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well it's love, make it hurt - chapter one

well it's love, make it hurt series

one: sharpen your teeth, sink into me

series masterlist | next chapter

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Summary: You touch yourself when the Mandalorian is away, and he punishes you for the first time.

Warnings: BDSM, d/s dynamics, dom!Din Djarin and sub!reader, soft dom!Din, masturbation (f), anal sex, pussy spanking, crying, dacryphilia, no y/n

Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 10: Anal/Crying. Inspired by @absurdthirst’s Kinktober 2023 prompt list

also on aO3

3 ABY, Summer

You were a little feral. Alone for a very long time, gnawing and clawing for survival. An effective hunter, lethal and quiet, but wound so tight. Always coiled and waiting to run. Not bound or beholden to anything.

He, however, had been beholden to the Creed for as long as he could remember. All the choices he made were in service of his people. He wouldn’t change that, didn’t harbor negative feelings—but it made a particular flavor of power intoxicating. Hunting was an essential part of his life, but also, when he flexed an upper hand and manipulated the situation to his favor? Well, that was everything.

So the way you just… fell together? It made sense.

One day, when he had you pinned against the wall of the Crest, three fingers deep in your pussy, he tilted his head to the side to study you and said, “I’d like to try something.” You were up for almost anything, and so, he had cuffed you and teased you, used you, watched you realize you had nothing, that you had to beg and plead, and—

Well. It was hard to explain. Something had come undone inside you that day, like he had cracked open your ribcage and taken out the rabid mynock that beat against your chest all the time.

It had only escalated from there.

Needless to say, your sex life was leagues better than it had been on Cantonica, you made about 20% more with the bounties you could take now, and best of all—you finally got to see some of the galaxy. Even if most of the planets were seedy at best.

The one thing you missed, though, was some fucking alone time. Mando was always there. And the Crest was not private. You got about five minutes to yourself in the fresher, but otherwise, he could just pop up any time.

And he did.

Silently.

It was unsettling, actually.

So when you landed on Sullust, a planet you had very little interest in exploring after the first five minutes, you skipped the market trip. You didn’t need anything, and Mando was looking for some part for one of the many systems in the Crest held up by hope and frantic welding during an emergency. With more money coming in, he could afford to fix things before they broke (again).

With Mando gone, you sprawl out on your bed and pull out your datapad. You had started a book, months ago, but hadn’t had a chance to continue. Not because you didn’t get time to read, but because Mando had a terrible habit of appearing over your shoulder, and you didn’t want him to see you reading a romance. It would hurt your reputation.

And also, it was mostly sex.

It wasn’t like you meant to break a rule. It was so new and the habit so old that slipping your hand into your leggings and leisurely stroking your clit was automatic. A muscle memory. It had been, for a time, one of your only physical comforts after long days and nights on the hunt.

Far sooner than you expected, the ramp opens with a hiss. You rip your hand out of your pants, breathing ragged and face flushed. You shove the datapad into the crack between your bed-crates and the wall.

How the hell was he done that fast? Oh, kriff, did it smell like pussy in here? Why were you worrying that the man who was fucking you on a near-daily basis would know you had touched yourself?

That’s when you remember the rules.

Fuck.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks as he enters, noting your messy hair and rumpled blanket.

“Um, no, it’s fine,” you say.

He sets down the hunk of metal and a handful of wires—oh, you should really learn more about ship maintenance if you’re ever going to own one, you think, trying to puzzle out their purpose.

You may have been distracted by the parts, but he was distracted by you. The flush spreading down your neck. The faint sheen of sweat on your brow and between your breasts, the soft, utilitarian tanktop doing nothing to conceal them.

“What did you do while I was gone?” he asks.

Oh fuck, he knows. He absolutely knows. You look down, away, anywhere but his intense stare.

“Cyar’ika, I expect an answer when I speak to you.”

“I—nothing?”

