost relieving to hear him confirm it out loud, so blatantly stated.

“Your pussy’s delicious, honey,” Grant murmurs, rests his head on your thigh for just a moment, looks up at you with pussy drunk eyes.

He kisses his way back up your body, pausing to pay more attention to your nipples, kissing and licking them, making you writhe against Jack, who laughs softly in the vicinity of your ear.

“Gonna tell us what you need, honey?” Grant breathes, brushing his lips against yours, massaging your g-spot before he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine pathetically as he maintains eye contact, licks his fingers clean with an obscene groan.

“Inside-” you breathe as Jack’s fingers circle your clit. “Want you both-”

The older men exchange a look, silent communication, a smirk, before Jack removes his hand too.

“Up you get, sweetheart. Turn over for us, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, turn onto your front, wait for Jack to move back a bit so he can lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, you crawl up the bed to get closer to him, feeling the mattress dip a little as Grant moves up behind you, runs his palms over your ass as you settle on your hands and knees, giving him a beautiful view of your slick soaked folds, your soft skin.

Meanwhile, you’re very distracted by Jack’s cock. Fuck, you love his cock. It’s thick and fat and the perfect length, a smattering of freckles dusting the base.

You can’t help yourself – you lean in and press little kisses along the underside, from base to tip. Jack looks down at you, brushes his hand over your cheek as you look up at him, keep eye contact as you kiss the fat tip of his cock, already drooling precum.

Behind you, Grant holds your hips in one hand, grinds against you slowly, resting his equally gorgeous cock on your ass for a moment before he shifts again, wraps his hand around his shaft to guide the tip to your dripping entrance.

You’re so fucking wet. He doesn’t remember the last time someone wanted him so badly. In a moment of briefly selfish relief, he’s glad you’re not too preoccupied with blowing Jack just yet, so he can hear the moan you give him as he presses a couple of inches deep inside you.

He lets out an almost whimpering groan at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping him, the way you angle your hips to give him better access.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips to steady himself as he slowly stuffs you full of his cock. Your attention is back on Jack by now, sucking on the tip of his cock again, before you take him in deeper, flattening your tongue so you can lick him at the same time.

It’s filthy, obscene, the way you moan around him as Grant’s hips finally meet your ass, the soft, breathy groans he rewards you with, the low almost growls Jack gives you from above.

You start to bob your head, trying to silently demonstrate how much you love sucking his cock as the other man starts to move, slowly grinding against you until he’s so deep you think he might kiss your cervix. Your appreciative moan is a little muffled, but it’s enough to encourage him.

They move almost in sync, Jack gently rolling his hips up, just enough that he’s encouraging you, whilst Grant starts to give you slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, breathless, “fuck, your pussy is perfect, baby-”

The praise makes you tighten around him, brief and involuntary, which draws a truly obscene groan from him, a rumbling purr that’s almost immediately echoed by Jack as you swallow around his cock.

Jack loves when you blow him, loves how sloppy and passionate you get with it, drooling all over him as you lick and suck, moaning around him as Grant picks up his pace behind you.

He steadily builds up a good rhythm, eventually giving you full, heavy thrusts, shifting to plant one foot on the mattress to give him better leverage. His hands are firm on your hips, but not bruising, guiding you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

“Nngh, mmmffff, fuck-”

He’s vocal, raspy voice dropping an octave lower as he grunts and groans, practically purring as he feels you getting tighter around him. The entire time as he works you up to the edge, you keep giving Jack all your attention with your mouth, wrapping one hand around the base of his shaft and stroking him, making him grunt.

“Mmmffff, shit, sweetheart, your fuckin’ mouth-” Jack groans, cups your face in one hand, brushes his thumb back and forth across your cheek.

“Doesn’t she take our cocks so well?” he asks, looks over your shoulder at Grant. Both of the gorgeous older men are a little flushed in the face, hazel eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Nnh, such a good girl-” Grant agrees, giving you a particularly deep thrust that has you mewling.

You’re getting so close, hovering right on the edge of your climax, and they know it. Jack can tell by the change in pitch of your moans, Grant can feel you getting tighter around him, the increase in your already copious slick.

“Ohhh, you’re getting close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Jack coos knowingly, “c’mon, we both wanna hear what you sound like when you cream all over his cock.”

Taking that as permission, you pull back from his cock, albeit a little reluctant; he really does taste delicious, clean and slightly salty, but there’s also a part of you that wants to focus entirely on your own impending orgasm.

Without having to focus on trying to make Jack feel good at the same time, you can give over to your utmost base instincts, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of Grant’s velvet soft cock pressing in and dragging out of your soaked pussy, moaning obscenely when one big hand leaves your hip to circle round, press his fingers to your swollen, aching clit and start to draw tight little circles around it.

That’s all you need, you think, you’re right there, but then he leans down over you, blankets his body with your own, just to be able to purr into your ear.

“There you go, honey, just let go. Let go for me, nnn; I’ve – I’ve got you...”

That’s what finally sends you crashing over the edge, your moans echoing around the bedroom as the tension in your core snaps, your thighs trembling with each wave of the intense, sudden orgasm.

He can feel a little trickle of your cum and slick soaking his cock, dripping out around him and onto the sheets, but all that serves to do is make him throb inside you, just prolonging your orgasm as he holds you against him.

