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Dirty Mouth

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“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.

 

Now he’s turning around, standing up, moving towards you with deadly fluidity. He moves so quickly that you have no time to process it. He shoves you backwards, hard, until you’re pressed between the metal of his cuirass and the metal of the wall.

 

The moan you let out as he crushes you against the wall is desperate, and utterly obscene. You can’t pass it off as fear – it’s a sound of wanton submission.

 

He knows it, too, and stills.

 

“Me'bana?” What’s this? He murmurs to himself, a gloved hand moving from bracing against the wall to grazing against your upper arm. You’ve only worn a thin and short-sleeved shirt – bulky clothes were harder to move with – and you can feel him keenly against your fevered skin. You’re burning.

 

“I- please-” You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t look at him, instead fixing your eyes on the hyperspeed-blurred stars visible out of the front of the cockpit.

 

He’s having none of this. The hand against your arm moves to the nape of your neck, grasping the hair there and steering your face to look into his masked one.

 

“I won’t touch you unless you want this.” He says, tone even but timbre deep and coarse. He steps back, hand moving to your collarbone. It’s on your right side, or his fingers would be brushing the blaster burn on your neck. You shiver at the thought of him pressing where you had when you’d been so close. He’d press even harder, you thought. He would make it bruise. Make it hurt even better.

 

You press your legs tightly together, rubbing your thighs. He doesn’t miss this, and curses softly under his breath.

 

“Gedetir’la par bic.” You’re begging for it. His voice is barely a murmur, but you catch what he says and the words go straight to your core.

 

You can’t keep this up, can’t pretend that your cunt hasn’t been squeezing around emptiness for the last few minutes, hours, days, because of him. You know you’re dripping down your thighs now, know your chest is flushed, nipples painfully hard, pupils blown with a mad, all-consuming need. Your whole body wants this – breasts heavy, aching for his hands on them, legs desperate to wrap around him as he thrusts-

 

 “Yes, please, I want this, Mando.” You gasp desperately.

 

The change is immediate – he goes from stoic to predatory in the blink of an eye. He removes his gloves, and you swallow thickly.

 

One hand grasps the nape of your neck again, wrenching your head back so he can see your face, as the other dips mercilessly between your legs. You’re wearing pants, but you know he’ll be able to feel your wetness, and screw your eyes shut with embarrassment.

 

“You’re soaking.” He’s practically growling now, and your pussy flutters.

 

And then it clenches, because suddenly he’s slapped you, hard, on the inner thigh. “Open your eyes.” You obey, loving the stinging of your thigh but unwilling to risk another slap. He gives you one anyway, and a moan leaves your mouth before you can stop it. Kriff, you sound so slutty.

 

“Etyc dala’ika.” He grinds out, and you may just die from arousal. Filthy girl.

 

He chuckles blackly as you arch against him. “Don’t even understand what I’m saying and it still turns you on, eh, veridurr?” A thrill moves through you, half because he’s underestimated you, and half because he’s pressing you against the wall, calling you whore.

 

His hands are all over you – roughly unbuckling your belt, squeezing your thighs, running roughly up your waist, thumbs just catching the sides of your heaving breasts. Your head falls back against the wall, mind reeling from how good it all feels.

 

He shoves your pants down, pulling them off along with your boots and socks. Oddly, he’s left your underwear in place.

 

He’s not so respectful of your shirt, ripping it off so that the buttons clatter across the floor. He pushes the shirt from your shoulders so that it’s hanging off your bound arms, chest exposed. He rips off your bra, tearing the fabric and flinging it across the cockpit in his haste to see all of you. You moan, long and low and so, so desperate, as he pulls it off you, stepping back to look at your body where you lean against the wall of his cockpit.

 

You’re beautiful, eyes glazed with how far gone he’s made you. He watches as your knees slide together – you’re hardly able to keep yourself standing – and your breasts heave. He looks so unaffected, so cool and collected, and it makes you burn even hotter - the image of yourself naked and dripping and moaning before this fully-clothed killer.

 

Then he moves his hand down, and palms himself through his clothing. You watch him, now, eyes fixed on the black cloth under his hand. You want to see his cock so badly.

 

You’re about to beg him for it, the words are on the tip of your tongue, when he moves forward again. His hands are even rougher this time, making you groan as he squeezes your tits together, cry out as he pinches your nipples.

 

One of your legs rises to hook over his hip, pulling him closer to grind against where you need to feel him. His hands instantly move to your hips, holding you so hard you can feel them bruising. You love it.

 

When he speaks, he’s growling again, with an intensity that’s making you whimper and buck your hips against him in a display of total submission.

