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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

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dreams dashed and divided - chapter one

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Summary: When Mando needs a place to hide and re-group with the child following his time on the New Republic prisoner transport ship with the group of people he thought never to work with again, he is directed to Kijimi, the place he vowed never to return, where he is told the queenpin will help him. The last person he expects the queenpin to be is you. And you have some scores to settle.

Word count: 3,991

Notes: This fic is a bit of a departure from my normal works as it’s a bit more dark than other things I’ve written for Din. It’s something I’ve been poking away at for the past year or so and I’m excited to finally be sharing it with you all. It’s a fic about miscommunication and mistakes and lost chances but it is also a fic about redemption and second chances. Our reader has really been through it and hasn’t had an easy go of things. Additionally, Din during his time with the mercenary crew is something that’s long intrigued me. This fic will contain flashbacks to the end of his time in the crew when he first met our reader and each chapter will unfold more of the story and what truly happened between them to make them go from lovers to enemies. I want to thank my beloved @ezrasbirdie for beta-reading this fic and for letting me talk on end about these two in the DM’s. ❤️

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Chapter warnings: Scars, canon-typical violence, nightmares, references to sex, reference to drugs (spice) and weapons, use of weapons, loneliness/isolation, age gap: older man/younger woman (in flashbacks reader is 20 to Din’s 27, and in current day is 29 to his 36)

next chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (din djarin)

It’s a bad idea. It really is. Din knows it is before he even sends out the message to his former partner to see if he can throw some work his way. Not only does he not trust Ran, but he promised himself – and someone else – that he would never work with or see his former crew again. Not after what happened.

But here he finds himself. Working with one of the people he never expected to work with again. “This is a bad idea,” he tells the kid as he sets the Razor Crest into landing in Ranzar Malk’s hangar on the space station.

Placing the child in a storage closet for safekeeping, he exits the Crest, dread and regret in his every step.

“Mando,” says Ran amenably. “Is that you under that bucket?”

“Ran,” clips Din, begrudgingly shaking the other man’s extended hand. Like shaking hands with the devil, you ask him.

Dropping Mando’s hand, Ran continues. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you in these parts again. Good to see you.” Lie, thinks Mando as Ran claps a hand on his back. “You know, to be honest…” That would be a first, Din thinks. “...I was a little surprised when you reached out to me.”

That makes two of them, Din supposes.

“You know, because … I hear things. Like maybe things between you and the Guild ain’t working out.” Ran pretends to sound concerned but he truly hopes that that’s the case; it would be so sweet for him if the organization Din left the group for fell out with him.

Din, ever cagey with Ran, responds, “I’ll be fine.”

Ran holds out his hands in a conciliatory motion. “Okay, well you know the policy. No questions asked. And you… you’re welcome back here any time.”

Din doesn’t take the bait and follows Ran through the space station, asking about the job and listening as Ran explains how one of his associates got caught by an enemy team. Seems simple enough… until Ran mentions that the only reason he was allowed in was because of the Crest. Nothing’s changed then. Ran’s still the two-timing, look out for no one but himself person he’s always been. Withholding information until it’s necessary.

“What’s the look? Is that gratitude?” asks Ran before dropping the subject. There are four other members, Din being the fifth. Ran introduces them all, explaining that running with a Mandalorian brought the group some reputation; Mando said one time he got target practice out of it; Din just listens, not saying anything aside from “that was a long time ago”, remorse and regret at his former actions and his former self eating away at him. He hates how easily he can assume this role again after almost a decade. The other members of the group are sharpshooter Mayfeld, Burg the muscle, and droid Zero. Din balks at the droid but doesn’t say anything. He counts. “Wait. You said there were four,” he says.

A voice comes from behind him. One that he would recognize anywhere. Belonging to the Twi’lek who brought him nothing but trouble. “He does.” Xi’an.

If his guard wasn’t already up, it sure as hell is now.

“Hello, Mando,” Xi’an says.

Din gives nothing away. “Xi’an,” he says, managing to stay composed.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” she asks, twirling her knife. Is that the same knife from before? he wonders. From nine years ago? From when she tried to —? Din snaps himself out of it. He should be the one asking that question. He should have cut her down where she stood.

Instead he just says, lying through his teeth, “Nice to see you too.”

The gang laughs. “I missed you.”

I didn’t, Din thinks.

There’s some more teasing and laughing from the others while Zero works on the Razor Crest, no doubt to rile Din up. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t let it. Din realizes quickly as Mayfeld explains that the transport ship is in fact a prison ship. He’s liking this less and less, and he didn’t even like this to begin with. Why did he take this again? He’s only being used. Again.

“Just like the good old days, Mando. Huh?” says Ran before Din walks up the ramp onto his ship.

Yeah. Exactly like the good old days.

- - - -

Din should have known. Should have kriffing known.

He isn’t even surprised when the others double cross him. Isn’t surprised when the prisoner they spring ends up being Qin, Xi’an’s brother and the instigator of so many things. Din’s hated everything on this mission. He hates how… easily, how quickly, he was able to resume his role of ruthless hunter that he made himself known as all those years ago; sure he’s not exactly easy-going with bounties now but he likes to think that he’s at least more reasonable and isn’t going after people for the sake of it, for target practice as Ran had said back on the spaceport. Din has also hated how he’s been treated. This usually doesn’t bother him; he doesn’t need people to like him. He’s a Mandalorian, people liking him isn’t at the top of his priority list. It had only been so once and he ruined things beyond repair in that circumstance. Mandalorians do not regret much. It isn’t in their nature. Din, though, can’t help but feel the sharp twist of it on a daily basis, having made a home for it in his chest and in the pit of his stomach over the years, allowing it to fester. That feeling has only been amplified by today’s events, the decisions that led to it.

Maybe both Ran and Zarah had been right. Maybe the only thing he was good at was hunting and hurting and destruction. He isn’t right for…

“How’s your little friend doing these days?” Xi’an had asked earlier. Din hadn’t answered, not rising to her bait and her taunts. She’d always been jealous. Always wanted what he didn’t ever have on offer for her. That he only had it on offer for one person and he squandered that opportunity. He thinks back to how Xi’an said that he deserves this. She was wrong. He deserves so much worse for what he did.

He shakes his head, clearing the thought as he plans his retribution. Retribution that is nine years too late. But first things first. He needs to get out of this cell.

When Xi’an had killed Davan ten minutes ago, he remembered a time before, a time when the outcome had been better, but so much worse. For the seventeenth time today, he makes a mental apology, adding to the countless ones he’s mentally made over the years. It isn’t enough. It never is. There isn’t much else he can do though.

When he gets out with ease, it’s time to get even. Not for just this, but for something that should have been settled years ago.

It’s easy separating the gang. Mayfeld and Qin are separated from Xi’an and Burg. Of the four of them, Burg is the hardest to subdue, but he finally manages to in the end.

Part of him wants to save Xi’an for last, since she was directly involved in what happened nine years ago and it is in his opinion that she deserves something truly terrible in retribution for what she did, for what they both did.

When he catches up with her, it’s a bit of a struggle; she tries to fight him, tries to kill him, but he’s too fast for her.

As he’s bringing her to the cell, she throws a final curveball. “Have you been back to your beloved Kijimi? I think you’d be interested in the queenpin. I would have thought you would be her kingpin,” Xi’an teases, giving her saccharine giggle from behind the bars of the cell.

Din has no idea who or what she’s talking about. For all of her many, many flaws, Xi’an does know things. The only logical person she could be talking about is Zarah Bliss and she wants nothing to do with him either.

He walks away from Xi’an, hoping they never have to cross paths ever again. And he hopes that this is enough – or at least a start – for his redemption.

Mayfeld is the easiest to subdue. And Qin is not hard to find. For all his bravado, he does love running away.

“Come on, Mando. Be reasonable,” Qin cajoles as Din begins to apprehend him.

Reasonable? Din wants to shout. There are many things that Din wants to say, wants to shout at this Twi’lek. But he holds his tongue and brings him back to Ran, planting a tracking beacon on him.

Credits in hand, he flies away, promising that he will never, ever do anything like that or see them again.

Having the spaceport destroyed and Ran and Qin apprehended by the New Republic along with the others, who made his life so difficult, is small retribution in comparison to what he really wanted to do. But he isn’t that person anymore.

Untwisting the knob of one of the levers on the dash and handing it to the kid, he says, “Told you that was a bad idea,” as Xi’an’s words about the queenpin of Kijimi echo in his head.

- - - -

He gets a holovid call from Greef Karga two days later.

“My friend, if you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive. You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too,” the transmission begins. Din smiles wryly at his boss’s obvious statement. “I guess we can call it even. A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild. We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out. If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize. So, here is my proposition: Return to Nevarro. Bring the child as bait. I will arrange an exchange, and provide loyal Guild members as protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honour should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism.”

Din stares at the child, who’s sleeping in his pram behind where Din sits in the pilot’s seat, options and ideas and ruminations running through his head at a thousand miles per hour.

The last time he had seen Karga had been when he had turned in and then retrieved the kid from the custody of the Guild and the enigmatic client. Karga had tried to stop him. Had tried to get him to return the child to his custody. Din wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to betray someone else. Someone else he had promised to take care of and failed to do so.

He doesn’t like it.

Karga was never completely untrustworthy before, so he has no reason to distrust the Guild leader now. Except for the aforementioned attempt at stopping Din from leaving.

No, he doesn’t like it. Doesn’t trust it.

He supposes he doesn’t have to trust it. And if it came down to it, he could come out on top again. Din doesn’t see any other option but to go along with it.

But he doesn’t have to go alone. He would be foolish to go alone and Din Djarin is many things, but he likes to think fool isn’t one of them. Not usually.

Punching in the coordinates to Sorgan, he knows exactly who he’s going to ask.

Cara Dune is in her normal habitat, engaged in a wrestling match which she easily wins. The child coos at the sight of her when she spots him and Din hanging back. Recognizing her as a friend.