You’re dimly aware of Jack’s familiar grunts; through the haze of your climax, you register him in front of you, one big, freckled hand wrapped firmly around his cock, giving his shaft a few slow, precise strokes as he watches his friend fuck you.

And god, does he.

Grant fucks you through your release, just keeps going, clearly chasing his own orgasm now.

His thrusts become more erratic with each one, grunting on every second impact.

“Mmff – mmm – nnngh -”

He makes no attempt to be quiet, and neither does Jack; their deep, masculine groans mingle with your breathy, high pitched moans as the room echoes with the lewd, wet sound of Grant’s hips colliding with your ass, Jack stroking his cock, matching the rhythm.

You know the tells of when Jack’s close; you lean forward again, wrap your lips around his cock, replace his hand with your ow, stroke him and bob your head, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around him until he’s groaning, bucking his hips up involuntarily.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it sweetheart, suck my fucking cock-”

He runs his mouth when he’s close, so filthy that it makes you shiver, determined to get him there; just as you look up at him, make eye contact, he groans, tips his head back, giving you a beautiful view of the prominent muscle and veins in his neck, before he’s spilling down your throat.

You swallow every drop, lick him clean as Grant works you up to another orgasm; it’s only when Jack’s pulled his softening cock out of your mouth, brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, that his friend pulls out of you, gently maneuvers you onto your back.

He carefully pushes one of your thighs up to your chest, lowers it to wrap around his waist as he presses back inside you, groaning appreciatively at the way your walls almost immediately begin to flutter around him.

“Ohmygod, yes, fuck me-” You beg, your moans almost immediately swallowed in a filthy, greedy kiss, your fingers flying to his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase.

Thankfully, he’s merciful, gives you what you ask for, starts to all but pound you into the bed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the side of your neck, giving you intimate access to the huffed, breathy, whimpering moans he makes as he chases his release, fucks you through your second orgasm.

It’s only when you’re on the way down that he finally falls over the edge too, groaning a long, drawn out moan as he fucks his spend deep into you in a series of deep, erratic thrusts.

You gasp and whimper, still taking shuddering breaths and mewling softly by the time he eventually starts to go soft inside you. He stays above you, so you wrap your limbs around him, stroke his broad, freckled back as he peppers your shoulder, neck, and face with little kisses.

After he eventually pulls out of you, he follows Jack’s directions to the en suite, brings warm washcloths and a towel to help you clean up. Jack slips his prosthetic back on, heads out to the kitchen to grab chilled water for the three of you, giving you a lovely view of his ass as he goes.

The three of you work together to strip the bed, change the sheets, thanks to you completely ruining the existing ones, before finally, you’re lying in clean sheets between the two men.

“Mm, that was unexpected,” you hum, trailing your fingertips over Jack’s chest, brushing through the soft greying curls that grow there.

“Good unexpected?” Grant asks, and you turn your head to give him a long, slow kiss, breaking it to repeat the gesture with Jack.

They may look alike, but their kisses, confidence and mannerisms are so different. You kind of love it.

“Very good,” you assert, and both men laugh, exchange knowing smirks.

“Well, man, I guess you know what this means,” Jack says, lightly trailing his fingers up your sides, over your curves.

“Mm?” Grant sounds just like you and Jack, exhausted and satisfied. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way.

“No being a stranger.” Jack clarifies, and you giggle as his friend tuts.

“You know I have the restaurant. And you work a ridiculous schedule, too.” Grant hums, “but, I’m pretty sure I can find time. And hell, if you ever find yourself in Boston...”

You nod eagerly, too blissed out to try and be coy. As a matter of fact, you will be in Boston relatively soon for a book tour, and Jack has promised to come with you.

“We’d love to catch up with you again, but you know, she’s a big girl, she can always come visit on her own,” Jack purrs, curls into your side, nuzzles against your shoulder.

Grant raises an eyebrow at you, a silent question. You turn to kiss Jack’s temple before you lean up to kiss the other man again, liking the plush firmness of his lips. “Mm, it’s a date,” you confirm, and you swear both men give you approving little purrs as you finally settle down to sleep.

Part 2? Let me know!

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Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The sun was starting its descent on the rocky, deserted land of Nevarro, all barren and dry. Despite this, you couldn't help but love this planet, and especially this time of the day, when the sun started to skim the roofs of the low buildings of Nevarro City, casting an orange light that made the metal and stone glimmer like gold. It wasn't much, but the bustling town had grown on you since you arrived a little over a year ago.

You'd heard about the change, about how this planet became a place of peace in the outer rim, somewhere where one could start their lives over, as long as they brought something to the community. It prompted you to come and seek out the tranquility and carve yourself a quiet life, after years of oppression, wars, and now rebuilding hope in these uncertain times.

You opened your little repair shop. It wasn't much, but just enough to keep you busy and earn decent money. Apart from small appliances and droid repairs, you sold parts, pieces, and trinkets, and quickly grew a steady and faithful clientele.

It wasn't closing time, but today had been slow, and you were thinking of calling it a day, when you noticed a bright shape down the street, walking toward your shop, the figure shimmering with the low sun, almost blinding you.

"If it isn't my favorite Mandalorian!" You called out once he was close enough to hear you, a smile spread wide on your face. He wasn't only your favorite Mandalorian, he was your favorite customer.

