#boxer!din

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

Taglist | Form

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @pychedelic-star @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @jesfreedark @amyk-37 @altarsw @feminist-violinist @spideysimpossiblegirl @lazybeeches @shameless-h  @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @mamacitapascal @the-ginger-hedge-witch @disgruntledspacedad @asta-lily @aesnawan @frannyzooey @gaiuswrites @beskarboobs @honestly-shite @sherala007 @cats-are-a-girls-bestfriend @missminkylove @pedros-mustache @headinthestarz @leannawithacapitala @sharkbait77 @radiowallet  @danidrabbles @magpie-to-the-morning @mandocrasis @juletheghoul @javierpinme @voteforpedro09 @theorganasolo @aprilqueen84 @Prostitute-robot-from-the-future @wanderlustmags @darnitdraco @castleamc @outlawedmando @lawfulgranola @jaime1110 @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @taticalsparkles @chasingdreamer @beautyagegoodnesssize @pintsizemama @recklessworry @tarolovesyoo @xgoldenjenny @prideandpascal @amneris21 @mylovelycomandante @ohhersheybars @heartsofbeskar

ACT I

Din always gets like this after a fight. Rough, high on the adrenaline, huffing and wild-eyed like a bull. Every time, without fail, he discards his gloves and immediately searches you out, heedless of the blood on his knuckles and face. 

Especially on a night like tonight, when he’s won. Of course, that’s nearly every time he fights, but that doesn’t make a difference. 

You wait for him in his dressing room, such as it is. It’s really more of a closet than anything, with hardly enough room for a mirror, table, and chair. Din makes do, though, and the place is always spotless. Just like at home, your boyfriend is impeccably neat, almost to a fault. You wonder where he got that from. His parents died when he was a child, so neither he nor you have any frame of reference for why he does the things he does. 

You suppose that could also apply to the fighting. Was his father a boxer, or his mother? 

Din is the most interesting person you’ve ever met in your life. Quiet but intimidating, gentle but unyielding, he knows what he wants but he also knows how to listen. The first time you met him, the two of you were hanging out with some mutual friends, and you were drawn to his air of stillness. There’s no other way you can describe it - there’s a distinct stillness about Din that’s unique to him. 

The first time you spoke to him, at that same gathering, you asked him what he does for a living. He’d said he was in entertainment, doing live performances. You had assumed he meant he was a musician - it was only when you asked a friend of his where he was performing that you realized what kind of live shows Din does. 

You’d gone to that first fight and he spotted you in the crowd about midway through the night. He’d smiled, hair sweaty and teeth covered by his mouthguard, and pointed a gloved fist at you. 

You haven’t missed a match since. 

Saturday nights quickly became a religious experience for you. The first few times, you’d just gone home, blood pumping with adrenaline from seeing Din knock a guy out right in front of you. After the fourth or fifth, Din caught you in the dim, smoke-hazy hallway. 

“Come to dinner with me,” he’d said in that smooth voice of his. It wasn’t a question, but you knew he’d let you go without trouble if you declined. 

“Right now?”

He looked up and down the hallway. Above his brow there was a butterfly bandage and his hands were wrapped in gauze, but he’d thrown on a t-shirt, jeans, and boots since the fight ended. 

“Yeah, right now. Diner down the street’s got twenty-four hour breakfast.”

You’d smiled at him, mind made up. “You’re sure they won’t look at a guy all bloody and beat up funny?”

Din scoffed. He looked down at you with those big brown eyes sparkling in the low light. 

“They’ve seen me worse than this.”

And so you went. You and he spent a couple hours shooting the breeze in that little diner over the best omelette you think you could have asked for. He made you laugh so hard your belly hurt, what with the way he told his stories and made the voices for the cast of characters in his life. For such a quiet guy, he made conversation so well you didn't want the night to end. He listened attentively to what you had to say and asked all the right questions. 

It became a tradition from that night forward. He’d win the fight and you two would go out to celebrate. Even if he lost, and those occasions were few and far between, he’d still seek you out after the fight to make the trip a few blocks south. The waitresses at the diner learned your name and your order as he and you became a unit, inseparable over steaming black coffee and sticky countertops. 

You’re not sure when it became more than that. One day you turned around and there you were, gone from friends to something much more. There wasn’t one instance where you or he asked and it began. It grew out from the space between you organically, slowly, like a flower blooming in all its radiance. 

All you know is now you and he are Din and you, an item, and everyone knows it too. He’s taken you out drinking with his buddies and you have a toothbrush in the cup on his sink. You arrive at the fights with him and you leave them with him, usually as breathless and wild-eyed as he is. You’re his, and he is yours, and none will soon forget that fact. 

Tonight is no different. Tonight is just like every other night, and looking back, that’s the strangest part of all. 

“God, Din,” you mutter as he crowds into the dressing room, face swollen on one side from where Gideon landed a nasty left hook. His hands are like iron brands on your thighs, strong and hot as they leave their mark on you. 