Din explains the situation to her, leaving no detail out. Cara’s face falls. “Sorry, Mando. No can do. I’m needed here. They made me their marshal and I can’t exactly leave so soon into the trial period.”

He nods. “That’s too bad,” he says, “but I understand.”

“You were right to think for backup though. Why not ask that widow?” Cara asks, waggling her eyebrows.

“No.” Din is resolute. “It’s one thing to ask her to fight on her home planet to defend her village. But to ask her to leave her home and her child for something as dangerous as this?” He won’t do it. And he still thinks back to when she tried to remove his helmet. How gently he’d removed her hands from his face. The last time someone had tried to remove his helmet like that, he hadn’t been so gentle in moving their hands away. Omera deserves a life of peace, something he can’t offer. Xi’an’s words still echo in his head. “Have you ever heard of the queenpin of Kijimi?” he asks, changing tacks and going out on a limb.

The former shock trooper thinks for a minute, her expression turning from teasing to contemplative. “Yeah, I have. I don’t know who she is exactly. But she runs spice and weapons out of a speakeasy.” It takes a minute to remember the name of the town where the speakeasy is. He knows that town. He spent many nights in that town. “She probably has a couple of enforcers if she can’t help you outright. It’s worth a shot.” Cara shrugs.

It is worth a shot Din concedes. But he hasn’t been back to Kijimi in almost ten years. It was made very clear that he wasn’t welcome there. That he wasn’t wanted. It’s been ten years. Maybe… He didn’t even have to see… Even if Zarah hears him out. She can send him on his way with one of her enforcers and never have to cross paths with anyone else who doesn’t want to see him.

This week seems to be full of doing things he thought he would never do again. So keeping in pattern, he punches in the coordinates to Kijimi. In and out, no problem.

But things are never as easy as they first appear.

- - - -

Roaming fingers, rasped words, skin against metal and burlap, a face you never see. Empty promises, blood, pain, betrayal…

You wake up before the sun. Not that that’s hard to do in winter on Kijimi. The sun is only out (if it’s out at all) for three hours at a time in the dead of winter. Your bed is warm, furs and blankets covering you.

If you didn’t have your empire to run, you’d stay in bed for as long as possible. But spice and weapons don’t run themselves. And you have people waiting for you. The wind buffets against the building, only adding to your complete lack of wanting to get out of bed.

You’d had the nightmare again last night. It had been so long, too, since you’d had the nightmare. The one where you’re killed by the man who betrayed you. Only he wasn’t the one who gave the killing blow in real life. It was as good as him, though. You never realized how cowardly a man of an esteemed race of warriors could be until you met him.

Scrubbing your face with your hands, you get up. The cold air of your sleeping chamber assaults you almost immediately as you grab your warm robe and make your way to the fresher. Dropping your robe and your sleeping clothes from yourself, you step into the warmth of the shower, staying in as long as you can, savouring the heat and the warmth of it while you can.

Sylar hadn’t come over last night, claiming to be busy. Not that he would have helped with the nightmares. Those came whenever they damn well pleased.

Once you’ve spent enough time beneath the warm spray of the shower, you get the bacta salve from your drawer and rub it over the puckered, scarred skin of the left side of your rib cage. It never fully healed. The poison was removed from the wound, but the scar remains and will do so for the rest of your days.

Once the steam dissipates, you practice your smile in the mirror for a second. Someone had pointed out yesterday that it didn’t reach your eyes. And you couldn’t have that. You had a reputation to uphold. And that reputation is flirty, friendly queenpin who doesn’t take any bullshit. You’re the queenpin of Kijimi. And Maker help anyone who disrespects the queen.

Good enough. It doesn’t quite meet your eyes the way it once had many, many years ago. But if people don’t pay attention they won’t notice. Most people don’t notice. It must have been a fluke that someone brought it up, you’re sure of it.

You slip on your father’s ring that you keep on a chain around your neck, bringing it up to your lips as you always do every morning when you put it on and every night when you take it off. Grabbing your caf, you lock the flat door behind you and go down into your speakeasy.

Zarah’s already there. Your best friend for almost your entire life. The only person who’s always had your back, the person who best understands you. Though no one truly understands you. At one point you thought someone had, but then things happened that proved that to be wrong.

“You look like shit,” Zarah says by way of greeting.

You just lift your mug to your lips in half-salute. “Good morning to you too.”

Zarah notices the bags under your eyes, heavier and more defined than usual. “Did you have the nightmare again?” she asks. You regret ever telling her about the nightmare. She takes your lack of response as an answer in the affirmative. “Honey, how many times do I have to tell you? That man is better forgotten after the way he twisted himself into you.”

You nod. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that. But my subconscious doesn’t.” You try to fill your voice with annoyance at your friend and your subconscious. You know better than to argue that that’s not how you remember the events of nine years ago happening. There’s no reasoning with Zarah once she's made her mind up about something.

“Sy didn’t stop by last night?” she asks.

With a shake of your head, you say, “No. He had to work late.”

You know what she’s going to say before she says it. “He likes you, you know.”

There it is. “I know. I like him, too. He’s a good friend. That’s why I let him sleep in my bed every now and again.”

Zarah frowns. “You know what I mean. It won’t kill you to settle. Hell, you could do a lot worse. You’ve done a lot worse.”

You wince inwardly at the indirect jab. Zarah hadn’t liked you being around someone like… that. Sylar’s sweet and he’s a good friend. But you hate the idea of settling. Even if it is your best option. “We’re just having a bit of fun,” you say, tone brooking no argument.

“I know. But—”

“Zarah.” The queenpin enters your voice. It hardly ever comes out around her. You don’t like using it on her. But she’s pushed this so many times. “Please,” you say, attempting to lighten your voice. “I had a rough night, I don’t wanna talk about my bad decisions this early. Maker knows I don’t need more reminding that my life is one colossal fuckup,” you mutter this last part more to yourself. You refuse to feel sorry for yourself. You are who you are and you’ve made the best with what you’ve been given. Even if it is isolating.

Your friend hears the last part, but she doesn’t say anything. “We should get ready,” she says instead.

It’s a busy day. Though it goes quickly and you’re surrounded by a swell of people, you feel completely alone in this crowded room. No real connections except with Zarah, who’s gone home to check on her daughter Zorii. School’s out for the week and she is restricted from coming here. It’s no place for an eight year old. It’s one of the few concessions Zarah’s agreed with, not wanting her daughter exposed to this as young as she was.

Your smile – friendly, flirtatious, and fake – falters a few times as you’re making deals, serving drinks and doing trades. Pushing everything else out of your mind but business, you carry on with your facade and your business.

The coin purse at your hip is replaced halfway through the day with an empty one and again mid-afternoon. Business is positively booming.

Before you know it, it’s time to close. “All right, folks. It’s that time again. Time to say goodnight,” you say, adopting a faux-sad expression as people grumble and complain. “I know. But I’ll be here tomorrow,” you promise.

They have fun here, especially your regulars. Not all of them are there for trade; they just want to socialize and have something to drink. You have a few (mostly male) clients that have said on more than one occasion that they want to marry you or some of your serving girls. You always decline, maintaining the reputation of a sole queenpin of her empire who doesn’t need a king. You’re also very protective of your girls. You started here as a serving girl and Zarah’s mother hadn’t done much to protect you and the other girls from leering customers who had wanted more than what was there on the menu or to trade. Once you took over, that all changed.

You usher the last of your customers out with a flirty grin and a promise to see them tomorrow. A cold draft of spring air sends a chill down your spine and you peer around, sensing something – or someone nearby.

Waving the feeling away as suspicion and leftover fear from when the New Republic was planetside a few weeks ago, you turn on your heels and go back into your cantina. No one’s there. Silly woman, you chide yourself and get to cleaning up the bar before Sylar can stop in for the night and you can go upstairs with him to your flat.

A slight movement from just out of view behind you grabs your attention. “Sorry, pal, we’re closed.” All traces of friendly flirtation are gone from your voice. You’re tired, had a long day, and just want to lie down.

Usually there’s some form of apology and a quick scurrying out; people know not to mess with you after closing. But there’s nothing of the sort from the intruder. Just a sigh. A sigh you would be able to place anywhere.

The responding voice sends a shiver down your spine, makes your blood run cold. “Not here to do spice trade, cyar’ika.”

Turning, you see the figure you thought had abandoned you for good all those years ago. His armour is new. Silver and shiny instead of the faded red that was beat up. This is pure beskar, shiny and authentic. The real deal. Even with the new, shiny metal, you know it’s him. Without so much as a single word, your reflexes on high alert, you quickly grab the blaster that’s holstered at your hip (that’s usually just there for show), look him directly in the face of that stupid helmet of his, and shoot him square in the chestplate.

--- taglist in reblog

#din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian #pedro pascal fan fiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #my fic #my writing #dreams dashed and divided

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goblininawig · 9 months

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The Future Has Many Paths

Rated T | Chapters 15/? | ~41k Words | A03 | Mood Board

Summary: Marooned on Arvala-7, you meet a Mandalorian who offers you a job. Accepting it leads you down a path you never imagined, full of both wonders and terrors.

Chapters 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | to be continued...

Tags: Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin, You, Grogu | Baby Yoda, Kuiil, Greef Karga, Original Force-Sensitive Characters, Caben, Stoke, Omera, Winta, Peli Motto, Toro Calican, Fennec Shand, Boba Fett, Cobb Vanth, Ranzar Malk, Migs Mayfeld, Burg, Zero | Q9-0, Xi'an, Qin, IG-11, Paz Vizsla, The Armorer, Moff Gideon, Original Non-Human Character(s), Carson Teva, Mythrol Bounty, Penn Pershing, Bo-Katan Kryze, Koska Reeves, Axe Woves, Force Priestesses, Force-Sensitive Reader, Starship Razor Crest | Din Djarin's ST-70 Assault Ship, Canon Universe, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Reader-Insert, Din Djarin Doesn't Remove the Helmet, Grogu | Baby Yoda Stays with Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Force Healing, New Republic Era, Mandalorian Covert From Nevarro, Clan Mudhorn, Found Family, The Force, Ewok Species, Mandalorian Clans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, The World Between Worlds, Mentioned Snoke, Mentioned Kylo Ren, Mentioned Vader, Mentioned Yoda, Mentioned Thrawn, Slow Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

A/N: Reader is a chaotic good opportunist, along the lines of Lando Calrissian, Han Solo, Trace Martez, and Phee Genoa…. but with Force-sensitivity and low-grade powers.