"I'm your only Mandalorian customer." His voice was even, indicating he wouldn't fall for your teasing. A well-rehearsed act that only prompted you to tease him more.

"That's not true, you brought Bo-Katan a few times, and that other guy, the tall, imposing, and disapproving one."

The Mandalorian looked at you without a word, and you knew exactly what this meant. Or maybe you didn't, and you had always been reading him wrong, but he never seemed to mind, so you went on.

"I mean taller and more imposing than you, even though you are very tall and very imposing. But never as disapproving as you."

A modulated sigh was your reward. You took it as a win and let him off the hook for the time being.

"What brings you to my little pocket of sunshine in this maker-forsaken place, Mando?"

Wait, was that… A chuckle? You were sure you heard one underneath the gruff and stoicism. But it didn't last, and he soon started explaining the part he was looking for to repair a kitchen appliance.

As you rummaged through your stock of small parts, what could be considered like meaningless shit to some, but small treasures to you, you sensed him brooding. More than usual. Not that he had ever been big on small talk, but right now, he was so quiet and tense you could feel it irradiating from him.

"What's the matter?"

Silence was his only answer.

"Come on, pal, I know you, even in your silence, you seem more sullen than usual."

"Nothing." He snapped.

"Fine." You rolled your eyes but let it be; if he didn't want to talk, you weren't going to force him. But after a minute, he sighed, and you knew he caved. You couldn't help the little smirk, happy your back was still turned to him, so he wouldn't see it.

"Grogu is at a sleepover. And I'm worried."

"About what? That he'll eat too many sweets and be sick? Watch a scary holo and have nightmares? Cause I want to say, that's a normal experience for a kid his… well I was going to say his age, but you know what I mean."

Another sigh. This one sounds defeated, almost like he was saying, "You're right."

You turned around to look at him. Even if you liked teasing him, you knew this was new to him, and it was important to show him support. You sat on a stool, behind the counter of your little shop. No one was going to show up, and you had time to help out a friend. Because that's what he was: a friend. And a good one at that. In the past months, since he had been your customer, since he settled permanently on Nevarro, what started as a business acquaintance soon became a form of mutual respect, from talking to each other about work, to actually knowing each other's lives. Not all of it, but still. You didn't do much other than chat when he came over to buy stuff, or when you randomly met in the town. It wasn't like you went out for drinks or dinner, since he couldn't really…. But you were at the level of friendship where silences (his mostly) were comfortable, and chatting (you mostly) didn't feel forced. You even had the occasional evening out when there was a holo showing or something fun for Grogu to attend. It was comfortable, and you liked it. And you liked him. A lot. Maybe a little more than as a friend. Although you didn't allow yourself to go there.

After a hesitation, he sat on the stool next to yours, his back on the street, his helmet seeming to stare into the back of your little shop, where your small living unit was.

"It's just… It's the first time we've been apart so long, since all of the… stuff. And I can't help but be worried." You were privy to the past events of Grogu's life. It had been the moment your relationship had transitioned to something deeper, when you both confided in secrets you kept. How he came to be in charge of Grogu, what your past during the empire had been.

You took a second to think about what you could say to bring him comfort. "I think that's what being a parent is all about. And I think it's a good thing you care." You pat him on the arm. Physical touch wasn't something that happened often between you, as much as you knew about him and his people, you didn't know much about the boundaries they had, though you had gathered his, as you'd noticed he tended to shy away from it. He tensed whenever you brushed past him. But you knew an occasional brief pat on the arm was OK. And you wanted to show some warmth and kindness in a form other than words.

"Just, don't let it eat you up. What are your plans for the evening?"

"Not much, repairing that blending machine and … I guess nothing else until I pick him up tomorrow after lunch."

"Ouch, that's a long time with nothing to do… What don't you–" You stopped, feeling like what you were about to offer maybe crossed a line, but at the same time, this was exactly what you would have offered any of your friends. "Do you want to stay for a drink and a game of Sabbac? I'm sure we could find an arrangement for the drinking." Waving at his whole figure, "I can even offer some food. And at least you wouldn't be spending the whole evening alone."

You sensed him hesitating. But he didn't say no straight away. You knew him well enough to know that if he didn't want to, he would have said so. So you tried to give him another reason for him to stay.

"I got a bottle of Toniray wine that I've been wanting to open." You were sure that behind his helmet, his eyebrows had raised when he heard the name.

"How did you get a bottle of Toniray?"

"I traded it for some parts a couple of months ago."

"I thought you didn't trade."

"I do actually, just not with you. You have plenty of credits. And you never offered me extremely rare wine. Also, the people I did business with–" You hesitated for a bit, before giving as much information as you could, not wanting to betray their trust, "Let's just say, that's all they had, and they needed those parts quickly."

"I knew there was a soft heart under all this hard shell."

"Din! Are you actually teasing me?"

You rarely used his name, the one he gave you a few months ago, after you had walked almost all afternoon, one day when he met you by chance at the market, with Grogu in tow. First, the little fellow was walking (jumping really) to catch up with both of you, even with your slow pace. Then he asked to be held in your arms, and lastly he fell asleep in his father's arms, after munching on a variety of food, in such quantity you wondered where he stored it in his tiny body. Another milestone in your friendship. Trust growing so much that you told him your true name, the one you left behind when you left your life after everything. Not that it meant anything really, you had long changed it, but it felt nice saying it out loud. And he, in turn, told you his. It was shortly after that that he told you about Grogu.