He puts his hands on his hips. “You want to try that again?”

Getting trampled by a Bantha would be preferable to admitting you were afraid. Maybe nervous was a better word. You're sure he wouldn’t really hurt you. But when you had agreed to this—enthusiastically—you hadn’t asked what happened if you didn’t follow the rules.

There weren’t many, and they were purposefully vague. Not in a way that would trap you into misbehavior but allowed for flexibility. Be respectful. Follow orders. And no pleasure without permission. That was his to enjoy, he explained.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot what?”

“I forgot, you know. Um. I forgot I couldn’t…” Maker, was he really going to make you say it?

He sighs. You were so, so new to this, and while so eager to please, he could see you looking for an exit. An escape.

Should he soothe you? Gift you platitudes and reassurances? Grant you a one-time pass? No, it was too soon. You wouldn't be able to trust him to take care of you if he didn't enforce the rules.

Or should he prey on you, taunt you, and make you beg his forgiveness?

No. As much as he wanted to, no. That would have to be for later, when you had let go of your pride and defensiveness, when you stopped suspecting his attentions were a cruel prank.

“Stand up and bend over the bed,” he says, crossing the room to approach you.

For a second, you hesitate.

He holds a breath, letting you choose what happens next.

You work your jaw from side to side and then grit your teeth, something sharp taking over your eyes. You hop off the bed and bend over it, balling your fists in the sheet.

Relief spreads, tickling goosebumps down his arms. “Good girl,” he murmurs, setting a hand on the small of your back. “You were about to tell me what you did?”

“I touched myself. I forgot about the rules.” You were talking into the mattress.

“Where’d you touch yourself, pretty girl?” he asks, stroking your hair.

You squirm. You don’t want to say it. You aren’t a prude, but the weight of his focus makes you feel raw.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to assume it was everywhere.”

“No! No, I promise. It was just my pussy, I promise.”

He hums, continuing to pet you while he thinks. “I’m going to give you a few choices. First, obviously, is that you can use your safeword, and nothing happens other than a discussion of what you do and don’t want. Second: it’s late and you’re tired. We can pause this and handle it after we get the bounty. But I won’t fuck you until then, either.”

You whine a little, and he shakes his head.

“Or the third option: I punish you now and fuck you after.”

“That one,” you say after a minute of real consideration. You are a little scared, but the idea of waiting, possibly days, to find out what would happen made you feel a little sick.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles. “Spread your legs more, baby.”

“Oh, fuck,” you moan into the sheet, sliding your feet apart so he had full access.

One hand still resting above your ass, he brings the other up to cup your mound through your thin, damp leggings. “Why do you need to be punished?”

A whimper. “Because I was bad.”

“Need you to be a little more specific than that.”

You take a deep, trembling breath.

He fights the instinct to demand an answer, a sudden jolt of excitement as your brow furrows. It's been a long time since he met someone who really wanted to do this, truly wanted to submit and not just have rough sex, who wouldn’t just say what they thought he wanted to hear so they could get to the “fun” part.

“I took what was yours,” you say softly after a minute. “I disrespected you by only thinking of myself.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” swept from him on an exhale.

Later, he would recognize the way it hurt for a minute, the way the rush of affection seemed to tighten around his lungs rather than his cock.

For now, he rubs his hand on your back. “I think,” he say slowly, “that since you gave yourself pleasure, I have to take it away.”

“Okay.” You feel like you're shrinking, like your body is folding in. His hands, despite the gloves, burn through your clothes where they molded to your curves. Every contact point between you is alight.

“Ever had your pussy spanked?” he says.

You had suspected that was his intention, but the blunt question has you sucking in a sharp breath. “No, sir.”

“Okay. Then you don’t need to count this time. Just take it.”

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand back from your cunt and brings it down.

“Fuck,” you bite out, momentum lurching you forward, the edge of the crate biting into your stomach.