“You did so fucking good,” you continue, letting him manhandle you as you hold onto his shoulders with curled, desperate fingers. He presses his nose into the warm heat of your neck. 

Din groans, leaning in towards you. His chest is still bare and sweaty, and his shorts surely won’t last long wrapped around his hips. He fumbles with the clasp of your jeans, hands shaky and bruised. 

“Need’ta be inside you,” he grits out. “Gotta have you, cyar'ika. Gotta feel you.”

You lift your hips to help him slide your pants and panties off all in one go. That's the thing about these after-fight fucks - they're as dirty and rough as the brawls themselves, Din needing to let off steam and you needing to cash in on the action you've just watched. Seeing Din use his body so expertly in that ring just does something to you. The violence is heady, putting your mind in a daze that's only cleared by coming undone on his cock.

He gets his thumb hooked around the waistband of his shorts, pulling it down to let his cock spring free. He wraps one hand around it, thick and heavy in his grip, flushed and weeping precome for you. You bring your legs up, knees bent and heels tucked around his waist, eager for it. You've found that you don't even need prep for him when it's like this; sure, he's big every time, but the pain only fans the flames of your pleasure.

"Please, Din," you whine, a gasp escaping your lips as he presses his length against your cunt, notching the head right at your opening. 

You can hear the smirk in his voice as he speaks. "Please what, pretty girl?"

He knows what that nickname does to you, especially when he's got you like this, panting and begging for him. The first time he'd called you it was so casual, just while you were out together getting coffee, but it'd taken you off guard, making your stomach swoop with how much you liked hearing those words. Din, of course, had noticed - he notices everything - and now calls you it whenever he can.

A moan escapes your lips. Your hands on his shoulders tighten, sweat-slick skin under your palms warm and heaving.

"Fuck me, Din. Please. So ready for you, been ready for hours."

He pushes in, splitting you on his cock in just the way you like. You cry out, the sound of it probably reaching anyone close to the closed door separating the two of you from countless prying eyes.

"Yeah? Me too, baby. Been thinkin' a you since before the fight fuckin' started - shit -"

The rhythm Din sets is immediately brutal and deep. Beneath you, the dressing table rattles with each thrust as he ruts up into your cunt, completely given in to some feral need to fuck. He's grunting, panting with the force of it, with the exertion of drilling into you. In response, you're pulling at him, arms and legs urging him to go deeper, to go harder, to give it to you how he knows you need it.

Your mouth finds the side of his neck, hardly a thought passing through your mind before you're biting down, sucking a dark bruise into the skin, right where everyone will see it. Din moans and his grip tightens on your hips, shuffling you closer to the edge of the table.

His thrusts have you bouncing now, dirty and wild and heady. You open your eyes and glance down, seeing down the line of his back to where his hips slam violently back and forth. The sight makes your eyes roll back in your head. Again you lose yourself in the sensation, in the feeling of being ruined by the strongest, most capable man you've ever met.

He's yours, isn't he? Just as you are his. That thought makes you clench around him, forcing a groan from deep in his chest. No one can have him like this but you.

"You like that, pretty girl?" His voice is deadly, like it is when he growls threats at his opponents. "You like it rough like this?"

You nod, cheek to cheek with him, his sweat mixing with your own. He gives a particularly hard thrust, which makes you squeal. Loudly.

"Yes!" you reply, breathless. "I fucking love your big cock, Din. Feels so good in my pussy, oh my god -"

Din chuckles into the skin of your neck, low and dangerous. His hand slides down from your breast to your waist, where you're sure he leaves bruises you'll find tomorrow morning. His palm covers your tattoo, the dark ink with an identical twin on Din's thigh.

It isn't long before you feel the crisis of your orgasm approaching, fast and all-consuming. You can tell Din's is close, too, with the way his rutting grows shallower and quicker inside you. Leaning back slightly, you take his jaw in your hand, painted nails digging in to tan, scarred skin. His eyes flit open and for a moment you stare at each other like that. You're entranced by the abyss that his warm brown eyes have become, by the curve of his lip under the hair beneath his nose, by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Come for me, baby. Give it to me."

You aren't sure who said it, but each of you finds your peak at the same moment, your voices a chorus of moans harmonized together. A fleeting thought reminds you how grateful you are you got that implant a few months ago when Din's spend spills inside of you, warm and wet and him.

The two of you aren't allowed much time to revel in the aftershocks. A pounding knock sounds on the dressing room door, in a pattern that identifies the intruder before her voice does.

"If you're done, you fucking rabbits, you have some shit to do out here," Fennec calls out, clearly annoyed.

You bark out a laugh, and Din follows suit, and it's all so, so good.

 ACT II

The next day, Din goes missing.