 

“Ni kelir ad'gotar ti gar,” I am going to fuck you. He grinds against you, and, oh, you can finally feel his cock against you and you need more.

 

“Akay gar nu'haatyc mirdir,” Until you can’t think. He digs his fingers into your hips further, until you’re squirming and gasping in his unbreakable hold.

 

“Akay an gar kelir vaabir cuyir gedetir ni par or'atu.” Until all you will be able to do is beg me for more.

 

Your mind is gone. You’re so desperate for him. His words have undone any self-control you may have had left. You want him to fuck you, to ruin you. You’ll do anything. You feel yourself drip, know you’re making a mess of his floor. You hope he makes you lick it up.

 

“A sol’yc,” But first, he says, moving back in a way that has you whining and bucking before he forcibly removes your leg from his hip and pushes you back against the wall,

 

“Cetar.”

 

Your mind reeling from the filth of your desires, you fail to register what it is that he wants. To his knowledge, you don’t speak Mando’a, so he translates.

 

“Kneel.”

 

You’re so far gone that you don’t even feel embarrassment at how fast you sink to your knees. You gaze up at his visor through your lashes – cheeks pink, lips parted, arms bound behind your back in a way that shoves your full, aching tits out for him. He groans at the sight of you – or maybe at the feeling of undoing his pants and freeing himself.

 

You can’t look away. His cock is huge. It’s gorgeous, too – uncut, thick, straight and fully erect, a bead of precum dripping deliciously down the underside. You’ve never felt an ache like this. You want him in your mouth, in your cunt, all over you. You want to feel him between your tits, between your asscheeks, maybe even inside-

 

“Spit.” He says. You obey, spitting twice into his hand, and watch greedily as he works your saliva over his cock in front of you. He grunts softly, before he moves the head of his cock towards your parted lips.

 

“Copad bic?” You want it? His tone is half mockery, half prayer. You whine, looking away from the cockhead reluctantly to stare beseechingly up at his visor.

 

He groans. “Lek, gar vaabir.” Yeah, you do. You open your mouth further, tongue peeking out as he moves even closer.

 

“Sooranir.” Suck.

 

You think you could do this forever, feeling the heavy weight of him in your mouth, listening rapturously to his jagged breaths as you pleasure him. You’re working so hard to accommodate his girth, stretching your lips, suckling at the head before bobbing down, flicking your tongue against the vein you can feel pulsing on the underside.

 

You love the taste of him. Before you know it, you’re working more and more of him into your mouth. You can’t use your hands – you want so badly to fist the base of him, to feed more of him into you – and so you let him hit the back of your throat, swallowing and relaxing your reflexes to take him fully.

 

“Jate’dala’ika”, he gasps out, “Bid aikiyc.” Good girl, so desperate.

 

You moan around him as your nose hits his pubis, bobbing back up again with satisfaction. Then he grasps your hair in one hand, pulling in a way that has you spluttering. He pushes you back down to the base of him.

 

“Ekur.” He rasps down at you, dark and terrifying. Choke.

 

You nearly come on the spot.

 

After a few seconds, he lets you go for air, but you barely take in a gasp before you’re forcing yourself down over him again, too far gone to think of anything other than what his come might taste like, what noises he might make.

 

And then he’s pushing you away, brushing off your cry of disappointment.

 

“Not yet. Need to fuck you, first.”

 

He heaves you over his shoulder before climbing down the ladder out of the cockpit. You’ll be in the hyperlane for hours yet, he doesn’t need to pilot. He has time for other things.

 

He pulls you into a small bedroom. “On the bed. Hands and knees.”

 

You remember your fantasy from two nights ago, how he’d bent you over. You move to the bed and dutifully display yourself for him – hands and knees is impossible with your bound wrists, so you lie head down, ass up, legs spread. He groans at that, sending a shiver through you.

 

You stay in position, shaking with need, dripping on his bed and listening to the sounds of him undressing. His cuirass is off, pants and shirt following, boots and gauntlets and belts and cape all gone. Only the helmet remains when he finally approaches you.

 

There’s a pull, and a ripping noise, and your soaked underwear are finally off. You’re almost sobbing as he smooths a hand over your bare ass, bucking back like a cat in heat, silently begging to be fucked.

 

He smacks you, and your eyes roll back in your head. You’re close to coming again, and he hasn’t even touched your pussy. He smacks you once more and you cry out, and then he moves behind you, hissing as he --. He reaches down, feeling down your thighs where you’ve thoroughly soaked yourself.

 

“Piryc, nayc, veriduur’ika?” Wet, aren’t you, little slut? He’s deadly quiet, whispering filth in your ear as he drags himself through your slick.

