din djarin x reader imagines

dirty mouth

from anonymous on archiveofourown

"Oof!"

The Mandalorian pushes you roughly into the co-pilot chair of his cockpit. You squirm, uncomfortable with your bound wrists trapped behind you.

He'd been hunting you for weeks.

For him, this had meant stalking the dirty alleyways of Coruscant, threatening bartenders and criminals until he found your next hiding place. Tracking your moves, your patterns, your scent.

For you, this meant spending the best part of a month cowering in shadows and darting around corners in the dim Coruscanti underworld. Most of your time was devoted to praying that the next face you saw wouldn't be masked by a helmet.

You had run into him once and escaped, and it had only driven him on harder. You still bore the mark of that encounter, the raw graze of the blaster burn on the left side of your neck a constant reminder of his ruthlessness, his deadliness. You would touch it sometimes as you waited quietly in the back rooms of clubs, in the closets of whorehouses. The sensitivity, the sting of it under your fingers, and the thought of him.

Two nights ago, the fear you had of him had run over into madness, and you had found yourself with three fingers between your legs, the index finger of your other hand pressing into the burn on your neck, mind blank but for the thought of him shoving you onto your hands and knees and ruining you. You'd been so, so close to coming when you were interrupted by blaster fire and shouting. It was a miracle you had escaped, stumbling away on quaking legs, before he found you.

This time, you had not been so lucky.

You watch him as he settles into the pilot seat, flipping switches and pressing buttons before pushing the throttle and raising them into the sky. It's agony, quivering behind him as he spends the next hour getting them into the hyperspeed lane back to Hutt space. It'll take two days to get there, and you're already at breaking point. From the nerves, the frustration, and the humiliating knowledge that you're soaking, dripping wet for him. You can smell him, can remember the grip of his gloved hands, the growl of his voice. You have no idea why he affects you this way. You're terrified.

"I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold." He'd said when he had finally cornered you, unaware of the way your pussy had clenched and fluttered desperately at his words.

No matter how aroused you are, though, you haven't lost all your senses. You're a decent pilot, and if you can disarm him and take control of the craft then you can still escape again.

"I-I need to use the 'fresher," You say, only stammering a little.

He doesn't turn around. "No."

"Please?" Your voice comes out higher than you expected, whimpering and whiney.

You find his frustrated sigh impossibly arousing. You think you may be insane. "No. I'd have to uncuff you to get you down the ladder. I'm not willing to do that."

You scramble to your feet, pushing yourself forward with your bound hands. "I can go down with my hands behind my back," you say, wincing at your phrasing.

"Sit down."

"I need to use the fresher!" I need to find your weapons stash. You move towards the ladder now – flushed, insistent, nervous.

"Ni ru'kir dar'jorhaa'ir gar balyc." He grumbles, and you freeze. You're educated, you know Mando'a. You know what he said. I should gag you, too.

You shake yourself and take a different, more diplomatic tack. "I assume you're bringing me to the Hutts? That'll take days, I'll have to go at some point. I'll cooperate fully, I don't want any more trouble." You're failing to keep the quiver out of your voice.