It's hard to misplace a full-grown, adult man, especially when you seem to spend every waking hour in communication with him in one way or another, but that next Sunday you find that his phone goes radio silent. You call Karga, the owner of the gym he goes to, and he hasn't heard from him either. You call Poe, another fighter and one of Din's closest friends, and he hasn't seen him since the fight. You even gather the courage to call Boba, an intimidating man you've only met a few times, but who Din said he trusts with his life and knows from ages ago. Even he has no clue where the guy is.

It's as though Din's gotten swept up by the wind, like ashes scattered on the breeze. No matter where you look, there's no trace of him. You try to channel your boyfriend's sense of inner calm and tell yourself not to freak out just yet.

When you're done calling all the people you can think to, you get in your car and start driving around town. The city is large and sprawling, so you try and drive past places you know Din frequents. Past the twenty-four hour diner. Past the strip mall where you know he likes to get lunch sometimes. Past the jail, past city hall, past even the library.

Night has fallen by the time you feel panic crawl into your heart. It digs its claws into your chest as you pull over onto the side of the road. You're in an unfamiliar neighborhood, but your car has plenty of gas, so getting home is the least of your worries. The AC is on low, because even at night the summertime air is muggy and warm.

You reach for your phone and open up the messages app, going to your conversation with Din and scrolling through, trying to make sense of what's going on with him.

8:40 AM

did you still want to meet up for breakfast?

it's ok if not, just wondering! love u

9:45 AM

din they're going to run out of donuts lmk if you want any

9:56 AM

i got u one of those nasty jelly ones u like

11:34 AM

hey text me back dingus

12:07 PM

din?

is something going on?

don't make me go liam neeson on your ass

1:13 PM

i called karga

he hasn't seen you

if there's something wrong please just tell me, whatever it is we can work through it.

i won't be mad, i promise.

please just text me back.

1:42 PM

din. i swear to god. 

2:56 PM

called poe and boba, neither of them have seen you either

if you got arrested i'm so not paying your bail

4:29 PM

din, i love you so much. to the ends of this earth. where the hell are you.

6:50 PM

did i do something? 

talk to me

Usually you're not the type to bug someone over text, but Din not responding is not normal. He always replies right away, or as soon as he can, and he always puts some stupid emoji in with his reply. Yesterday he discovered the cowboy emoji, so he'd spammed you with it. 

He's not one to ignore messages, especially when they're from you.

Your hands start to shake as you realize that something really bad might have happened to him.

Taking a deep breath, you weigh your options. Your first thought is to go to the police, but that could introduce a whole host of new problems for your boyfriend. He's had more than a few run-ins with the law, and the fight club isn't exactly compliant with what one might call legal business practice, so sending cops after him might put him in even deeper shit.

In the end, you dial Poe's number again. It's nearing 11:00, so you hope he's not already asleep or out somewhere where he won't pick up.

He does.

"Anything new on our boy?" he asks by way of a greeting. You purse your lips, looking down at your lap, trying to keep your voice steady.

"No. Drove around for a while to see if I could spot him, but I couldn't find him anywhere."

On the other line, Poe sighs. "Alright. You want me to round up some guys to go looking?"

You look up, leaning your head back against the headrest. You can just hear Din's protests against making such a big to-do about him; he'd scoff and say something about not letting anyone worry about him. Except you do - you are. You're worried. 

Just as you're about to give Poe the green light to form a search party, you happen to glance across the street.

It's an old Catholic church, made of brick and white trim. What catches your eye, though, is not the darkened stained glass or the empty children's play area in the back.

Din's truck is parked in a far corner of the parking lot.

"Oh, shit," you mutter, half forgetting you're still on the phone with Poe. You start to get out of your car, turning off the ignition and fumbling to open the door.

"What is it?"

You glance either way before crossing the street. "I found Din's truck," you tell him. Your shoes crunch against the asphalt, the only noise audible on the quiet street. "Some old church parking lot. I'll keep you posted."

"Please do. Stay safe."

"Thanks, Poe." 

The line goes silent and you tuck your phone in your pocket. Bypassing the church building itself, you make a beeline towards Din's truck. It's nothing special, but you could make it out a mile away, even under the flickering lamp posts that line this lot.

Peering into the passenger side window, you see that it's empty. Nothing seems out of place, but there's a zippered-up bag on the floor of the passenger side that you don't recognize. You try the door, but unsurprisingly, it's locked.

He must be inside the building. That's especially odd, since not only have you never known Din to be a religious man, you don't think it's typical to stop at a church this late at night.

Steeling yourself, you walk over to the nondescript wooden door. It creaks when you open it, hand on the cold metal handle, hinges whining under the weight of use. You're hit with the scent of stale incense as you step inside, as though today was a holy day that called for its use.

The interior is dark and still. Worship pamphlets still sit in baskets and there's a hat still sitting on a hook on the wall. A clock ticks somewhere to your right, quiet and steady, counting the seconds as they pass through your racing heart.

Through the double doors, you can see the altar and the crucifix above it. Devotional candles are still lit, flickering and warm like the streetlights outside.

You take a few steps forward, entering into the large worship space itself. 