Thinking about it, you felt your heart swell again, and you just knew it was so much more than a crush you were feeling for this man. But as always, you tempered it, because he never showed any inclination toward you. You didn't even know if he ever felt anything romantic or whatever toward anyone. That was not something he had ever shared with you.

You used that name with caution, only using it on special occasions. And Din teasing you was one of those. The chuckle he let out was worth it, because maker, you felt hot all over as you got up from your seat to grab the part he asked for.

"Do you want to play this? If you win, you don't have to pay me?"

"And if you win?"

What you wanted to say was not what you ended up saying: "You pay me the full price, no friends discount."

"You never give me any discount."

"Oh, but I do. I just don't tell you." There was a little moment, suspended, where you feel his disbelief, until he cloaked your earnest face. Something like embarrassment seemed to overtake both of you. Until he extended his hand.

"Deal." You took it and shook it. He squeezed your hand, and you both held it a little longer than necessary.

—

"Fine, you win!" You threw your cards on the table, sulking a little. You thought you would trick him when you offered to play Shah-tezh, since it was a game of strategy, and one you were very good at. But you had forgotten who your adversary was, and how clever he was.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Well, to be honest, I didn't think you would, but I guess it's a fair win."

"It is." He sounded pleased with himself, almost smug, and you couldn't help but snort.

You were enjoying a slightly tipsy Din. And slightly tipsy you. The arrangement was easy; you had two boards, so each one of you could have one, while not facing each other. You just had to move the pieces of the adversary and your own on the board in front of you. And that way, Din could sneak in a drink or two, lifting his helmet without you seeing anything.

You knew you should have eaten a bit because you were feeling a little lightheaded and loose. But the feeling was exhilarating. And the silence that followed felt warm.

"Where did you learn to play this?" Din's voice was different; you heard the sound of a gulp, he was talking without his helmet, and the voice you heard made your insides fuzzy. It wasn't the first time tonight, but you never got used to it.

"I spent a part of my childhood years in a rebel camp on Seikosha, my parents were mechanics there, and there was a group of pilots that took me under their wing. I played a lot with them. Learned a lot of stuff.

"Like how to scrape parts from speeders and ships?" Teasing you again, tonight was a night of surprises.

"Yeah, and from pretty much everything." Your voice let show a little of the longing you felt for that time, when you felt invincible, when you thought you would win the war, without any losses or damages. "What about you?"

"It's a good skill to have when you travel the galaxy."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He sighed, modulated, this time. You were about to change the subject, feeling he didn't want to go there.

"I worked with a group of mercenaries, not my best moment in life. There was this brother and sister who would love to play it and challenge everyone, it was hard to say no. Eventually, I became very good at it, better than them, actually."

He left a lot unsaid, and you should have left it at that, but you couldn't help yourself.

"It feels like there is some story behind this with… the sister? Or the brother!" You wanted him to feel like whatever he said, it would be OK.

"Xi'an, the sister."

You can't help yourself, you turn around, eager for more information.

"Oooooh! Sounds like drama! What happened?"

"It… she wasn't… It was unhealthy. Toxic, I hated them, hated what we did, just kind fell into this… thing. It didn't end well." He sounded so remorseful that it made you regret prying.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried." You said with a low voice.

"It's OK."

You felt bad, you had made him tell you something that he didn't want to talk about. He had always been very private about, well, about his private life. You should have known better, but your curiosity had made him uncomfortable. You felt like you owed him a little of yourself as a trade-off.

"Do you want to know about my worst relationship?"

Din's head perked up, and he finally turned to face you. You had his undivided attention.

"I dated a pilot when I was working on Coruscent as a senator's assistant–"

"You what?" He interrupted, his astonishment evident, but you waved your hand. "Another story for another time. Anyway, he was away a lot, I was still young and naive, and I listened to all his stories and promises. Until one day his wife came to my door to explain he was actually a droid mechanic, had two kids, and was currently in jail for gambling debts."

"No."

"Yes."

"I hope he got what he deserved for the duplicity." His voice sounded a little angry for you.

"His wife did leave him, and I had my little revenge, but I lost my innocence in a way. And I haven't trusted many people since."

"I haven't either."

The stillness that followed felt like a shared understanding, something like recognition between two people who had learned through disappointment and didn't let many people in. It was heavy, and you didn't want to linger on it. You gulped down your glass of wine and redirected the conversation to something lighter.

The evening turned to night, as you both talked and drank, trading stories that were part dark, part fun, secrets about parts of the galaxy you'd both been to. Until the bottle was empty, until it was too late to eat anything, until you were both so out of it, you were both slumped on your chairs. But eventually it was time to call it a night.

When Din got up, he staggered a little and almost fell back on his seat.

"Wow, easy there. Someone's had a little too much to drink."

"I'm fine." He said as he tried to stand straight, but failed and grabbed the table to steady himself.

"You aren't walking home in that state, you can crash here and get home in the morning."

In the same state, you weaved him to your couch, pressing a button that flattened the back, turning it into a bed, and eased him down.

"You're gonna be alright?" you asked him as you stood up, ready to walk away. Instead of answering, his hand grabbed your wrist, holding you tight, but also tenderly, his gloved thumb slowly caressing the palm of your hand, sending shivers up your arm.