#star wars #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #star wars fanfiction #mandalorian fanfic #rated t #read on a03 #reader insert #female reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #slow burn #found family #canon rewrite #goblininawig

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lowlights · 2 years

Note

Please for the love of everything Din x “Keep your eyes on me.”

I am f e r a l for this man

Oh, my darling. This got SO far away from me. I am so sorry. I hope you like it anyway. <3

I See You

Din Djarin x f!reader ; 1.8k words

Warnings: Takes place before the show, after Mando leaves Ran's crew. It's very melancholy, this is your warning. Yearning, tension, PinV sex (unprotected), fingering, a smidge of cumplay. The helmet stays on, babes. Younger Mando makes some poor choices.

Series Masterlist

The sun has long ago set on your lush little planet, leaving the world dark with only the fireflies to light the path to your small abode. He lumbers down the twisted path, much too exhausted to care that he’s making so much noise. He knows you’re alone out here, he scanned the area before stepping out of the Razor Crest. Not even a bordok is wandering out in the distance.

It’s just you.

He needs to lay low for a spell, to get out of the skies and hunker down somewhere safe. They’d be looking for him, at some point.

He makes it to your door, beating on the wooden planks with his fist until you finally swing the door open. You’re clearly still half-asleep, and look as angry as a worrt.

“Mando? What the hell are you doing here?” you demand, eyes wide with surprise. He’s filled out a bit since you last saw him, his shoulders somehow even broader than before. His arms are clearly bulkier as well. It had been almost four standard years since you last saw him, after all.

He clears his throat. “Can I come in?’

You cross your arms over your long sleep shirt. “Who’s after you this time?” You’re not about to repeat what happened before when he pissed off the local spice runner, just as he was starting his bounty hunter career.

He rests his left thumb on his belt, his right hand fidgety at his side. “No one right now, not really. I just need to keep the Crest offline for a while. I’ll explain everything, just…let me in.”

You sigh and step to the side, wondering internally why you bothered to put up a fight. It’s not like you wouldn’t go to the edge of the galaxy for this man if he asked. Not after you hemmed and hawed first, but still. He’d saved your life, after all, before he helped you escape to where you were living now.

Memories come rushing back when you see him standing in your little house, with one hand on his hip and his leg cocked out. You never thought you would see this image again. Or see him again.

“So?” You ask, mirroring his stance.

“Can I sit?” he asks, motionless as a pillar. He’s gotten better at that, you think to yourself. Being intimidating without moving a muscle.

You go sit at the tiny table and watch him fold himself up into the chair across from you. You stare, and wait. Mando always took a moment to find his words, never one to spill his secrets.

The story comes out, slowly at first like a trickle of water falling down a leaf. He’d fallen in with a rough crew, led by someone named Ranzar Malk. Something had gone wrong - really wrong - and he needed to leave. Mando wasn’t usually the squeamish type, so you knew that his reluctance to talk about it meant that it had to be really bad.

You didn’t ask questions. You just listened. When he finally stopped talking, you reached out and took his gloved hand in yours.

Preemptively answering the question that you knew was coming next, you told him he could stay as long as he wanted. There was a lot that you needed to say to him, but tonight wasn’t the night. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his beskar-clad shoulders, a far cry from the cocky young man that left you so long ago. You make him a plate of food and leave him to eat, giving him the privacy he needs to take off his helmet.

You roll out a little pad and put some bedding on the floor, not knowing if he would stay here or in his ship. You go back to your own bunk, the adrenaline in your body finally wearing off.

In the morning, you damn near trip over Mando as you walk out of your room.

“Oof- Mando! This is not where I left you last night,” you grumble, stepping over him and heading to the kitchen for some much-needed caf.

He doesn’t know how to tell you that he slept at your door because he wanted to make sure you were safe. Never mind the fact that he’d been gone for years, leaving you presumably alone. He follows you into the kitchen and sits back down at the table, watching you move around the room before joining him at the table.

“Where’s Shankari?” he asks you, bemused at how you still curl yourself around your morning cup of caf.

That sends a pang to your heart. “That old tooka-cat died about a year ago, Mando. She’s buried out under the tree where she used to harass all the birds.”

He’s silent.

You’re silent.

“A lot’s changed, hasn’t it?” he asks you quietly, voice cracking a bit through the helmet.

“Yeah. And nothing at all, it seems,” you reply, taking a long sip of the hot beverage. It burns your tongue, and you’re grateful for the excuse not to talk.

This continues for weeks, this odd dance between the two of you. You’re frozen in time, suspended between the way you knew each other from before and whatever the future held for you both. You’re content where you are, happy to live a quiet life amongst the trees. You know it’s not the life meant for Mando, but he hasn’t figured that part out yet. You realize that nothing you can say to him right now would help anything, so you let it all go. The hurt you carried from before doesn’t matter right now.

Like a kettle that’s slowly coming to a boil, he can feel the pressure building and the temperature rising between you. When he isn’t making upgrades to the Crest, he’s sitting back and watching you. He watches as you bake bread and mend clothing and talk to the trees outside. The feeling that builds in his chest is scary and unfamiliar, and something he can’t put a name on.

You smile at him, and it’s so different from anyone else before. Not that there’s been many. But there were the young Mandalorian women in the coverts, and whatever the kark that thing with Xi’an was. He might love you, and it’s getting harder to ignore. Especially when he thinks you could love him too.

The proverbial kettle boils over one night when you fall asleep on him in the living room. The beskar (minus the helmet) had been shed weeks ago, and you had taken to curling up with your head on his lap in front of the fireplace at night.

Din didn’t tell you those were his favorite moments of the day.

You wake up to his finger tracing circles on your arm, and look up at him. “Am I bothering you?”

“No.” He continues tracing along your bare skin, then across your belly and up, up, up slowly over your shirt in the valley between your tits. He watches every expression on your face, looking for any sign that he should stop. You only nod at him from where you lie across his lap, and he dips his hand under your shirt.

He cups your breast with his large hand, rubbing your nipple to a stiff peak with his thumb. You moan at how good it feels, and how warm his rough hand feels. He draws his hand out of your shirt and instead dips down into your pants. All the while his visor is trained on your face, watching every minute expression of arousal dance across your beautiful features.

When his finger finally pushes into your wetness, you dare to look down to see his hand moving in your sleep shorts.

“No,” he commands gently, “Keep your eyes on me.”

Your eyes snap back up to the t-shaped darkness staring back at you. You’re not sure if it’s the glow of the firelight or your imagination, but you swear you can see two big eyes staring back at you.

He gets you so wet that the squelch of his finger moving in and out of you should be embarrassing, but you both think it might be the hottest noise you’ve ever heard. You whimper when he pulls his hand out of your shorts, but he quickly helps you into your bedroom and is peeling off your clothing, situating you in bed.

He leaves his helmet on, of course, but strips down quickly himself. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand as he watches you - always watching you - spread your legs out for him to shimmy between.

Then he’s easing himself into your aching cunt, and you wrap your arms and legs around him. His pace is tempered but far from gentle, years of unresolved feelings and the weight of what his life has become compelling him to get as deep inside of you as possible. You accept every inch of him, every snap of his hips and grunt from his mouth, and scream out his name when you come.

“Mando, Mando! Oh, stars, yes!”

As your pussy flutters around his length in the aftermath of your orgasm, his page quickens.

“Din. My name is Din. I just- please, look at me. Keep your eyes on me, sweet girl,” he begs, barely moving in and out now as he just ruts himself against you.

“Din. Din, I see you. I see you, Din.” You stare at his helmet, past his helmet, and he swears you can see into his kriffing soul.

He pulls out and comes on your stomach and your wet curls with a low moan, watching rope after rope decorate your skin. He wishes more than anything that he could rip off his helmet and kiss you when you reach down and scoop up some of his cum with one finger, bringing it to your mouth and sucking on it like candy.

“Dank farrik,” he mutters, taking one last look at you before fetching a cloth to clean you up. After, you pull him into bed with you and immediately fall asleep in his arms. Din, on the other hand, doesn’t sleep a wink.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re alone in bed. You stumble out to the kitchen for your morning caf and instead of finding Din waiting for you at the table, you see a note leaning against the canister of grounds. Your heart sinks, and you almost don’t need to read it.

You read it anyway. In somewhat messy, capital letters it says:

I’M SORRY. I’LL BE BACK WHEN I’M THE MAN YOU DESERVE.

#well this is far from a drabble but I'm counting it #din djarin #younger din djarin #pre-show din #din x f!reader #there's a lot to unpack with this man

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prolix-yuy · 2 years

Text

Chapter 5: You and Me After, You and Me Before

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: An admission. A revelation. Truths. A promise.

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: T, allusions to sexual acts, Din having lots of FEELINGS. While this chapter is not explicit, the entire work is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Cross-posted on AO3

Both Sides of the Door Masterlist || I Think of You Series Masterlist

Din has to take a few minutes to ease back from the incredible disappointment of being interrupted.

He’s glad he got you to your peak first, the bliss on your face as you smiled back at him like being shone upon by the sun. But that doesn’t help the ache between his own legs as he forces himself to think about gutted Tauntauns and the stench of wet Bantha. Din watches as you sit up, booping the child’s tiny nose and gently scolding him for scaring you, your sleeveless top rumpled and pants hastily rebuttoned. The metal patterning on the floor left indentations on your arms and shoulders that he wants to trace with his fingers.

You deserve a better place for him to pleasure you. Someplace soft, comforting, where you could drift off after. He’ll have to bring something up to the cockpit next time.

The thought lights up his skin as you look over at him and smile, fonder this time. The fact that he lets himself want a next time, not pushing it away like he’s been since you stepped on the Crest (and years longer, if he’s being honest), is a surprise. Not unwelcome, but a jolt after the strained emotions of the day.

