Welcome all :)

X-Wing Pilot!Reader x Din Djarin

summary: you’ve seen a lot during your rebellion days & now with the New Republic… but working with a mandalorian may just send you into the wildest tailspin yet

word count: 11.9k (i’m sorry)

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. MAJOR MOVIE SPOILERS ⚠️ takes place before & during the events of the film, reader has a backstory & family but no physical description, light use of gendered language, slight annoyance to friends to lovers, pining & yearning, budding romance, threats & moments of violence/threat of kidnapping, flying as a love language, reader has instances of drinking and smoking, competency kink, light voice kink, slightly jealous!reader, spicy times in the cockpit (helmet stays on), dry humping, unprotected p in v, one moment of spit, creampie, protective and soft!Din

a/n: so… hi lmao I call this my ‘let’s daydream about being in the new movie’ fic or aka my attempt at plugging us into the storyline bcs it’s what we deserve lol big thanks to my dear @babynueva for always supporting my din delulu ily bb! Also this is my first official fic of the year & knowing it’s for Din means so much - so thank you for being here ♡ [divider credit & thanks to the ever amazing @saradika-graphics]

When a mandalorian first strides into base camp on Adelphi, you think you’re seeing things.

The sun bounces off his armor drawing all eyes. It’s like his ancient armor proudly beams of its power and striking force. The mysterious Mandalorian walks with intent, a steady gait that dares anyone to cross him. You can’t help but stare at the mysterious warrior.

“Is he… imperial?” Someone whispers in the mess hall and makeshift cantina.

“Nope, he’s working with us now.” Teva answers simply.

You didn’t believe it. But apparently it’s true.

Pairing: Pedro x Reader

Summary: You make a comment to a reporter about wanting to fuck Pedro Pascal. Chaos ensues 🥰

A/N: 18+only.

Masterlist

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By Wednesday, you thought things might have calmed down a little but, in reality, Pedro Fucking Fever seems to have ramped up into overdrive. You can barely open Instagram without seeing the original story popping up – not to mention you’ve had a huge response from your own re-posting of it though, sadly, not from Pedro himself.

Or maybe that’s a good thing.

267 new followers – not bad.

“This is fucking incredible,” Millie declares over lunch in a swanky Mayfair bistro that she decided you have to try because someone from Made in Chelsea tagged themselves there last week. It’s the kind of place where the portions are tiny and the price is extortionate, and as you smile at the waitress who seats you, you find yourself trying to work out if her bug-eyed look means she recognises you.

“The food, or…?”

“No, you twat – all this coverage you’re getting! Someone’s even written an article on it for Grazia magazine.”

“Grazia? Why in God’s name…?”

“It’s safe to say that on Sunday evening, our favourite Spies actress gave voice to what many upstanding and respectable British women were thinking, namely, that they’d love to roll around in the sheets with man of the moment, American-Chilean actor, Pedro Pascal.”

She squints at the screen.

“Pascal started his career with various bits roles….blah, blah, blah…but his star began to rise after appearing as Oberyn Martell in HBO’s smash Game of Thrones, before following this up with a scene-stealing turn in three series of Netflix’s acclaimed drama Narcos as sexy DEA agent Javier Pena. More recently, Pascal joined the Star Wars universe as the mysterious, helmeted, Mandolorian and, from Sunday, will be seen in HBO’s new post-apocalyptic adaption of popular video game The Last of Us alongside fellow Thrones alumnus Bella Ramsay. We can only wonder what comments from the woman who has her finger on the pulse of the female psyche might follow.”

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Never realised I had my finger on the pulse of the female psyche. Can a psyche even have a pulse?”

“You need to capitalise on this. What’s Neil saying about it all?”

“Well, he wasn’t too happy that I re-posted the interview…”

“But?”

“But…I don’t know…surely there must be some advantage to all this coverage. Even if it does make me out to be some sort of desperate slut who hasn’t had a decent shag in years.”

“You haven’t had a decent shag in years,” Millie points her fork at you. “Speaking of limp-dick, when’s he due home?”

You snort a laugh and shake your head. “His plane lands sometime this evening, but we haven’t spoken since Monday so I’ve no idea if he’ll come to mine or go to his own place.”

“I thought he had tenants.”

“No, they moved out last month. He’s been trying to get someone new in, but nobody’s shown any interest so far. Probably because he’s charging too much and he hasn’t made a lick of improvement to the place since it was built. So…” you stuff a few skinny fries into your mouth. “He’s got somewhere to go at least.”

“Can I hang the bunting? Are you really going to sack him off this time?” You shrug. “Oh, come on! What are you waiting for? He’s a prick, with a limp dick who treats you like shit most of the time and, for some reason, you just take it. You deserve better and now is your time to break free, especially now when you’ve got all this traction. I swear, if half the nation is cheering you on to bed Pedro Pascal, then the other half is probably wanting to bed you themselves.”

“Are we talking males or females?”

“Probably both!” Millie sits back and narrows her eyes. “Is Neil going to set up a meeting?”

“With who?”

“The King…who do you fucking think?? Pedro, of course!”

You snort again, so hard that you feel the fries start to come down your nose and have to swirl down half a glass of water to regain composure. The waitress immediately glides over to ask if you’re alright, and all you can do is wave her away with a nod.

“No,” you reply, once you’re in control of your faculties again. “He is not going to set up a meeting. Jesus – can you imagine? If I was ever to come face to face with Pedro Pascal, what the hell would I say to him?”

Millie twists her lips as though genuinely searching for an answer. “How about…we don’t have to wait until Sunday – my bed’s free now?”

“Be serious,” you tut. “Even before all of this, if I had ever met him, I’d probably have mumbled something incoherent and then run away in the opposite direction. Now…” you sigh. “Everyone thinks that actors go into this profession because they’re overconfident in themselves whereas, in reality, most of us do it so that we can become someone else. The public like Samantha Watson – MI6 agent extraordinaire. They’re not so interested in little old me.”

Your best friend doesn’t answer for a moment, but the silence between you doesn’t feel heavy. It feels warm and supportive. Millie has been your strongest ally and confidante since you met at drama school twenty years ago, two shy young girls – one Scottish, the other Welsh – who didn’t know if moving all the way to London was the right thing to do. Her career has taken her behind the scenes into script writing, but nobody has championed you more on-screen than she has, nor is anyone else ever likely to.

“If you ever did meet him,” she says slowly, “he’d be the one in awe of you.”

“Bollocks.”

“I’m serious. You’ve shown yourself to be open and honest and…”

“Desperate?”

“Stop thinking about it all so negatively! There is nothing wrong with a woman expressing her sexual wants and desires – even if she thinks they’re unobtainable.”

“There’s no thinking involved – they are unobtainable.” You can’t help but smile and shake your head at her. “I’ll tell you what. If, by this time next year, I’ve actually had Pedro Pascal fuck me on a Sunday – actually, if he’s fucked me any day, any time, any place – I will…I don’t know…buy you whatever you want and tell you that you were right.”

A wicked grin spreads over Millie’s face as she reaches for her wine glass and holds it out to clink with yours. “Deal – and I’m going to hold you to this.”

“Oh, I know you are,” you drain your glass. “Thank God I’m not going to have to follow through.”

****

That evening you sit through Emmerdale, Coronation Street, The Chase Celebrity Special and 24 Hours in A&E whilst checking your phone every ten minutes to see if you’ve heard from Brian. You can’t remember when exactly he said he’d be landing at Heathrow – probably because at the time, you couldn’t give a shit and were just glad he was leaving. But, of course, now you can’t decide whether you should put the chain on the door or not. The last thing you want is him battering it down, or the neighbours calling the police so you can end up on a celebrity version of 24 Hours in Police Custody.

You realise that you could actually just search for all flights arriving from Tokyo, but by the time this actually seems like a viable option, you can’t be arsed.

By eleven, you decide that, if he has landed, he’s not coming here so, you lock up and slide the chain into place before retreating to bed with an eye mask and earplugs. Twenty minutes later, you’re wide awake and scrolling on your phone, unable to quieten your mind. Since your chat with Mille, you figure that you need to make some decisions in life – starting with Brian.

It’s over – you know it is. It has been for a while, even long before Pedro-gate, you just haven’t had the oomph to actually end it because…well because part of you is afraid that, at your age, the chances of you finding somebody, anybody, else are pretty slim. The industry is fickle – women of a certain age are rapidly seen as past their best and if you don’t find someone who can see past that, it can be a pretty lonely life. After all, you have to admit wryly, you likely only gravitated towards Brian because he tossed you a tiny crumb of interest.

“Ok,” you mutter, opening your Notes app. “Number 1 – dump Brian. Number 2…sign Spies contract.”

You were always going to, and you’re not sure why you’ve been holding out. Maybe you were hoping that Dan, the hot Executive Producer, would take you out for a fancy lunch and try to woo you with his astonishingly blue eyes and Cupid’s Bow shaped mouth.

“Never gonna happen. Got more chance of fucking Pedro. Number 3…find other opportunities (stage?)”

You make a face in the glowing light of your phone. You’ve never been particularly fond of stage work. Being up in front of a live audience gives you the absolute fear, not to mention flashbacks to that one time you did Shakespeare and forgot half your lines. Millie was in the front row that night, pissing herself laughing as you tried to throw in as many ‘posh English-isms’ as you felt might suitably pass.

You’ll never forget running into Jonathan Hyde afterwards and him saying, “Interesting take on the Bard. Very interesting.”

Sleep must hit you at some point because the next thing you know, daylight is coming through your window and your phone’s dead because you forgot to stick it on charge. In happier news, however, your front door is still intact, so Brian clearly hasn’t tried to gain entry. Buoyed by the decisions you made last night, you plug your phone in and, once it reaches enough juice to at least switch on, tap him out a text.

Can we talk? This afternoon? 3pm at the café?

You don’t add any kisses – fuck him if he can’t take a hint – then jump in the shower and use an excessive amount of lemon-scented shower gel to the point you emerge, smelling like some sort of floor cleaning product, to a one-word response from your soon to be ex.

Fine.

“Tosser.”

The phone rings whilst it’s still in your hand – Neil.

“Babes – are we signing or not. I’ve had them on again this morning and…”

“We’re signing,” you reply. “As soon as possible.”

“Oh,” he pauses, letting out air as though relieved he doesn’t have to say next what he was planning to. “Well, that’s good. You’ll start filming next month…”

“But I want something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, a different opportunity. Something that’s really going to stretch me.”

“Spending every day for six weeks crying and getting a BAFTA nomination wasn’t stretchy enough for you?”

“No, it was – and it was great. I want more like that or maybe even…I was thinking about a play.” There’s silence on the other end of the line, and you know Neil’s also remembering the Shakespeare disaster. “A modern play. Something like…I don’t know…”

“Agatha Christie?”

“Aga – what?”

“Agatha Christie,” he repeats calmly, as though you have no brain. “I heard they’re auditioning for the next run of Appointment With Death at the Strand. What do you think?”

“I think…” your mind races over what you know about Agatha Christie. Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple come immediately to mind, neither of which role you can see yourself pulling off with any kind of aplomb given you’re neither rotund and Belgian nor eighty years old.

“You’ve never heard of it, have you?”

“Does it make me very uncultured if I say no.”

“No, babes, it just makes you very limited.” Neil sighs. “I didn’t think you were interested in doing live theatre. After what happened at the Globe…”

“Less said about that, the better.”

“Well, exactly. But, if you’re up for it…”

“I am. I want to try new things, Neil. I’m more than just Samantha Watson and a crying mother of five. I want to go new places. Maybe even…” you hesitate, anxious about saying the words, even to the person who’s supposed to plan and guide your career to its most ultimate successes. “…America.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, babes. Live theatre’s a good next step for you here, but nobody has a clue who you are in America. Oh, wait…maybe they do after Sunday’s little escapade. But I hardly think a glittering career in Hollywood is going to come knocking because you said you’d like to open your legs for Pedro Pascal.”

“Why not? It worked for the hawk tuah girl…sort of.”

You can feel your manager role his eyes through the phone. “Not sure that’s who we want to be comparing ourselves to. Anyway, I have to run. I’ll come back to you about the play.” He hangs up before you can say anything else, leaving you listening to dead air and the sound of your own pathetic pleas.

America – who are you fucking kidding?

****

Brian’s late, and that pisses you off, more so because you took the time to actually gather up all the shit he’s left at your place and put it into a Waitrose bag for life, what when you really wanted to do was stick it in a rubbish bag and drop it out the window.

The café is nothing special, not anymore. It’s a small place, round the corner from your flat, where they serve decent coffee and even more decent traybakes. You and Brian have spent many a happy afternoon in there – eyes and hands only for each other – but also conducted many an argument there too, to the point where Caleb, the owner, needs a thumbs up or down from you whenever you walk in. Today, he got a double thumbs down, and you pretend not to notice how he’s now making efforts to shelter the exposed crockery.

At exactly three twenty-one, Brian comes in, face white and drawn tight, and drops into one of the chairs opposite you like a moody college student. He even looks like one – sporting combats and a hooded top. Forty, trying to look twenty-one.

For the briefest of moments, you see a flash of the handsome man you met for the first time outside a windswept HMV, the one who recognised you – not from Spies – from a short-lived teen drama you’d done many years before. One of the ones where everyone in the cast is in their twenties but pretending to only just be hitting the age of sexual consent.

“Well?” he asks coldly, and the image quickly vanishes.

“There’s your stuff.” You nudge the bag towards him with your foot. “It’s all there, don’t worry. I even gave your magazines a wipe.”

“Big of you,” he replies, pulling it closer and peering inside. “My Armani pants?”

“At the bottom.” He starts to rake through. “Jesus, do you actually think I’d want to hold on to your underwear?”

Seemingly satisfied, he sits back and observes you carefully, eyes flickering over your face. “I don’t think you really mean this,” he says finally. “All this shit has gone to your head. Your perceived romance with Pinto Pascal.”

“Pedro – and it’s not a perceived romance. It’s a nothing. It was just a fucking comment.”

“Yeah well – says a lot about someone when they’re supposedly in an exclusive, loving and stable relationship but busy telling the media who else they’d like to fuck.”