He gives you a moment, watching as your face contorts. It certainly wasn’t a hard hit, but he hadn’t gone easy on you, either. Couldn’t. Your first punishment had to be memorable.

“Do you need to use your word, cyar’ika?”

“No,” you huff through gritted teeth.

So he hits you again.

You had tried to brace yourself, but it stings, and you yelp.

This time, he doesn’t wait. He smacks you hard, back-to-back, with no reprieve.

You squirm and writhe to get away, but his hand on your back keeps you pinned. It's only ten, but you're shaking when he finishes.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he said, guiding you to standing with a hand on your shoulder, pulling you into him. You cling onto him, fingers clutching the top of his chest plate, arms pinned between your bodies, and face buried in his cowl.

“Are you crying?” It's apparently the wrong thing to say, because what were quiet tears turn into full sobs. “Hey, shh, it’s okay. You did so well, cyar’ika.”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are.” He holds you tight and lets you cry it out until you quiet, sniffling a little. “Feel better?”

You nod. And then you shake your head, and his stomach drops.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t even get punished without—without—”

He doesn’t mean to, but he laughs.

You reel back as far as his arms let you.

“No, no, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I just should have realized sooner. It felt good, didn’t it?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know. It hurt a lot.” You don’t look at him, shame twisting your lips into a scowl. Your streaked, raw cheeks and watery eyes make his dick throb. “It just—I had to try so hard not to cum.”

The Mandalorian’s self control is as strained as his cock. “I’m not mad, sweetheart. Fuck, that’s good to know. Would it make you feel better if I told you that was only half your punishment?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and tears threatening to spill. “Oh.”

“I said I’d fuck you. But I don’t think your greedy little cunt deserves any more pleasure today, do you?”

“No, sir.”

He wonders if you’d hate him if you saw the way he smirked behind the helmet. The way he wanted to grin, wild and teeth bared, and pick you apart just so he could put you back together.

He thinks you’d probably like it.

“You took that so well, sweetheart, I’ll tell you what. You can choose. You want me here…” he brushes a finger across your lips, which part sweetly for him. The tip of your tongue peeks out to greet his glove, and he does grin, then.

“... or do you want me here?” he slides his hand down your back and over the crest of your butt.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper.

“What’ll it be?”

You take a shuddering breath, another tear falling as you squeeze your eyes tight. “I want whatever will please you most.”

He shakes his head, something fond and soft clawing at his ribcage. “That’s sweet, but if that’s what I wanted from you, I wouldn't have asked. I want you to choose.”

“Okay. Then the second one.”

“Then what? Ask nicely.”

A whimpered moan escapes you. You mumble something.

“Gotta speak up, cyar’ika, or I’ll think you don’t want to be fucked at all.”

“No!” you squeak. “No, please. Um. Please—” Your right leg jitters a little as you chew on the words before spitting them out. “Please fuck my ass, sir.”

“Of course,” he strokes your cheek. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You shake your head and let him turn you back around, pushing down between your shoulder blades until you’re bent flat across the bed.

“Anyone had you here before?” he says as he rolls your leggings down to discover you aren’t wearing any fucking underwear. He helps you step out of them.

“No,” you say, arching a little as he rubs a gloved hand up and down your leg, stopping just below your cheeks.

“You sure you want me to?” He pauses his caresses, weighing his restraint. He’ll have to go slow. Maybe he should just fuck your mouth, where he can take as much as he needs from you.

But then you speak. “Yes, please, sir. I want it to be you.”

He has to ball his hands into fists and release a few times, trying to stay rational and not just give you what you’re so sweetly begging for.

“It doesn’t have to be now. We can wait, and I can make it better for you, when you’re not being punished.”

You turne your head to the side against the mattress, and he can see your bottom lip trembling.

He sighs. “Just tell me first: are you trying to punish yourself more?”

“No, I want it. Please. I’ve wanted it for months. I—please.”

“Okay, cyar’ika. You tell me if it’s too much, though.”