To your right you hear something move.

A small yelp escapes your mouth and you fumble to pull your phone from your pocket. That corner of the space is shrouded in dark shadow, so you press the flashlight icon with a shaking thumb.

The light illuminates a familiar face. Din sits there in the last pew, staring straight ahead at the altar. He's holding something in his lap and you think you can see his mouth moving, like he's whispering.

What the fuck?

"Din?" you call out, heart beating wildly inside your chest. "Are you okay?"

He blinks, but doesn't tear his eyes from the front of the church. Is it the altar he's staring at? Or the crucifix? 

On tentative feet, you approach him. It's like he's being hypnotized by something, his brain trapped in a constant feedback loop. Quietly, so as not to freak him out, you shuffle forward, until you're about a foot and a half away.

"Din, what's going on?" 

Still no answer. You reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing over his bare skin where it peeks through his black t-shirt.

As though shaken from his daze, Din seems to regain awareness in that moment. He turns to you, brow knitted in confusion, and then he glances around the dark, cavernous room.

"Where are we?" he asks, in his usual rough timbre. "What time is it?"

You sit down next to him, setting your phone flashlight-up on the seat between you. It lights his face from underneath, like one might do when telling a scary story to give the full eerie effect. The shadows are long and dark, almost unnatural.

"We're in a church. It's almost 11:30 at night. Do you remember how you got here, or why?"

Din frowns. "That can't be right. I just got your text about breakfast."

You feel your face go cold at his words. Has he been here this whole time? How could he have seen the text about breakfast and none of the others? 

Deciding to confront that later, you shift your focus away from his seemingly large gap in memory. He's still holding onto the object in his lap, both hands wrapped around the cylindrical object.

"What's that?" You nod down to the item, and he looks down too.

"It was in the winner's prize from last night. It… I think there's something wrong with it."

Curious, you reach out a hand for it. The thing is unlike anything you recognize, with its black and silver coloring and strange construction. Din hands it over. His knuckles are still bloody and split from last night's fight.

You take the object and are immediately surprised by its weight. There's a heft to it you weren't expecting. Not only that, it's cold to the touch, like it's been in the freezer for the past twelve hours, not in Din's hands. 

A strange piece of the winner's prize, for sure.

Din opens his palm to ask for the thing back. A surge of something possessive, something angry inside you insists for a fleeting moment that you wrench it away from him. Your hands flinch towards your chest and your grip tightens on it before you realize what you're doing. Shaking yourself of the strange instinct, you hand it over to Din.

"What is it, though?" you ask again.

He looks down at it and then back up, staring over your shoulder for a moment before shifting his eyes to yours. "I don't know. They're calling it the Darksaber."

"They? What do you mean?"

From somewhere hidden in shadow, a floorboard creaks, as if under stress from the weight of an onlooker lurking in the pitch-black darkness. You flick your gaze over to where the sound came from and brace yourself for a scolding from some white-collared, disapproving priest.

When nobody emerges, however, you decide to take that as your cue to leave. The sound of a footstep echoes from somewhere within the room, disembodied, attached not to a foot in a shoe but rather to thin air.

You grab your phone's flashlight and immediately stand. "Come on, Din. We need to get out of here right now."

Your boyfriend hesitates. He turns to look towards the source of the sound, frowning, as if trying to make something out. You put a hand on his shoulder again and shake, trying to jar him from his staring.

"Now, Djarin. Let's go."

Eventually, the two of you manage to exit the building. You take Din right to your car, completely bypassing the truck in favor of your reliable little SUV. Din gets into the passenger seat without complaint, still holding the thing in his lap.

You start the car and begin down the road, re-tracing your path back to your apartment. No way are you letting Din be alone tonight; this whole situation is uncomfortable enough. Better to take him home where you can keep an eye on things.

And then there's a man in the middle of the road and your foot hits the breaks like lead.

A short scream escapes your mouth, eyes wide and heart racing. Out of nowhere this figure just appeared - one second all that lay ahead of you was empty pavement, the next, some strange masked man blocked your path.

He's dressed sort of like a medieval knight. His body is entirely covered by shiny metal armor, head covered by a helmet. A cape attached at his shoulders flutters in the wind and he has a long spear lashed to his back. He - or it, you suppose - stands stock-still staring at the two of you.

In one of his hands he holds a glowing sword, like a blade made of white lightning and the night sky it flashes against.

"What the hell?" you exclaim, completely frazzled. "What the fuck are you doing, man?"

Next to you, Din hums. You look over to him, knuckles white on the wheel.

"What? Do you - is that --"

Din looks over at you, lips curled in thought. For some reason it hits you in that moment how handsome he looks, even with a five-o'clock shadow and unkempt hair. His eyes study you from over his nose, the planes of his face seeming to glow in the yellowish streetlight.

"It's me."