The irritation at Karga for his insinuations, the veil of disdain from his alor over your presence, all came to a head when he entered the Marshal’s office and saw you there, reacting to a good-natured prod into your relationship. You must have fielded some questions of your own today, and while he’s been cautious in the past he knows you wouldn’t betray his trust.

He could have used your quiet strength today. Maker knows he wants you, the ebbing throb of his cock a clear indicator, but today it’s only become clearer that he wants you near. Near to him, under his protection, beside him in the moments when his life is difficult. You probably would have told Karga off, something like, “And why is it your business if I prefer beskar between my legs?” Karga would have spat his spotchka, laughed and ordered another round. You’re good like that, personable, funny and disarming in a way Din can never be.

He can almost see the calm in your eyes if you stood before the Armorer. The way you would have answered her questions, the steadfastness and strength you would show, all proving why you were a worthy companion to a Mandalorian. Even when placed by the sweltering heat of the forge with nothing to protect you, you would stand tall and unwavering.

But he couldn’t make you face her. He desired it, wanted to place his hand on your back and level his visor at his alor and tell her how important you were to him, but she wouldn’t believe it. He’d proven himself to be untrustworthy before.

Thinking with your cock again, Din Djarin? We know what happened the last time that happened.

That had been years ago, when Din shirked his duty to run with Ranzar Malk’s team, spending too much time under the sharp teeth and poison of Xi’an and lusting over the blood he spilled. When he finally returned, vibroblade slashes in all of the vulnerable spots between his armor -

Show me the face of the man who’s fucking me, Mandalorian!

- his alor had silently watched him treat his injuries. It wasn’t until he was back in the training room, Paz Vizla laying blows on every half-healed wound, opening them back up like screaming mouths, that she spoke.

“This is the pain of betrayal, Din Djarin. You have dishonored your role as beroya. May this be a lesson that continues to teach.”

He was patched back up, but the damage done was deeper than flesh. The pain of his choice, of abandoning his duty for the thrill of sex and money and rage, settled deeper in his bones than any break could. His alor forgave him, allowing him to continue training and learning and, when the chance to become beroya returned, allowing him to take up the mantle again. He was more loyal to the Creed than ever before, consequence beaten into him.

He needs time, that’s all. Time to bring proof to the covert that you are respectful, honorable, worthy in their eyes. You already are in his.

Shifting beside him, you shuffle to your knees, sighing and looking down at Din.

“I’ll get some food started,” you say, about to get to your feet, but Din wants just a moment longer. So with a boldness of affection he doesn’t often display, he reaches out and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you over in the circle of his embrace. You let yourself be toppled, giggling as your elbow comes down on his cuirass, hand by his shoulder. Din can feel you against his side, soft and warm. Your gaze dances over the helmet to rest on the visor, and it makes his breath catch when your eyes lock with his. Not perfectly, slightly unfocused without his brown ones to stare back, but it’s the most intimate feeling in the world for Din.

“Later?” you whisper in an attempt to be discreet while the child grips at your pant legs. Later is both a hope and a promise, laced with uncertainty between the child and duty. His hands roam your back, coming up to the back of your head to dip it against the helmet. A Keldabe kiss, one of many he’s given you. You press a small one into the helmet’s cheek as you rise, and Din’s lips purse unconsciously, as if he could press them to yours. He has to bite them to give him something to feel.

Later, when all three of you are sitting in the hold, Din startles at a question.

“Cara told me about Sorgan.”

Din tries to breathe through the spike of fear and anxiety that reduces him to a statue. He doesn’t know how to react - why did Cara mention it? How much do you know? How does it make you feel? Before steam can start spouting from under the helmet like a terrible teapot, you speak.

“I think she was trying to be kind, telling me that you had someone you cared about. Like maybe she wanted to reassure me that you were capable of it. Not that I don’t already know,” you say, turning your head down to the child as he fiddles with a wadded up bunch of string he’d been fixated on all evening. “Or she was trying to stir up some drama for the fun of it. You know her best.”

Your lopsided smile lets some air back into his lungs. Din puts down the circuit board in his hands, fearing he’ll snap it in two if he holds it any longer. Instead he places his palms on his thighs, thumbs digging into the dip by his knees to ground himself.

“Cara and I met on Sorgan, and we helped liberate a village of krill farmers,” he says, watching your reaction carefully. You nod, chewing on your lip a little as you wait. Kriff, you’re getting better at anticipating what he needs by the day.

“There was a woman there, Omera. She had a daughter, Winta. They helped care for the child.” Din pauses, the emotion of the memory heavy on his shoulders. “He would have had a good life there, would have been able to be a child, if the Republic wasn’t trailing us. They wouldn’t have been safe if we stayed.”

“And you wouldn’t leave him.”

The truth is more complicated. Din hasn’t found the right moment to tell you about his mission, or the importance the child plays in it. But your assumption is as close to an explanation as today can offer.

“I couldn’t,” he says, and truly believes it. Leaving the child is becoming a harder and harder inevitability to face by the day.

The silence lasts a little longer, both of you testing who will break next. You take the step first.

“Did you want to stay?” you ask, and Din shakes his head.

“I don’t belong in a place like that.” You tilt your head, a mannerism you’re starting to develop from your time with Din.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firmer now, and your eyes are sharp. How do you manage to touch what hurts but soothe instead of opening the wound?

“If nothing stood in your way, would you have stayed?”

Din wishes the answer was simple, a yes or a no. There was a time when it did feel like an easy choice. The calm of the village, the soft glances of a strong woman, children to care for and keep safe. It would have been so close to his Creed he could have justified it. But even without the threat looming over the child, the duties of being a Mandalorian, of the Watch, of being beroya, were too great for him to abandon.

“I made some mistakes in my youth, ran with a crew that I shouldn’t have.” Din looks up to your face and sees the silent question. “It was after I met you.” Nodding, you let him continue. “I betrayed the trust of my covert, of my alor, of Karga. All for a fleeting moment of freedom. I paid dearly for it.” The sympathy in your eyes goes no further. Not pitying, just commiserating.

“To stay on Sorgan, I would have had to give up my Creed.” Din lets the silence bleed, knowing that what he says next may hurt you, but you did seem to thrive on truth. “I might have been happy. She might have made me happy. But I made the wrong choice before, and I didn’t have faith in myself to know if staying was right. I don’t know how to give up what I’ve always known, and she would have needed that. She deserved that, done the right way instead of running. And…” Din’s breath is large, expansive as he tries to let out the deepest wound in his heart, infected and festering. “I don’t believe I could have been the good man she thought I was.”

Din rolls his shoulders stiffly, trying to relax under your thoughtful gaze. He wonders if you might try to touch him, but you don’t. You understand him better than most, and your hands on him right now would have been too much. It’s all out now, his greatest mistake and his greatest “what if.” He’s peeled off the bandage in the hope it might heal this time, but he needs you to say something.

“And now?” you finally ask, making Din tilt his helmet up to look at you. “Do you still feel like you aren’t a good man?”

He breathes, letting the cadence of his back rising and falling release the words.

“Every day it seems less likely.”

The answer makes you smile wistfully. “Good.”

Din waits for you to say something else, to ask something of him. A promise, an explanation. He wouldn’t blame you if you needed more. But you release him, turning your attention to the child and unwinding a loop of string from his claws.

You never push, you only hold your hands open for him to give. It makes Din want to give you everything.

“I’m glad you found some peace, Mando.” You break the last stretch of silence as you move about the hold, putting the child into Mando’s arms. The statement makes his head cock, not expecting this reaction. “I always hoped in the time we were apart that you were shown kindness, and care. I’m grateful that there was at least one.” You stretch and move to head towards the ‘fresher. Was it that late already?

“Mesh’la,” Mando calls after you, making you turn and look at him. The Mando’a he knows is less of a language and more a set of monikers, like the technical names for the parts of his blaster. He used it sparingly, the words carrying the most meaning when he saves them. But he can never resist calling you beautiful every chance he gets.

“You’re very different from her,” he says carefully, and you shoot him a crooked smile.

“I wasn’t fishing for comparisons.” You cross your arms with a smirk, leaning against the wall and contemplating your next words carefully. His eyes dance over your half-focused gaze, tapping fingers and contemplative crease of your brow. When your lips part he opens his own to sip in a silent breath. “You came back to me, Mando. Against all odds. That will always mean more to me than anything before.”

Din is dazed into silence and you nod, releasing a soft hum before heading into the ship. He remains, heart aching at your simple acceptance.

He came back to you.

Like a wish tossed into the sea, or a kind act in a cruel world.

He came back to you.

And he will never leave you again.

END || PREVIOUS

NOTES: Thank you all for coming along on another ride with our lovely little space family. We finally have some admissions of feelings! And a few glimpses into why Mando has been so reticent to act on his. But now that all things are more out in the open, there's just one tiny little cockblock still in the way. He's a very adorable one, and it's not his fault per se, but they'll have to figure something out. It's been a joy to share this story with you all, I'm so glad it's still something people are enjoying because I sure as hell enjoy writing it. To many more stories!

The story continues in Episode 9: Soft Fires

#the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian fic #mando/reader #mando/you #mando/f!reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #i think of you series #prolix fics

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littlemisspascal · 2 years

Text

Formula 101 - Prologue Part 2: October

Summary: The only thing you can truly count on in the heat of the moment, when you’re speeding on the track going 170mph, is yourself.

Pairing: eventual Javi/Fem!Reader "Oddball" (OFC)

Word Count: 5000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Social Media Fic, Formula One AU ft. multiple Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe characters, Switching POVs, Worldbuilding, Headlines inspired by true events but edited for this plot, Usernames were created for fun and if they do exist irl there's no affiliation, Slowest of Slow Burn, Language, Insecurities, Descriptions of a crash but no major injuries and/or blood

Author Note: Massive thank you to everybody who gave this fic a chance! The support is beyond appreciated 💗💗💗

Bonus shoutout to everyone who suggested snow cone flavors 😄

A03 Link | Series Masterlist

Founded in 1968, Vulpecula is the second oldest active team in Formula 1. Over fifty drivers have raced for the team, leading to numerous Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships and giving them a reputation as one of the most successful teams in F1 history. However, in recent years Vulpecula has struggled due to a combination of poor business decisions and badly designed cars, forcing them to restrategize and seek new methods of taking back their former glory.