“As opposed to the person who’s supposedly in an exclusive, loving and stable relationship but decides to bugger off to Japan and miss the most important night of their partner’s life?”

“I told you I had no choice in that! The Japanese set the timetable…”

“Whatever,” you cut him off with a wave of your hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway. It was done long before that.”

“Right, okay.” He spreads his hands. “Where are you going to find someone as understanding as me about your job? Where are you going to find someone who’s willing to put up with your mood swings when you’re working on Spies, your mood swings when you’re not working on Spies, your mood swings when you’re not working at all?”

“I…what?”

“Oh please, don’t tell me you don’t have mood swings, because you do – big ones. You chose to do this acting stuff over a normal career like the rest of us, so I don’t understand why you’re so depressed about it all the time.”

You blink. “I’m not depressed! Not…not all the time…”

“Fuck me – of course you are. You’re so insecure about everything – your next job, whether they’re going to sign you for another year, whether you’re starting to look old or fat or…”

You stare, open-mouthed, as he rabbits on, listing all of your most unattractive qualities, like he was planning a shopping spree at Asda, and it suddenly hits you that he’s never once been supportive of anything you’ve done since you’ve met, not once. Oh, he’s gone to a few industry parties with you and partaken of the complimentary champagne but, as for encouragement…

“You don’t think I’m much of an actress, do you?” you interrupt him mid-flow.

He pauses and looks at you for longer than necessary. “That’s not true, I think you’re a good actress.”

“But?”

“But let’s face it, they’ll kill you off in Spies eventually, and unless you strive for something a bit higher, you know where you’re going to end up – one of those known faces who spends the waning years of her career on Coronation Street. A guest role in Taggart, if you’re lucky.”

“They don’t make Taggart anymore.”

“Well, whatever – The Bill then.”

“They don’t…”

“Jesus!” He exhales sharply. “My point is – you don’t try very hard, and that pisses me off.”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat, tears smarting your eyes. You will not let him see that he’s upset you. Not this arrogant, limp-dicked tosser that you’ve wasted five precious years of your life on. Maybe you’re not much of an actress, but Millie’s right - you deserve better.

“Key,” you say, rising quickly from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the floor.

“What?” he looks up, confused.

“I want my key back.” You hold out your hand, and he stares at it for a moment before rooting around in his back pocket and pulling out a keyring. With maddeningly slow precision, he slips off the silver key you remember presenting him with in a box with a bow and drops it into your hand. “Thank you.”

“Look,” he sighs. “Maybe…”

“Goodbye Brian,” you say, moving towards the door before he can say anything else, tossing Caleb a farewell in the process.

Outside in the air, you pause for a second, allowing what you’ve done to sink in. You could turn around, go back inside and say you were wrong, apologise, tell him that you want to give things another go. Maybe you have been a pain to live with. Maybe you need to alter your attitude. Maybe…

But then you think, perhaps somewhat bizarrely…what would Pedro do?

Fuck it.

And you walk away.

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Part Five

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader

Summary: You make a comment to a reporter that you want to fuck Pedro Pascal. Chaos ensues!

A/N: 18+only

Masterlist

🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭🎭

You wake the next morning tangled in your bedsheets wearing only your underwear. Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, and your eyes are on fire – which means that you obviously went to bed wearing your contact lenses. Desperate for a pee, you stumble blindly into the bathroom, tripping over your dress, which lies discarded on the bedroom floor, and almost crack your head against the sink.

Looking at your reflection, you quickly realise that you obviously forgot to remove your makeup too. Black mascara is smeared across your face and there’s lipstick on your chin. Your hair, once perfectly coiffured, resembles a bird's nest – sticking up haphazardly at one side. You look as though you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.

In addition, you can remember very little about what happened after Emma Thompson started buying you drinks. You think that you, Emma, Vicky and former MP Edwina Currie might have burst into a rendition of This is Me from The Greatest Showman at one point, but you wouldn’t like to bet your life on it. You do remember buying chips and cheese from a late-night chip shop further down the Southbank, but you literally have no memory of how you got home. Thankfully – you appear to be alone.

Pulling at your eyeballs, you remove your contact lenses, wipe the remains of your makeup off, brush your teeth, then swirl some paracetamol down your throat before stumbling back to bed. Your phone lies discarded on the bed and when you press the button, it lights up to tell you that Brian called you ten times – leaving two voicemails, your mother a further five and Millie has left you a bazillion text messages.

Brian’s first voicemail is bemused, his second is irritated. Your mother sounds affronted, and Millie’s messages could be described as nothing other than gleeful. Her latest one, all capital letters, screams at you.

OH, MY FUCKING GOD HE REPLIED!!!!

“Who replied?” you mutter to yourself. “And to what?” Flicking to Instagram, your interview once again comes up first on your feed. There are 2.5k likes and 756 comments. All of them are supportive, with a fair smattering of laughing face emojis – and then you see it.

Pascalispunk has commented on the story.

He’s left two emojis – the ‘looking’ double eyes and a purple devil.

“Holy shit.” You stare at it for a good thirty seconds, then throw your phone face down. “Oh God…” Even though you’re alone, you can feel your face flush with embarrassment. What’s worse than the person you have a secret crush on finding out about said crush – oh, maybe when it’s a hot celebrity and everyone in the world finds out about it at the same time.

You lift your phone again and see that 452 people have replied to Pedro’s comment.

You have to meet!

Pedro, come to the UK!

Oh my God, it’s like Married at First Sight!

You’re not quite sure about that last one.

Your finger hovers. Should you reply to his comment? Post a few cheeky emojis in response? Should you reply to any of the general public who have commented? That’s when you see your notification status is red, confirming that you have 341 new followers. You also have 31 direct messages – 27 are funny and cheeky, 4 call you a slut. You delete them all quickly.

You’ve no idea what time it is in Japan, but you decide to call Brian first before your mother. It rings out three times before he answers, voice clipped.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say with faux brightness. “Sorry I missed your calls.”

“Really? Have you just woken up?”

“Something like that.”

“Good night, was it?”

You hate his tone – so smug and self-satisfied. “It was alright. I didn’t win – not that I expected to – and then I had a few drinks with Vicky McClure, Emma Thompson and, I think, Edwina Currie.”

“And I bet they were all slapping you on the back and telling you how wonderful you are – how brave and open.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” you mumble.

“Hmm – it’s all over Instagram, as if you didn’t know.”

“Jesus…” you exhale. “I’m sorry, okay? She asked me the question and I just…”

“Said you wanted to get fucked by some Chilean actor.”

You pause. “That’s a bit racist.”

“You couldn’t have said something nice about us?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know – something, anything. Christ, we’ve been together five years, I’m sure you could have come up with something, even if you were pissed.”

“Who says I was pissed?”

“You’re not telling me you’d have given that answer sober, are you?”

“I…I don’t know, maybe. I suppose I thought I was being funny.”

“As opposed to coming across as a complete slut?”

His words bring you up sharp. “Is that what you think I am?”

“Well, forgive me for thinking that if Paco Pascal had been there…”

“Pedro.”

“Whatever – forgive me for thinking that if he had been there and heard you say that you would have shagged him.”

“What – in the Southbank Centre? Don’t be so ridiculous!”

“Oh, so you would have taken him back to our flat then, would you? Or maybe gone to his hotel?”

“This is stupid,” you swing your legs out of bed again and make your way slowly into the kitchen. “Even if he had been there, I very much doubt he’d have wanted to shag me.”

“Oh right, as opposed to you taking the view that you’re in a long term, committed relationship and aren’t interested in anyone else – even Poncho Pascal?”

“Pedro!”

“Not the point!”

“For fuck’s sake!” You bang the cupboard doors searching for mugs and coffee. “If I embarrassed you, I’m sorry.”

“If you embarrassed me? I’ve already had three work colleagues – work colleagues – message me about it and I’ve got a voicemail from my boss that I’m too scared to listen to!”

“I thought you had meetings today?”

“I do! So, I’m going to have to go and face these people! What exactly am I supposed to say?! The Japanese take this sort of thing very seriously!”

You decide not to ask him to elaborate on what this sort of thing is. As the coffee granules dissolve in the boiling water, you can’t help but think back on a hundred similar conversations you’ve had in the past. Not about you publicly saying you want another actor to fuck you – because this is the first time for that – but rather about how you embarrass him in general. Brian hates how loud you get after a drink, how opinionated you can be. He’s frequently questioned some of your work choices and he sat through the entire three episodes of said nominated drama and then claimed it was just alright.

You’re not sure he even bothered to pay attention to the last series of Spies.

You also haven’t shagged in more than six weeks.

“Why don’t you tell them…” you pause and take a breath, because this has been on your mind for some time now, but it’s the first time you’ve given voice to it. “Why don’t you tell them that it’s over?”

“I hope it bloody is over! I’ll tell them you completely took leave of your senses! Maybe I’ll throw in that you’re considering a referral for psychiatric treatment.”

“No, I’m talking about us, Brian. Why don’t you tell them that our relationship’s over?”

“Well, that won’t work once I’m back in London and we get papped on Hampstead Heath again.”

You close your eyes and shake your head. “We won’t get papped if we’re not in a relationship anymore.”

You can hear him breathing at the other end of the phone for a good minute before he speaks. “What?”

“Look, I just think…”

“You’re dumping me?”

“It’s not…” you fight for the right words. “It’s been too hard for a while now, don’t you think? We’ve not been getting on, we both work long hours – deliberately at times – and…maybe it’s time to accept that we’re just not right for one another.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Was this all part of some plan?”

You frown. “Was what all part of some plan?”

“Your comment last night. Was it all part of some plan? Have you been fucking Pablo Pascal all this time?”

“Pedro and no, of course not! I’ve never met the man – nor am I likely to! Brian…” you sigh heavily. “I just…”

“I’m not talking about this over the phone,” he replies, clipped. “And I have work to do. I’ll be back mid-week, and we can talk about it then. Maybe you could just keep your mouth shut in the meantime.”

“I…”

He hangs up before you can reply.

****

Your mother spends the best part of forty minutes firstly berating you for your language, secondly telling you how embarrassed she is that everyone appears to have seen the clip, including her friends from church, and then finally starts asking you various questions about Pedro’s career that makes you wonder if she doesn’t, secretly, agree with you about the best way to spend a Sunday.

“I’ve never played the game,” you say in response to a question about The Last of Us and how much he’s likely to be in it. “I’m not a fifteen-year-old boy.”

She hangs up, muttering something about dragging out your brother’s old Atari 64 which makes you suddenly realise that he’s the one person you haven’t heard anything from yet. Of course, you’re not sure what kind of signal he might have in the jungles of Sierra Leone, but you figure the news will filter out that way eventually. No doubt he’ll have an opinion which will either range from congratulating you on your positive body autonomy and wondering if there’s any chance Pedro might be interested in supporting his environmental cause to revoking the suggestion he made last month whilst pissed on native pure alcoholic beverages that you become patron of his charity. Either way, you’re sure it’ll be an interesting conversation.

Showered and changed, you flop down in front of the television and turn on This Morning just in time to catch what’s coming up after the break.

“And coming up next…” Holly Willoughby says, grinning into the camera. “It was the BAFTA awards in London last night. Our Alison Hammond was there, and she’ll be giving us all the gossip on who won what, who wore what…and what a certain actress said when asked how she’d like to spend her ideal Sunday. See you after the break.”

“Shit…” you hold up the remote to click to another channel, then stop. Whilst part of you would like to forget last night ever happened, another part of you is eager to hear what the pundits make of you. So, you sit through the usual adverts for toilet roll, floor cleaner, weight loss and the RSPCA and then sit slightly straighter as the intro music plays for the programme’s return.

“Now, last night it was the BAFTA awards at the Southbank Centre in London,” Holly says. “Alison Hammond was there with all the gossip from the night. We’ll be talking to her in a moment, but let’s take a look at the winners…and losers.”

Alison’s report flashes up on the screen – images of the great, the good, the well-dressed and the not-so-well-dressed interspersed with red carpet comments and inserts of some of the big winners and their speeches. It’s a three-minute puff piece that quickly ends with Alison in the studio, grinning broadly.

“Alison, what a night,” Holly purrs.

“Oh, it certainly was. I’ve only had about two hours sleep,” Alison guffaws. “But I’m a professional, so here I am.”

“Run us through some of the big moments of the night.”

Alison prattles on for thirty seconds about the events of the night before turning serious. “But…the big news from last night, what’s been going crazy on social media, is what our favourite Spies actress had to say when she was asked a question on the red carpet by MTV. Now, this wasn’t broadcast as part of the show, but it’s gone viral on Instagram. We’ve edited it, given the time of day but, well, here you go.”

Your image fills the screen.

“This is obviously a big Sunday night for you, but what would be your ideal Sunday if you weren’t here?”

“My perfect Sunday...hmmm, well I think I would have to say that my perfect Sunday would be spent in bed with Pedro Pascal, letting him bleep me until I forget what my name is.”

The camera cuts back to the studio where Holly has her hand clamped over her mouth and Alison is wobbling with laughter.

“Oh, my goodness!” Holly exclaims. “I mean…”

“I know! Good on her! I reckon she was saying what a lot of us ladies have been thinking!”

“Oh, so you like a bit of Pedro Pascal then?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Alison chortles again. “I think it was a very brave, honest and perhaps slightly wine-fuelled answer, but you’ve got to admire her for that. She spoke her truth.”

“She did speak her truth,” Holly agrees. “But is there likely to be any backlash over her comments?”

“Well, I don’t know what Pedro might think – we reached out to his management for comment, but they haven’t replied…”

Jesus.

“…but I don’t think it’s that bad, do you? It’s not like she’s starring in anything where they’re going to think what she said was offensive.”

“True.”

“Her show’s all about espionage, dark dealings, murder…now if she was starring in a programme about nuns, there might be a problem.”

Everyone laughs again.

“Well, thank you Alison, we can let you get home for a kip now.” Holly grins again. “Next up, we’ve got Phil in the kitchen talking us through how to make the most perfect Caesar salad.”

You click off the television and dial Neil’s number.