"Mesh'la." His voice was so low you barely heard the strange word he said, but the tone in which he said it made your body warm and your already fuzzy brain get even more troubled, ready to do or say something you shouldn't. But before you could, the hand pulled you a little closer. "Stay."

"Din." It was all you could think of saying. He wasn't in his right mind, and neither were you. You shouldn't comply with whatever he was suggesting, even if he wasn't really suggesting anything bad, even if you wanted to lie next to him. But you felt the threshold, the bridge you were about to cross, the cliff you were about to jump. This thing right here, it would change everything between you, you sensed it in your bones.

"Please." He didn't hide the plea in his voice, didn't hide the vulnerability.

And that is all it took for you to cave, to settle next to him, his arm around your shoulder. You thought it would be uncomfortable, but your head found a soft spot, right in the crook of his shoulder, your own arm tentatively settling around his torso. You couldn't help but whisper, "I don't want this to change the way we are, I don't want you to regret anything."

"Cyari'ka, I'll never regret anything when it comes to you." You both squeezed each other, settling and sighing with content. Your world was spinning a little, you just didn't know if it was from the drink or from the way your life was about to change.

You woke up with a headache and a foul taste in your mouth. But apart from this, you felt at peace. Holding something warm and cold, large. No, not something. Someone. You opened an eye, light shining from the window showing a dark and shiny form in front of you. It was on its side, and you were holding it like a giant plushy. You barely had time to grasp the situation that last night's event came rushing back in your brain: how you fell asleep in Din's arms, the state you both were in, the words he had said, what did it mean?

Slowly, as if not to wake you up, the form untangled from your arms, sat on the couch, and sighed. A deep sigh that broke your heart a little. It sounded full of remorse. Din's head turned to you, and he noticed your open eyes. You could see him shrink himself a little, his head into his shoulder. If you were already uncertain, now you knew, he deeply regretted whatever had happened last night. Not that anything did happen, but–

"I have to go get Grogu." And in a swift motion, he stood and left the room. You barely had time to get up and call after him that he was gone, leaving your little place as empty as your own heart was feeling.

As you sat back on the couch, head spinning, your gaze fell on the parts he left. And you wondered if you should bring it back to him or just let it be and accept that you might probably never really see him again.

Standing in front of Din and Grogu's front door, you were second-guessing yourself. You had the parts with you as an excuse for this visit, but maybe you shouldn't have come. Maybe you should have waited for Din to come and get them if he really needed them. Letting him choose his own terms and his own time. You had almost turned around twice, the walk to Din and Grogu's cabin on the outskirts of the city taking longer because of your indecision.

Before you could turn away or knock, since you still hadn't decided what to do, the door opened as if on its own. No one was on the other side until your gaze was drawn down by a small coo. Grogu was there, smiling at you, as if he had been expecting your arrival. Your nerves ease for a bit, and you knelt to greet the kid.

"Hi, Grogu! How was your sleepover?" to which he proceeded to answer with his own words. By the tone and the way his ears, eyes, and mouth turned upward, you just knew he had had a good time.

Upon meeting him and Din, you quickly realized that Grogu understood basic perfectly well, even if sometimes he acted like he didn't, he just couldn't express himself the same way.

Grogu motioned with his little arm the inside of the house, with a questioning sound.

"I'm sorry, kid, I'm just going to leave these parts for your dad and go back home." But as soon as you had finished your sentence, the man himself appeared in the doorway, "Grogu, where are you? I told it's time for dinner–" His voice breaking as he noticed you, and you got up from your position.

"Sorry, I didn't want to intrude on dinner time, you forgot– I'm just– Sorry." You faltered, unable to bring yourself to look at him.

Handing him the items, you turned around, but both Grogu's small whine and Din's "Wait!" made you stop and turn your head to them.

You saw them looking at each other, a silent question from Grogu from the turn of his ears, and a silent answer from Din as he nodded ever so slightly. The way they were both connected, the deep bond they had for each other, made you feel something like longing.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" Din's question surprised you, but you managed to look at him when you answered.

"I don't want to impose."

"Please." He didn't hesitate, and his tone was almost the same as last night when he uttered that same exact word. It felt like he wanted you to stay as much as Grogu wanted.

"OK." You smiled shyly as you entered the house.

Dinner was a pleasant affair. Grogu made most of the conversation, happily eating, showing interest in your plate, babbling cheerfully, and you couldn't help but ease a bit. It almost felt like before, and maybe this was how it would go, forgetting anything had happened and resuming a friendship, albeit a little awkward for some time, until everything was back to normal.

After dinner, Grogu wanted to play with you a bit, and you entertained him before his bedtime, until Din declared it was time for bed. You were ready to leave, but before you could even stand up from the floor where you had been tossing a ball with the child, Din's stare behind his helmet pinned you in place.

"Please. Stay. I need to–. Just stay. Please."

"Of course."

Sitting on the couch, your fingers worrying a loose thread on your tunic, you couldn't help but go over every possible outcome of the conversation that was about to happen. At dinner and after, with how the evening had been, it felt almost impossible to guess what might happen. Last night, Din had said he wouldn't regret anything, yet this morning, he seemed like he did. But now, he was open again. And what about you? Should you risk jeopardizing a friendship by admitting your own feelings? Too soon, Din was back.