“Yes, sir.”

You hold very still as he peels off his gloves. You won’t be able to see, and there's no way he was doing this with the gloves. Not this time, not with the gift you’re giving him.

When his warm hand rubs over your ass, you gasp. He draws away reluctantly to pour a generous amount of lube into his palm, warming it carefully before coating his fingers.

He sinks to his knees. With your legs spread, he brushes a finger over your hole, watching the way it twitches and basking in your quiet moan. He rubs soft circles, working the lube around before gently pressing in. The first finger goes in so slowly, and you keen low, muffled by the sheet. Your thighs shake with the effort of holding still.

“Good girl,” he croons, withdrawing his finger to add a second. He repeats the slow, cautious process, pressing in and out. “Breathe, cyar’ika. Relax.”

Relax? How did he expect you to relax? The sensations were so intense you thought you might shatter.

When he finally adds a third, you cry out. His fingers are so thick, and you are so, so full. You startto doubt you’ll be able to take him.

But Mando is a patient man, even with his cock angry and leaking. He doesn’t stop until he's sure you're ready. When he withdraws his fingers from you and stands up, you whimper.

“Scared?”

“A little,” you tell the sheet.

“I’ve got you, cyar’ika. You’re doing so well for me. Still want to make me feel good?”

He waits until the first “please” before notching himself at your entrance and pushing the very tip in. Anything else you had been trying to say is choked off.

He had prepared you well, but you were still hot and tight enough that he almost loses his composure. Almost shoves hard into you until his hips slam against yours. But instead, he grips them, sure to leave bruises behind.

You hold your breath. The burn is agonizing, but the wait is worse. When he's settled fully in you, he holds himself in place while you squirm.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper. It was the only thought left in your brain other than “Mando” and “full.”

Despite his iron grip, his hips jerk a little. When he speaks, it's around a clenched jaw. “Can I—fuck—can I move?”

“Uh-huh.”

He pulls back, a loud groan in time with the tug of his cock. His hips jerk forward immediately, seeking your soft warmth.

“More,” you grunt through a thrust. “Please, sir.”

That was the end of him. Or at least of the calm, collected Mando. Your sweet voice begging snaps something cerebral, and he snarls, pulling out just to slam back in. He sets a rough, rushed pace.

With one hand on your hip and the other pushing down on your lower back, he takes. He takes and takes until you don’t have anything to give, your hands desperately clutching the edge of the crate just to stay where he had placed you.

Each thrust leaves you raw somewhere behind your sternum. You're crying again, hot tears running sideways across your face to the sheet, scrunched and already soaked with spit.

“You can cum if you can do it like this,” he says between pants. “Don’t touch your clit.”

You couldn’t reach even if you dared to, only able to hold on and accept him. To be used and cared for.

You know you won't be able to. It feels good, but the pain is just on the wrong side of sharp. You don’t want him to stop, you might die if he did, but it wasn’t going to happen like this. It was kind of him, anyway.

And there was something pleasant about just existing there for him to fill. It made you dizzy to think about.

“Want it inside, sweetheart?”

You nod desperately, the rough linen scratching at your raw cheeks.

It only takes a few more thrusts until he grinds his hips against you, pushing as deep as he can, crooning praise.

“So good, cyar’ika, perfect fucking girl. Taking me so well, letting me have this. Fuck,” he whimpers as he begins twitching inside you, wet ropes of cum flooding you and leaking out around his cock.

He eases out carefully, scooping you up before sliding to the ground against the crates.

“Hey,” he murmurs, helmet resting gently on top of your head. “Are you okay?”

You tremble but nod against his chestplate. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“All is forgiven, sweet girl. I promise. You took your punishment so well.” He holds you tight and refuses to acknowledge the ferocity gnashing its teeth in his chest. Something that felt dangerously like devotion.

*title from "Sink Into Me" by Taking Back Sunday

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