He picks up on the second ring. “Babes, I’m just watching This Morning.”

“And…?”

“And I’m loving how this is mostly getting spun as you being brave and honest and true to yourself…”

“I said I wanted to fuck someone, Neil, not donate my living organs to medical research.”

“No, but I was worried we might get more of the slut shamers coming out of the woodwork,” he replies. “Most comments have been very positive so far. I still need to go back to the editors though for something official.”

“Why can’t I just put something on my Instagram?”

He pauses. “Like what?”

“I don’t know – something completely unrelated so that people think I’m really not bothered? Or I could make a reference to Pedro, you know, sort of tongue in cheek.”

He makes a noise that sounds like a cat being run over. “I don’t think you should say anything else about Pedro. I mean, it’s been taken well, but you don’t want to come across like some sort of stalker.”

“He commented on the story.”

“I saw.”

“With eyes and a devil emoji.”

“Well maybe he wants to fuck you too but, regardless, I think the best thing to do is try to just nurse this gently over the next few days and it’ll be gone by the end of the week. I have it on good authority that that hunky actor from Emmerdale is about to come out.”

“Okay…”

“So, I’m going to tell the editors that…”

“I stand by what I said.”

“Oh God, no.”

“Okay…that what I said was tongue in cheek and I was just having a little fun?”

“Better. And you post something non-related. Something boring. A picture of your cat.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

“Well, borrow someone else’s. Just post something that’s designed not to excite and whatever you do…don’t re-post the interview.”

When you eventually hang up the phone you check your messages again. Nothing from Brian, a link to The Last of Us video game on Amazon from your mother and sixteen half-naked photos of Pedro from Millie. Back in Instagram, the likes are now up to 4.5k, you have another 251 followers, and your eyes can’t help but burn as they stare at Pedro’s emoji response.

“Fuck it,” you say to nobody as you re-post the interview and add a heart.

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Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader

Summary: You tell a reporter you want to fuck Pedro Pascal. Chaos ensues!

A/N: 18+only

Masterlist

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As expected, you don’t win.

Much to your surprise, however, the wild-eyed nobody who starred in the Channel 4 drama about the foxhunting ban does win. She’s all gasps and wide eyes and oh my Gods as she makes her way from her seat up to the stage, almost tripping over the pink dress that you can’t help but think looks a little too big. As she thanks everyone from God to her cat Maurice, you try to keep a neutral smile on your face, hoping that your surprise wasn’t too evident when they read out her name – otherwise that’s what’s going to be trending tomorrow.

“And just…” she gushes finally. “To be in such an amazing category with Dame Julie and Maxine and Sheridan and…” she trails off, clearly having forgotten who you are, waving her hand in the air as though inspiration will come from above.

The audience titter and you remember to look appropriately smiley.

“This is a dream – thank you!” She waves the statue in the air like it’s a fucking Oscar and heads for the side of the stage to a barrage of applause.

“You were robbed,” the executive producer says in your ear.

“Oh well, there’s always another time,” you reply, checking your watch. There’s still at least another hour to go and with this being the BBC, there are no advert breaks.

Your co-star predictably wins best actor to thunderous applause. You get to your feet and kiss him respectfully before he makes his way to the stage where he takes his opportunity to deliver a rousing battle cry against the genocide that’s happening around the world today, and whilst you clap and nod approvingly, you can’t help but wish that Ricky Gervais would show up and just boot him off.

As the hush settles following the In Memoriam section, where you suddenly realise people have died that you didn’t even know were alive, it’s time for the final award – best drama – before the after-party drinks can begin. As the nominations are read out, you check your phone and realise you’ve got no signal.

Fucking Vodafone.

The favourite wins – not your show – and as the host calls out goodnight to all those watching on television, the music swells and you rise, grabbing your handbag, throat aching for something cold and alcoholic. Three hours is plenty of time to have sobered up and now you're ready to start all over again.

It takes forever to get out of your aisle and join the throng of people heading through to the bar. A couple of young soap stars accost you at one point, telling you how much they love Spies, and you indulge them because, that was you once, enthralled at attending your first award ceremony and seeing, in the flesh, people you’d only ever seen on the screen before. As you’re talking, one of them glances at her phone, eyebrows suddenly disappearing into her hairline before she looks at you again and then nudges her friend.

You politely excuse yourself and carry on towards the bar, neatly side-stepping a rather dreary ITV journalist who made an appearance last year on a celebrity dancing show and now thinks he’s Fred fucking Astaire. It would be nice if you could actually find someone to talk to that you know, who’ll grumble with you about how shit the whole ceremony was and stroke your fragile ego.

You eventually find said person in the guise of Vicky McClure, best known for her hard hitting roles in This Is England and Line of Duty. You first met, three years previously, at a similar ceremony and got roaringly drunk with her and Martin Compston, to the extent that your carefully disguised Scottish accent came out more than you ever let it have before.

“You should have won, babes,” she says, putting her arm around you and kissing your cheek. “Who watches shit about foxhunting anyway.”

“It was a good show,” you reply, because you feel you should.

“She was only in it for about five minutes. You should definitely have won for all that crying you had to do. Anyway….” She grabs a couple of glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter and passes you one. “There’s always the National Television Awards. You’re bound to get nominated there too.”

“Maybe,” you reply, tanking half the glass in one go and quickly looking around for another. “I’ll be back on Spies soon, so I won’t have time to think about it.”

“You don’t sound thrilled.”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “It’s just….all getting a bit predictable now. You know, threat to British security from terrorist agent, we get sent out to thwart it, cue car chases, dodgy inside moles and explosions that kill off regular cast members.”

“Is that a preview of the next series?” she grins at you over her glass.

“No…well, maybe. Anyway, what about you? Any sign of another series of LOD?”

She makes a face. “No idea. I think we should and so does Martin. People were so annoyed about how it ended last time I think we need to make it up to them somehow.”

“Well, yeah – I was one of them. I mean, Buckles? Come on.” Your phone vibrates in your bag. “Oh, thank God, I’ve got signal again.”

“Yeah, this place is like a tomb,” Vicky reaches into her own bag.

“I suppose it says something about our generation when we can’t last…” you trail off as you see you have ten missed calls from your mother, one from Millie, along with three texts, and about thirty tags on Instagram. “What…? Why is everyone….?”

You open the first message from Mille.

What the fuck???

Then the second.

Oh my God, were you drunk??

Finally, the third.

You’re going viral!

“Okay…” you swipe into Instagram and the first thing that comes up is you. On the red carpet. With an MTV microphone in your face.

“My perfect Sunday...hmmm, well I think I would have to say that my perfect Sunday would be spent in bed with Pedro Pascal, letting him fuck me until I forget what my name is.”

You exhale sharply.

Beneath the post which, by the way, is from the official MTV account, the comments are already piling up.

Preach!

OH MY GOD THAT’S MY PERFECT SUNDAY TOO! IN FACT, IT’S MY PERFECT ANY DAY!

Protect Pedro at all costs!

Thirst level – catastrophic!

Pedro – come to the UK and fuck us all!

You also see that Pedro’s own official Instagram – which you understand he runs himself – has been tagged multiple times.

“Oh… shit…” You look up to see Vicky grinning at you, wide-eyed with excitement. “She said they couldn’t use it. She said…”

“Not on the BBC broadcast but the internet’s a free for all! Oh my God!” She starts cackling loudly. “Oh, this – this – is going to be the biggest news from tonight. Not who won the actual fucking awards!”

You feel your body start to prickle as the noise from the room gets louder around you. As you look this way and that you see people talking, laughing, drinking. A few have their phones in their hands, taking selfies or using the camera app to check their lip gloss. Some are scrolling and you watch as the recently retired soap actor, pushes his glasses up to peer at the screen his wife is holding inches from his face.

“What do I do?” you ask, looking back at Vicky.

“What do you mean, what do you do? You own it! You have a fantasy of Pedro Pascal fucking you – so do probably two thirds of the women in here. So what?!”

You suddenly picture your boyfriend on his heated Japanese toilet.

“Brian is going to fucking kill me.”

Vicky peers at you. “Last time we spoke you spent the entire time criticising him. Haven’t you ditched him yet?”

“Not yet,” you mutter, thinking that it’s probably going to be him doing the ditching after this. Your phone vibrates in your hand and, when you look down, see it’s your manager. “Fuck, it’s Neil.”

“Good luck,” Vicky says, patting your arm and waving at someone over your shoulder. “Remember – own it.”

Pushing your way through the crowd to a quiet corner, you swipe your phone to answer and press it to your ear. “Neil…”

“Oh my God!” he shrieks in your ear. “What were you thinking?!”

“Are you still on the M1?”

“Babes!”

“Would it be any consolation if I told you I…” you break off suddenly as two women you don’t recognise raise their glasses at you in a cheering motion. “I mean…”

“I’d like you to tell me something! Something that I can say to the eight editors who’ve already called me for a comment!”

You pause. “Eight? I didn’t think there were still that many…”

“Babes!”

“Okay, okay – sorry. Look…I was a bit drunk before I got here, it was the last interview on the carpet and I just…said what I felt.”

Neil pauses. “So, it wasn’t a joke then?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, we can spin it as a joke. You know – you’re in a happy relationship but we all have ‘hall passes’ and Pedro’s yours, it was said in good humour, bit cheeky, yada, yada, yada.”

“Or?”

The silence at the other end of the phone is deafening.

“Or what?”

“What if we don’t spin it as a joke. What if we say it’s how I feel?”

“Babes, you want me to go back with – yes, this is exactly how she would want to spend a Sunday afternoon. Getting fucked by Pedro Pascal?”

You drain the last of your champagne. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Well, uh, your long-term boyfriend could dump you for one thing. The producers over at Spies might decide you need an off-camera death….”

Annoyance flares through you. “But why would they even care? I made a comment, on my personal time, that I’m entitled to make…” Neil sighs. “Besides, I’ve been on that show for ten years. If they want to kill me off now, they’re going to have to do it big style. Anyway, my contract’s for another two years.”

“You haven’t signed it yet.”

“No, but I’m going to.” You pause. “Why is this such a big deal?”

“Because it’s everywhere!”

“So? I’m a small-time actress, Neil, not Nicole fucking Kidman. Nobody is going to care about this by tomorrow! Besides…” you smile at another group of women you don’t know who wave at you, grinning broadly. “I reckon I’ve only said what half the population is thinking.”

“Jesus…” you can imagine him with his head in his hands. “Maybe we just go with no comment.”

“No! That makes it sound like I’m ashamed of what I said and I’m not! A woman is allowed to have fantasies!”

“Yes, but it’s best to keep them off fucking social media!”

“Fucking hell,” you roll your eyes. “I’m hanging up now and going to get shit-faced with people that actually seem to agree with me. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No – babes…!”

You hang up before he can finish his sentence, toss back the last of your champagne and head over towards the bar where you suddenly find yourself in the queue behind Emma Thompson. Seconds later, she glances over her shoulder, eyes lighting up when they land on you.

“Oh my God,” she says, turning quickly to face you. “Congratulations.”

“On what?”

“Coming up with the best bloody answer I’ve ever heard to one of those annoying questions.” She puts her hands on your arms and shakes you gently. “I mean, just – fucking brilliant. Greg! Greg!” She waves over your head to whom you assume is her husband and then pulls out her phone. “Have you seen this?”

You watch Greg Wise’s face as his wife thrusts the screen towards him, the tinny sound of your voice reaching your ears.

“My perfect Sunday...hmmm, well I think I would have to say that my perfect Sunday would be spent in bed with Pedro Pascal, letting him fuck me until I forget what my name is.”

Greg’s halfway through what looks like a vodka and tonic, and he jerks, spitting half of it back into his glass, eyes flying to meet yours. “Wow.”

“Isn’t that just brilliant?” Emma says. “Women’s lib – back out there, front and centre.”

Women’s lib?

“Come on,” she puts her arm around your shoulder. “Let me get you a drink.”

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Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader

Summary: A reckless comment to a reporter at the BAFTAs about your ideal Sunday leads to embarrassment and a severely pissed off long-term boyfriend, who you've already decided is a dick. But you're a British TV actress - there's no way that Pedro Pascal is ever going to find out what you said. And it wan't THAT bad. Only, now, they want you on the Graham Norton show to allegedly chat about the latest series of your long-running BBC drama - and guess who else is going to be on the couch...?

A/N 18+

Pulling over some of my shorter works from AO3 🥰

Masterlist

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It all starts at the BAFTAs.

You’re not even sure why you’re there – yes, you’ve been nominated for that dreary drama you did last year about the mother whose five kids were stolen from her, but it was a such a depressing experience to film that you’re surprised anyone actually watched it, let alone thought it was worthy of any kind of nomination.

You’re also a bit pissed off that you’ve been nominated for best actress in a supporting role, especially when you played the aforementioned mother and spent most of the entire three parts in tears. But then, that actor who’s in every drama going these days played the dedicated police officer assigned to your case, so of course he gets leading man status and a nomination to boot.

It still irks you that his name comes first in the credits.

He’s definitely going to win. As for you – you’re not really that fussed. Yes, a win might boost your career and give you the guts to tell the producers at the BBC that no, you’re not going to sign on for another two years of Spies and that you’re ready for an explosive death scene similar to many of your fellow former co-stars, but then you might have to actually start auditioning for other jobs. And what if you don’t get them? Even Olivia Colman must get knock backs these days – and she got an Oscar for that weird film about Queen Anne.

You’re also not feeling great, which means that you’re likely about to take your period and you’re so bloated around your abdomen that the dress you tried on for the final time three weeks ago – and which fitted you like a glove – is now wrapped around you so tightly it looks as though you’re about six months pregnant. You can only hope the photographers, if they want to take your picture, don’t ask you to stand sideways. You also hope nobody on the red carpet asks you when you’re due.

You fucking hate the red carpet – getting asked the same fucking questions over and over again by grinning sycophants. And you have to answer the tenth one with the same enthusiasm as you did the first. It’s so mind-numbingly tedious. You didn’t become an actress to talk about yourself - you became an actress to be other people.

