well it's love, make it hurt - chapter four
well it’s love, make it hurt series
four: some place we can be ourselves
series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter
dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Summary: The Mandalorian buys you a present.
Warnings: BDSM, Dom/sub dynamics, Dom!Din and sub!reader, soft Dom!Din, pain play, nipple play, p in v sex, oral (m receiving), collaring (collar in the moodboard is not completely what I wanted. tell me not to have it commissioned just for the purpose of a photo lol), some feelings
Originally written for Kinktober 2023 - Day 6: Collar, inspired by @absurdthirst's wonderful prompt list, without which I probably would not have written anything.
also on ao3
3 ABY - Fall
Neither of you were squeamish; you couldn’t be. Injuries were inevitable in your line of work. You had seen Mando burn his skin back together. He had seen you stitch up a gash on your leg.
So why was the slowly fading ring of bruises around your neck so hard for him to look at? Was he still mad about the botched job and your behavior that night? Or did it simply disgust him to see marks on you made by any other hand?
Whatever it was, he needed to get over it. The worst damage had been healed by the bacta spray on the first night, and you refused to waste more over bruising.
You were starting to get mad, now that you thought about it. You had just been examining the wounds in the mirror of the fresher. You had just gotten out, dried off, and dressed when you caught sight of your reflection.
You were up on your toes, neck craned to see around the sides. It was healing up nicely. You ran your fingers over the delicate skin, and it was far less tender. It was almost pleasant, the dull ache when you pressed on them.
Mando chose that moment to walk past. He stopped, staring at you for a half second, and hit the button to close the fresher door on you.
“Hey!” you smacked the door with your hand. “What was that for?”
But when it slid back open, the hull was empty.
You were heading out in the morning for a hunt, one that promised a challenge. As glad as you were for an interesting job, it also meant you and Mando were essentially hands-off until there was a new carbonite slab on the ship.
So really, he was going to have to get over it or live without getting his dick wet for another week. Given the voracity of his libido so far, the latter seemed unlikely.
While Mando putters around in the hull eating his dinner, you curl up in your seat in the cockpit with a book on the datapad. Your routine had settled quietly into this rhythm—he could eat without rushing, you could read without him groping at you, and you both got time alone. For two people who had been mostly solitary before, it was invaluable.
“I’m running into town,” he calls up the ladder.
“What? What for?” you yell back, but it's drowned by the pneumatics of the ramp. “What the fuck?” you say to the empty ship.
By the time he returned, the suns had set, and the moss-dripping trees outside were thick and dark. You had dozed off in your seat, feet tucked under you and head resting on your folded arms. The datapad had slipped down between your knee and the seat.
He shook your shoulder, and you stirred. Not for the first time, you marveled at how deep you could sleep here. How you had stopped flinching for your blaster. You blink up at him, a smile breaking out, until you remember why you had fallen asleep there.
“Hey, what the kriff was that? You just took off, like—” You helpfully demonstrate with a little wave of your hand and a whoosh.
He stares down at you, head cocked, hand still on your shoulder. “What’s with the outfit?” He waves a hand at you in what you're sure is a rude mockery of your previous gesture.
Oh, right. The outfit. It didn’t seem so clever now. You had wrapped yourself in an elaborate headscarf that hung over you like a hood with a tasseled cowl. And, well, nothing else. Your blanket had slipped when you sat up.
You were supposed to be waiting for him bare. Accessible. Ready. And to the little bratty voice in the back of your head that was so mad at him earlier, this was compliant. He didn’t say you couldn’t accessorize. It wasn’t denying him access to your body.
Right now, though, as he put a hand on one hip and glared down at you, it felt like maybe you were in trouble.
“I, um.” Stars, why did you think this was a good idea? You thought you could confront him about the bruises and maybe get a little roughed up in the process. And you would have enjoyed it earlier, but now, suddenly, it feels like you might cry if he yells at you.
He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. You know when you’re being given a second chance, so you swallow hard and look back up at him.
“I’m sorry. I was kind of trying to push you, it seemed like a good idea, but I don’t want to anymore, I promise.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why did I want to, or why do I not want to?”
He sighs heavily. “Why did you want to?”
You look down at where the datapad is lodged, picking at the edge of the cushion with your nail. “I was trying to make you mad,” you mumble.
He tilts your chin up with a bare hand. You hadn’t even noticed him take the gloves off, but it feels so nice that you almost forget you're trying to talk your way out of trouble.