"Thank you for staying." He said, as he sat on a chair, across from you. It wasn't far, but it felt like a mile had been put between you, and you couldn't help but feel that this was intended. A silence settled, enveloping both of you in its wake, casting an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach and nervousness in both of you.

"I'm sorry about this morning." Finally, Din broke the stillness. "About last night, I shouldn't…" but he stopped, his helmet looking down, at his own hands. He let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm sorry, I'm not good with words."

"Allow me to say something first, then." His helmet turned to you, and even without seeing his face, you could feel the emotions on his body, relief that you were taking the lead in the conversation, but also tension at what you were about to say. In that moment, you knew you owed yourself the truth.

"Din, I trust you, and you trust me. I want us to be honest with each other." He nodded, and you continued. "Last night, you said you wouldn't regret it, but I think you do. And that's OK. I don't want this to get between us."

He motioned to speak, but you held your hand out to prevent him from talking. You needed to say it all now. "I like you, Din. I really do. As a friend, as maybe one of my best friends now that I come to think of it. You know probably more about me than most." You frowned a little as you said this, realizing in the moment how true this was, how in a few months, this person had become the one person who knew you the best. "But I also have other feelings for you. Feelings that go beyond friendship. I have never said anything, because I didn't want to ruin what we have. And if you don't want this, for whatever reason, I respect it. Because I don't want to lose you. I really don't. So I need you to know it's OK if you don't feel the same. It really is."

During this speech, you stared at your lap. You couldn't look at him because it would have taken away all your bravery, so you didn't see him move, you only felt him sit next to you once you had finished, and felt him take both your hands that were wringing together, the only testimony to your anxiety.

"Cyare." That's all he said at first. When you face lifted to him, one of his hands went to your cheek, delicately stroking it, with the same care he had shown before he asked you to stay last night. You stared at where his eyes might be, willing him to say words that would help quiet all the thoughts and questions in your head.

"You are also the person who knows me the most, and I wouldn't want anything to come between our friendship. But I also have other feelings, and it's been hard keeping them quiet."

A small gasp was all you could muster, as you felt his helmet delicately rest on your forehead. You let your eyes close in reverence, knowing the meaning of this gesture, the intimacy it held for him, and now for you.

The moment stayed suspended in time, one of his hands still holding your cheek, your own slowly going to his helmet, not touching his skin but still giving your touch the same reverence as if you were. And the breath he let out made you shiver with desire.

"Cyar'ika, –" His voice was full of longing, and it was almost too much. But curiosity will always make you ruin the best moments.

"What does it mean?"

He chuckled in response before answering. "It means something like sweetheart, but it's not exactly that. Cyare means beloved, Cyar'ika darling, or sweetheart."

"It's beautiful." He hummed, and his helmet moved slowly away. You knew his eyes were staring at your own, as he asked, almost shyly, "Would you like to stay here tonight?"

"I would very much. But… How would it work?" You can't help but ask the question, feeling suddenly timid.

"We don't have to do anything. I would actually maybe prefer if we didn't. I would like to take it slow if it's OK with you." His voice sounded a little uncertain, and you couldn't help the warm feeling that went through you, as you discovered this side of him. Someone soft, with insecurities, as mighty and scary as he seemed. It made him so much more human. And you fell a little harder.

"Of course." You reassured him.

"I won't keep my armor, but I will keep my helmet."

"And the flight suit?" You were greedy, you knew it. Greedy for his touch and for his skin. But when he hesitated, you felt bad for having asked too much."You don't have to take it off. I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I'll never ask for anything you aren't ready to give."

"I… I don't know." His voice was a little uneasy.

"How about we take it one step at a time?" Your hand caught his gloved one, and you brought it to your mouth, your eyes asking a question he answered with a slight nod. You kissed the covered palm, feeling the leather on your lips, and hearing his breath hitch at the sensation. The tension left his body, and he answered.

"Sounds good, Cyare. Sounds good."

Mando'a translations: Mesh'la = beautiful Cyare = beloved Cyar'ika = sweetheart, darling

Toniray is sparkling wine from Alderaan. It was already pretty rare, even before Alderaan was destroyed by the Galactic Empire. Shah-tezh is a strategy game for two players that looks a lot like chess.

He sits in his car once parked in the office garage, finally letting his lungs attempt to drag in a full breath as he roughly rubs at the tears left staining his cheeks. His chest constricts, eyes threatening to give way again with a vicious sting as his mind torments him with visions of the heartache that played across your face at his admittance.

It was always real to me.

He knew it wouldn’t change anything, he just wanted you to know. He needed you to know you weren’t just a means to an end, that you weren’t simply used and tossed aside as if you didn’t matter.

You’d mattered to him then, you matter to him now. You always will, whether you chose to believe it or not.

But instead of facing you, instead of owning the pain he caused by his own decisions and confronting that soul draining shadow that seemed to plague his footsteps, he turned and ran.

He thought it would be the best course of action at the time, something that came to him as quick and natural as his seasoned agent senses, but now? Now he saw it for what it really was.

Disgust at himself.

Shame for his past and present actions.

Fear of rejection.

He should’ve stayed, should’ve faced up to his confession and braved whatever merciless anger you threw at him because God knows he fucking deserved it. He deserved it all.

One step forward, three steps back. 