You also don’t have a date because Brian decided that he had to go to Japan for another incredibly important meeting that oh so conveniently happens to fall right on the same night as the biggest award show in British film and television. So, you’re also going to have to field questions about why you’re on your own – which is so fucking sexist. Maybe you’ll just tell the first reporter who asks you that you’ve decided to dump Brian and forge out on your own after five years of the most pointless relationship. That would give the prick something to think about when he wakes up tomorrow and takes a shit on his heated toilet.

It’s also starting to rain, which is so fucking typical for London and so you’ll have to have some minion follow you about with an umbrella whilst you shiver your tits off because your stylist told you that you cannot possibly wear any kind of shawl or cardigan with this dress or the designer will throw a hissy fit and never lend anything to anyone ever again. You’re not even sure you can call Amanda your stylist, given she’s the Spies wardrobe supervisor, but then given you have no real fashion sense yourself, you need all the help you can get.

The taxi’s ten minutes late and you’re now going to get stuck in traffic all the way to Southbank and ultimately be late – something else designed to just piss you off. It’s no wonder that the half bottle of white wine left over in the fridge from last night goes down such a treat as you stand and wait – your manager prattling away to you on the phone because there’s been an accident on the M1 and he’s been stuck there for two hours already bored shitless.

“Remember to smile” he says. “Especially when they announce the winner. Nobody wants to see your resting bitch face all over Instagram tomorrow.”

“Thanks – so you don’t think I’m going to win then?”

“Babes, you’re up against Dame Julie Andrews, Maxine Peake and Sheridan Smith,” he replies. “I’m not counting that nobody from that quirky Channel 4 disaster about the fox hunting ban. So – no, I don’t think you’re going to win. Do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Right – so keep the face pleasant.”

His ringing endorsement only cements your view that you need another few glasses of wine before you head off, and you’ve just downed the third when the taxi arrives, forcing you to scoot outside in the pouring rain and jump in whilst trying to avoid breaking your ankle in heels that are guaranteed to get you stuck in a drain before the night is out.

“Fucking terrible weather,” the driver laments as he pulls away from the kerb, window wipers going ten to the dozen. “Southbank?”

“Yep,” you nod, instantly tuning out as he starts waxing eloquently about how he had half the female cast of Eastenders in the other day. You’re still pissed that you didn’t get that role that you auditioned for ten years ago and every time you see the actress that did, you want to smack her in the face for daring to be better than you. Oh well, their loss is someone else’s gain – you suppose.

Inevitably, you get stuck in the line of taxis and limos making their way to the venue and with even the taxi driver having run out of chat, all that’s left to do is scroll Instagram. It blows your mind how social media works, how it knows what you’re thinking and feeling – what you’ve been talking about. One conversation with your friend Millie two weeks ago about The Mandalorian and suddenly that actor, Pedro Pascal, is all over your feed.

“He was in Narcos, remember?” Millie says.

“No,” you reply, even though you vaguely remember watching it with Brian. “Is that the one about Pablo Escobar?”

“Yeah – and he’s going to be starring in a new adaption of a video game – The Last of Us – with that girl from Game of Thrones.”

“Which girl?”

“You know the one – “we’re a small house but we’re a proud house.””

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Plus, speaking of Game of Thrones, you must remember him getting his head caved in by the Mountain - Oberyn Martell?”

“Oh….is that him?”

“Yes!”

“Oh…okay – yeah he’s not bad looking.”

Not bad looking has now become fucking gorgeous in your mind. You’ve no idea why you didn’t notice this before but over the last two weeks you’ve become subtly obsessed with this man. Your internet search history is just wall to wall Pedro Pascal, you’ve joined at least fifteen Facebook fan groups, carefully ignoring friend requests from at least five people who say they are Pedro, and are now following every Instagram page devoted to him – including his own. You’ve rented so many movies from Sky Box Office that they froze your account and called to confirm you had actually ordered them, and you find yourself constantly trolling YouTube for clips of his early work.

It's starting to become a problem.

“What are we watching?” Brian asks one night from behind his own phone.

“The Great Wall.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

He goes to bed before it finishes, and you couldn’t care less.

Finally, it’s your turn to get out of the taxi and greet the waiting photographers. You smile and pose as required, making sure to stay firmly face on, despite many of them calling for you to turn. Fuck the British press – you can just see the porky headlines tomorrow. Gutter rags - the lot of them.

Drawing on whatever acting skills you possess, you move along the red carpet, smiling and answering the same questions over and over again as predicted. Yes, it was a joy making the drama and giving a voice to this tragedy. No, you didn’t speak to the real-life person beforehand as you wanted to make the part your own. Yes, your co-stars were all lovely to work with. Yes, you’re looking forward to getting back to work on Spies next month. No, you can’t give anything away as to what’s in store for your character. Yes, you know you’re one of the longest serving cast members now, but you love your job.

Finally, the end is in sight – one more interview to go, and it looks like it’s for MTV. The girl wielding the microphone looks young enough to be your daughter and you’re surprised she has the faintest clue who you are. Once more, you run through the inevitable questions and answers, until she takes a breath and prepares to ask the question all reporters think you’ve never been asked before.

“This is obviously a big Sunday night for you, but what would be your ideal Sunday if you weren’t here?”

You look at her bright smiling face, well aware that she’s expecting you to say something about how you’d spend it lazily with family and friends or talk about going out for a nice meal and a few drinks or even walking the dog that you’ve always said you wanted but never got around to getting. Something normal and acceptable for broadcast on a Sunday evening whilst people are getting ready to start a new working week. But you decide not to say any of those examples because none are the truth. You decide instead to go for something much closer to your heart, something raw and real.

You pretend to think.

“My perfect Sunday...hmmm, well I think I would have to say that my perfect Sunday would be spent in bed with Pedro Pascal, letting him fuck me until I forget what my name is.”

You grin broadly.

The girl blinks, smile slipping slightly, and glances behind her at her cameraman. “I’m…not sure we can use that.”

“No worries, nice to meet you,” you say breezily, before moving past her inside the building, a laugh bubbling inside your chest, as you’re shown to your seat. Your co-star is already there with his beautifully coiffured wife in a dress that fits her perfectly, so you say hello but not much else. Her husband spent the vast majority of your six week shoot moaning about her after all, so you feel you know more about her already than you need to.

Three minutes later, precisely, you’re joined by the executive producer of the drama, who taps you on the arm as he sits down, face carefully arranged.

“Did I just hear right?" he asks, voice low. "Did you just tell a reporter from MTV that you wanted Pedro Pascal - the Pedro Pascal - to fuck you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Jesus,” he hisses, glancing behind to see who might be eavesdropping and waving at an actor who recently retired after sixty years in the same soap opera. A British institution, if you will.

“Relax,” you giggle, your head already starting to hurt. “It’s not as though they can use it. No-one, least of all Pedro Pascal, is ever going to know I said it. And, even if, God forbid he did, he has no clue who I am anyway so…”

“I’d be a bit more concerned about what the producers of Spies might think if they hear it,” he raises his eyebrows at you.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t have hired me to play this role if I’d said that before filming started?”

“Hmm…” he makes a face at you that you know means of course he would.

And you know things will be fine at Spies because they love you there.

You tap your foot idly as the venue fills up, the lights go down and that really annoying comedian that they’ve booked to host ambles onto the stage carrying a plastic cup of lager and proceeds to tell a joke that you're sure will have the BBC censors sitting with their heads in their hands - how delightful.

You uncross your legs and try to remember that there are cameras everywhere.

No resting bitch face.

Appropriate smiles.

Kind and respectful clapping.

You just hope you won't fall asleep during the In Memoriam section.

Only three hours to go.

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Pairing: Din x Reader.

Summary: Sat in a cell, your only comfort is the Mandalorian imprisoned next door.

Warnings: 18+only. Smut ahoy including masturbation and penetration 🍆

A/N: Little extra Friday treat for you! I’ve been working on this one since I started binging the series in anticipation of the movie. I know NOTHING about Star Wars, I’m a complete fairweather fan on the basis of Pedro. So anything that doesn’t make sense in the universe is on me 🥰

Let me know if you think I should write more…

WC: 8k

Masterlist

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The cell smells like rust and recycled air, and the lights went down hours ago – not off, never off, just dimmed to that bruised red that means the facility's day cycle is over and its prisoners are supposed to sleep. You haven’t slept. You’re not sure you remember how to anymore.

2.7k words | M rated | Alcohol, mention of trauma, sexual themes (sfw)

Next

Summary: Your years on the run have made you abandon the Jedi code to survive, trading your skills for mercenary work. When you feel something hunting you on your way home, you assume the Empire has found you. It's much worse than that.

A/N: this was intended as a one shot but uhhhh *accidentally writes the beginning of a series*

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 🫶

It takes everything for you not to let your head swivel around and find out the source of the disturbance you just felt. Instead, you stare down at your reflection in your drink. Your Jedi days are long gone, but you remember your training. Always stay on guard, always remain vigilant. You're used to living your life constantly on edge by now, listening for that foreboding fear.

Calling it a disturbance is an understatement. The Force feels like it's being pulled taut, like someone is leeching it straight out of you, suffocating you and pinning you in place. You feel its ripples as it moves closer. To your horror, you realise whoever it is is coming straight for you. You try to settle your nerves and stop your hand from shaking as you reach for your glass over the counter while the other finds the weapon at your waist. In vain.

reader pronouns: she/her "Goddamn," Daryl sighed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "This is the best meal I've had in a long ass time. Is there a damn thing ya can't do?" he asked, settling back in his chair.

You smiled and felt the apples of your cheeks warm. Daryl seemed to have no idea of the effect his words had on you.

Rick and Michonne exchanged a knowing look. "Yes, is there?" Rick said, a twinkle in his eyes. "She can fight, she can kill walkers, she's the best damn sniper we've got after Sasha, and she cooks up a mean rabbit."

"All true. But you know what they say; 'the way to a man's heart is through his stomach,'" Michonne added with a small smile. You shot her a dirty look and the smile widened.

"Michonne," you murmured in a low warning voice, wishing you were close enough to kick her under the table. The heat in your face increased.

"Mmm," Daryl hummed in agreement. "Ya'll act like yer surprised or somethin'."

Amusement still colored Rick's face. "What do you mean?"

"The rest of us figured out on day 1 what she's capable of," Daryl said, pushing back from the table. "If it took ya this long to put it together ya'll must be a bunch of dumbasses," he growled, collecting his empty plate as well as yours and putting them into the sink before he disappeared downstairs.

You pressed a hand to your cheek, trying to hide your face.

Eddie filming season 2 of The Day of the Jackal

Okay, but like, you're so right. You're out here complaining because your pants won't button around your bump anymore? Daryl would damn near rip them in half in his excitement to get you out of them. This man sees one (1) singular stretch mark? He's pulling you away to the most private place he can find so he can get under your shirt to stare at it. You suddenly realize you have an ass like an old-style Cadillac? So has he. He's doing a very bad job at being normal about it. Pregnancy hormones making you horny? Fantastic. Because poor Daryl has been hard since he realized you put on an extra layer of fat when you got pregnant.

gif from @bestintheparsec

pairing: din djarin x f!reader

word count: 6.5

rating: e (minors take a hike dni)

song inspo: what once was by her’s

summary: the mandalorian confides with you about something that’s been weighing heavily on his mind and you remind him of what truly matters

warnings: tbobf spoilers, slight angst, language, tension™️, smut, thigh riding, improper use of beskar armor, fingering, praise kink, piv unprotected sex (wrap it up), mild dom/sub

author’s note: y’all asked for a part two for Distraction and i did👏🏽not👏🏽hesitate👏🏽 to write this. this takes place between ep 5 and 6 of tbobf and goes a tiny bit divergent. plus din deserves a lil tlc for what he’s been through and i’ve been dipping my fingers into writing smut so i hope you guys enjoy! 👌🏽✨

He comes and goes. You don’t see him often and you try not to care too much. But each time, he’s away longer and stays shorter. Having no idea when his next visit comes. Which would be fine, if the times he was here weren’t so… confusing.

Sure, you flirted and he flirted back. But nothing really happened. It was harmless fun. And it’s not like you were twiddling your thumbs waiting for him. You had a life. Albeit, a steady life with not much room for excitement. You went out occasionally, went to cantinas and let people buy you drinks. You never went home with anyone though. And you’ve been ignoring the reason why.

It’s not like you were saving yourself. You’re not waiting around for him to sweep you off your feet. There have been plenty of advances from strangers and you’ve maybe entertained the notion of having a roll in the sand with someone. But you haven’t. You can’t. They’re not him.

You throw yourself into your work, giving yourself hardly anytime for intrusive thinking. Peli doesn’t necessarily spare you work, but even she tries to relieve you of busy work that doesn’t need immediate attention. Calling it “droid work.”

“I don’t mind,” you lie, “more experience.”

It’s been 6 months since the test flight. Since you’ve been off-planet. Since he touched you the way he did that late night building the starfighter. He comes once in a while for repairs and maintenance. The repairs are always minor and take less than a day, which makes you wonder why he wouldn’t just put it off. He’s a busy man, and he doesn’t need to come as often as he does. So why does he bother?

He’s always respectful and stoic and still always so serious, it makes you laugh to yourself. You’ve gotten to know him over time. Learning about his travels, how much he loved the crest despite it being a wreck most of the time. But mostly he talked about his kid. How he found him, his powers, his insatiable hunger which made you laugh. Each story he told you made you feel… transported. You felt the excitement, the danger, and you found yourself replaying them in your mind when you couldn’t sleep. Which confronted you with a hard truth.

The Mandalorian was more often than not that last thing you thought of before falling asleep.

•

The music blares from your stereo, the sound fills the entire garage at full blast as you work. The table it rests on rumbles with each beat, rattling loose tools and bolts and you’re in your own world. You got it in a trade a few months ago from some Jawas in exchange for some spare parts and it hasn’t seen a day without use. It helps you focus on your work and shut out your thoughts.