 ACT III

Before, Din had a habit of winning. Every four out of five fights, he'd emerge victorious. Of course, he's a man, and men are fallible, so he lost here and there too. He fought for money, so losses hurt, but not enough to deter him from the game entirely. He accepted them as a part of life.

Not anymore.

Now, Din is essentially unbeatable. He fights like a machine, with a strength behind his punches that belies something… not human. It's as though he's sending his fists through his opponents rather than at them, knuckles like steel as they split skin and rend flesh. Whispers float on the air that Djarin's hopped up on enhancers, but not only does he look the same, his tests all come back clean. Repeatedly. 

Of course, you and he both know it's not drugs. It's the Darksaber.

Why it didn't affect Gideon you have no idea. Maybe it did and Din beat him anyway. Either way, somehow the saber has made him… more. It's made Din more than a man. He fights with the strength of an army.

He’s also become quieter. Where before he was calm and observant, his stillness has changed to something sinister. Din will sit in the same spot for hours, unmoving, just watching the people around him. His eyes have become like bottomless wells, a hazard for anyone careless enough to fall into them. The best way you can describe it is that he’s no longer observing - he’s studying. Analyzing. Calculating. 

His eyes are so steady that they seem to move like cameras. Lenses through which something else sees the world, taking in data and processing it like a computer. His hands no longer tremble when he tries to do delicate work, muscles no longer strain under heavy weight. His skin no longer burns under the sun and his hair grows thicker and healthier than ever before.

You haven't been entirely unaffected by the Darksaber either.

Sometimes, when you dream, you catch glimpses of his thoughts. Blood red and liquid, punctuated by the agonized screams of the men he nearly kills every Saturday. Endless. 

In the dead of night, you often wake to him staring at the ceiling, unblinking.

"I can feel them," he said, one of these times when he somehow sensed that you'd floated back into awareness from sleep. "I can feel all of them and all the people they killed."

It took you a moment to absorb this. "Are you in pain?"

"No," he shook his head, still staring straight ahead.

And then he turned over, body crowding close in a rush of twisted sheets and bare limbs.

Along with his other physical changes, Din's sexual appetite has also shifted. He's become more insistent, hungrier, when it comes to you and your body and sex. He no longer asks, which is the biggest difference. Where before he would ensure your 'yes' in every situation, now he just… takes. You'll be heating up lunch in the microwave and he'll come along and press his hands into your skin, kissing your neck and jawline and mouth. You'll have just gotten home from work and he'll push you onto the couch, his pants already undone and yours quickly following.

You really should be more concerned about it. Consent is not something to be taken lightly. But his insistence is matched by your willingness, and it's true - you just always want him. He could spend all day fucking you and it wouldn't be enough. He doesn't need to ask because your answer will never, ever be no. 

Even outside the house, or the apartment, he takes you.

One notable example of this is when you'd stayed in the crowd until the end of a fight. Din KO'ed the opponent and was hardly out of the ring before his eyes found you, focused like lasers on yours. He'd discarded his gloves and pushed you up against the wall, pressing his erection into your crotch like an animal in rut. To the soundtrack of wolf whistles, hollers, and lewd commentary, he'd kissed you breathless and gotten your top fully off before anyone dared try and stop the two of you.

When they did, he'd roared at them, rage and lust burning with equal passion in his eyes.

After that, some stayed to watch the show. They looked on as he used you to completion, right there against the smoke-stained concrete wall. 

He tells you the Voices are those who went before him. Those who wielded the saber in ages past, who used it to raise empires and bring kingdoms to their knees. They come from a galaxy far away, he says, and they all lived eons ago.

Humans, he says. Civilizations and dynasties, a hundred million years ago.

All of it trapped inside his head. Inside his mind, and therefore, inside yours too.

It continues for months. A year passes and Din's boxing career launches into the stratosphere, so much so that whispers of steroids and enhancers shift to semi-sarcastic (semi-serious) murmurs of the Devil and crossroads deals. You reap the benefits of a new lifestyle, traveling with him to LA and Vegas to watch him fight on cards he could have only dreamed of before. 

Your lives have turned into a binary of before and after. Before, you could never afford the dresses you now wear or the cars you now drive. Now, your Mand'alor is larger than life, greater than myth.

It's a Sunday morning like any other, sun streaming in through the window above your bed, when you ask him if he's still hearing the Voices. They've become less and less noticeable in your dreams. Quieter. Indistinct from Din himself.

It was sweltering, the city falling under the hold of a heatwave that no number of cold showers would help cool. Din ran hot by nature, and the heat only served to make him two things: irritable and horny.

That might explain the near instant reaction he had to the tempting little sundress you wore to combat the suffocating heat when you popped your head around the main doors of the gym. Your day off if the lack of uniform was anything to go by. A vision in coral pink and flushed skin, you beamed against the metal and muted, dark tones of the boxing area.