(Malk, Ranzar. The Cobalt Fox: The Official History of Vulpecula Formula 1. Roost: Bothan 5 Press, 2019. Print.)

_________________________________________________

October’s beautiful in Altair. It’s soft sweaters and falling leaves and warm drinks. People are their friendliest during this time when there’s no summer heat to irritate their tempers and winter’s chill hasn’t arrived yet to turn their bodies into ice cubes.

They wave when you ride your bike through town, well-wishes on their smiling lips. The strong vibes of community threaten to drown you in homesickness for your village in Sorgan. It’s a feeling that follows you into Vulpecula’s headquarters, five floors of steel beams and glass walls yet somehow still cozy, still welcoming.

Every week you’re expected to devote several hours to practicing on the racing simulator. It resembles the front part of an F1 car, a replica of the cockpit complete with a steering wheel to hold onto and pedals for your feet, set up in front of 65” triple screens. Gearing up in your suit and helmet, the simulator takes you out of headquarters and immerses you into the world of F1, replicating the tracks and car movements down to the smallest detail thanks to live footage and a gigantic amount of data. It can be set up however Vulpecula’s strategists want—weather conditions, tire types, fuel load, and countless more options all programmed with the press of a button.

This is what official training for Formula 1 looks like for you, outside of the few practice laps you’ve had in Badillo’s car throughout the season. The simulator helps the strategists and engineers collect data about your driving style, and it also helps you prepare for the tracks you’ve never raced on before, letting you practice them over and over again until every movement, each brake and twist of the wheel, is muscle memory.

Sometimes people will stop by to watch, Vulpecula staff members or Vivian or even Pietro if he’s bored enough. Sometimes when you’re participating in a virtual race with AI cars, your audience will grow from a handful to a small gathering, playfully placing bets on who will be the victor. Which, to be honest, is a little stressful.

…A lot stressful, actually.

In theory, it’s harmless fun. Hell, you’d probably do the same thing if you were in their shoes and someone else was in the driver’s seat. But here’s the kicker: you’ve been losing more virtual races than winning so far. The strategists offer suggestions on how to do better, ideas to try out, working their asses off to help you become the best driver you can be and yet still you finish in the back of the pack—P12, P15, P-fucking-19—scoring a whopping zero points.

Nobody’s said anything about your poor results—to your face, at least. Still, there are these chronic doubts lingering in the back of your mind, triggering every insecurity you have, making you wonder if behind every encouraging smile and fist bump they’re all wondering the same thing: what the hell is this kid doing here?

It’s only October, still months to go before you’re behind the wheel of next season’s car. Your results have the potential to change a lot by then. Minds have the potential to change, too. And that’s what’s got you worried most of all.

Vivian believes you’re exactly what Vulpecula needs, somebody fresh-faced and quick, yet also levelheaded—perfect for their goal of dominating the midfield teams and eventually, one day in the hopefully-not-so-distant-future, challenging the Top 3 for the championships. And when she first told you about the plan back in August, her belief was inspiring, filling you with a sense of purpose and rightness, like it was the final missing puzzle piece you’d been looking for all this time.

Now, staring at the simulator screen displaying the word FAILURE in big red letters after you oversteered and crashed into a barrier, it’s hard not to think maybe you’re the wrong driver to believe in.

_________________________________________________

Formula1Daily

Oddball joins Vulpecula for Formula 1 2023: The inside scoop Ginger Ale ─ October 5, 2022

The recent announcement from Vulpecula regarding the drafting of Oddball for the upcoming 2023 F1 season has made ripples across the globe. I talked with CEO Vivian Etten about this decision and what to expect from the team in the future.

So why has Vulpecula signed Oddball?

Etten: She’s got such undeniable natural talent. She’s still young, still growing up, but I believe her and Javi, who has earned a good amount of experience during his career in F1, are an excellent combo. It was an easy decision to make to sign Oddball as our driver.

Has Vulpecula learned from past mistakes regarding young drivers?

Etten: I’ll be the first to admit to our mistakes. With Oddall, we plan to manage her with the necessary time and space she needs to adapt to the environment. We’re a different team now than we were when Omar was with us. We’ll make sure to do better moving forward.

Were there other young drivers you considered to join Vulpecula?

Etten: Oddball was always our top choice from the get-go. But there were some talks with Omar about returning to us, and a few meetings with Frederick Mercer during the summer break. Ultimately though, we wanted Oddball to stay in the Vulpecula family and we knew another team would recruit her in an instant if we didn’t.

So what can be expected from Oddball in 2023?

Etten: The focus for us this season isn’t to beat Sunspear, Nevarro, or Aurelac. We need to better ourselves first and foremost as a team. And with Oddball and Gutierrez, I believe we can make the crucial first steps forward in that direction.

READ MORE AT FORMULA1DAILY.COM

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Formula 2 is meant to be a training ground of sorts for drivers to prepare for their potential entry into F1, but it differs from F1 in several ways. For starters, the cars are slower, only capable of reaching 205mph when pushed to their limits. There’s also only twelve rounds a season instead of twenty-one with each weekend including two races—a sprint race on Saturday and the feature race on Sunday—giving drivers an extra chance of earning points.

What’s the difference between a feature race and a sprint race? Sprints are shorter, only 100km, meant to be a flat-out speed race from start to finish without any pit stops.

You never know what’s going to happen when you’re on the track. Nobody does, actually, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar because there’s literally hundreds of unpredictable outcomes.

Everyone hopes for a first place victory for their team. Obviously. But hope does little to help when the weather abruptly changes, or your engine fails in the middle of a lap, or the pit crew isn’t prepared, or —the list of problems is endless. The only thing you can truly count on in the heat of the moment, when you’re speeding on the track going 170mph, is yourself.

The Colombian round this weekend is a crucial one, the penultimate of the season. If Ben has high finishes, his lead over the rest of the grid will guarantee him the championship title. But if you can beat him here and then do it again next round in November, you might have a chance of stealing the title from him.

You arrive at the Bogotá circuit excited and optimistic.

Friday is wonderful. Your practice session is one of the best you’ve had all season, beating Ben by two tenths of a second. In qualifying, you finish P2 just a hair behind Frederick Mercer. It’s a little shocking, since he hasn’t taken pole position on the grid since round one in March, but you know you can beat him in the upcoming races just as you have done every round so far.

Saturday is…decidedly not wonderful. A bad start coupled with a tire puncture has you retiring from the sprint and returning to the pit with your metaphorical tail between your legs. The sympathetic looks from the team have you gritting your teeth, wishing you could claw off your own skin and disappear.

Tomorrow will be better, you tell yourself, a hopeful mantra to ward off the dark thoughts creeping in at the edges. It has to be.

Sunday can be summed up in five words: when it rains, it pours.

October is the wettest month of the year in Colombia. One of the mechanics tells you there’s only about 98 hours of sunshine during the whole month, so the two previous days of clear skies were a gift from the universe. You gear up like usual, knowing even if it does rain the race will go on. The cars are water-resistant and can be equipped with wet weather tires specially designed with treads to help prevent aquaplaning. Doesn’t mean accidents don’t still happen though. There are no guarantees everyone will get through the race without spinning off the track.

About ten minutes before the race begins, the cloudy skies decide it is the perfect time for a shower. The raindrops are fat, cold, the pitter-patter sound of each one striking the ground resembling a dull roar in your ears even with your helmet on. There are no signs of lightning yet, no ominous claps of thunder either, and so the race officials agree to let the event start on time.

Depending on which driver is asked, racing in the rain is either the most exhilarating adrenaline rush they crave like a drug or it’s an anxiety attack wrapped in terror with a lopsided bow of misfortune on top.

You’re somewhere in the middle of the spectrum. There are definitely some scary aspects, namely the spray coming off the tires of cars in front which creates this eerie plume of fog dirtying the air, limiting visibility to a few precious and blurry feet ahead. But rainy conditions also tend to throw a wrench in the status quo—drivers usually in the lead during dry races might suddenly find themselves overtaken by those who have barely scored any points all season.

When it rains, suddenly anything and everything seems possible.

Lap 26 out of 30 finds you at the front of the pack, searching for an opportunity to overtake Ben. All you can see are his rear lights, two glowing red beams cutting through the heavy shades of gray pressing in from all sides. Every jerk of the steering wheel when the tires hit a wet patch on the track has your arm muscles straining, fighting back against the car’s desire to spin

When the next corner comes, you don’t even see Frederick veering too close into your space.

His front tire bumps against your rear one, and then the world is spinning round and round in a bewildering mess of rain and flying debris. You’re helpless to stop any of it, can only brace for impact with the padded barrier and pray for the best—for yourself and for the car.

The sound of the collision with the barrier—an almighty thud that sends a jarring shockwave through your body, bones rattling from head to toe, followed immediately by the enraged snarling of the engine unable to comprehend what the hell just happened—snaps your frazzled mind back into focus.

“Oddball, you alright?” your race engineer’s asking over the radio, her voice thick with worry. Koska’s your only source of contact with your team, keeping you up to date on any major developments on the track you’re unaware of.

“Yeah, Koska,” you reassure her, wiggling your fingers and moving your legs. Nothing’s broken. No sharp bursts of agonizing pain. Just the regular amount of soreness and jitters which follow after a shunt. “I’m fine. How’s Freddy?”

“Fine. His car’s in a worse state than yours though,” she answers, and you can’t quite stifle the petty pulse of satisfaction which swells inside when you hear that. “The medical car is on its way. ”

You look up then, seeing a marshal waving a yellow flag near the corner, alerting other drivers to slow down to avoid the pieces of debris littering the track that flew off both cars during the accident. Your fingers clench and unclench around the edges of the wheel, feeling so very young and so incredibly stupid.