The speeder you’re working on has been a bitch to repair. You’re half covered in grease, the top of your coveralls rolled down to your waist, pulling out corroded parts from underneath. It’s nearing the end of the day and you’re dying for a break. If you could just…get this… damn… bolt…out…

The rusty bolt breaks loose without warning and oil comes pouring out, splashing thickly onto your tank top. You let out a curse, quickly crawling out of the way and setting the bucket next to you under the stream. You rise to your feet and groan in frustration. “Fuck this speeder!” You blurt out. You look down to your chest covered in thick black oil, long burnt inside the oil pan, the pungent smell burns the hairs in your nose. Shit. It was one of your favorites, too…

The garage is an open space but there’s no one here with you. So, you don’t think twice about taking off your shirt, no rag is gonna save it. Once over your head, you toss it across the room , exposing just the black breast band around your torso. You sigh as you walk to the table and look for another bolt and a matching wrench to cap the oil pan once it finishes draining. You figure that’s enough work for today. The owner won’t come for another couple days anyway. And Peli won’t be back until-

A hand brushes your arm from behind and your adrenaline spikes. Grabbing the heavy wrench, you twist around ready to swing hard when a firm leather hand grips your wrist to a halt above your head. You freeze and all you see is silver.

“Good to see you, too!” Mando shouts over the loud music.

You exhale deeply. Your tense muscles feel they’re about to give out completely. Maker, you hate when he does that. He releases your wrist and you quickly turn off your stereo.

“You have one more time to fucking scare me like that,” you huff, still trying to catch your breath. He just blows a laugh through his nose.

“Sorry, I just landed a minute ago,” and he points his thumb behind him. You lean to the side to peek behind his shoulder and, sure enough, you see the N-1 parked on the far side of the hangar. How the hell did you miss that?

“I tried yelling but you seemed…,” Distracted? “…busy.” And he does that signature tilt of his helmet and your chest aches.

You chuckle, trying to seem like you got your head screwed on right. “So,” you twist around to the work table, dropping the wrench, “what’d you break this time, shiny?” Grabbing a rag, you try to wipe off some of the grease and oil from your arms, only for it to spread around more.

“Nothing this time,” he leans back against the nose of the speeder and crosses his arms. “I have business in Mos Espa tomorrow and I thought I’d pay you a visit.” Pay you a visit? No business?

“Peli isn’t here,” you keep your focus on scrubbing your arms. “She had some business on the other side of town. Won’t be back for a couple days.” You decidedly give up on cleaning yourself, tossing the rag on the table and turning to face him with a hand on your hip.

And he’s silent again. His crossed arms make his shoulders look broader. He keeps his visor on you, tilting his helmet curiously to the side. Is he gonna say something? You give him a half-smile and raise your eyebrows slightly, signaling to him that you’re waiting for a response.

“You dress like that often?”

Your cheeks flush. Not at your starkness, but the fact that he’s pointed it out to you makes you wonder how long he’s been watching you. How long was he standing there? Was he there watching when you peeled that tank top off? It’s not like he’s averting his eyes from you at all. He’s not shy about it. And neither are you.

“Oh,” you look down at your torso, pretending you completely forgot. You start pulling up the top part of your worn grey coveralls and place the short sleeves back on your shoulders, but you don’t bother to zip it closed.

“Not really,” you tease, “just for well paying customers.” A mischievous smile crosses your lips and it’s only then that he looks away and chuckles to himself. Hearing that sweet sound makes you realize how much you really missed him.

You take a seat next to him on the speeder, resting your arms behind you on the hood. You chew over what to say but Mando beats you to it. “It’s been a while,” he starts, “everything ok?” He sounds suddenly stern. The air becomes heavy, like you both know the answer. Your legs kick as they dangle from the edge.

“Things are pretty dangerous around here.” Your eyes are cast downward. “It’s not safe to go out at night with the Pykes around. They’re relentless, things won’t go back to normal until they’re gone.”

“Are you safe?” The words leave his mouth without hesitation. He faces you and gently places his hand on top of yours, trying to convey how important your answer is to him. After a few moments, your name slips past his lips and your whole being is softened.

“I’m a big girl, Mando. I can protect myself.” Taking his hand in yours, your thumb runs over his knuckles, the leather worn and soft.

“I know you can.” he speaks softly. Both of you, looking at the hands between you. Your hands mix and run over each other for a while. Enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence. His gloves are getting a little dirty from the oil, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Tell me about you,” you sigh, “Anything new?” Mando pauses. After a beat, he turns away and releases a sigh that makes your heart sink. Damn, that bad huh?

“Maker, it sounds like you need a drink,” you quip. He breathes a laugh through his nose and gives your hand a loving squeeze.

“I won’t say no to that,” he admits. You can hear his smile and, even though you can’t see it, it makes your own lips curl up. You slide off the hood of the speeder and turn on your heels to face him, patting the dust off your pants.

“There’s some cold ale in Peli’s office,” you offer. “It’s nothing fancy but it’s the only cold thing we’ve got besides water.” Mando nods then stands up straight to face you, sticking his thumb through the front of his belt. His helmet tilts down to you and his whole frame makes you feel so small. From his broad shoulders to his inky black visor peering down to you.

“I’m just… gonna grab a shower first. I’ll be back with the ales.” Looking up to his visor like this fills you with a weird mixture of timidness and excitement. And that familiar spark starts to burn in the pit of your stomach.

“I’ll wait here for you.”

A warm, gloved hand finds purchase under the curve of your chin and your stomach flips. And instantly you’re back in that cockpit months ago, aching for his fingers to wander around your throat. It’s always so hard when he does things like this.

“Kay’…,” you breathe. You smile warmly, holding the same hand and squeezing it. You almost want to cry as you pull away.

•

“I saw Grogu.”

Your head snaps to his direction. Mando looks forward with empty eyes. His thumb runs circles over the spout of the amber bottle in his hand.

You don’t remember exactly when this little ritual began. It just got comfortable enough between the two of you to share a drink together once in a while with his helmet removed. Usually, when it was after dark or behind closed doors. But these moments are held close to your chest. You felt honored to have earned his trust.

It’s past sunset. The burning orange sky now a hazy purple like smoke from a snuffed flame. You both sit back in the same garage on some crates arranged into some seats and a table. The “table” is littered with sabacc cards left behind by Peli and a few empty bottles of ale. The only source of light coming from a small metal fire pit. The fire crackles and pops as you and the Mandalorian sit side by side and talk.

After you cleaned up, you didn’t bother with your regular day clothes. Opting for comfort, since the day was over, you pulled on some soft shorts and a tank top. A warm wool blanket drapes over your shoulders and your bare toes dig into the sand.

“When?” Your voice is timid and low. It takes Mando a moment to answer. “‘Few months ago.” His voice doesn’t falter or waver. And, that’s what breaks your heart. Hiding his emotions has become a skill he’s perfected. A few months? Months he’s been keeping that inside?

“He didn’t see me,” he continues, taking another long swig of ale.

You search his eyes for an answer but his focus remains forward. As if locking eyes with you will crumble whatever wall he’s built to protect himself.

“Are you ok?” You regret your question almost instantly. Kind of an inconsiderate thing to say when the wound is open. How the fuck do you think? But he remains quiet. Probably still trying to figure out the answer for himself.

“What happened?” Your tone is hushed. You almost don’t want to ask him. You don’t want to overstep yourself. But it’s so clear that he’s been keeping something like this inside for far too long.

“In order to master his abilities, Jedi must forgo all attachment,” his words sound rehearsed, almost recited. “As much as I wanted to see him, I can’t ignore the fact that he’s safer with them.”

Your fingers grip around your bottle so tightly your knuckles almost turn white. He can’t think that’s true. It’s not.

“But, you love him,” you murmur. To you the words slip out so freely, it’s an easy equation. You don’t let go of the things you love. But he doesn’t turn. He doesn’t fight. His eyes just look down ahead of him.

“He’s better off.” Liar.

“No,” you blurt out, “That’s not true.” The words are out of your big mouth before you realize. And suddenly, you don’t give a shit about overstepping. You set your bottle on the crate and stand up in front of him, forcing him to face you.

“You are the one that saved him. You are the one who protected him. You were the only one that was there for him.” His eyes are blown wide as he watches you go off on your rant. “How can they take him and talk to you about attachment?” His fist clenches and his brows knot tightly.

“It was his choice, I can’t control-“

“Then they should give him that choice too. He’s just a child,” you plead. You don’t know why you’re so passionate about the subject. You have met neither Grogu nor any Jedi. But you have to believe that attachment isn't a weakness. You have to believe that Mando doesn’t think that.

“What about your creed? What about loyalty? You need. To go. Back.”

He bolts up. His figure looms over you with his chest puffed. You can practically see steam blow out his nostrils. His demeanor makes you freeze for a moment, but you’re stubborn. Finding your metal, you stand your ground.

“You don’t talk to me about my creed,” he snarls. His seething expression is something you hoped to never see. However unrealistic it may sound. But his eyes. His eyes betray him. You step closer to him as you continue to search into them, to beseech to him. He exhales sharply through his nose. His gloved hand rests on the base of your neck underneath the blanket still draped on your frame. Running his thumb on the side of your throat, like an apology.

“You are the last person I want to hurt,” his voice is low and hoarse and plunges through your chest like a knife. His jaw tenses, he tries to speak through his gritted teeth. “So, please… I need to do something right for once.” He’s at war with himself, it’s plain as day.

Calmly, your hands slowly lift up, resting your hands on his arm. His chest is still puffed but his temper diminishes. You let out a sigh that’s been stuck in your throat. You’re so tired. You have so many questions that you need answered and it’s impossible to ignore anymore.

“Then why are you here?” Am I still just your distraction? “Why do you come here and drink with me and touch me and… and…,” And leave. You release a shaky breath. “What are we doing, Mando?” Each word is more hushed than the last. Maker, you hate this. You hate feeling so vulnerable. Feeling your eyes sting, you bow your head down. Him seeing you cry just might kill you.

You give in and lean your forehead to his chest right above his cuirass. Feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. His fingers gently rub the back of your neck, the scent of his cape kisses your nose and you hate him. You really fucking hate him.

Mando exhales through his nose. You can feel the muscles in his arm tense just above his vambrace. For a while, all that’s heard in the air is the crackling of wood burning. After a few moments, he finally finds his words. “I just…need to protect you. I’ve lost my kid and my creed. I can’t lose you too.“

A ball lodges in your throat. Even after he pauses, you remain silent, waiting for him to continue. He’s always been so serious and you’d normally make fun of him for it. But you’ve never seen him so earnest.

“I’m a selfish man ,” he goes on, “And you deserve more. And If I’m not good enough for the kid then-“

“Stop,” you cut him off. It takes every bit of strength inside you to pull away from him but you do. His gloved hand moves to cup your jaw and your hand caresses the sliver of skin exposed underneath.

“You make it sound like everything is already decided,” the words spill freely from your lips and you’re not stopping, you can’t.

“I know you’re hurting. But I also know you don’t believe that being attached is a weakness. It’s not in your nature. It hurts because you’re important to each other. And you’re both going to wonder what could’ve been for the rest of your lives. You need to talk to him. Or it’ll be your biggest regret.”

And then it hits you like a fucking gut punch.

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

His warm brown eyes are locked on to yours. Your neck cranes to match his attention and you’re completely frozen. His hand stalls beneath your jaw and you’re practically chest to chest. Your words were so blurred and you realize now that you hadn’t said Grogu’s name at all during your little speech. You really were speaking from the heart. His eyes grow wider with the realization. Are you talking to him or yourself?

Your cheeks are flushed red and your mouth is open before you can think. “For Grogu!” You stammer, the last thing you want him to think is that you’ve completely forgotten about his son. “You need to talk to Grogu! I mean if you think… if you feel like that with… I just want you to know that-“

Mando cuts you off mid sentence. It’s so quick that your mind takes a second to catch up. But without warning, his lips crash onto yours and it’s bliss. It’s gentle and warm and everything you’ve been craving since he first walked into your life. You melt under him and he cradles your head with both hands like you might slip through his fingers. You give in and move your lips against his. He tastes so fucking good. You can even taste the ale he was just drinking. Your lips meld and mix perfectly together, moving in perfect unison. And you absolutely adore the way his stubble scratches your skin. His lips pull away with a pop and your breath is completely taken away. He rests his forehead on yours, catching his own breath. The loose curls of his hair tickle your skin.

“You’re fucking irresistible when you ramble like that,” he huffs, his voice turned low and raspy and it sends a shiver up your spine. His words make you so weak and you can’t handle it anymore. And the spark burns into an inferno.

Your arms snake their way up his chest and around his neck, effectively pulling him down to you. Your lips meet again with fervor as the wool blanket on your shoulders drops to the floor. His hands leave you and you whine into his open mouth. He desperately removes his gloves and tosses them to where the drinks stand forgotten on the table. His bare hands glide underneath the hem of your tank top and grip onto the flesh of your waist. The sensation makes you both groan. His tongue licks the seam of your lips, asking for permission. You welcome him and if you thought he tasted good before, you’re about to eat him alive now. He kisses you like he’s fucking starved to taste you.

He leaves a trail of wet kisses down your jaw and lands on the plains of your neck. Gently sucking and nipping at the sensitive area as his hands knead your waist. Heat pools between your legs and all you can do is surrender yourself to him.

“You took so long,” you mewl. You thread your fingers through his soft curls and fist his hair when he pinches the skin of your neck between his teeth, he hisses at the feeling.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs between kisses, “I’ll make it up to you.” His voice rumbles through your entire being. You can feel his grin against your skin and suddenly you feel like you're in danger. In the best possible way.

He bends down, his hands run below the curve of your ass, and scoops you up by your thighs with ease, you gasp in surprise. Instinctually, you wrap your legs around his hips crossing your ankles at his lower back. You laugh against his lips as he takes his seat back on the crate. Without breaking away from the kiss, he hooks his hand under the bend of your knee, positioning you to straddle his beskar clad thigh. You hiss at the cold contact between your legs even through your shorts. You’re about to ask what it is he wants exactly until Mando’s strong hands grab handfuls of your ass with a good squeeze. And you can’t even form thoughts in your head let alone remember your question.