Sweat dropped down his temple from where he lay on the bench press, bare chest glistening and muscles taut as he lowered the barbell down slowly to his chest. Trained, expert eyes – honed instinct to notice every miniscule move of an opponent – picked up the flash of color and immediately flickered over to where you were approaching him.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

His jaw clenched as he turned his attention resolutely back up to stare at the ceiling, focus Djarin. With a measured exhale, his muscles bunched to press the heavy weight back up away from his body, held it for a beat, and let it lower once more on a slow inhale.

Three more.

His head turned towards you to admire your form as you traced your hand over the dumbbell stand, skilled fingers walking along the progressively heavier weights while your eyes met his in the wall of mirrors behind the stand. You smiled. And it lit your face up.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes dropped from yours down your body indulgently, content to hold the weight of the barbell a beat longer. The way that dress clung to every damned curve he wanted to sink his fingers and teeth into, the swish of the skirt barely reaching the middle of supple thighs that looked better thrown over his shoulders. The fucking nerve you had to not bother concealing the faded mark on the top of your breast where it peeked out from over your neckline where he left it several days ago.

His mouth twisted into a snarl, his mark. Damn fucking right.

You were teasing him, crossing one ankle over the other to turn towards him with a dainty twirl of your skirt. Don’t get distracted on the bench, he growled to himself internally, and with a grunt, he pushed the barbell back up, the lines of muscles that cut across his triceps flexing taut and his pectorals pulsed from the strain of exercising them.

The pulse of his cock in his gym shorts on the other hand, that wasn’t a muscle that was supposed to be engaged for this particular exercise.

Two more.

“Miss me already, sweetheart?”

He ground out, voice rough and strained—keenly aware of the sway of your hips as you walked back towards the bench, his eyes at perfect eye level to thighs he wanted to wrap around his waist. You passed his head – fuck, he could smell you from here – to stand by his hips. He brought the barbell back down slowly towards his chest, breathing more labored than it should be and his jaw clenched in frustration. You were getting to him.

His grip on the metal bar almost slipped entirely when you hiked up the skirt of your dress to kick one leg over the bench and straddle his hips, the sudden weight and heat making him grunt in surprise.

You were soaked—he realized at the same time it dawned on him that you weren’t wearing any underwear.

“Does this answer your question?”

Voice as light and airy as the lavender scent that suffused the room you gave massages in—making his teeth grind and his hips struggle to remain still when memories of that same voice breathless and gasping with moans he elicited rose in his memory.

You rubbed yourself over the thick outline of him through his gym shorts – you little fucking tease – and sweat wasn’t the only thing dampening them anymore.

“Finish your workout, Din,” you sighed breathily, hooded eyes scanning the empty gym floor appreciatively—basking in the ability to rock so openly and languidly over his throbbing cock. It was a sunny day. It was the end of the week. No one was in the gym—and that was precisely why Din chose to work out now.

His eyes never left yours, molten pools filling with dark promise clashed with yours as your small hands found the planes of his tight abdomen, the muscles clenching sensitively under your touch,

“Keep your back straight… don’t want to injure yourself again—” you purred and received a warning growl in response when he pushed the weight back up, a ripple of heated arousal gathering low at his spine and tightening to a coil beneath your hands that indulgently ran over toned muscles and tawny, inked skin.

One more.

Fuck… but you felt so good. Grinding on him like that.

Din’s hips rocked up against you despite himself, his heels pressing into the grate metal flooring to push his clothed cock against your dripping cunt, your soft gasp when he caught your clit music to his ears and the last bit of motivation he needed to drop the barbell back to his chest. You focused your ruts on the tip of his bulge, the fucking audacity you had to use him to get yourself off—grinding your clit over his soaked shorts and digging short nails into his stomach while soft, gentle eyes darkened with lust bore into his.

He lowered his hips again, smirking at the soft whine of annoyance you couldn’t mask in order to adjust his posture correctly. With one last exhale, a panted curse as corded muscles tensed and released with a final burst of energy, his arms straightened once more above him.

Finally.

He had a hand tangled in the length of your hair before the clatter of the metal barbell hitting the hooks of the stand above him died out, yanking you down until your breasts were flush with his heaving chest. His other hand – calloused and rough – grabbed a fistful of your ass, the soft material of your dress bunching effortlessly in his hand,

“Didn’t get enough last week, baby?” he growled against your mouth, guiding your hips over his cock harder now that he could thrust shallowly against you, grinning darkly at your keen of frustration when his mouth glanced yours, avoiding kissing you, “fuck, you’re soaked for me already—”

Teeth grazing your jaw, you arched your neck back in blind submission, the hand caught against his stomach shifting down to tug at his shorts, succeeding in getting them only halfway down. You both groaned at the contact when wet, slick heat burned around the leaking head of his cock, making the heatwave outside feel like nothing more than a warm breeze.

“Din…” you moaned when a perfectly timed grind of his hips knocked the blunt tip against your hooded bundle of nerves, “a week is too long…” you admitted to the boxer’s delight. Finally. He wasn’t the only one going stir crazy only seeing you sporadically.