A long tired sigh leaves his lips and he goes slack against his seat, raw eyes tracing the stitching along the curve of the steering wheel as his mind relentlessly ticks over and over. He’d have to fix this, or at the very least, smooth it over until he’s able to get a damn hold of this case.

He attempts to pull himself together both mentally and physically in the quiet of his car, mind settling on a course of action as he tugs his tie back into place, smooths the stiff collar of his shirt and straightens his jacket.

He’ll face you once he knows you’re somewhere safe and comfortable. He’ll let you talk, cry, yell, hit him—whatever you want to do, he’ll take it. It’s been a long time coming, years in the making. He’ll answer questions, he’ll be honest. He’ll tell you anything and everything you want to know. He'll lay it all out, and then you'll... well, you'll do whatever you do. He doesn't dwell on how bad it would get.

The constant buzz of work manages to claim his mind once he’s in the office. There’s been another arrest, more paperwork and reports, more leads that have popped up and he's thankful for it. He soaks it all up, relishes in the constant need to move and think and plan ahead.

Wilson handles finding you somewhere to lay low. Somewhere nice, Marcus had made sure to mention. You deserve nice.

It’s an expensive hotel a few hours drive away, high end spa and all. He thinks you’d like it. It’s a weak attempt of earning back a slight bit of your favour and he’s almost positive it won’t work in the slightest, but he does it anyway.

He soon sends one of his own to retrieve you, and start the drive out.

Once he knows you’re out of here, maybe his mind will get a little clearer. The drive up to you will give him a bit of time to figure out what to say, how to carefully broach the subject if you don’t bring it up. He can wallow on how he could possibly fuck this up even more.

He seems to be good at that with you.

The suspect in the interrogation room is an easy talker, he finds. Good. Saves Marcus the effort of making him talk. There’s no loyalty here, just quick work under the promise of easy cash. Rigsby and Cho get names, descriptions, and Marcus gets to watch the man who broke into your apartment squirm from behind the glass.

He’ll give it to Teresa’s team—they work fast. He always did like them, except for one of course.

The suspect, he wasn’t meant to trash your place. He was there to find you, and to take you to a meeting point, but he got messy. You weren’t there, and so there’d be no money waiting for him at the end. He turned to finding a quick bit of cash from pawning your stuff, desperate for a little pay-out.

Unlucky for him, you had nothing left worth stealing.

The buzz of his phone steals his attention from the grilling continuing on on the other side of the glass, and Marcus steps away to take the call. Teresa stays put, watching with a pleased purse of her lips as her men damn near get the suspect to sing. Not bad at all. 

He answers, frank and polite. “Pike.”

And with four words, the world is suddenly off axis. His surroundings tilt. Hot bile builds in his throat, anxiety coils harshly in the pit of his stomach and his vision starts to blur—

“Sir, she’s not here.”

—

The apartment is as he left it, albeit void of you.

There’s no mess signalling a struggle, no sign of forced entry indicating someone had fought their way to you. He could find nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious whatsoever. The glass you had used during the night still sits on his coffee table, the blanket you had snuggled in still strewn across the couch.

He almost wants to find traces of some sort of attack so he has something, someone to pin this on, but as he walks around, it becomes increasingly clearer that you had left on your own accord.

The self hatred returns ten fold and he couldn’t be more disgusted with himself.

He was the reason you’re not here. He’s the reason you’re not safe.

Anger begins to build alongside the bitterness churning in the pit of his stomach, and he doesn’t know whether it’s directed more at himself or you. You knew it was potentially dangerous out there, and you couldn’t wait a few simple hours for him to arrange some new accommodation and for an agent to pick you up? What the hell were you thinking?

A part of his mind naturally jumps to your defence, spinning excuse upon excuse that you clearly weren’t thinking straight, that you could’ve been incredibly upset or angry, maybe needed a moment of fresh air and just forgot where his apartment was.

Highly probable, your sense of direction had always been self admittedly shocking. 

Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls his phone out of his pocket, dialling your number for the fourth time in ten minutes, only to once again be met with your voicemail. Unsurprising of course, he’s the last person on Earth you’d want to take a call from at the moment.

He dials Wilson next, waiting on the line as he attempts to contact you himself only to also be met with your voice telling him to leave a message.

Wilson says he’s happy to keep trying, adamant that you’d eventually get sick of his spam calls and will eventually pick up. He’s not wrong, it would absolutely work, but he finds he doesn’t have the patience right now.

“Don’t bother—just get someone onto her phone and tell me where she is.”

"Yes, sir."

The exact location is delivered to his waiting hand a mere five minutes later. He’s sure it felt longer. 

He pulls up the map and finds you’re only a few streets away, relief immediately cooling the panic that had flared when his agent had discovered you nowhere to be found. Maybe you were already on your way back.

A quick text to Wilson instructing him to watch your position and he’s on his way, biting back and swallowing the words of disapproval that build on his tongue as he makes his way to the car. With how he left you before, he’s sure that meeting you with some stern words from his FBI agent mouth would not help his case in the slightest. 

She’s not moving.

He eyes the text as he drives, trying to recall the stores and cafes that line that street. There’s a café, but not near your position. He tries to picture you simply standing by the street, lost in thought and unaware of your surroundings.

His stomach twists.

You’re not where he pictured you to be.

You’re nowhere along the street.

