Blood Runs Black
Pairing: Boxer!Din x Female Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY, minors DNI)
Summary: Your boyfriend, Din, is a fighter. It only takes one night, a victory against a man called Gideon, for everything to change.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, mentions of violence, rough sex, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, public sex, mention of dub-con, dirty talk, established relationship, weird darksaber shit
Word Count: 5k
A/N: This has been in my drafts for literal ages, and there’s a writing fire under my ass rn for some reason, so I’ve finally finished it lol! I know there are a few other boxer AUs out there so I purposely have not read them to try and keep this as original as possible. I’ve heard many good things about this series if you’re interested in more. This is a Haunted!Din AU, because I’m a whore for horror. Short and sweet and dear to me. Title from By the Sword by iamjakehill. Enjoy!
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.
"Oh, no." He laughs a bit, a low sound from his chest, arm tightening around your bare shoulders. You look up into his eyes, into their black abyss. "We don't hear anything anymore."