“Koska,” you say, biting your lip to stop it from wobbling. Your eyes squeeze shut, forcing back down the unsteady emotions threatening to escape in embarrassing ways. “Tell…tell the team I’m sorry, please. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Oddball,” is her immediate response.

But it’s not. It’s not okay at all.

You arrived at the Bogotá circuit excited and optimistic.

Now, riding in the back of the medical car, no points won and your chance of the title completely eviscerated, it’s hard to feel anything besides gut-wrenching disappointment.

_________________________________________________

There’s a snow cone stand barely a ten minute drive from Triple Frontier headquarters that Frankie loves because it’s the only one in the city which has his favorite flavor: lavender bubblegum.

It’s become a tradition for Javi and him to come here every Wednesday following race weekends. Mondays are for catching up on sleep, missed emails and calls, enjoying some personal time before the team calls them back in on Tuesday to review every second of the GP under a metaphorical microscope.

The ambiance of The Chill Zone is, as the name implies, chill and casual. A teal blue shack just big enough for the two employees to move around comfortably in as they fill orders from the chalkboard menu featuring at least a hundred snow cone options. There’s the classics—such as cherry, grape, blue raspberry—and then there’s some for more adventurous taste buds—chamoy, seasalt, and lychee among others.

Frankie always sticks with his favorite, never tempted to explore outside his comfort zone. Javi, on the other hand, likes to sample a different flavor every visit. Just like with every new experience, sometimes they’re great and well-worth the money, while other times they’re absolutely disgusting and fill him with regret.

He’s picked tiger’s blood this time, a combination of strawberry and watermelon with a splash of coconut that elicits a pleased hum from his mouth after the first taste. A good choice for the warm afternoon, he thinks, grimacing as he wipes at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

They’re sitting at one of the picnic tables surrounding the stand, painted teal to match the aesthetic with a large striped umbrella warding off the worst of the sun’s rays. The only other customers around are a woman with two young children who care more about devouring their cold treats than Javi and Frankie’s presences. Sometimes people recognize them, ask for selfies or handshakes or both, but the employees have long grown used to their recurring appearances and for the most part they’re usually left alone to enjoy their snow cones in peace.

“Your future teammate had a serious fuck-up last weekend,” Frankie says impudently, loud enough the woman four tables away shoots him a reproachful look. He schools his expression into an apologetic one, but as soon as she’s turned around his eyes are back on Javi again with a pointed stare.

“I heard,” Javi says before shoveling a larger spoonful into his mouth. The immediate brain freeze is totally worth it, even if he nearly accidentally drops the styrofoam cup onto his lap, hands fumbling for a more secure hold.

Frankie rolls his eyes, like the same exact thing hadn’t happened to him two minutes ago, and asks, “You think she’s ready for F1?”

Javi points his spoon at him. “We all have bad races, Morales.” Then, because he can’t resist the extra dig, “Some of us quite a few more than others, if my memory’s correct.”

“Ha ha, look who’s developed a sense of humor,” is the bone-dry response followed by another eye roll. “I can’t wait until your Vulpecula’s problem to deal with and I can start getting some respect around here.”

“You honestly think Miller is going to listen to a word you say? Un-fucking-likely.” Javi can’t help but laugh a little. Everyone knows that since Miller’s now a shoo-in for the F2 championship in the wake of Oddball’s misfortune, the Triple Frontier team principal is going to have him sign a contract immediately to fill Javi’s vacant seat. Knowing Santi, he probably texted Ben the second the driver stepped off the podium Sunday afternoon.

Frankie ignores him, which isn’t a surprise, and wipes at his mouth with a napkin, leaving a bright purple syrupy stain behind. “That seems to be the problem nowadays, doesn’t it? All these new rookies the teams are bringing in, prioritizing youth over experience, thinking they can discipline them and mold them into the perfect driver they wish them to be.”

“Then dumping them when their results aren’t good enough,” Javi agrees with a frown, a sourness on his tongue that has nothing to do with the tiger’s blood flavor.

This ‘problem’ Frankie’s described, it isn’t a new thing. Four years ago, Javi was one of those new rookies who were too young and too eager to prove themselves to realize they were being thrown into the deep end of a shark-infested pool and expected to swim to survive. He’d been lucky to last his whole debut season with Crane, that they didn’t cut him loose at the midseason break after he’d made every mistake a driver could possibly make. He’d been even luckier Black Gold agreed to have him on their team, thinking he’d found people who’d help him develop his skills with patient guidance—until they eventually grew upset with his lack of promising results after two and a half seasons and arranged a transfer with Triple Frontier as part of a business arrangement between the two teams.

Black Gold got a new engine manufacturer for their cars, Triple Frontier got Maxwell Lord’s castoff he didn’t want to waste finances on anymore.

“Uh-oh, that’s your brooding face,” Frankie’s voice snaps Javi out of his thoughts, discovering his snow cone has begun melting, resembling a cup full of blood. He sets it down on the table, a little disgusted, and looks up to meet his teammate’s knowing gaze. “You were thinking shit about yourself again, weren’t you?”

“We all have bad habits,” Javi says simply and he sees Frankie’s brow crease, a flicker of sympathy in his brown eyes. But then he shrugs, back to his normal easygoing self.

“And we all have bad races.”

_________________________________________________

HoloNet

October 2022 Latest News

Triple Frontier signs Ben Miller for 2023 F1 Season Weekly Motorsport News - 13 minutes ago

Formula 2 title favorite has been drafted as a Triple Frontier Formula 1 driver for the 2023 season…

10 facts about Triple Frontier’s new F1 driver Ben Miller Bubblefeed - 1 hour ago

There will be a second rookie on the grid next season joining Oddball…

Santiago Garcia believes Ben Miller is the next big star WWS - 2 hours ago

F1’s grid for 2023 is one driver closer to completion with the news of F2 driver Ben Miller making his debut with Triple Frontier…

_________________________________________________

Prior to your F1 drafting announcement, you were used to being an insignificant presence at a Grand Prix when there wasn’t an F2 round. Maybe a few fans during the paddock tours would recognize you and say hi, maybe a reporter or two would ask for a quick quote about what it’s like being a reserve driver, but in general your race weekends were spent hanging out with Diana around the Vulpecula motorhome or chatting with the crew in the pit garage in-between moments of preparation without anybody taking a second glance at you.

Now that your face has been posted on the cover of a magazine and featured in countless articles you can barely even find privacy in the bathrooms without somebody calling out your name or whipping out their phones. Vivian laughs amicably when you tell her how strange the sudden spotlight of attention is, then claps you on the shoulder and simply says you’ll get used to it with time. There’s an unspoken you have to that your ears don’t miss.

It’s midmorning at the Boston circuit and the sky’s full of clouds—fluffy and white this time, nothing like the gloomy gray ones back in Colombia two weeks ago. The air’s a bit nippier than you’re used to the temperature being, but fortunately one of Vulpecula’s crewmembers is nice enough to lend you her extra sweatshirt. It’s soft and warm, the team’s logo of the fox constellation pasted on the back between your shoulder blades, and you make a mental note to ask somebody back at headquarters where you can get your hands on one of them.

You’re walking through the paddock, thinking about what you’re going to eat for lunch and paying just enough attention to your surroundings to keep out of the way of important-looking people in business attire. Each race seems to bring out a different crowd of the rich and famous depending on where in the world you are—politicians, celebrities, models, athletes of a variety of different sports. Your favorite is seeing former F1 drivers who have swung by to watch the event, socialize, and/or reminisce about how much things have changed since their seasons.

Anita Moreno has come out to four or five of this season’s races, both to visit with the racing community who love her dearly and to support her son on his journey to win another world title. You’re way too shy to even make direct eye contact with her, let alone speak to the woman who inspired you to keep chasing your dream of joining Formula 1. She’s twice as intimidating in person as she is on screen. Twice as funny, too. You always know when she’s around the second you hear laughter echoing throughout the paddock, loud and jovial.

Dave York has also been making frequent appearances, even before the official announcement was made he was returning to the sport next season. In hindsight, maybe more people should have put the pieces together sooner that his visits were for business reasons rather than for his own personal pleasure.

A glimpse of a familiar face catches your eye, stopping you in your tracks. Ben’s outside the Triple Frontier motorhome, chatting with Frankie Morales and Javi Gutierrez, making them laugh with a story or joke you’re too far away to hear. He’d told you earlier in the week the team CEO Santiago Garcia had invited him to a Grand Prix so he could see up close what a race weekend was like, but he’d neglected to inform you it was this GP.

Actually, now that you think about it, when you asked he had left you on read, the jerk.

Cupping your mouth with a hand, you shout out, “Benjamin Tiberius Miller, how dare you!”

The exclamation garners a couple dozen odd looks from those in the nearby vicinity, but your focus is entirely on Ben.

Ben who visibly flinches mid-sentence, shoulders drawing taut like rubber bands. He whirls around, eyes sweeping the crowd and passing over you before shooting back with recognition, narrowing with enough heat it’s a wonder your clothes don’t catch fire.

“How dare me?” he shouts back, pointing a finger at his chest before turning it on you indignantly. “How dare you! You were sworn to secrecy!”

“Oops, looks like I forgot!” You feign shock for a second, then let the expression drop into a deeply unimpressed look. “Just like you forgot to tell me you were coming out today!”

People are definitely looking now, glancing back and forth at your verbal tennis match with expressions ranging from wrinkled foreheads of bewilderment to wide grins of mirth. No doubt this will end up on Twitter or YouTube later.

Ben’s head rolls back and it’s hard to tell but you suspect he’s probably groaning like an obnoxious teenager. “Alright, fine, my bad I guess!” he relents, the closest he’ll ever come to apologizing. “I’ll come find you in thirty and we’ll get lunch.”

“You’re buying,” you call out with a thumb’s up.