“Sweetheart. Why would you want me to be mad at you? If you want me to hurt you, all you have to do is ask nicely.”
At the low rumble of his wicked words, you no longer feel the cold of the cockpit. Your mouth waters, and you’re hyper-aware of how hard your nipples are, how exposed.
“I—kind of? No, I mean—” You can’t concentrate anymore. His finger that was stroking your cheek brushes across your bottom lip, and you open automatically, waiting. Begging. He pulls it away, and you whine.
“Hmm. Not yet. I want you to finish explaining yourself.”
“I had hurt feelings.” It punches out of you, and you’re mortified to realize it's the truth. You had been telling yourself you were mad, and maybe you were, but you had been lashing out like a hurt massiff.
Mando squats down beside the chair, and you turn, crossing your legs so you can face him. “What did I do that hurt your feelings, pretty girl?”
“It’s stupid, I’m being stupid. I’m—”
His hand snaps out, and unlike the gentle touch earlier, he grips your jaw tight before slapping you sharply across the face with his other hand. You yelp, more from surprise than pain.
“What have I said about that? Are you allowed to talk about yourself that way?”
“No, sir,” you whisper.
“And why not?”
“Because I’m yours, and if I’m disrespecting myself, it means I’m disrespecting you.” It was a lesson you had learned over his knee on more than one occasion.
“Good girl. Now tell me why you’re upset.”
“It’s like you can’t even look at me anymore, when you can see my neck. I’m sorry I fucked up; I’m sorry it’s ugly. I thought if I covered it up, maybe, maybe…”
Your words die in your throat as he stands up off the floor, rubbing a tired hand over his helmet. He snaps his fingers, jerking a thumb toward the pilot seat. “Get up, c’mon, I’m not doing this here.”
You scramble to your feet, confused and a little scared. Doing what? Oh, kriff, what had you gotten yourself into?
“Grab your pillow, baby,” he called from across the room without looking.
You double back for it. He was settled in his chair when you reached him, so you let it fall with a soft thwomp before lowering yourself to your knees.
“Look at me,” he orders. “And take that off.”
Fuck. Someday you’d get it through your head and stop giving in to the urge to hide. He hated it, but it was one of the few holdups you still had.
When you obey, tossing the scarf out of sight, he reaches down and wraps his hand around the side of your neck, avoiding most of the bruising. “I didn’t look because I didn’t want you to be disgusted by me.”
You furrow your brow, opening your mouth to speak, but thinking better of it.
“You were so upset about what happened on that hunt. And I hate that it was someone else who put those there. But stars, baby, do you look beautiful all marked up. I want to sink my hands in until you’re wearing my fingerprints all the time.”
Your mouth falls open, throat dry, and you shift around on your knees. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What, no. Just. Fuck, that’s so hot.”
He leans back, studying you. “You know, I never want you to try something you’re not comfortable with just because it’ll please me.”
“I’m not, I swear. I couldn’t stop looking at them in the mirror and wishing it had been you.”
He swears darkly, leaning forward so suddenly you flinch back a little. His hand cups your cunt between your spread legs, and he swipes a finger through your folds and holds it up. It’s soaked. He chuckles. “Good girl,” and shoves the finger between your lips with no pretense.
You close your lips around the digit, sucking and watching him through wide eyes. You whine when he pulls it out.
“As much as I would like to mark you up, cyar’ika, it’s not safe. But I did have an idea for something almost as good.” He reaches into a pouch on his belt and holds up a strip of leather.
It doesn’t register right away. You stare at it and then at him. He holds it out to you flat on both hands, and you gasp. You've never seen one outside of the holos he's shown you, but you recognize it all the same.
The leather is soft and supple in the same brown as his bandolier. It has a simple double-loop closure. You run your fingers over it for a moment before he snatches it back to dangle it just out of your reach.
“I take it you like it.”
You hold your hands in your lap, biting your bottom lip and whining. He laughs and runs a hand through your hair.
“You want it, sweetheart? Want to wear my collar so everyone knows you’re mine?”
“Please,” you beg over and over.
“You are mine, right? My sweet, obedient girl.”
“Yes, sir, please. I’ll be so good for you.”
He laughs. “Of course you will, needy thing. You’re already all mine. Look at you, trying so hard to please me.”
Your face goes hot. After the last few months of him talking to you like this, you thought you’d stop being embarrassed, but it only seems to get worse.
“C’mere,” he says, voice softer as he leans back. “Want you up here so I can see.”
You scramble onto his lap, straddling him. He pulls you closer so your wet cunt smears where he strains against the flight suit, and you moan.
“Can I put it on you?”
You’re already whispering a litany of pleas before he finishes the sentence.
You stop breathing when he reaches around you, holding as still as you can. You want to feel every second of it. He gently lifts your hair out of the way to settle the strap behind your neck before pulling the ends to meet in the front. He slides it into place, tucking two fingers between the collar and your neck.
“How’s it feel, ner cyare?”
You don’t ask about the new Mando’a. He’s never told you what cyar’ika means, either. Not that you’ve asked. He says it with enough fondness that you trust it’s not mean, and this sounds the same. Not that you aren’t curious. But the only things you know about Mandalorians are things he’s told you of his own volition, and you’re afraid to push.
Your eyes are watering. You trace your fingers over the collar with shaky hands. You’re terrified, actually, because this feels like something heavier than the other ways you play. “I love it,” you whisper.
He tugs on it, yanking you closer to him, before pulling it back, grinning at the way you let your body be moved at his will. “I think I like this a lot.” He holds you in place with it, pinching and tugging on your nipples. He gives your tits a few sharp smacks to feel the way you jerk in his lap.
“Ready for me, baby?” he teases.
You know it’s rhetorical, especially given that he’s already pulled his cock out, but you moan a “yes, please, sir,” just to see the way it makes him twitch. He smacks your clit twice with the head of his cock and then just shoves it all the way in.
He tugs the collar, pulling you to bend forward at an awkward angle.
“Watch, pretty girl. Look how greedy your little pussy is. Look how well you take me.”
You can’t look away. He’s splitting you in half, the pressure sharp and incredible, but you’d never know it from the way your walls and lips are hugging his shaft, beckoning him in. He flicks your clit while you’re watching, but you still jerk back at the sting. You’re stopped short by the collar, and he laughs and does it again.
He pinches and twists at it while you make broken little sounds, moans and cries, and you squirm to get out of range of his cruel fingers. But you can’t. He’s got you pinned so well between the cage of his thighs, bent up behind you, and the grip on your collar.
He only takes pity on you when he moves his attention back to your swollen nipples.
“S’it hurt?” he pants.
You whimper.
“Really? 'Cause you’re fucking soaked, cyar’ika, and your cunt keeps squeezing me so tight. I think you like it.” He flicks your nipple to punctuate his words.
“I do, I do like it, please. Like anything you do to me.”
“Those are dangerous words, sweetheart.”
“Nuh-uh,” you grunt, face twisting as he tugs hard before switching back to your clit. “Nnn. Trust you.”
He pinches a little harder than he means to, struck by the sweet way you bare yourself to him. His fingers dip down to gather some of the slick you’re leaking around his cock, and he brings them back up to your clit, rubbing firm, tight circles.
He drops your collar and grabs your jaw, pistoning his hips up harder so the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the cockpit. “Whose cunt is this?”
“Yours, sir,” you gasp.
“Yeah? Whose beautiful, perfect slut is this?”
“Yours, sir.”
“Cum for me, cyar’ika.” He presses down hard on your clit, and his hips stutter when you immediately clench down, body jerking. He grabs you by the collar and holds you upright so you don’t fall as you twitch and scream.
He doesn’t ease up, rubbing hard at your clit. “Another one. Now.”
You don’t know how he does it. You never have to force it. He knows your body like his armory, knows how much pressure it takes to pull the trigger, knows right when to fire. You’ve never not cum when he commanded.
“Down,” he snaps after you’ve come apart on him a few more times over.
You slide off immediately, sinking down onto the pillow, mouth open and tongue out. Your hands lay in your lap, palms up, and you even remember to keep your eyes open.
“Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me,” he groans, stroking himself furiously before shoving into your throat as he spills. You take it all, eyes on him as you watch him fall apart for once. His shaky hand strokes through your hair as he comes down before settling around your neck just below the collar.
He pulls you back up into his lap, askew so your legs dangle over one side of the chair, and he can tuck your head against his chest. You’re shaking and softly crying as he wraps you up in your forgotten blanket.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “And cyar'ika?”
You look up at him, sniffling and trying to blink back the last of your tears.
“You did so good telling me when you were upset.”
You bury your face in his unforgiving chest plate, and he allows you the moment to hide. Someday, he thinks, maybe you’ll believe him.
*Title from "Beat Up Car" by Taking Back Sunday. (what is the Razor Crest if not a beat up car persevering?)
128 notes
·
View notes