He begins to strain his eyes with how hard he focuses, rolling over every person wandering along and minding their own business, but he can’t find you. You’re not—you’re not here. His eyes flick down to his lap where he holds his phone, screen unlocked and zoomed in to where your position is, and yet, you’re not there.

He knows that, because the only thing standing there, where his phone tells him you should be, is a trash can.

The car pulls to a slow stop and he can’t tear his eyes away from it.

He feels his heart beat in his throat with every step he takes towards the innocent stationary object. It’s a mistake—a glitch from the tracking software, or maybe it’s just your last position before you turned your phone off.

It wouldn’t ring if it was turned off.

His phone is in his hand and pressing your contact before he can even draw in his next breath, and his stomach sinks with every drawn out ring that sinks into his ear.

He hears it then, and ever so slowly, his phone falls away from his face.

The phone, your phone, is there, vibrating amongst the random rubbish thrown in by passers by. There’s a slight shake to his hand as he retrieves and holds it, wiping a thumb across the screen and watching it flick to life under his touch. The wildflowers that make up your screensaver and the stream of missed call notifications give way to his thumb and he struggles to steady the ice that floods his veins because why, why would this be here?

Why would you throw your phone away?

Anger makes people do irrational things, sure, but this? This isn’t like you. You wouldn't rid yourself of your only way of contacting anyone, not with how this whole thing had rattled you. You may be upset with him, but he doubts you'd go to such lengths just to stick it to him.

He holds your phone tight in grasp, holding the device close to his chest as he surveys and makes a mental note of every security camera he can see in view, before tucking it into his inner jacket pocket and making his way into the closest store.

A flick of his badge and a firm demand to see the most recent security footage from the front of the building and he’s in the store’s small office, crowding over the older gentleman tapping on an aged keyboard to fulfill the agent’s request.

It’s an old system, the footage is grainy and low quality, but he’s able to track the pixilated version of you walking past the store and just past the camera's view. Only a few moments later, there’s a blur of movement above the trashcan and then nothing further.

“Rewind it, please.”

The words are quiet, choked, stuck to the inside of his throat.

The man complies, and Marcus leans over him to pause the footage just as an arm appears over the bin. The image may be shit quality, but he’d know every single part of you from a mile away—that arm is not yours.

Okay, he thinks.

Okay.

It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re in danger. It doesn’t—maybe you just—maybe it’s a friend. Maybe you’ll find another way of contacting him. Maybe it’s not what he thinks. You’re fine. You’re fine. Of course you are. It will be okay. There’s a simple explanation, and he’ll find it.

He rubs at his chest, where he feels a deep constrictive ache begin to form around his lungs. It hurts.

He tries to blink the haze away from his vision.

The mind can be a cruel thing. He hears and sees it all so fucking vividly—you crying out in pain, calling out for help and mercy, getting thrown to the floor, beaten for answers, and the final fire of a gunshot echoes in his ears. He feels it physically jolt his body.

He’s the one that finds you, cold to the touch and already long bled out, eyes empty and unfocused. He feels the pure and utter devastation that would consume him. It threatens to bite at him now, with merely just the mental image. It feels realer than before, like it’s an actual possibility now that you’re not here where he can see and hear you, where he knows you're safe, and it almost sends his body reeling into shock.

A sting bites at his eyes. 

His fingers curl into the knot of the tie at his throat, attempting to loosen it to be able to breathe for just a damn second. His heart thunders heavily against his ribs, increasing with every horrid image conjured and the echo of you crying out for help, for him in your final moments.

The urge to retch tightens his throat and he turns away from the screen, inhaling deeply and forcing the image of you laying across a cold autopsy table from his mind.

No. They didn’t want to hurt you. Not yet, at the very least. The suspect had said he was to take you to a meeting point, a handover of sorts. If they wanted you dead, they would’ve tried so already. You’ve got time. 

He half believes it, and it’s just enough to get him to draw in a shaky, steadying breath. It's enough for clarity to start seeping into his view.

His chest still burns.

He has time.

It won’t end like this, it can’t.

He won’t let it. 

“Thank you for your assistance,” he forces out, throat raw. “We’ll be in touch should we need anything further.”

He’s striding out before the man can even reply, phone already to his ear and snapping Wilson into an immediate response. He wants everything.

Security footage from the entire street. He wants to know what way you came from, where it looked like you were heading. He wants to know who you spoke to along the way. Names, if any. He wants whoever dumped your phone, if you got into a car. He wants the registration, make and model and the direction it went. He wants a BOLO put out on it five minutes ago.

“On it, boss.”

It doesn’t calm him.

It fuels him.

The panic, the adrenaline, the rage.

He’s made an entire mental checklist before he’s even back in his car. He’s calling the other members of his team, he’s firing off instructions to each. He wants updates and he wants answers. He wants this whole thing dissected again, picked apart bit by bit and then some. He even calls Teresa—make Jane useful.

They’re getting close, he knows it. He feels it.

They know he’s close—the few they’ve already nailed and arrested show that. They’re looking for ways to fix the mess left by your replicas, they’re looking to make the money, probably by finding out what ones had been replaced. The organisation and people they’re after are angry. They’re panicking, and when people panic, they make mistakes.

Taking you in broad daylight was just that.

Now he’ll be there waiting to catch each one that comes next: poised, ready and pissed off.

Please hold on, I'm coming.

—