Once again, it’s hard to tell due to the distance, but you’re pretty sure he just rolled his eyes before turning back around to face his extremely amused future teammate who now knows his detested middle name thanks to you. The payback from Benny will be absolute torture, no doubt about it, but you’re too happy with the knowledge you’re getting free lunch later to care too much about it at the moment.

Now that the show’s over, everybody resumes what they were doing before your squabbling interrupted them. Everybody except one very distinctive person.

Javi’s staring at you, and you can’t move. He’s wearing his dark green Triple Frontier race suit halfway undone, sleeves wrapped around his waist while the thin material of his white fireproofs clings to his broad torso and toned arm muscles. Apparently the cold air doesn’t seem to bother him as much as it does you, even as the breeze tousles his crown of messy curls. Pictures and video footage really don’t do his handsome features justice. He’s even better looking when seeing him with your own eyes. Perhaps the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

And you feel like a total idiot now, shouting at your friend like a madwoman, making the worst first impression of all time. It’d be wonderful if the ground swallowed you whole right now and spared you a painful death of humiliation.

Then the man offers a smile brighter than sunshine, holds up his hand and waves.

At you.

He’s waving at you and smiling, looking like the epitome of beauty.

And you—

You’re just staring back, arms limp at your sides, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Ground. Open. Now. Please.

Your hand shoots up just as he starts to lower his, waving back in a way you hope looks friendly and not at all like a preteen fangirl freaking out because one of her idols has acknowledged her. His smile, impossibly, brightens, and you find the sight too contagious to resist returning the grin with a wide one of your own.

When he turns back to the conversation with Ben and Frankie a moment later, you have to give yourself a little shake to force your legs to continue walking to the Vulpecula motorhome and not linger any longer gazing at his profile. As far as first meetings go, you think you can count this one as a positive experience, even if no words were exchanged.

And you think maybe, with any luck, you and Javi will get along fine next season.

#javi gutierrez #javi g x reader #javi gutierrez x reader #javi g fanfiction #my fic #my writing #pedrostories #javi gutierrez x you #javi g x you

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burnwater13 · 4 months

Text

Din Djarin speaking with Gor Koresh about the location of a Mandalorian covert. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 1, The Marshal. Calendar from DataWorks. Caption reads: Normally, I have to seek out remnants of you Mandalorians in your hidden hives to harvest your precious tiny shells. Gor Koresh.

Din Djarin hated to admit it, but he had been pretty frustrated. None of his normal contacts were able to point to another Mandalorian covert and the Armorer had given him a task, a quest really, and he wasn’t going to give it up, even though she also had no good intel on the location of another covert. That meant he had to talk to the mob boss.

This mob boss. Gor Koresh.

The names might change, but their behaviors never did. Gor Koresh was just as faithless as Ranzar Malk had been. Koresh thought he could just role over a Mandalorian. He was wrong of course. Din Djarin had no illusions about unknown contacts. He’d brought in too many of that sort cold. Very cold. Permanently cold.

Based on Koresh’s overconfident comment that he’d actually been in Mandalorian coverts and somehow took their beskar, Din Djarin knew more about him than the mob boss suspected. First, the bounty hunter knew the other man was a liar. If he’d managed to trip and fall into a covert it was likely abandoned and lacking anything but the smallest scraps of beskar that weren’t worth taking before the actual Mandos left. Second, he’d learned that the stout cyclops knew nothing about actual Mandalorians. If he had, he would have known that any Mando worth their beskar could handle his body guards and fighters without much effort.

But Koresh was used to dealing with other gangs, Imps, and a citizenry that just wanted to watch an entertainment and maybe place a side bet or two. They were soft, easy to manipulate people, susceptible to threats because they had no means of defense against them. No Mandalorian was truly helpless. When all else failed they had their determination and that had carried the day more often than Din Djarin actually liked to think about.

If he had thought he couldn’t handle the consequences of dealing with a mob boss, Din Djarin never would have brought Grogu with him. In many ways the relief he felt that Koresh threatened him and not his foundling, more than made up for the annoyance of hitting another dead end. As well as the annoyance of having to compel Koresh to provide any information at all.

Grogu had given him a look when they reached the Razor Crest that made it clear that he’d expected the whole transaction to be a little more peaceful, but the Mandalorian had simply shrugged at him. If the other person was willing to be peaceful, Din Djarin would have been happy about that. He didn’t have to fight just because he was a Mandalorian. He was able to more than hold his own in fight because he was a Mandalorian and that should have been a deterrent to Gor Koresh.

But the more he thought about it, the more Din Djarin was convinced that Koresh had met other gangs, ex-Imps, and the like who had taken over abandoned coverts and pretended to be Mandalorians. He could understand why they would want to do that. People stepped aside when a Mandalorian walked by. They knew with certainty that the person they aimed their weapon at would destroy them or die trying. They also knew that only actual way to destroy a Mandalorian was to bomb their planet into a chunk of glass.

Gor Koresh never fought a Mandalorian. That was clear now. He and his thugs had fought people hiding in Mandalorian armor. Trying desperately no doubt to use their good fortune to further their own purposes. The main one being to live another day on a world that suffered from a deep level of corruption that they hoped to take further advantage of while not facing the consequences of those actions.

He wished he had time to pull that whole mess down. To extract that information from Koresh and bring those actors to justice. Swift, Mandalorian justice at that. But he didn’t. He needed to go to Tatooine and find whichever Mandalorian Koresh claimed was there. He didn’t really believe he’d find a Mandalorian there. He’d spent enough time on Tatooine for another Mando to hear about him. The fact that they had never approached him during those other visits spoke volumes.

Since Grogu liked the feisty mechanic at Mos Eisley, going there wouldn’t be a waste of time. Peli Motto would feed and coddle his foundling and that had value. Din Djarin also liked her. Peli was an excellent mechanic, if a bit opportunistic. The Razor Crest could use a tune up and Grogu could use the time with his biggest fan.

The Mandalorian decided to take the risk and see if a piece of bantha scat, like Gor Koresh, had the ability to speak truthfully about anything. He had every reason to doubt that, but they had nothing to lose in going to Tatooine and a lot to gain if that confession actually proved to be true.

If it was true, then their journey to bring Grogu to his people would really have its beginning and eventually its ending. That would be a bitter sweet moment, but Mandalorians are trained to handle the parting of ways. He would never forget the foundling and would look in on him from time to time to ensure that he grew and thrived. Foundlings were always part of your family and for Din Djarin that meant he would finally have a family again. That was worth all the trouble he’d been putting himself through on Grogu’s behalf.

If it was false… well… he still had a foundling to care for and he would look for Grogu’s people until he found them. After all, that’s what bounty hunters did every day. This is what he had committed himself to when he first spoke the Creed, just like the Mandalorians who had saved him. They had not hidden and their precious shells had preserved the futures of many children, including himself and now Grogu. It was the Way and he was happy to follow it.

Din Djarin being threatened by Gor Koresh and his henchmen. Image from The Mandalorian, Season 2, Episode 1, The Marshal. Caption reads: Normally, I have to seek out remnants of you Mandalorians in your hidden hives... Gor Koresh.

#calendar prompt a day #the mandalorian #grogu #din djarin

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babygirlrex0504 · 1 year

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Chapter Three: Small Gangs and One Friend

It’s been 2 years since the fall of the Empire and both you and Mando have been traveling together. When an old group has come up to need help on a couple of projects, you and Mando cut paths with the group after the mission went south.

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Masterlist

A/N: Guys I am excited to continue this series! I have so many juicy things planned 😈 But now that school has slowed down a bit and I am going to be on a forever plane ride! Chapters on chapters Din sluts! 🫶🏻

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You hated working with them. Maker you wanted them dead, you watched as Xi’an would be all over Mando after and sometimes during missions. You would watch how Qin would watch you when you spar with Burg. You and Mando have been working with them for quite sometime, they needed some heists done and the Guild didn’t have enough pucks to have.

They called themselves the Ranzar Malk gang. When they first said it you had to roll your eyes at it. You just can not stand it, when Mando came up and ask what the problem was after a couple of missions you told him. You wanted them all dead at some point.

He just dryly chuckled and told you to relax that it won’t be forever. You know Xi’an hated the fact that he would make his way to talk to you, you swore she would kill you in your sleep. “You know,” She came to whisper in your ear and wrap her nasty finger around your exposed part where your armor didn’t cover. “It would be very easy to slice right here. Probably should cover that.”

You just hummed before taking a knife to her throat and pushing her against the wall. “It would be easy for me to slice your throat right here.”

Qin chuckled deeply and Burg was close to you. Mando also stood up and watched both of them closely. She licked her teeth before smiling. “Do it dove.”

She had been calling you Dove ever since you let a innocent person go. When the heist was going so well and that one person saw everything, she was going to kill him right then and there but you stopped her. Paid him tons of credit and had him on his way. She was pissed and swore you just compromised everything. That was a year ago.

“What does your blood look like huh ne’tra demon.” You spat out as you dug a bit deeper.

“Enough,” You heard a deep chuckle come from the back. Ranzar said walking up to all of you. “Another job, so be ready in 10. Mando grab your dove and get ready.”

You snapped your head his way then looked at Mando. “Dove?” You snarled before you felt your arm shift down.

She evil smiled at you. “Mutt.” She spat as she walked over to Qin.

You felt your blood boil, maker how much you wanted her to drop dead. “You know she isn’t the enemy.” Mando said as he walked up to you.

You put your finger up in his face. “No you don’t get to stand by her right now.” You walked over to where your weapons were stored. He followed you closely as Mando was already had his weapons.

“I’m not standing…” You put your hand up again and he stopped his sentence.

“I don’t know what she does to you and your…”

“Now you can stop.” He said dryly.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head as you continued packing your gear. “We should leave soon.” Mando said quietly before stepping next to you.

You snapped your head up looking into his visor. “Leave? Mando I swear to the Maker if you are…”

“Do I seem the joking type?” He said knowing exactly where you were going.

You shook your head. “No you do not.”

“Good, we leave right after this assignment. We go back to Avala-7 to get more bounties.” Mando explained as he walked over to you.