 

“Copad ni jariler gar?” Do you want me to wreck you? You bite the bedsheets briefly to stifle your groan.

 

“Shukur gar?” To break you? You keen, closing your eyes in desperation.

 

“Gotal'ur gar jair?” To make you scream?

 

You’re broken. “Yes, please!" You beg. You’ve forgotten everything but the need for his cock in your cunt. You want him to ruin you for all other men. You want him to own you. 

 

You moan wantonly as he enters you, whimper as he stretches you out painfully slow. You feel like he might break you.

 

Just when you think you can’t take any more, another delicious inch of him pushes in. The drag of his cock against your insides blinds you with how good it feels. You never want him to pull out. You think you’ll feel hollow without him now. You moan brokenly when he bottoms out, your mind utterly gone.

 

“Aalar ibac?” Feel that? He whispers, “Ibac cuyir ni tio'r gar” That’s me inside you. You’re too far gone, all you do is moan again and start to rock back against him. He’s so deeply seated in you, you can feel him in your lungs.

 

“Bid kih, bid yaihi’l be ni.” You’re so small, so full of me. You whimper.

 

He draws out, then pushes back in. Your pussy drips around him, making obscene wet noises as he begins to fuck you, hard.

 

The moans and gasps of delight that you make as he fucks you should embarrass you, but instead you eagerly buck your hips, shamelessly fucking yourself back on his cock. You try to rub your legs together, needing friction on your starved clit.  

 

“Nayc. Dush dala’ika.” His hands wrench your thighs apart. No. Bad girl. You’re terrified that he’ll keep you like this, that he won’t let you come, but then he reaches between your legs and rubs your clit in slow circles, in time with the brutal, deep fucking.

 

“Ni ganar gar,” I own you, he growls, upping the pace until room is alive with noise – his harsh panting, the wet slapping of your flesh, your broken, fucked-out moans.

 

He pushes you to the edge, drawing the hand on your clit away just before you can come and making you sob and beg.

 

“Please Mando, please fuck me more. Love your cock so much, fills me so good, please fuck my pussy, please let me come.”

 

He gasps, but doesn’t let up, leaving your clit again just as you’re about to come.

 

“Please! I’ll let you do anything to me, Mando, please just let me come!”

 

He stills. You sob.

 

“Mayen?” Anything?

 

“Please…” You’re too fucked-out to speak.

 

He thrusts into you, so hard it hurts. His hand moves between your legs, circling your clit with a maddening speed and pressure.

 

“Ni Kelir olaror lo gar. Gotal'ur gar yaihadla. Naritir a ik'aad o'r gar. Bid gar kelir cuyir ast'ehut bal rugam ti ner ik'aade bal ratiin yaihi'l be ni. Ru'kel gar guuror ibac? Lek? At cuyir ner riduur’ika?”

 

I’m going to come inside you, gonna get you pregnant, gonna fuck a baby into you. You’ll be fat and round with my babies and always full of me. Would you like that? Yeah? To be my little wife?

 

You arch backwards as you moan for him. You’re on the implant, you both know that – the scar on your arm shows it – but in that moment you’d let him impregnate you. You’d let him do anything to you. Your whole body, whole mind, is begging to be his in every way.

 

“Ner.” Mine. He whispers in your ear, and his fingers on your clit rub fast enough that you see stars.

 

You come harder than you ever have in your life. Your cunt clamps down on him, knees buckle, and you cry out - truly fucked, mind broken and body spent. He fucks you through it until he comes too, spurting inside you and groaning filthily.

 

When you wake, he’s gone. You remember the things he’d said to you last night, and groan at the memory of your eager responses. Then again, he has no idea how much of it you understood. Not many people speak Mando'a - not since the purge.   

 

There’s a pile of clothes at the end of the bed for you, and the door to the ‘fresher is open. You clean up and dress, and go looking for him.

 

It doesn’t take long – he’s right outside the door.

 

Neither of you speak.

 

He takes your arm, pulls you with him. You’re confused, wobbling, still feeling sore where he’s utterly wrecked you between your thighs.

 

He leads you to the carbonite freezer silently. “Get in.” There’s undisguised regret in his voice.

 

Something in you recognises that this is how things have to be. He has to take you to the Hutts. You search your feelings and find that you aren’t afraid.

 

But you’re strangely heartbroken as you step in willingly. A tear slips down your cheek, but you brush it away and smile at him.

 

“Gar ganar a etyc’uram, Mando. Ni guuror bic.” You say, as he steps back and turns away.

 

The last thing you see before the machine encases you in carbonite is the sharp jerk of his head as he snaps his gaze back to you.

 

You have a dirty mouth, Mando. I like it.