“Yeah?” he rasped, tightening his hold in your hair so he could keep your head pulled back while he licked a small trickle of sweat that was slowly making its way down to the hollow of your throat, “thinking about my cock all this time?”

Feral pride filled him at your immediate nod, his chest swelling with a primal snarl – why the fuck did you have to agree so easily, he’d never stop thinking about it now – and captured your lips heatedly with his own. Growling your name, he plundered your mouth—lapping along your tongue and groaning at your taste, swallowing your soft sighs and mewls of satisfaction at finally having his lips on yours again.

His hand dropped from your hair to drag down your spine, down the thin fabric that clung to your heated skin until he was dipping two thick digits between exposed cheeks to swipe through your drenched folds. Circling, spreading, coaxing whines and groans of his name with every press of his fingers. Music more beautiful than even the most skilled pianist could create, and all from the fingers of a fighter.

Conversation from elsewhere in the vicinity carried through empty corridors and with a dip of his fingers into your quivering entrance – chestnut eyes sharpened to dark amber watching doe eyes flutter shut in pleasure – his words breathed into your mouth when your lips parted against his,

“Locker room. Now.”

What followed was a heated scramble, a need to be close—to remain in this transcendent bubble of scorching touches and burning attraction. He practically dragged you with him across the gym floor, weaving between machines with his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. You already looked wrecked, thoroughly corrupted with mused hair, and crooked clothing. Your legs wobbled as you followed his menacing frame, eyes glued to the shifting muscles in his back, an apex predator dragging his prey back to devour in rapture. You went willingly.

The tiles of the shower cubicle were cold when he shoved you against them – the only place remotely private in the locker room when he tugged the thin curtain closed behind you – his hands flexing around your jaw when he turned your face up for him to kiss. Free hand pressing into the small of your back, he made you arch against him, and you mewled at the solid length of him throbbing against your stomach.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he rumbled, hand snaking around to disappear beneath the skirt of your dress again as he rocked his hips against you slowly—cupping your cunt and his teeth leaving a trail of bites down your throat as his words whispered across the tiles.

You blushed.

He saw it—even above the flush of arousal, he saw your cheeks darken and your eyes flicker to the side at his words. Avoiding his gaze, expecting a hunter’s response of claws and teeth to your doe-like display of weakness—and his eyes softened minutely. Some of the aggressive tightness bled from his gaze which he hid in a nip to your jaw, the heel of his hand rubbing in tempting circles over your swollen clit while his fingers split along your entrance, smearing your slick over puffy lips.

You rocked your hips over his hand needily, fingers scratching down the sides of his neck, scoring passion into the tanned skin and whispers against his lips – please Din, please – along with the pleasurable pain rippling from your nails compelled him to shove two fingers knuckle deep into your tight cunt.

He covered your mouth quickly with his palm when an unadulterated moan ricocheted off the tiles, echoing louder – “fuck baby, quiet” – was hissed against your cheek even as his fingers picked up a merciless pace of pump pump pump, his thumb swiping across your clit, his speed building—making it harder for you to stay quiet as you whimpered against his hand.

Nails digging into his shoulders, you buried your face into his sweat slick neck when he dropped his hand from your mouth to hike your leg up over his arm, spread you wider for him to thrust soaked fingers into your sopping core.

When you came the first time, you bit his neck—his teeth baring from the sting while his fingers scissored against your convulsing walls, dragging you through contractions of pleasure that sent spikes of electricity to cloud your brain in a muffled babble of yes yes yes sobbed into his neck.

Condensation misted the tiles by your head as heat lifted from sweltering bodies. Din growled praise, rough rasps of “good girl, that’s it…” into your ear as you relaxed around fingers that were lazily curling up inside you, your mouth working lazily over the sensitive point where his jaw met his neck, nipping—licking, begging him to fuck you.

His brain short circuited.

His large body caging you against the wall, you preened and arched and tempted him into you with soft sighs of his name and your hands tracing down to the hem of his shorts. Heavy, lust-pooled eyed followed your hands, watching you pull him from his shorts and stroke him with expert fingers that never failed to make him fall apart—on your table, in your bed… you bewitched him with touch since first he met you. He was a slave to it.

“Fuck, baby—” he groaned, his head falling back before he swiped your hands away from his swollen length, giving it a few hard strokes as he ran the head between your exposed folds. He filled you with on thrust, a filthy squelch as your pussy accepted him – unable to be gentle, unable to take his time when all he could think of was claiming you over and again, of meeting your counterstrike with a knockout and hearing your surrender in cries of his name.

He was big—so big that every time he filled you, it felt like he was splitting you apart. The smallest hint of pain, the breach of his cock melting into a delicious fire that licked and coated your nerves as the fat head knocked against soft tissue inside you. He found his pace with a slow rut that dragged his cock along tight walls where you could feel every single vein throb enticingly against you.