He was awfully close to you, usually you would feel uncomfortable but a weird feeling hit your gut. You were excited that he was this close. You gulped for a moment, trying to regain some sort of dignity. “Finally, been waiting to get away with these idiots.” You mumbled as you felt his hand so gently touch your forearm.

“Hey Mandos let’s get going!” Quin yelled as he walked into the ship.

You nodded and started to walk away, maybe this is a good thing that at least one of them is your friend. Never thought Mando would be a friend and he didn’t think that either.

It took a day or two to get to where the assignment was located. A desert type planet. It was filled with the Rebels stations, since the fall of the Empire, they are able to take over the small bases that belonged to the Empire.

“You sure this is the place? It’s Rebel territory.” You stated watching as the planet became more into view.

“I didn’t know that Mandalorians can be scared.” You heard the snake herself say.

You snapped your head over and both of you stared for a moment. Oh how much pleasure it would be to choke her out right then and there. However even with her bitchy personality she has the skills, skills that is needed for the last job with them. Mando came and gripped your shoulder. “This is our stop.” He mumbled before looking over at Xi’an.

Xi’an eyes narrowed before her toothy smile plastered her face. “Looks like it is, meet us at the rendezvous. Don’t be late.” She warned as she walked up to her brother.

You looked over at Mando’s hand before looking up at him. He slowly took his hand off. “Good timing Mando.” You whispered before walking over the end of the ship. “I was about to slice her kriffing throat.”

All you heard was a small chuckle and the hatch opened. “That would have been a show.” He said back looking down at the sand, the sand wasn’t its normal color that you would see on other ones. This was more orange to it, different colors would shine through when the sun hit it right. It was truly beautiful to say at the least.

When you stepped into the sand you felt it sink a bit. You looked around and saw that nothing was around but hills. “Why they drop us off in the middle of nowhere?” You asked looking down at your wrist to pull up the coordinates.

“Maybe because of your attitude.” Mando said dryly but you could hear the tease.

You glared at him through the helmet. You knew he knew that you were. He just stared back at you. “Says the guy that has been sleeping with the pink bitch.” You said walking towards the destination.

You heard him scoff. “She might say that but nothing happened.”

“Ooo nothing? So no skin on skin contact? Bet she has a venus fly trap type.” You teased.

“Stop.” He mumbled following you.

“Oh so no skin on skin or no venus fly trap.” You said once more.

He sighed. “Neither.”

“Helmet off?” You asked.

“Of course not.” He snapped back.

You turned to him hand on your hip. You grinned. “This is the way.” You whispered and started walking up the sandy hill.

You heard him sigh again. “This is the way.”

It took you both about a couple of hours before reaching where you needed to be. The building was large in size, one level from what it looked like. Could have a basement type deal. “What exactly are we looking for?” Mando asked looking through his scope.

“Honestly probably a therapist for Burg.” You said sarcastically.

“Die Mandalorian.” Burg said through the comms.

You chuckled before looking back through your sniper scope. “Mando, meet us down here.” Quinn said.

You looked over at him. His visor staring right at you. You felt his worry. “I will be fine. Just don’t blame me if Xi’an drops dead.”

Mando shook his head. “Enough.”

You watched him as he started to travel down to the building. It was far but far enough for him to meet them 20 minutes tops. You kept watching his back just in case. Lately both you and Mando have been…protective of each other. Mando might not show it as much as you but it was there.

Once he met up with the others you relaxed more. “Dove you have eyes?” You rolled your eyes at her comment.

“Yep. Let’s just get this done.” You responded scoping in further. You saw couple of guards stationed outside. “I have tw…” Quinn came into view and cut their throats. “I thought we weren’t killing them.” You snarled as you watched their bodies become hidden.

“Plans change.” Burg said.

You shook your head checking your ammo to see it’s stun still. The Rebels didn’t need to die for some stupid credits. You watched as they all filed into the building. That’s when you felt a pistol against your helmet. “Stand up Mandalorian.” The male said, when you looked up he was wearing the typical rebel uniform. Dome helmet blue uniform.

“Okay,” You said standing up, putting your hands up in surrender. Once you were fully up you saw 3 of them. “Wow 3 against one?”

“Uh.” One of them said as you threw your knife hitting one of them with the butt of it.

You kicked up sand into the other two’s face, blinding them. You went for one that was recovering from the knife and hit the side of his head knocking him down. “Dove status?” You heard as blaster shots in the background.

You felt someone hit you but heard a ding instead. You looked over and saw one of the guards waving his hand around with a pained expression. “That had to hurt.” You said watching him nod before you knocked him out.

You grabbed your rifle and noticed that there was blaster fire happening at the entrance. You looked around with your rifle, to see the speeders that the men took a couple of minutes run. You started to sprint towards the speeders feeling the sand sink with every step you took. “Mando,” You asked listening for him to respond. “What’s going on?”

“They knew we were coming,” He answered not too long after. “We can’t find Quinn.”

You rolled your eyes. “Grand.” You whispered hopping on the speeder. There wasn’t any keys (your luck) you punch the speeder panel opening it. You looked at the wires and started to hot wire it, once the engine roared you immediately took off.

The sand hitting your visor as you sped towards the group of men that was pinning down the rest. You sped towards the barrier. “Move!” You yelled.

Barg grabbed Xi’an and Mando rolled to the side. You hoped off the speeder still having it zoom right into the barrier. You rolled tucking your head in your hands, you rolled to your feet watching the speeder go up in flames that followed an explosion.

You got up having your pistol ready as you fired your stun rounds through the smoke. You searched to find anyone when you heard a speeder behind you, you turned around to see Mando. “Come on!” He yelled you got up and hoped on.

You watched as Burg and Xi’an came right behind. You turned to see more speeders behind you. “We have more friends!” You yelled as you shot towards them hitting one.

“They will die!” Xi’an yelled as she took a knife out having Burg slow down to get next to the other speeder jumping on it, slicing the man’s neck.

You watched as his body rolled, you wanted to yell at her but it was understandable. They have Quinn. “We should go back and get Quinn.” Xi’an stated looking back.

You looked forward. “We can’t.”

You heard her growl before the comm link ended. The sun was settling down and the temperature went down as well. Burg took lead since he knew where the ship was at. You adjusted your back, getting a little comfortable. “I wanna know how they knee they were coming. I was even attacked from behind.” You said looking at the side of Mando’s helmet.

“Same here, we had to have a rat back at base.” He said trying to look at you before looking forward.

You saw the ship standing waiting for us to arrive. You were excited as all of you parked right beside it. Xi’an was quiet (thank the maker) it was nice not hearing her bitch. “We should have gone back,” She spat as we loaded into the ship. “We could have done it.”

“Then go back.” You said sitting in one of the seats as Burg went to the front of it starting the ship.

She glared at you. “Of course you would be fine with it. Getting rid of me. Maybe it was you that ratted us out to the rebels.”

You scoffed. “And put Mando at risk? Maybe if it was just you I would have. Unfortunately it wasn’t me. Maybe it was your psycho of a brother.”

She snarled. “So he could be captured?”

You shrugged. “Maybe.”

She stepped forward before Mando stood in between both of you. “Enough,” He said sternly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You nodded before leaning back more watching Xi’an as she hissed at you. “Shebs.” (Ass) You mumbled Mando tilted his helmet to you. “What she is?”

He sighed as he sat next to you folding his arms close to his chest. “We leave right when we land, unfortunately it’s going to look odd but I will talk to Ranzar before leaving.”

“Okay I will get things into the Crest before while you talk to him. Make things go by faster.” You replied leaning your head back. “Can’t wait to get the hell away from here.”

Mando just chuckled. “Not gonna miss your banters with Xi’an?”

“Not gonna miss the smell of Burg?” You teased back.

“Fair.”

You fell asleep for a bit before being back at the base. Mando woke you and nodded as you went to pack things into the Crest. You grabbed every weapon you could that belonged to you and Mando. You didn’t care about anything else but those things. You started to put them in the weapons locker that belong to Mando.

“Leaving?” You clenched your fist as you placed a detector in the pocket it belonged in.

“Yes demon.” You snarled looking over at the bitch herself.

She was leaning against the haul of the Crest arms folded. “I saw that Mando pulled Ranz, making sure to clear your name?”

“No saving your ass so I don’t filet you myself.” You dryly commented as you walked passed her grabbing a box to place it in the ship.

She stood in front of you. “It’s your fault my brother is captured,” She pulled out a knife. You cautiously watched her ready to throw the box on top of her. “You need to pay.”

You were still for a moment both of you were. Frozen in spot waiting for the other to move. Breathe. Anything. You would have jumped if it wasn’t for the blood shot rage in your system. “Maybe another time.” She said walking passed scraping your armor with the knife.

Just when you were about to throw the box on her Mando came into view, like ice was placed on your veins, you calmed down. You turned huffing as you placed it on the ground. “What he say?” You said trying to ease the irritation from your voice.

Mando sighed loudly. “I had to give him credits from the pay we got from this job…so rations will be a little low.”

You snapped your head as he pulled the lever to close the ramp. “Low but once we get back to Avala it will be fine.”

From Mando’s tone of voice made you eerie, he sounded more trying to convince himself that it would be alright then you. You sighed and shook your head, you looked through the box that had some food and supplies to at least craft it. There was enough for both of you. It wouldn’t be a big deal just light eating. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.

“Alright that should be fine by the time we get to Avala,” Mando headed up the ladder as you followed him. “Do we need a pit stop or straight there?” You asked walking to your chair that was next to his.

“No straight there. We can rest while we are in hyperspace.” Mando suggested turning the engines on and getting out into space.

You leaned back arms crossed, closing your eyes. “Finally the only company that I can stand.”

He chuckled a bit. “Yeah I can agree to that.”

You snapped your eyes open and looked over. “Aw gar baatir me.” (aw you care about me). You made your tone little too flirtatious, if it wasn’t for your helmet he would have seen the red flaring up.

He deeply sighed. “K’uur.” (Be quiet.) You chuckled lightly laughing. Little did you know that Mando was also grateful for the helmet covering his tinted cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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