Then everything slows to a crawl. And you’re drunk in each other’s presence. Your eyelids are heavy with lust. And his gaze is fixed on your flushed face. He’s completely silent aside from his heavy breaths through his slightly open lips. Gods, his lips. They’re plush and raw from kissing you. Your hands tangle through his dark hair. A bit shaggy and long and so soft you could get lost in it for hours. He presses a soft slow kiss to your lips and you’re drowsy with affection.

“You look so beautiful right now, you know that?” His breath brushes on your cheeks. Something inside you shatters. Maybe it’s your pride. Or maybe it’s the wall you built to protect yourself from being hurt. But you crumble above him. Not even able to look him in the eyes as your cheeks burn red. ‘Beautiful’ isn’t something you’ve been called since… you can’t even remember when. One of your hands leaves his shoulder to cover your face from your cheeks to your ears and your eyes turn away.

“What?,” he asks softly. A slight amusement laces his voice. “You’re so shy now, when you just told me off a minute ago?” He murmurs against your ears and you continue to fall apart. Gently, he takes his hand and places it on top of the one that rests on your face, guiding it back to face him directly.

“Don’t look away, pretty girl,” you melt hearing his little nickname for you, the same words he said that late night when you couldn’t keep your eyes off each other.

“Please,” you whisper. You’re not sure what you're asking for exactly. Maybe just an end to your misery. Your pupils are blown wide underneath your heavy lashes and your head is foggy. You need him.

“Please what?” His voice is gruff. He presses delicate wet kisses along your jaw. You turn to kiss his mouth but he pulls away just before you reach him and you whine in protest. Your hands cradle the sides of his neck as he continues. And he breathes out your name against your hot skin.

“Please, Mando-“

“Din”

Your entire body stills. You’re silent, waiting for another response but it doesn’t come. Gliding your thumb along the line of his jaw, your mouth opens to speak but nothing comes. Is that…is that his name?

“Din?” You sigh, tasting the word in your mouth and your heart swells. He’s giving you his name. Earning another piece of him, like when he removed his helmet to you the first time. You repeat it, getting used to the feeling, and his chest puffs with pride. His hands flex tightly at your hips. He likes when you say it.

“Fuck,” he grits through his teeth, his large frame cages you in and you feel like you’re being enveloped in him. Your hips buck forward, whimpering at the friction of your pulsing clit against his thigh. “Tell me what you want,” he urges.

“Keep touching me,” you choke out. Rolling your hips again, you find relief only for a moment before you’re aching for more. The metal beneath now warmed from your heat. “Anywhere.” He doesn’t hesitate to oblige.

His left arm wraps around your hips, urging you to tilt back slightly. With his right, he yanks the bottom of your shirt up to your collarbone, exposing your breasts. Taking one in his hand, Din squeezes and pulls until you're writhing above him. Running his thumb over your pebbled nipples. You moan at the sensation and you can’t stop yourself from slowly grinding against his holy armor. Gripping his shoulders to hold you steady against him.

“Don’t stop,” he pants, “Take what you want, pretty girl.” He even matches the pace of your hips with his kneading. Perfectly content watching you chase your pleasure. Fuck, If anyone walked in this hangar right now…

He takes your mouth again, biting and licking as you pant for air. The arm around your waist pushes and pulls to your rhythm, encouraging you to move faster and harder. Your shorts are soaked through, since you didn’t opt for underwear after your shower, and you practically glide on top of him with how slick you are. He swipes his thumb over your peaks again and again until you feel your orgasm cresting deep inside you.

Out of nowhere, Din bounces his leg, making you bounce along with the movement and the beskar presses hard against your clit. Your breath is caught in your throat and stars fill your vision from the over sensitivity. You gasp against his mouth and he just smiles, feeling so fucking proud of himself. Bastard.

“Do that again,” you pant. He’s quick to respond, bouncing his leg harder this time and watching shamelessly at the way your tits bounce along. “Again,” you moan. And you both reach a rhythm of bouncing and grinding that sends you into a frenzy.

“Din… Din, please…,” you beg and cry his name over and over and he’s desperate to keep drawing those pretty noises from you. He dives down, taking your breast in his hot mouth and you sob. Sucking and flicking your pert nipples with his tongue. Groaning at the sweet taste of your sweat and the smell of your soap. The sight alone is about to send you over the edge. Your hips falter, you’re desperate for release. It’s right there, right there, right there…

“Oh fuck…fuck,” you cry out, white hot heat washes over your body as you cum hard, making a mess on top of him. A shrill moan escapes from deep within you and echoes in the garage. You plunge your face into the crook of his neck, moaning into his cape as you ride out the remnants of your orgasm. You’re both spent, breathing heavily into each other in tempo. He rubs your bare back as you come down your high, dragging his nails lightly across your skin and you melt at the gesture.

He drags his hand up to the base of your neck and threads his fingers through your hair. You hum in delight, loving the slow paced caresses after such an intense climax. You want to return the attention. With your head laying on Din’s shoulder, you reach between the two of you, grazing your hand down his cuirass slowly until you reach his groin. He’s painfully hard from just from watching you fuck his thigh. You palm him over his flight suit and he twitches beneath your hand, letting out a deep, throaty moan. You instantly smile, wanting to hear him more so you give him a firm squeeze and his hips buck against you.

He groans your name into your shoulder, pulling you impossibly close. “I need you.”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe, pressing sweet pecks along his jawline.

“Where’s your bed,” he growls against your ear and you shiver. You quickly give him a peck on the cheek as you try to rise to your feet. Wobbling a little bit before standing up straight, adjusting your shirt and shorts. You catch a glimpse of him right before he stands and your mouth fucking waters at the sight of his cock imprinted on his pants. The length of him reaching damn near his mid-thigh. You did that.

It’s the longest walk of your life making your way across the hangar. You're buzzing with anticipation, and he hasn’t even taken his hands off you the entire time. Going past the little office and the common area, you finally come to your room. The only privacy being two cloth curtains that drape to the floor. You’re pushed inside and he’s back on you. Kissing you within an inch of your life, running his hands up and down your body. You respond in kind.

The room is lit only from a few hangar lights that filter in from a small window facing outside. Some crates and parts are scattered along the walls of what was originally a storage room. But you’ve made it your own. The evidence of your personality everywhere, adorning the walls and few pieces of furniture with different objects of interest and curiosities. Both you make your way to the bed that rests against the far wall by the head.

Kissing along his jawline, your fingers tug on his cuirass. You look up at him with doe eyes, asking for permission. He nods, taking your hands and resting them on the beskar, guiding you where to detach them. He briefly asks if you’re safe and you nod in return without hesitation. You take your time removing each piece of armor and setting them gently on a chair adjacent to the bed. Laying them down with respect one by one, then his cape until just his flight suit remains.

As much as he appreciates the sentiment, Din is all too eager to taste you again. His hands find the bend of your knees and swiftly pull back, making you fall flat on your back upon the bed. Kicking off his boots, he’s on top of you in an instant. It’s chaos trying to remove each other’s clothes. With each piece thrown aside without care, kissing and licking the exposed skin until you’re both bare.

He slips his hand between your legs as he flicks his tongue with yours, gliding his middle fingers along the seam of your wet heat. You’re spiraling underneath him. You cry out when the pads of his fingers press slow circles on your puffy clit. He groans at how slick you feel on his hand. “Fuck,” he grits out, “You’re pretty everywhere.” His pace is slow but steady and you’re fucking dying to be filled with him already.

“Always wanted you like this,” he confesses. He plunges his thick fingers into your needy cunt until his knuckles brush your entrance, curling his fingers expertly against your walls and all you can do is fist the sheets and cry his name like a prayer. Your eyes close shut and your brow furrows tightly. “Wanted to bend you over that speeder when I saw you. Looking fucking beautiful with all that grease on you.” His length is pressed hard against the side of your hips, trying not to buck but he can’t help himself whenever you say his name.

The sheets aren’t enough to hold onto. You’re desperate to cling onto something, anything. Your hands fly to his back, strong and muscular and ripe for scratching. You dig in your fingers and drag your nails harshly down to his lower back and then press a long sweet kiss upon his shoulder. A raw guttural moan leaves his throat and he thrusts hard against your hip before he can stop it, completely floored by the duality of your actions.

“Please,” you whine, your voice is so hoarse it almost hurts to speak. “I need to feel you. I need it.” You’re so fucking hungry for him, you’ve waited so long for this, to be as close as possible with him. He leaves your heat and grabs your legs with both hands. Ripping your knees apart wider, he positions himself over you and his cock finds your entrance like a fucking magnet. He plunges into you and you both groan low and loud, throwing your head back in ecstasy as he splits you in two.

“Fuck- Din!” you cry out.

“I got you… I got you,” he voice falters as he huffs your name against your ear. “You feel so good.”

He stretches your walls impossibly but you have a vice grip on him that sends him spiraling. Every muscle in his body feels tight as he tries not to spill everything he has inside you right now. He rocks shallow thrusts into you until he’s buried inside you to the hilt. Gods, there’s more?

You lock your ankles together at the small of his back, nudging him to move. Pressing little wet kisses along your jaw and up to your mouth, he kisses you deeply as he pulls out to the tip and thrusts back in completely. You gasp against his lips but he cuts it off with another heated kiss. You feel so full of him as sets a pace, he bottoms out with each thrust. You’re definitely going to be sore tomorrow and you can’t wait.

His arms cage you in, propping himself above you by his elbows. He picks up the pace and your eyes roll back as they shut tightly. Everything about him is so intense, so all consuming, like everything could be gone in the next moment. The way he kisses you, the way he moans your name, and now the way he fucks you. It’s more than flirtation and distraction now. You need him. You need him like fucking air. And he needs you.

“Take me so good,” he growls in between thrusts, hammering into you now. “Such a good girl for me.” Oh, you love that. You love that a lot. You moan at his praises, begging for more. Your nails scratch down his back to provoke him and he nearly collapses on top of you with how it makes his whole being tremble. Back scratching, noted.

“You like that?” You love to tease him. Even though he’s the one in control, you feel a power trip knowing what makes him fall apart. His head dips to your shoulder, and suddenly you feel like you’ve awoken a sleeping beast. He groans low like he’s angry and you know you fucked up.

He snakes his hand down to the bend of your knee, hooking under with a grip so tight it digs into your flesh. He slowly hikes your leg higher and higher until you’re folded. Pinning your leg to your side, he slams back into your cunt to the hilt, hitting that devastating spot deep inside you. Your sharp gasp devolves into a moan and you’ve learned your lesson. Your shocked expression makes him chuckle and you’re tempted to provoke him again.

He kicks up a crushing pace as he starts fucking you hard into the bed. Pounding into your hips relentlessly as the room is filled with the sound of your bodies coming together. He keeps hitting that spot perfectly inside and you can feel yourself about to fall off the edge again. “Right there,” you sob, “Don’t stop.” You can barely form the words that spill from your lips and brush against his cheek. He drives into you with everything he’s got and all you can do is cry out his name.

“Din…Din…Din-“, you topple over. Throwing your head back on the pillow, your nails dig half moons into his back as your orgasm wracks through your entire body, running over you like warm water on your skin. He chokes out your name. Feeling you squeeze around his cock he sucks in air through his teeth. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes are shut and his brow is knotted tightly. His hips stutter and his thrusts become shallow as he digs deeper and deeper until he groans loudly, spilling into your wet heat, gritting out curses as he pulses inside you and exhaustion sets in.

He releases your knee and you’re both utterly spent. Collapsing into each other and panting into the hot air, tangled together. Silence settles around you and there’s nothing else that exists outside this room. He lazily wipes the damp hair from your face and you’re not entirely sure if it’s from sweat or tears. Fuck, that was good. How you wish your first time would’ve felt. And yet, everything about him feels like a first for you.

He presses gentle kisses along your neck and cheek. Even after all that, he still makes you feel so soft. You’re moved by his tenderness as much as you’re moved by his savagery. You return the affection by running your fingers through his hair, slightly damp from sweat.

Your eyelids are heavy and you’re so close to sleep when Din cradles your cheek in his hand, bringing you in closer. “Come with me.” His lips press a chaste kiss on your temple.

“Hmm?” You’re almost too tired for words right now.

“Come with me,” he repeats. “There’s something I have to do first but… you were right. I need to see him again.” His hushed tone speaks volumes and you try to fight your drowsiness to listen.

You smile at the notion. Meet Grogu? Possibly bring him back? You might be getting ahead of yourself there but you’re so touched by his offer. He wants you to meet his son. How could you say no to that? You already know the answer.

“How would I fit in the ship,” you whisper.

He smiles against your skin. “Just like the last time,” he quips.

The memory floods your mind. The way you wrapped your arms around him, the way his hands grazed your throat. You grin and turn to rest your forehead against his. A content sigh escapes through your nose. And then his hand wraps around your wrist. He gently guides your hand upward and lays your palm against his chest. Feeling his heart beat so hard like it’s about to burst.

“Please,” he breathes.

Oh, you do like it when he says please.

gif from @carricfisher

paring: din djarin x f!reader

word count: 6.24k

rating: m (minors dni)

song inspo: speed by kali uchis

summary: the only other thing being built up besides mando’s new ship is the tension between the two of you. inspired by tbobf episode 5.

warnings: mega flirting, touching/teasing, language, slight competency kink, some fluffy parts, that’s all I can think of right now but let me know

authors note: the way tbobf ep 5 is my whole personality now lol. the view of the camera when mando’s in the cockpit is literally the inspo for this oneshot like it had me blushing. bryce knows what she’s doing

“So, remind me again why you made me haul this pile of junk, in the hot sun, all the way here?” You huff as you wipe the sweat from your brow. 

“I told you already, girl,” Peli hollers from the other end of the hanger. “I’m making good on a promise for a long term customer!” 

She strides towards you and the hovering docking pallet holding what’s left of maybe a ship. You’ve seen a lot of flying death traps in your months working with Peli as “executive senior assistant” she calls you. But this? An N-1 Starfighter? A rare find, but It’s already decades old, missing more than half of its guts, not to mention the beating sands of the Dune Sea did the chassis no favors. At this point, it’s scrap metal.

“Yeah, I couldn’t remember. Everything’s a little fuzzy from the heat stroke,” you half-joke. The docking pallet lowers, dropping the ship remains in the shaded garage with a loud thud as loose parts and sheets of metal tumble to the ground. A plume of dust and sand fills the space.

“Ah, quit your whining!  You obviously can’t see the potential this little honey has. That’s the problem with you young people, can’t see the treasure in the trash.” She points her finger at you, emphasizing her criticism. And maybe you would’ve been a little sour about it if she didn’t hand you a cold canteen of water at the same time.

You watch her as she paces around the relic, running her fingers over the seams of the panels, inspecting the ship with her “uh huhs” and “yups”. It’s entertaining, watching the gears turn in her head when she’s met with a challenge. She stops at your side and places her hands on her hips proudly. “That bucket head is gonna love this little bird.”

“The Mandalorian? I thought he’s used to a gunship. He’s not gonna bother with this.” He was very specific of what he wanted in his initial message.

“You’ve never met him before,” she counters. “He’s a stubborn bastard but I know how to get through that thick helmet of his. And plus-“ she slaps your back a few times hard and you almost choke on the water. “Doesn’t hurt to have a little more experience under your belt.” She walks across the hanger to her office, mumbling something about sending a reply message. 

You’re left in front of the antique. The dust settles slowly as the light beams through the shades of the garage, giving the ship a warm glow. You definitely have your work cut out for you with this project. But you’re confident in your skills. You take another long swig from the canteen and release a deep exhale.

“He better pay well…”

•

When he arrives, he’s nothing like you expected.

You watch from afar as Mando argues with Peli about the ship, trying to decipher his character. They bicker like the oldest of friends and it oddly makes him seem more approachable. He occasionally glances to you from across the garage, probably trying to figure out the same for you. You’re surprised when Peli asks him the help build the ship he didn’t even want. Shocked when he agrees to. He’s surprisingly respectful. In a silent, stoic way. In fact, the only thing intimidating about him is his armor and the blaster strapped to his hip.

An hour later, the entire floor of the garage is covered in the guts of the ship. You’re hopping over parts, trying to keep your balance with the heavy tool box under your arm as you make your way to Mando. You find him under the belly of the ship, arms deep inside the chassis, arguing with the little BD droid. 

“I wouldn’t hold it against him,” you say. You drop the tool box on the floor and it lands with a puff of dust and sand, sending the little droid to scurry away. Crouching down, you meet the Mandalorian face to…well, visor. “BD has the attention span of a sand fly.” In an attempt to be friendly, you give him a small warm smile. Mando’s hands stop dead in their tracks when he sees you. His visor is inky black, no way to read his expression. He doesn’t respond right away though. His gaze is fixed on you. And it sends a shiver up your spine and color to your cheeks. You try to recollect yourself by clearing your throat and breaking the silence.

“Need some help?” You let out the breath you’ve been holding and try to seem collected. That seems to break his concentration. He turns his attention back to his task and finally responds. “Yes, I… could use a steady light.” His voice is low and gruff, it echos in your ears wonderfully. Oh, you really like that. So you oblige him.

“Scoot,” you request. You lay on the sand and shuffle underneath the ship and Mando doesn’t hesitate to make room for you. You slide until your shoulders meet his and grab the flash light from your belt. “Here?” You point the light to where you think he’s working. Without a word, he gently wraps his hand around your wrist holding the light and guides you to his desired spot. And all too soon, his soft leather gloves leave, your skin missing the warm contact. “Right here, thank you.” His voice is right next to your ears and your mind is fuzzy. You can feel how warm your cheeks are. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to notice. 

A comfortable silence settles between the two of you as he continues his task. You watch as he pulls more parts from the chassis and tosses them around the garage floor. Occasionally watching the muscles in his arms flex under the duraweave material when ripping out particularly stubborn pieces. After a few minutes, Mando is the one to break the silence first.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” he says simply, his focus still above him. You didn’t take him as the type for small talk. But his serious nature is tempting to tease.

“I don’t think I gave it,” you quip. Your words make him let out a small laugh and you try to imagine what kind of smile he has underneath the helmet. The thought alone makes your own lips curl upwards.

“Well,” he continues, “it’s not everyday you see a mechanic in Mos Eisley so young.” He leans to the side to grab a wrench and tinker with something deep inside the belly. 

“I’ve been working on anything with an engine since I could hold a servodriver. So, I think I can hold my own. And you should-'' you gently take the wrench from his hand. Leaving it aside, you reach into your tool box for a spanner wrench and gesture for him to take it. “This is better for what you want to do.” He looks at the spanner wrench, then back at you before taking it from your hands nodding a ‘thank you’ before working again.

“Not one so pretty either.”

Did he just…? You stiffen. You’re wondering if he really said what he just said and the color returns to your cheeks. He’s barely said two sentences to you and yet his voice makes your head spin. Honestly, damn him for making you this flustered. He’s just a man. With his dumb raspy voice and stupid strong arms.

“Peli didn’t mention how chatty you are,” you quip again. 

“So… What did she tell you then?,” he asks. His words sound slightly ambiguous. Almost as if he’s actually asking what your impression of him is through that question. Why would he care what others think of him? His behavior is continually unexpected from what you’ve been told from the stories. Well, who are you to withhold.

You sigh through your nose. Still holding the light steady, you lean slightly to the side, your torso facing him. “She told me you were a real son of a bitch.” With that, he stalls. He slowly turns to face you but your eyes remain upward. “That you’re stubborn and hard headed. Not to mention reckless… But that you also saved her life once. And that you pay well.” You finally turn to face him and he’s somehow only inches from your face. You have a gut feeling you’re meeting his eyes. “You know, good things.”

That last part actually makes him turn away and chuckle. A warm raspy laugh, like music to your ears. And knowing it was a result of your words lights a spark in your gut. His hands start their work again.

“Can’t say she’s wrong,” he acknowledges.

What does that mean? Your curiosity is persistent.

“Wh-“

“Great news!

You gasp at Peli’s sudden intrusion and lurch forward resulting in you head making hard contact with a thick metal beam. You groan as you lie back down against the sand cradling your head, muttering curses under your breath. So much for keeping your cool. Mando drops the wrench and leans over you, resting a warm glove on your shoulder. He says something along the lines of “you ok?” But you can’t really hear him over Peli yelling

“I found you a turbonic venturi power assimilator. You’re gonna be the fastest ship in the outer rim!” As she strides in the garage with the hover pallet carrying the part, loud as thunder you both crawl out from beneath the ship.

“Dank Farrik, do you have to barge in so loud like that,” you snapped, still rubbing the sore spot on your head. “Gotta keep you on your toes girl,’ she hollers, “Consider it part of your training.”

Mando and Peli talk shop with the Jawas. Listing parts and discussing payment. You busy yourself trying to organize the parts laid around the floor. It gives you time to think about everything Mando has said to you thus far. Piecing together what kind of man he is. Did he really say…?

Peli heads towards the adjacent garage for her own tools, leaving you with the Mandalorian. He stands in front of the nose of the ship, hands on his hip, surveying the remains. His broad figure illuminated from the fragments of light peeking through the tarp shades above. Everything about his form suggests strength and hostility, from his dark silver armor to the many weapons on his person. And yet, you find yourself approaching him unafraid. You stand next to him also facing the ship. Just bones and potential. 

“This is gonna take all night,” he groans. You nod in agreement. At the very least until tomorrow afternoon. 

“I’m gonna start the kaf pot.” You release a heavy sigh as you turn on your heels and head towards the opposite end of the hanger. But before you’re completely outside the garage, he speaks.

“I still didn’t catch your name.” 

You stop in your tracks. He’s persistent, that much is for sure. However, you get the feeling that he’s used to getting what he wants, largely due to his reputation as both warrior and hunter. But you’re more than keen to keep playing this little game. You turn your torso slightly enough to look over your shoulder to him. He’s entirely facing you with arms dropped to his sides, waiting for your answer.

“I still haven’t given it,” you toy.

“That’s how it’s gonna be?”

You’re eyes float up and down his figure. A small part of you relishes in the attention.

“For now.” With that, you continue your stride. And something about knowing he’s watching you makes your hips sway a little more.

“For now,” he repeats under his breath.

•

The rest of the day is spent solely on the ship. Replacing parts, sanding down the yellow finish, and working on the twin radial engines. You spend most of your time in the cockpit working on the wiring and dashboard. And frequently shooing away scurriers. You’re popping in and out, going back and forth around the garage for tools and ropes of wires, trying to keep yourself busy. 

Occasionally, you catch the glances from Mando watching you work while doing his own tasks. And you’re pretty sure he’s caught yours as well. He decides to do most of the heavy lifting, securing the heavy panels onto the chassis. His grunts and pants flow freely through his modulator, blessing your ears. It almost has you leaving the garage entirely to try to hide how worked up you are. 

Peli is in her own world for the most part. This is something of a dream project for her. But she’s no fool not to notice the way Mando and you have been stealing glimpses of each other. Even going as far as winking at you. To which you quickly turn your attention back to the dashboard and ignore her completely. 

It’s well into the night now. The air is brisk and the garage is lit only by a few industrial lights scattered on the floor. Everyone, even the droids, are scattered around doing separate tasks. Leaning back in the pilot’s seat, you rub your palms over your tired eyes in frustration. 

“If I have to replace this motivator one more time, I’m gonna lose it,” you groan.

“That’s it,” Peli adds, “I’m bringing the kaf pot over here. We’ll never finish at this rate.” Removing her welding helmet, Peli lets it drop unceremoniously to the floor as she starts to walk to her little office across the way, dragging her feet sluggishly.

You hop out of the cockpit and land flat on your feet beside the Starfighter, knees buckling from lack of use. You close your eyes as you stretch your arms upward and arch your back, savoring the relief that racks through your body after hours of sitting in the tight space. As you do, the hem of your tank top rises, exposing the skin of your abdomen to the cold desert air. 

You don’t notice right away, you don’t even mean to look in his direction. But when you open your eyes, they lock on to the Mandalorian’s black visor just barely pointed towards you. It seems he was pacing around the ship, checking the seams of the panels when he stopped in his tracks to catch a glimpse of your bare, soft midriff. His subtle glance makes the spark in your gut return and you have no intentions to extinguish it. As soon as you catch him, he turns his attention back to the chrome finish and continues pacing. You look away and smile to yourself, feeling slightly bashful. 

Dropping your arms to your sides, you begin your own pace around the ship, inspecting the handywork. It’s actually looking like a Starfighter now and not a pile of scrap metal. You run the pads of your fingers over the yellow markings left behind to complement the chrome. As you drift around the ship, you try to think of something to spark a conversation.

“Your ship’s coming along nicely,” you decide to say. “Should be done by morning, if we can all stay awake that is.” You try to joke with him, keeping your words light. Hoping to get another gruff laugh out of him.

He continues checking the chrome panels, making sure they’re secure and air tight. “It is,” he glances just slightly to meet your doe eyes. “I appreciate your help, I’m sorry to keep you up so late.”

He leans back against the ship crossing his arms over his chest. You catch up to him, deciding to lean against the adobe wall opposite of him, crossing your arms as well. You make sure he’s looking at you when you speak.

“No, you’re not.” 

A few moments pass in silence. He’s completely still as he looks at you and you look at him. You can even hear the sound of the wind as it sweeps over the crater of the hanger. Mando drops his arms to his side, looping his thumbs through his belt. He tilts his helmet to the side and you’re buzzing with anticipation.

“No,” he repeats, “I’m not.”

You could blame the goosebumps across your skin on the cold night air. But you’d be lying to yourself. You chuckle lightly at his answer. And inside, that spark is trying to burn it’s way out. You put one foot in front of the other, slowly until you’re standing directly in front of him. Even leaning back, he’s almost a full head taller than you. Your eyes drift lower to his cuirass, admiring how it frames handsomely over his broad chest, rising and falling with each breath. 

“You seem distracted,” he murmurs.

Caught. Although, it’s not like you were trying hard to hide your interest. “That’s funny,” you tease, “I was going to say the same thing about you.” Your doe eyes float back to his visor and you could swear you heard his breath falter through the helmet. Your own breath is caught in your throat as he wraps a gloved hand tenderly around your wrist. He pulls you by the hand towards him until your legs are practically between his. He lays your palm flat against his cuirass and your knees almost buckle. 

“What makes you think I’m distracted?” His voice is like honey, thick and dripping with temptation. Finally unveiling your mutual pining. His warm hand holds yours in place and you melt at his gesture. He’s so close. His tenderness makes you warm all over.

You chew over your answer for a few seconds. But you’re compelled to match his sincerity. Your fingers run over the lines of his cuirass, you reply just above a whisper. “You seem…sad.” You peer into the visor, hopefully meeting his eyes. “You seem like… you can’t sleep. Like you need to keep yourself busy.”

Mando is completely still beneath your palm. Moments pass by and he still hasn’t said a word. His period of silence seemingly lasts forever, making you second guess your words. You’ve decided to dive into deep waters, forgoing your more flirtatious mood. You barely know him. Why would you say that? But honestly? You’ve noticed it since your initial encounter. And while you have no intentions to uncover his life story, it’s plain as day that he carries himself like the weight of the galaxy rests on his shoulders.

His visor still remains fixed on you. You feel completely exposed to him and it makes your chest feel tight. You can’t bear to hold his gaze any longer. Feeling embarrassed, you’re eyes drift to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have presumed…” You’re about to leave him completely. Before you even get the chance to lift your hand, his own hand keeps it in place and rubs his thumb over your skin. A small gesture signifying that you didn’t overstep yourself. He stands up straight and you have to crane your neck to meet his gaze. 

“A lot has changed for me recently,” he begins. “I’m… still not used to it.” He doesn’t have to do this. He doesn’t owe you an explanation. “Coming back here is something familiar to me.”

Even though you don’t know his story, you understand. You know that feeling, being reluctant to change. It’s why you’ve remained on Tatooine for so long. When the world you were so comfortable with shatters, you cling to whatever pieces you can. You’re moved by his honesty. In a strange way, you feel obligated to comfort him. To keep his mind occupied from his own burdens, if only for a little while. You absentmindedly chew on your lower lip, thinking over your next words.

“How can I help, Mando,” you ask. Hearing you say his ‘name’ like that puffs his chest with pride. You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his body radiate off of him. Any closer and your breath would be fogging his visor. Taking your hand in his, he looks down upon it as he runs his thumb over your knuckles.

“You already are,” he confesses.

His words make you melt completely under his touch. You savor each stroke of soft leather over your bare skin, never looking away from him. As if you’re afraid this moment will vanish into thin air. It’s exhilarating. You feel your own chest rising and falling deeply with heavy breaths, yearning for his voice again.

“You’re… very skilled with your hands,” he breathes. You hum in delight. His other hand abandons his belt. With his index finger, he lightly lifts the hem of your shirt, ghosting his knuckle over the bare skin of your abdomen. There’s no hiding the shiver of your body and the little gasp caught in your throat. Pleased with your reaction, he continues to run circles slowly over your tummy. “I like that about you,” he finishes, his voice is dark and heavy.

Your cheeks begin to burn, it’s all too much to handle. You try to look away to preserve what’s left of your dignity. A sheepish grin crosses your face. “Maker,” you exhale, “you can’t just say things like that, Mando. You’re gonna give a girl the wrong idea.” Before you even finish your sentence, his hand leaves your tummy, taking your chin between his thumb and forefingers, pulling your attention directly back to him. You can see your eyes in his reflection, your pupils blown wide.

“Please don’t look away,” he mutters, his thumb caresses your chin, his grip is gentle but firm, keeping your eyes fixed on him and only him, “pretty girl.”

Oh, you do like it when he says please.

Time isn’t of any consequence to either of you right now. You feel the rise and fall of his chest, and you find yourself matching his rhythm. And with every passing breath you’re closer and closer until you’re pressed together. Your hips brush his and heat pools between your legs. His helmet leans so close you feel the cold helmet against your burning ears

“Tell me your name” he huffs. Maker, you could hear him talk for days. They way he’s leaning over you has your face hovering over where his neck meets his shoulder and mentally curse the material of his cape for covering over such a glorious spot. Although, when you breathe in, the smells of gun smoke and musk wafts into your nostrils and you fucking ache inside.

“Will you tell me yours?,” you purr.

You know the answer. You both know. Earn it. You almost say it out loud. You want him to keep asking, keep toying, keep pretending like he has the upper hand. A bounty hunter like him is probably used to people giving him what he wants or him being able to overpower them until he takes it. But this small thing, he can’t have. Not yet anyway. 

As if the universe is against you, the moment comes to an abrupt end when you hear heavy footfalls approaching the garage. 

“Alright! Now, we’re in business.” Peli marches in the garage, kaf maker in her arms and the little pit droids step in line behind her.

You both sigh in disappointment, reluctantly releasing each other. “Back to work,” you whisper. Your eyes roam his figure before turning to walk towards Peli setting up the machine. Leaving him to watch you from behind, leaning back against the ship. 

Immediately, your body craves his warmth again as a gust of wind blows through the hangar. It’s gonna be a long night, and you hope some warm kaf will help mitigate your fatigue and frustration. And maybe there will be another chance to “distract” him later.

•

It’s done. It’s finally kriffing done.

It’s been quite a while since you’ve pulled an all-nighter. Your entire body aches and your mind is running on empty. You’re ready to collapse on the nearest horizontal surface and pass out. But it’s all worth it to see that beautiful N1- Starfighter being pulled out into the hangar. Your chest swells with pride when she’s parked in front of the three of you.

None of you can resist keeping your hands off the ship. You had your doubts, almost quitting at some points through the night. But damn, does she look good. The rough yellow markings contrast beautifully over the silver finish. You, Mando, and Peli are all pacing around the ship, admiring the sleek lines and the muscle of the engines. But Mando is especially taken by the bird. Completely silent, admiring the craftsmanship. You can’t help but watch him, like you’re witnessing a private moment.

“You think she’s ready?”

“Ready as she’ll ever be,” she answers. “Start her up.”

“Really?” You bite your bottom lip to hold back your grin at the way his helmet snaps quickly in her direction.

“Yeah, start her up! Take a test run, I’ll be on the comlink.” She starts towards her office and you have every intention to join her and listen to his test drive through the coms. Until you feel that soft glove wrapping around your wrist, stopping you from taking another step. You turn to face him with a puzzled look on your face.

“Join me,” he insists.

Your eyes grow wide. Did you hear him right? He wants you to fly with him? “D-do we even fit in there?” You glance at the cockpit and him a few times, wondering how that would even work. He pulls you in closer by your wrists as he towers over you. 

“We fit,” his baritone voice reverberates through you. Heat licks it’s way up your spine. 

“Mando, I-“

“It…would honor me.” 

‘It would honor me’ you repeat in your thoughts. His words make your demeanor soften, your eyes become glassy. It would honor him. Something so simple, so regular in your line of work holds such significance to him. Or perhaps, it’s the fact that it’s you that makes it significant to him. A spark lights inside your gut just thinking about giving him the “honor” of… well anything. And at the same time, it makes you turn your gaze away from him and your lips can’t help but smile. So serious, you think. He sounds like some kind of knight. Such a stark contrast to your world. It’s… sweet.

“You first, shiny,” you nod in the direction of the cockpit. He’s more than happy to pull you in the same direction.

Mando climbs the side of the ship and drops down into the pilot’s seat, spreading his legs as far as he can. As you try to descend, you grip his shoulder for balance, placing one leg between his and then the other as you take your seat upon his lap. Your arms are held close against your chest as he attempts to start the engines. It sputters, wanting to turn over but not quite there yet. You hear him sigh, “it’s not turning over.” 

“Give her a little more juice,” you say, you flip various switches and you press the ignition one more time. This time, the twin radial engines sputter then burst into ignition. Bright hot flames burn blue from the engines and the entire ship rumbles with that glorious revving. Music to your ears. 

“That’s a lot of engine for a little ship,” he says. Ever the practical one.

Peli answers on the intercom with a crackle. “Yeah? Well, see what she can do!”

The windshield closes above you with a hiss. As he ascends above the hangar , the whirring of engines gets higher and higher, like she wants to burst with the surging energy. He engages the forward drive and your off.

“She handles a little bumpy.”

The coms crackle. “You’re used to a Gunship. But she’s a Starfighter, so fly her like one.”

“Ok, I’ll open her up.”

He flips a few more switches. Curiously, he decides to also switch off the coms, leaving you two completely on your own. “You’re gonna want to hang on to something,” he warns. It’s already a tight fit, there’s not much to hang on to inside the cockpit. So you take this as an opportunity to wrap your arms around his neck, and that smell of gun smoke and musk makes your composure waver.

“This ok?” You ask.

He hums with satisfaction. “Perfect.”

He pushes to control forward and you lurch backward into him with a sharp gasp.  The ship speeds past the city in all of three seconds, and he’s already reached the red canyon mountains in six. 

“Dank Farrik, she’s fast.” He’s bobbing and weaving between the towers with sharp turns and you can’t contain the laughter that bubbles out of you. You’re gripping his shoulder so tightly your knuckles turn white. Some of the turns he takes are so sharp you don’t dare to look, stuffing your face into the crook of his neck.

“I got you,” he soothes, he’s just as breathless as you are with the maneuverability of the ship. You’re muttering curses under your breath into his neck to much of his amusement. Feeling the rumble from his chest as he laughs. 

Within less than a minute, he enters Beggars Canyon, following the pod racing tracks. The ship blows past the curves with such ease and speed, it’s barely a chore for the engines. It’s so smooth. 

“Let’s see what she’s got,” he murmurs, and you nod to him before he pulls back on the controls hard. You feel the force of the incredible speed as it increases, rising and rising, nose upward until the blue sky turns black with stars and you're flying above the planet's orbit. It’s the very first time you have ever been in open space and it’s…jaw dropping. He’s flying steady, adjacent to a commercial cruiser. You release one hand from his cape, pressing it gently against the windshield as you lean closer for a better view. 

You’re speechless. The planet's hazy blue atmosphere complements the deep red sand on the surface. It’s beautiful, and you never thought you’d ever describe Tatooine as beautiful, besides from the binary sunsets. Mando watches, completely in awe of you. The lighting is dim but caresses the features of your face beautifully. 

After a few moments, you release a few heavy breaths that have been stuck in your lungs since Beggars Canyon. You lean back against his chest, rubbing the palms of your hands over your eyes. He lays his hand on top of your thigh with concern. “You ok?” He sounds a bit worried he’s gone too far. 

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” another nervous laugh bubbles out of you. Your smile is warm and inviting when you turn to him. “I’ve just never been in anything this fast before,” you breathe.

“Oh,” his hand lifts from your thigh and back to the controls. “You really shouldn’t have said that,” he says wickedly. Your eyes grow wide in response.

“No. No no no no no. Don’t-“

Too late, the ship plunges forward again at full speed and you're gripping for dear life around his neck again. He bolts around the commercial ship, diving and spinning around it, putting the engines to the test. You can’t bear to look. Your face is stuffed into his neck and your cursing into his cape, “oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck…” He even goes as far as putting the ship into a spin and you can feel your heart in your throat. What a bastard. If you weren’t so smitten, you’d kill him.

Suddenly an alarm on the dashboard goes off and Mando eases on the controls. “Dank Farrik,” he curses. “X-wings, you need to get down, quick.“ 

“What?! How am I suppo-“

“You need to get down, now. Don’t let them see you,” he growls.

Shit. You both scramble. He’s trying to free more space as you crouch down to his feet facing him. Shit shit shit. He eases on the controls until the ship is just drifting. Two X-wings pull up on either side, requesting to open the comlink.

“Stay quiet for me, ok? I’ll handle this.” You nod at him, awkwardly trying to fit your arms somehow over his lap. He opens the channel with a flip of a switch.

“Run your beacon for me N-1.”

“Was I doing something wrong, officer?” He’s calm, but you can hear his irritation just below the surface.

“You’re not allowed to fly that fast next to a commercial ship. You’re also operating without a beacon. I’m gonna need you to run one for us.” Yeah, this and half of the other ships that fly through here. Don’t they have something better to do?

“Sorry, officer, I got a little carried away there. Transmitting now.”

You’re as quiet as a desert mouse. The last thing you need is to be towed to some outpost with a bunch of pilots catching you come out of the cockpit with the Mandalorian, with the wrong idea. It’s on that thought, however, that you’re suddenly hyper aware of your current position. 

On your knees, between his legs, face level with his waist. Your arms rest on both of his thighs and the view of his chest and helmet when you look up makes you want to combust. You must have made a small noise, because his helmet turned swiftly to you. And when he sees you in this position, he’s body stiffens. It’s barely audible, but you’re pretty sure he muttered under his breath “fuck”. 

Your face is burning and heat pools in the pit of your stomach. There’s nowhere to hide from his imposing t-shaped visor. There’s something annoying crackling in the background and you both realize it’s the pilot repeating something he’s said to Mando.

“Yes! Yes, we just built her. I was taking her up for a test flight. Haven’t been able to update the registration just yet.” He’s slightly flustered, trying to keep calm with two very different situations. You muse over whether or not you should tease him further and see how well his composure holds up. And also because you want him to pay for the stunt he pulled a minute ago. Yeah, he deserves it.

You test the waters by slightly gripping the top of his muscles where his thighs meet his hips. He lets out a sigh and you feel the muscles tense beneath your hands. You wait for a sign to stop or his hands to grab yours, but he doesn’t take his hands off the controls. Feeling bolder, you drag your hands slowly downward, running over the beskar and stopping at his inner thighs. You give him a firm squeeze, taking pleasure in a small groan he lets slip from his modulator.

The back of his helmet hits the headrest with a thud, his hips slightly buck in frustration as he hopelessly tries to answer the questions of these pilots. But you’ve honestly lost track of the conversation, opting for a more captivating pastime. You lips curl into a wicked smile. You can play games too.

You’re almost home free, until the other pilot starts inquiring about the Mandalorian’s old Razor Crest ship. You ears perk up but you don’t understand what he means when he mentions that the ship was “in an incident involving imperial remnants”. You look up to Mando with a knot in your brow, and mouth a “what?” To which he quickly shuts off the com channel.

“Hang on.”

There’s almost no time to prepare yourself before he flips the Kineso-Switch. You quickly wrap your arms around his torso before the sublight thrusters blast the starfighter clear to the other side of the planet. The force is so intense your cheek is pressed hard against his cuirass. Your fingers dig into his clothed waist. Finally, he pulls the controls back again, coaxing the star fighter into a slow drift.

When he’s sure he’s lost them, he turns on the autopilot, finally exhaling as he rests his hands on his thighs. You pull away from his waist, covering your face and he looks over to you. He places a hand on your shoulder, probably thinking he’s gone too far and feels guilty. Until your shoulders are shaking with laughter. It bursts out of you, unapologetic.

Mando leans back in the seat trying to regain his composure. “That. Was not. Nice,” he groans. It only makes you laugh harder, placing your hands back on his thighs to keep yourself steady from shaking. You’re absolutely giddy now that you know how much of an effect you have on him. He tries to control his panting and unwind after such a “demanding” situation. He almost didn’t catch the word that you breathed out so beautifully. He pauses, slowly dropping his helmet to look down to you, still between his legs.

“What..?” 

“That’s my name…,” you speak softly. You gaze at him through half-lidded eyes. 

He repeats it, getting used to the taste of it. And the way he whispers your name makes your heart soar. Mando’s hands twitch as they lift up then lightly make contact on your throat. His thumb and fingers ghost over the sides of your neck and your eyes flutter closed, savoring the feeling. His hand drags slowly upward until his hand is just below your jaw, tilting you to look up as he looms over you. You peek through your lashes and see your perfect reflection on his visor.

“You seem distracted,” you purr, returning his words from last night.

Mando holds your chin in his hand, swiping his thumb across your plush bottom lip and you’re gone. He groans through the modulator as he leans his helmet against your forehead.

“No more than usual.”

•

part two