His facial hair sanded across your cheek as he panted how good you felt, how tight—how addicted he was to the feel of you, how he wanted to fuck you for hours. Your nails curved down over the muscles of his shoulder blades, along his waist—basking in his size, his strength—his head lowering to scrape his teeth over the swell of your breast, sucking over the ghost of his previous mark and drawing blood back to the surface as he snapped his hips back into you.

And then the door to the locker room opened, and conversation filled it.

Din didn’t even think before slamming his fist onto the water pressure, drenching the two of you in seconds with cool water and drowning the sounds of his cock slamming into you with the hiss of water falling in rivulets down your bodies.

You moaned, too far gone to know – or care – that you weren’t alone, and his hand came back up to cover your mouth with a warning growl into your ear, “Shut up, unless you want to give them a show.”

Even as he said it, his pace grew harder—punching gasps and sounds of surprised pleasure from parted lips that were only mitigated by the calloused palm he folded over them. Your nipples pebbled through soaked fabric, drawing his eager mouth down to suck it raw through the dress, whimpers for more echoed in the tight clench of your cunt around his glistening length.

Steam filled the shower, bleeding out into the locker room where laughter and conversation blended to mask the wet slaps of his skin against yours, the sodden movement of clothes and his guttural groans around your nipple as you clawed at his undulating back.

“Din—” you whispered, panting as strands of your hair fell into your face—fucked out and divine when his mouth slanted over yours again, your chest heaving while one hand lifted to cup his jaw, keeping his mouth on yours. He snapped into the dripping grasp of your pussy hard, shoving you up the wall onto your toes, the graze of the short coarse hairs at the base of his cock tickling over your sensitive clit.

“So fucking loud…” he growled on a whip of anger, the sound cracking down the feral possessiveness of his tone and making you moan. He would spank that pretty ass red, your pussy pink if there wasn’t the risk of the sound carrying to the other athletes getting changed for their workout.

Oh well.

That just meant he would have to take you again later.

His balls tightened and his stomach clenched at the thought, fuck. He wanted you again and he hadn’t even cum yet—your tight little cunt already quivering and tightening around him with your oncoming orgasm as he lost himself in eyes flooded with open desire— disarming him with the candor he saw reflected in them. He swallowed thickly.

“Gonna ruin you, sweetheart,” was his immediate reaction, the only way he could think to reciprocate. A gush of wetness pushed around his cock drilling into you, your walls getting impossibly tighter, and he smirked darkly—his nose pressing into your cheek, teeth bared and feral, “you’d like that, huh?”

Delirious nods were all you were capable of as silent gasps kept your lips parted, eyes rolling back when his thumb dropped to draw tight, fixated little circles on your clit—forcing you over the edge with a final blow that sucked the breath right out of you, the boxer taking and taking and taking everything he wanted from you with wet thrusts and brutal bites to your already marked neck.

He swallowed your orgasm with his mouth, the wet strands of his hair dripping water onto your pretty face as he sucked your tongue into his mouth, dropping his free hand to slide down the length of your side as his thrust turned erratic, chasing his high—chasing that bliss he could only find buried deep inside you.

“Cum, Din—cum,” you breathed, cupping his face as you smiled—exhaustion written plain on your face and his brows pinched in concentration, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp of your name, breathless as he pulled out—his hand moving frantically over the swollen length of him until he coated your mound and dress with his release. It washed away in streaks of milky white down your body, a subtle pang of fatigued frustration to see it disappear so quickly flashing though him.

The locker room was silent when he turned the water pressure off.

Apart from your labored breathing, the locker room was silent—the prior occupants leaving none the wiser or – if they had heard anything – wisely leaving.

Din dropped your leg from where it remained hooked over his arm, his hands fisting in the skirt of your dress to drag the sodden material up and over your head with a shiver at the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes.

The sight of your naked body made his softening cock twitch, dammit. You were all gentle curves and soft skin, clothed in the marks of his mouth and bruises of his grip.

He wanted you again.

And caged within his arms, trapped with his hands pressed either side of your head, his shaggy head of soaked waves falling into dark, guarded eyes—you could admit you wanted him again too.

“I’ll wash your dress,” he rasped gruffly, taking a step back from you and kicking off his shorts to wring out and toss into his gym bag. He left the shower with effortless calm, as if he wasn’t stark naked but returned with a towel for you to wrap yourself in.

You flashed him a grateful smile that stuttered when he tossed another – smaller – towel on your head, rubbing it quickly over your soaked locks despite your complaints, a crooked smirk your only indication that he was playing.

“You don’t have t—”

“You can wait for it to dry at my place.”

His words brokered no argument as you padded after him into the empty locker room, the boxer rummaging through his own locker to pull out a simple white t-shirt—long enough to cover you… just about. The hem fell shorter than your dress and you were distinctly aware of your lack of underwear when you pulled it on.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he rumbled as he tugged a tight black muscle shirt over his head, looking down at you with a devastating smirk and sinfully half-lidded eyes, “I don’t share. No one will see you.”

Taglist: