#haunted!din

The power still teased you, pulsing beneath your skin, whispering of things you were meant to touch, to wield, to unravel. Every lesson left you buzzing, frustrated that the magic you could feel so clearly remained just beyond your reach.

Today had been no different.

You had arrived for your afternoon session brimming with energy, hoping to finally bend the elements a little more boldly than usual. And yes, your exercises had been successful. The fire dance, the hovering flames, the faint sparks that had jumped from your fingertips to hover in the air like tiny embers - it had worked. It had really worked.

And yet, when you turned to the matron of your class - the one everyone called the Arcanist, the head of your junior circle - her smile was patient, almost indulgent. “Very good,” she had said. “Promising. But remember: control before ambition. You mustn’t overreach.”

Control before ambition. Those words had rolled around in your mind like chains as you had trudged back to your dorm. You had tried to keep your excitement in check, tried to remind yourself that rules were part of the process. But the spark still buzzed beneath your skin, relentless and impatient, and all it took was a glance at the empty corridors and the flickering candlelight of your dorm to make you ache for more.

You sighed and collapsed onto your bed, letting your notes spill across your lap, the inked pages filled with today’s successes and instructions, each line a reminder of just how safe, how measured, how… mundane, your life here really was.

The room itself didn’t help. It was cozy, practical, lined with bookshelves of careful volumes - nothing that would satisfy the hunger curling in your chest. The scent of herbs and incense lingered in the corners, too light, too domesticated to match the dark thrill you craved. You let your gaze wander over your possessions: jars of dried petals and moss, a carefully bound grimoire that smelled faintly of mildew and magic, the polished silver tools for scrying and drawing glyphs. Each item whispered promises of power, and yet, in this dorm, they felt inert, restrained. You longed for chaos, for danger, for the sharp tang of forbidden knowledge.

Perhaps the library could oblige.

The thought brought a spark to your chest, a shiver along your spine. The coven’s archives were vast, shadowed halls where candles flickered and dust motes danced in the air like living things. The forbidden section - demonic, theoretical, never to be practiced - called to you in particular. You had only glimpsed it once under the strict supervision of a senior, the smell of old parchment and something darker curling in your nose, but you had remembered every title, every cryptic symbol.

Tonight, perhaps, you would visit it again. And maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t leave with merely curiosity this time. Maybe tonight, you would touch the edges of something you were never supposed to touch at all.

You made your way to the library, the quiet of the late hour settling around you like a soft, expectant fog. The halls were empty, save for the occasional rustle of a nocturnal scholar or the distant tick of a clock somewhere deep in the building. Most were long gone to their dorms or tangled in the careful monotony of their studies; hardly anyone stayed late to wander these corridors. You found the solitude comforting. It meant freedom.

Stepping into the main hall, you allowed yourself a glance around. The candlelight flickered across the polished floors, casting long shadows between the shelves, stretching and twisting as if the room itself were alive. With quiet, deliberate steps, you moved toward the restricted section at the back. Technically, “restricted” was a polite fiction. A simple chain partitioned the area, paired with a sign in neat, officious lettering: “Books in this section are not for rental. Study only - practice heavily discouraged.”

You exhaled, bitter and amused. Careful. Mundane. Boring.

Ignoring the faint twinge of guilt the sign provoked, you stepped around the chain and let your fingers drift across the spines of the old tomes. Leather, vellum, polished wood - a slow, hypnotic rhythm as you traced centuries of magic and knowledge that had been folded into these pages. You had no plan; you had only the need, the itch under your skin that demanded to be scratched.

And then you felt it. A texture unlike the rest: cold, almost metallic, with weight that tugged at your arms when you lifted it. The book seemed alive in your hands, resonating with a pull you couldn’t name. You paused, tracing the sigil engraved into its front - a crest of interlocking shapes, jagged yet precise, as if carved by a hand both human and something else. The design made your pulse quicken: angular lines forming a sort of T-shaped mark, flanked by twin crescents, the edges faintly gleaming as if catching the candlelight itself.

The book’s presence throbbed beneath your fingers. You could feel the magic, dormant but eager, waiting to be awakened. Your mind screamed to open it right there, to dive into the forbidden, to let the darkness spill into your veins. You imagined the pages, the diagrams etched in ink that shimmered faintly in the low light, and the whispers of incantations that promised power you weren’t supposed to touch.

But restraint, however thin, still held you. You shoved the book under your coat, feeling the surprising weight against your side, and began the careful retreat back toward your dorm room. Each step echoed in the empty hall, a metronome to the pulse thrumming in your chest. The magic hummed against your ribcage, vibrating in rhythm with your heartbeat, insistent, impatient, demanding.

By the time you slipped through the dorm’s door, you were shaking with anticipation. In the sanctuary of your room, you could set the book on your desk, breathe, and let your fingers explore without fear of curious eyes or prying warnings. The library had been a gate; your dorm, the threshold where the real work could begin.

Tonight, at last, the waiting would end.

Hours passed. You sat cross-legged on your narrow bed, the book spread open before you, its pages no longer the chaotic riddle they had been at first. The symbols had started to move in your mind, not literally - though you could swear sometimes the ink shimmered - but meaning began to coalesce. You weren’t reading anymore; you were understanding.

It had taken time. At first, you caught fragments - archaic phrasing, strange dialects that blurred the line between prayer and curse. But the longer you traced the curling script, the more it seemed to adjust to you. The words found rhythm in your breath, their meanings sliding into place as though the book wanted to be read, wanted to be known.

Most of it spoke of things your tutors had only ever alluded to in whispers - the art of protection, not through barriers or charms, but through bond. Of summoning, not as calling something forth, but as awakening what already watched. It told of a presence, an entity bound to balance and vengeance, a creature of discipline and silent wrath. He was described as neither wholly beast nor god, but something between: a guardian forged in violence, a keeper of ancient pacts.

The texts named no form, no image - only that his armor was not made of metal but of purpose, and that his gaze could pierce through untruth like a blade through cloth. His domain was the border between obedience and rebellion, and his summoners were few - those who desired both control and absolution, and found neither.

You swallowed hard, tracing the sigil again where it was printed in the margin - that same shape of interlocking lines, sharp and resolute. It called to something deep in you.

You turned another page, and your pulse kicked when you found it: The Rite of Manifestation.

Honestly, it didn’t look that complicated. A few runes. A blood mark. The invocation itself short, almost elegant. You frowned, surprised at how… accessible it seemed. This couldn’t be the kind of thing the coven was so afraid of. Fire magic had burned half the northern wing once, and that had been considered safe study.

Your eyes skimmed the ingredients list.

A circle of salt.

A single offering -"something of warmth.”

Your own blood -"the bridge between worlds.”

You had all of it. Of course you did. Any witch worth their name did.

You hesitated - for formality more than fear. The book hadn’t listed any real dangers, not beyond the usual sermonizing. Demons feed on intent. Never promise what you can’t deliver. Those who summon must command, or be consumed. It all read like the kind of warnings teachers wrote into curriculum to keep students away from the fun stuff.

And besides, whoever summoned a demon became their master, didn’t they? That’s what the old stories said. Control through will. That didn’t sound so bad.

You closed the book with a soft thud and stood, rolling your shoulders. Enough of hesitation. Enough of caution. You’d waited long enough to feel something real.

You cleared the small table by your bed, pushing your books and candles aside, then drew a circle of salt across the worn wood, your movements precise but quick. It glittered faintly in the low light, catching the flicker of your single candle. You cut your palm with the ritual knife - shallow, more sting than pain - and let a drop of blood fall into the center. It spread into the salt like ink into water.

You murmured the opening lines. The words were soft, slippery things, rolling off your tongue like you’d known them all your life. The air shifted. The candle flame shivered, though no breeze touched it.

You continued. Your voice grew steadier, the rhythm more certain. The shadows in the corners of the room thickened, curling inward, drawn to the pulse of your voice. The symbols carved into the book’s page began to gleam faintly, reflecting light that didn’t exist.

You felt it before you saw it - a pull in your chest, like something vast had turned its attention toward you. The air grew dense, humming with energy. The circle’s edge began to glow faintly, as if reacting to the heat of your intent.

A thrill ran through you. This was it. Real magic - not the measured rituals of the coven, but something raw, alive, answering.

You reached the final line of the incantation, your voice a whisper and a command all at once. The air cracked - sharp and electric - and the candle went out.

Darkness swallowed the room, heavy and absolute.

And from within it, something moved.

For a few heartbeats, there was only the silence - the kind that seemed to listen back. And then you felt it, before your eyes could adjust.

A pressure, like gravity itself had shifted. The air had weight now, the small room no longer yours but his. You couldn’t see him yet, but the sound reached you first - the low, steady rhythm of metal shifting, faint but distinct. Armor. The subtle scrape of something heavy brushing against the floor.

Then came the breathing.

Modulated, mechanical almost, steady and inhuman in its precision. It filled the room, the slow inhale and exhale of something that shouldn’t need to breathe at all.

You froze. Just for a moment. The thrill that had burned through you only minutes ago flickered into something else - hesitation, maybe even fear. What had you done?

Your fingers twitched, and instinct took over before reason could stop you. You lifted your hand, calling forth a spark of fire in your palm. The little flame sputtered to life, casting long, quivering shadows along the walls.

“Show yourself,” you said, your voice small at first, then stronger as you straightened your back. “You’ve been summoned. Make yourself known.”

The breathing paused. Then - footsteps. Two. Three.

He stepped into the circle of dim orange light.

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

He was taller than you expected - much taller. The room, already small, now felt suffocating with him in it. The flame in your hand trembled, its light skimming over plates of dark armor etched with faint sigils that looked almost alive when they caught the glow. It wasn’t polished, not ceremonial - this was worn, scarred, meant for survival, not beauty.

A metal helmet concealed his face entirely, featureless save for the T-shaped visor that glinted faintly. It was impossible to tell if there was a face beneath it at all - only the steady sound of his breathing told you there was something living inside.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Who are you?”

The answer came low and resonant, the kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command.

“You called me,” he said, the words like a judgment. “Do you not know who you’ve summoned?”

Something about the way he spoke - measured, unhurried, certain - made your pulse stumble. The flame in your palm flickered, and you realized you’d stepped back without meaning to.

His head tilted, visor catching the light. “You break your circle, little witch, and you give me leave to touch your world.”

You froze again.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a reminder.

And as he took one slow step forward, the edges of your flame trembling, you felt it deep in your bones - whatever rules you thought you understood no longer applied here.

Still, you tried to find your composure again - straightened your back, lifted your chin, the motion a fragile act of defiance that almost convinced you. You had read about this in the book. You summon him. You command him. That was the order of things.

So why didn’t it feel like it?

“You shall address me as your mistress,” you said, the words coming out thinner than you’d intended, a trembling echo of authority. “And you will do as I please.”

The silence that followed stretched long enough for your skin to prickle. Then -

A sound.

Not bright amusement, not even laughter. It was a low, rough chuckle, like gravel shifting in a dry riverbed. Dark mockery, the kind that told you he wasn’t laughing with you.

“Is that so, little witch?” The way he said it made your stomach knot. He drew out the nickname, deliberate, almost tender in its derision, as if to remind you that any attempt to control him was a sweet, foolish dream. “Then tell me,” he went on, voice curling through the room like smoke, “what is it that you please?”

You couldn’t see his face. But you could feel the grin beneath the helmet - the faint lilt in his tone, the quiet confidence of someone far too used to being feared. Something in you wanted desperately to imagine a human behind the metal - eyes, lips, something you could understand.

But his questions came slowly, giving you just enough time to realize you had no real answer.

What was it you wanted?

“I… I just wanted to -” you began, words tumbling over each other before vanishing entirely. You weren’t sure what he wanted to hear - or what you wanted to admit. The flame in your palm sputtered again, dipping low until only a faint glow remained. You clenched your fingers, forcing it back to life, the effort leaving your arm trembling.

He turned his head slightly, visor sweeping over your small dorm room. His presence filled every corner, made the air hum with something old and wrong. He took his time, as if reading you through the walls - the piles of books, the untidy desk, the open grimoire. A slow, dry snicker rolled from him.

“Enlighten me, little witch,” he said, his tone dipping low, almost conversational now, “how come an apprentice plays with power she was never meant to touch?”

Your eyes darted to the book on the floor, the one that had started all this. You remembered - faintly - the passage about breaking a summoning. It had been short, no more than a few lines: a sigil reversed, a phrase whispered with intent, the summoner’s will untangling the tether. But it was fragmented in your memory now, scrambled by the heavy pulse of his voice and the crackling energy in the air.

“What is it, cyar’ika?” he asked after a beat. “Cat got your tongue?”

The nickname - it didn’t sound human. It carried a strange warmth that didn’t belong in this room, yet the way he said it made your pulse skip.

“This… this was a mistake,” you managed at last, your voice firmer this time but trembling under the surface.

“Oh, it certainly was.”

He stepped forward, slow and unhurried, each movement a controlled assertion of power.

You took one step back. Then another.

Your heel hit the edge of your bed, sending you stumbling until you sat down hard, the flame in your hand guttering out entirely. Darkness rushed back in.

In the dark, his outline shifted - broad shoulders, the faint glint of metal tracing his form. You pushed yourself upright, breath caught somewhere between fear and defiance. He didn’t move, only stood there as though waiting, patient and inevitable, as if eternity itself could afford him the luxury of silence.

“This was… mere practice,” you said at last. “I want you gone now. I’m sorry for disturbing your presence. But… it’s over.”

He tilted his head, the movement sharp. A faint sound followed - something between a hum and a growl, modulated through whatever device lay hidden beneath his helmet.

“It isn’t, though,” he said softly. “Summoning me… costs you.”

You froze. The words scraped through the dark, low and final. The book hadn’t mentioned costs. You lifted your hand, the faint sting of the earlier cut still pulsing across your palm. “But I already… gave.” You held it out like a child presenting proof of honesty.

He chuckled - a sound so deep it felt like it came from the walls themselves.

“You gave as part of the binding, yes. But this -"

His hand came forward. Leather closed around your wrist, cool and crushing, turning it as though testing its fragility.

“This is not the payment I’m talking about.”

You tried to pull back, but his grip didn’t move. He wasn’t hurting you - at least, not in the way that left marks - but the pressure made your pulse race, your breath shallow.

“I didn’t even… wish anything of you yet,” you stammered, searching for a foothold in the conversation that no longer belonged to you. “What is it you need from me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His silence was a calculated cruelty. The seconds stretched long enough for your imagination to fill them: the old lessons whispered in the coven halls about the prices demons demand. Memory, youth, voice. Sight. The soul itself.

But the book had mentioned none of those.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a mortal.”

Your breath caught. The word tasted felt wrong in your mind - too soft, too intimate for what it might mean.

You swallowed hard. “Do you… wish for a sacrifice?” Your mind raced, grasping at ways to make sense of the rules you thought you understood. “I could find something - someone -"

He took a slow step closer. The air changed. Heat rolled from him, dry and suffocating. The next step brought him within arm’s reach, and you had to tilt your chin up to meet the black T-shaped visor that reflected your own frightened face.

“You will suffice,” he said simply.

The words struck with more force than a physical blow. You stumbled backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed again, the old frame creaking as you sat down hard.

“You… you cannot kill me,” you whispered. Your voice shook. “I summoned you. You’re bound to me.”

A pause. Then, a sound like static - laughter distorted through the metal of his helm.

“Bound?” he repeated. “You think the leash runs one way, witchling?”

He crouched slightly, enough that the dull gleam of his armor caught the dim light of the full moon. His hand hovered near your face, not touching yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off it. The air smelled faintly of ash and something older, darker - like storms before they break.

“You see,” he continued, quieter now, almost gentle in contrast to the intensity around him, “the cost is never what you think it will be. And sometimes, it’s less about giving, and more about surrendering.”

He stepped closer, the cold metal of his cuisses pressing against your thighs. A shiver ran through you, part fear, part something sharper, something hungry that had nothing to do with terror.

He nudged your legs apart just a fraction, the pressure sending heat surging low in your belly. You could feel it, and yet it wasn’t just desire - it was the awareness of surrender, of offering yourself completely to him.

“How…” your voice cracked, dry and tentative. “How will it even… work?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, a slow, deliberate motion nudged your shoulders back, a command without phrasing, a challenge without negotiation. “Show me yourself as I have shown you myself.”

Your trembling hands rose instinctively, fumbling for the buttons of your dress. One by one, you released them, each small click a tiny surrender, your gaze locked on the dark visor that hid his face. You could almost feel his attention burning through the thin barrier of helmet and shadow, studying every motion, every hesitation.

When the last buttons yielded, you shimmied the dress down to your hips, revealing bare skin to the chill of the dorm air. Goosebumps rose instantly, nipples tightening in sharp contrast to the warmth pooling low in your core. The cold only heightened your awareness - every nerve, every inch of your skin, alive to his presence.

“All of it,” he said simply.

Hands that had grown accustomed to trembling obeyed. You pushed the dark fabric from your body entirely, letting it fall to the floor. Your chest rose and fell, breaths quickening as anticipation mingled with fear, with awe, with that impossible tangle of arousal and submission. Your mind raced, a frantic litany of disbelief and fascination: You summoned a demon. A real one. And now… what? First thing you come up with is to let yourself be fucked by him?

A hot, shuddering breath escaped your lips, though it was not fear alone. You had come seeking the edge, the thrill, the pulse of dark power at your fingertips. This - this proximity, this surrendered posture, the brush of armor so close - was more intoxicating than any lesson you had been taught in the coven.

“Kneel before me, little witch.” The words were not harsh, not rough - they were a demand that left no room for negotiation, a quiet assertion of dominance that had your body sliding instinctively to obey.

You dropped to your knees, feeling the weight of him above you, the presence that filled the small dorm suddenly impossibly vast. Your palms pressed to the worn floor and your eyes stayed on the worn floorboards, though your ears tracked every sound. 

The shuffle of his armor against itself made your pulse skip, the quiet metallic rasp echoing in the small room. Then, softer, his gloved fingers found their way to your face. The touch was gentle, almost intimate, and shockingly human compared to the hardness of his armor. His thumb traced along your jaw, tilting your head up so your gaze met the dark visor, the impossibly commanding presence that had consumed your thoughts since his arrival.

“Will you give yourself willingly, little witch?” His voice resonated through the helmet, each word a tether binding your attention. “To seal this pact with your openness… and my readiness? Will you obey so that I may bow to your will thereafter?” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, nudging it down just slightly, testing the limits of your submission. You felt the tug of instinct - the desire to show him - but you held back, biting the edge of your own restraint.

Instead, you gave him a nod, slight, but enough. Enough to grant him the permission to proceed.

His hand lifted, leaving your skin longing for contact that remained tantalizingly absent. Then came the subtle shuffle, a rustle beneath the armor, and the sound of straps and fabric moving. You caught only glimpses, sensed more than saw, until the unmistakable weight of his cock was freed in front of you, solid and heavy. His gloved hand guided his length, strokes that were measured and precise.

“Open up for me, cyar’ika,” he commanded, the word of power and ownership resonating in the air. You obeyed immediately, lips parting, anticipation sharpening every nerve. His tip pressed against you, warm, flesh against flesh, more human than his armored form had suggested. You took him into your mouth, letting your tongue explore, coax, and pleasure in ways entirely your own, even as the size and dominance of his form demanded careful attention.

At first, he allowed you to dictate the rhythm, a quiet encouragement through grunts and deep, low sounds, each one confirmation that your effort pleased him. You felt your confidence grow, feeling good to take him to a good two-third of his length.

And then, his gloved hand returned, gripping your hair with firm, but not painful, authority. 

Each tug, each guiding motion directed him deeper, teaching you without words how close you could come, how far you could stretch your limits. A sharp desire to pull back flared instinctively - air restriction, the tightness, the near impossibility of escape - but the pressure in your stomach, the surge of heat through your core, anchored you.

“Give in, little one,” he purred, voice low and commanding. Your fists unclenched, your eyes fluttered closed, tears prickling, and slowly, your body began to obey its instinct. You took him fully now, saliva dripping at the corners of your mouth, every nerve strung taut with pressure, tension, and the strange, thrilling euphoria of surrender.

He offered no praise - not in words - but the rhythm of his guidance, the pressure of his fingers in your hair, communicated approval. Each slight deviation of speed or depth met with subtle correction; every precise motion received reward in the quiet language of touch and sound. You learned quickly, body and mind attuned to the cadence he demanded.

Then, without warning, he pulled his cock from your lips, leaving you gasping for air, chest heaving, eyes searching his visor for any sign, any acknowledgment.

“Stand,” He didn’t offer a hand, only waited, his armor shifting faintly with his patience. Your legs trembled as you rose, knees weak from the hardwood floor, yet your body thrummed with anticipation. The slight tilt of his visor signaled he was scanning you, taking in every line, every curve, every pulse of exposed skin.

“You mortals… so fragile,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your shoulder. The touch was almost gentle, but the words carried something darker, something that made your pulse quicken. Did he intend to break you? To test you? To claim you? Your mind spun, and you realized, with a jolt of excitement, that part of you wanted exactly that.

“We’re tougher than we might appear,” you replied, voice shaky but defiant. It earned you a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through the visor.

“We shall see about that, little witch,” he said. “Turn around.”

Goosebumps rose across your skin, but you obeyed without hesitation. The moment your back faced him, you felt him close. His presence enveloped you, the metallic cold of armor against your bare skin sending a shiver through your spine. His hands traveled slowly over your shoulders, tracing the tops of your arms, gliding down to your hands. Then, in a single, controlled motion, he pulled your wrists behind your back, holding them firmly in one hand while the other began to explore freely.

Cool leather brushed over your stomach and belly, gliding upward between your breasts with careful pressure. A flick at your nipples drew a soft, involuntary moan from you, betraying your composure despite the thrill of restraint. He leaned closer, his hand moving upward, fingers closing softly around the delicate flesh of your throat, guiding you back against him. Your gaze lifted, drawn by his subtle pressure and command, and you realized the air you breathed felt borrowed, as if he dictated even that.

The hard length of him pressed against the curve of your back, suppressing any urge to move on your own, keeping you under the precise control he had claimed from the moment you summoned him. His grip on your wrists tightened slightly, just enough to remind you of your place, while the other hand drifted from your throat back down, sliding across your belly until it found your center. Wetness pooled immediately at his touch, your body already answering him without hesitation.

Gloved fingers parted your folds, gliding carefully, exploring with deliberate mastery. You tilted your head back, pressing against the cold hardness of his breastplate, letting the sensation heighten every nerve. Circling your clit with precision, he coaxed another small, shivering moan from your lips.

“So eager, already,” he murmured, voice vibrating deep in his chest, reverberating through your bare skin. You only managed a slight nod, lips pressed together in submission, body responding fully to his command.

His fingers moved deeper and more insistent, drawing soft sounds from you, sounds that were rewards and guidance all at once. “Still ready, little witch? To take it all the way?” Another flick, another shiver, and you nodded again, surrendering fully to the dark, magnetic control he wielded.

His foot stepped between your legs, nudging your heels open until you were open enough for him, cold air brushing your wet cunt. You wobbled, nearly losing your balance, but his grip on your wrists held you steady.

Then he pushed you forward. The sudden loss of his hold forced your palms to brace against the wodden bedframe. You barely had time to exhale before his hand traced your spine, the glide of leather over skin making you shiver.

“Hold on,” he murmured. “And take willingly.”

The words sank into you like a command from somewhere deeper than his voice. You rose onto your toes instinctively, body arching in invitation, in preparation. Behind you, he moved with quiet precision - the sound of armor shifting, the faint intake of breath through the modulator.

You felt him line himself up. His hands settled on your hips, his tip on your entrance spreading warmth through the cool air between you. He stayed there for a moment, letting you feel him, the anticipation that curled between one heartbeat and the next.

When he pushed forward, it was slow and steady - testing the limits of what you could take. The pressure built, sharp and sweet all at once, and your breath fractured into short gasps. His hold on your hips tightened until you thought you might bruise, but his control never slipped. He dragged himself forward, relentlessly pressing inch by inch into your wetness, that took him so willingly.

And yet. He was big. Without a lot of preparation it nearly felt like he split you in half right here and now. Your breathing came in ragged parts, trying to adjust, but as he reached his end, you jolted forward just a bit.

“Remember the deal,” he said in measured tone.

You nodded, though you were not sure he could see it; your words dissolved into a quiet, trembling sound instead. He stilled then, letting you adjust, letting the ache turn into something else - something that made your pulse quicken rather than falter.

“You are just…” You swallowed, your voice breaking into a breath. “So much.”

He drew a slow circle over your lower back with his thumb, the motion strangely gentle. “Not as tough as you thought you were?”

A shaky laugh escaped you despite yourself. “Tough enough still.”

That earned you his first thrust - steady, controlled, a testing of how far he could push you. You bit down on the sound that wanted to rise, but it came out anyway, muffled against your own arm.

A gloved hand covered your mouth, silencing you completely. “Shh,” he breathed, leaning close enough that the helmet brushed the curve of your shoulder. “This is a pact between only the two of us.”

You nodded against his palm, trembling from restraint and need. He shifted his hand, fingers sliding down to your throat, guiding you upright without losing the rhythm that had started to claim your senses. Your back met the cold press of his armor, the contrast of heat and steel making your body arch further as he slammed harder into you now, the angle not as forgiving.

“So good, so willingly,” he murmured. 

Your body strained against the position he forced you into, the tension in every muscle humming like a taut wire. His hand at your throat was the only thing keeping you upright; his strength, the only thing keeping you tethered to the moment. You reached back blindly, searching for something - anything - to hold onto. One hand caught his wrist, the other met cold armor, the edges of the metal pressing into your skin as he slammed even deeper into you.

His words echoed in your mind, fragments of a passage you had translated, one that warned: The demon draws his strength from order, from obedience. And in that moment, a thought pierced the haze - Was this what that meant? Were you feeding him through surrender, giving him what he required to remain in control? Or had you mistaken the deal entirely, and it was you who was being consumed?

Your thoughts were disturbed by a sudden movement - he pulled out in one swift movement, leaving you clinging to air and missing his cock inside you already. Before you could draw another breath, his hand closed around your throat again. He spun you with startling ease, and the room blurred into motion until your back hit the wall hard enough to rattle your breath loose.

The world narrowed to the pressure of his hand, the wall behind you, and the heat between you. It wasn’t pain that stole your air - it was the thrill of being overpowered, of letting someone else write the rhythm.

“Hold on to me.”

The words cut through the haze. You obeyed before thought could intervene, arms wrapping around his neck, your legs curling around his hips when he lifted you. You could feel the power in him, how easily he carried you, how steady his breathing remained even as yours came apart. One hand rested on your hip to keep you up, the other guided his cock back to your leaking pussy, already anticipating him again.

He pressed you higher against the wall, the cool surface grounding you as everything else spun and he glided into you with ease. The position left you utterly at his mercy; every thrust, every breath belonged to him. Your forehead found the cold edge of his pauldron, the steel biting against your heated skin. You reached for something softer, instinctively seeking the touch of hair or flesh, but there was only armor - unyielding, inhuman, a reminder of what he was and what you weren’t.

And you could feel an orgasm building up. The tension coiled in your stomach, making you clench around him already.

He drew back just enough to speak, voice low and threaded with dark restraint. “You will hold,” he ordered. “You will wait until I tell you.”

The command wrapped around you like a spell. You wanted to resist, to shake your head, to tell him that your body had already reached its breaking point - but the sound that escaped you wasn’t defiance. It was surrender.

“I can’t…”

“You can, cyar’ika.”

The word - soft, foreign, intimate - hit deeper than any order could. Something in it rewired you. The trembling in your limbs found a rhythm again, your breath steadied, and even as the edge loomed, you lingered there - hovering between wanting and waiting.

“You feel so soft… so warm,” he murmured, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip to guide you with steady control. Each movement was measured to test the limits of your body and your will. “I want you to feel everything, little witch. Every mark I leave, every piece I take. Can you do that for me?”

You didn’t fully understand what he meant, but understanding hardly mattered anymore. You nodded, breathless, trusting him to decide what “everything” meant.

His breathing deepened. “You take me so well,” he whispered, the words edged with reverence rather than arrogance. “You are mine now, as I am yours. This is the Way.”

“I can take it,” you gasped, voice trembling under the rising tension. You were teetering on the brink of release, body and mind suspended in that unbearable space between control and surrender.

He lifted his head, visor catching the moonlight spilling in from your window. “Show me, cyar’ika.”

The word - endearment, command, and possession all at once - broke something open in you. His rhythm faltered briefly, the perfect control giving way to something nearly human and unrestrained. He searched your gaze as if he wanted to see the exact moment you unraveled, and when he finally gave the command - "Now… come for me” - it was not a suggestion.

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up. The release hit like a wave that started in your chest and tore its way through you, shaking every nerve. You barely noticed the sound that left you until his gloved hand covered your mouth again, silencing the cry that would have split the air. Through the haze you felt the tremor in him too, the tightening of his grip, the shudder that rippled through his frame as he joined you in that shared collapse, spilling into you in hard billows.

Then stillness. Heavy, trembling stillness.

He didn’t let go. One arm still supported you as though you weighed nothing, holding you there against him until your breathing steadied. His strength was unreal, yet the touch that followed - when he finally lifted you, carrying you to the bed - was almost tender. He laid you down with care, the armor that had felt cold and forbidding moments ago now a strange reassurance of safety.

You sank into the softness, body boneless and humming with aftershocks. A low, involuntary sound slipped from your throat - a sigh that could have been mistaken for contentment.

When your vision cleared, he was already standing at the edge of the room. Fully armored again, every trace of the being who had just held you now hidden again behind metal and shadows.

For a long moment he stated nothing. Then: “It has been a long time,” he said quietly, “since anyone has given themselves so completely to me.”

You pushed yourself up on unsteady elbows, studying him. “What does that mean… for this… pact?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them. The thought of banishment - of sending him back to whatever realm he belonged to - felt absurd now. You didn’t want to undo what had just been bound.

A low chuckle vibrated from within the helmet. He leaned back against your desk, arms crossing over his chest. “Whatever you make of it now, little witch.”

You hesitated, heartbeat quickening again for an entirely different reason. “Can I…” The question felt foolish, fragile. “Can I keep you?”

His head tilted, and for the first time there was something almost gentle in the gesture. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how often,” he said, voice dipping low again, “and how willingly you give yourself to me.”

A shiver coursed through you - not of fear, but of recognition. That was the thrill you’d been searching for when you first opened the forbidden book. The sense of danger you could trust.

Whatever consequences came with your choice, you knew the price was already paid. And as his shadow lingered over you, you realized you didn’t regret a single thing.

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Continue to Part 2 of the Darkness-Trilogy

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The tone of his voice frightens you. It’s helpless - thick with emotion. You get up on your knees before moving behind him, wrapping your arms around his broad chest. He’s cold - shockingly freezing.

“Maker Din - come get under the blanket,” You press your nose into the nape of his neck. “Your skin.”

He raises his arms, gripping your wrist where it hovers over his beating heart. “Would you leave me if I told you to,” he asks suddenly. It’s desperate - tinged in a strange grief and it hurts you. A blaster shot to something vital inside your belly.

You comb his hair back, nudging your lips against his cheek as he slowly begins to relax into your arms. “No,” you reply. “I wouldn’t.”

He tries to laugh and it comes out stilted - a dry cough that he chokes down. You briefly wonder if he’s about to cry. You’ve never seen him cry.

“I love you,” he says as he gently lifts your wrist to his mouth, brushing his soft lips over the thrum of your pulse. He’s never said that either - not out loud.

There is a finality to it that makes you panic. You find yourself pinching his chin and angling his face to meet yours. You kiss him hard as an answer. Your insistent tongue dipping behind his teeth. You don’t want to speak on it, you don’t want to say I love you too because it feels like an ending.

You manage to wrestle him into the bed, shoving him under a heap of blankets. He curls into himself, his teeth clicking in his mouth as his jaw tenses. 

You listen to him mumble in his sleep. The words are in Mando’a. You cannot parse the rest.

**

When Din starts using the Darksaber, there’s a change.

It’s not immediate. It’s a gradual process that begins to pull at the frayed strings of him before unraveling into something new.

When he finally picks it up, it’s like he’s surrendered. The saber had been secured inside the weapons locker - hidden away as Din tried to figure out what the fuck he wanted to do. 

It surprises you. One morning, he joins you at the hatch - ready to step into the feverish dry heat of Tatooine. You glance down and it’s just there, the black handle jutting up from his belt.  You don’t say anything. You figure it’s his choice - his weapon. Din Djarin knows what he’s doing.

You trust him with your life.

**

He keeps them both bounty hunting. The familiarity of that process is seemingly a comfort to him.

Planet to planet. Hunt. Capture. Credits.

But when Din picks up the saber, he stops just capturing. He starts killing. There’s never really a fight, just his arm swinging elegantly through the air before their bounty is in two pieces. 

“I-I don’t think they wanted him as a corpse,” you remark - a little shaken.

“It’s alright, mesh’la,” he soothes as he strokes your hair, your throat. The tilt of his helmet is heavy with the suggestion that now he wants to fuck. “I can bring them in cold, yeah?”

**

He fucks you differently. It’s not like he had ever fucked you gently - not really. But this fucking is edged with a frantic roughness that leaves you unable to walk for several days.

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder when he thrusts into your cunt. He fists his hand into your hair when he shoves his cock down your throat. He’ll yank you right to the edge of the bed and fuck your mouth like that - burying himself deep as he rubs at the spit on your chin and tells you how fucking good you are and how pretty and how submissive.

It’s not that it’s weird. It’s not that you don’t like it. You do. He makes you cum so hard that tears spill from your eyes. He will slam you face first into the mattress, hips snapping against your ass as he bruises your skin with his fingertips. He grips you like he’s falling or dying or that you might just slip away from him if he released you for a single moment. 

“My girl,” he mutters into your cheek as he pushes the underside of his thick cock between your folds - catching it on the swollen nub of your clit. He’s eaten you out for hours and you’re sticky with his work. The blankets are ruined and when he maneuvers your thighs over his waist, you can feel that he’s wet with you, too. It’s slicking up his groin - the dark, curly hair glistening in the low light. He stares down at you as he moves his fingers through your sex, testing despite the fact he’s stretched you out already. He’s made you spurt into his mouth like a fucking faucet. He’s screwed you boneless. You’re sore and aching and exhausted and still Din puts his fingers between his lips and sucks them lewdly, humming in approval. “My girl,” he grins. “You’re perfect.”

And it feels like a lie - like he’s trying very very hard to convince you or convince himself. He has sex with you like he’s claiming you. It’s so possessive - shockingly dirty at times and it’s not like Din wasn’t dirty before but this is new. 

**

“I want every part of you,” he growls as he looms over you. His gaze rakes down the length of your body, his hands clenching at his sides. You’re sprawled out on the floor of the ship, your lips and tongue swollen from having taken his cock for what felt like hours. It’s like his stamina has hit an eleven. It’s like he cannot tire himself out even if he wanted to.

He parts your knees, leaning forward to grind himself against your soaked sex. He clutches your legs - forcing them up over his thighs. He bears his weight above you, cradling your jaw before pulling it towards his own. His mouth is molten as he kisses you with an urgent tongue. The wet muscle of it slippery as it tangles behind your teeth. It’s an aching, distressed meeting of lips as his thumb digs into your cheek.

“Every part,” he repeats as he starts to turn you over. His fingers sliding between the cleft of your ass as he presses his mouth to your shoulder, the lower notch of your spine. He spits between your cheeks and it’s cool as it slides like syrup over your burning skin. His palm cracks against you. The snap of it loud and startling in the open hull. It lurches you forward and he kneads at the tender flesh where he’s no doubt bruised you. 

There are so many sensations - open nerves and pulse points as Din takes you apart. You barely know what he’s doing, can’t even guess his next move. He hitches your hips up, dragging your ass back against his face, so he can stick his tongue into your cunt. His nose prodding into the thin tissue below your pussy. There’s the tickle of his mustache and his talented fucking mouth as he slides his fingers knuckle-deep. You cry out just because it’s so fucking filthy. 

“Will you let me?” he urges as he raises his fingers to a different place. You arch into him, your knees giving out, your face smashed into the hard ground. “Let me have every part of you, gorgeous girl?”

“Yeah, Din,” you pant. “You can have it.”

As if there would ever be another answer. 

**

He changes in other ways. Right after they had let Grogu go, Din had looked exhausted for months. Purple half-moons under his eyes. His cheeks gaunt. His skin grey and dull.

Din is beautiful. He is. He is so handsome that sometimes it hurts to look at him.

With the saber in his hand, it seems to dial his attractiveness up - highlight it. 

The months of exhaustion erased as if it had never touched him to begin with.

He looks younger.

It’s like he glows. His skin shines golden as sun-blanched sand. Out of his helmet, his chestnut, near-black hair is glossy and thick. It curls at the nape of his neck. He seems bigger - broader. Confident. 

Smug.

His smile blinds you. Especially because Din never used to smile and certainly not with his teeth.

Maybe, his lips would curve up slightly or maybe he’d offer something tight and stiff. He had still been getting used to the very idea of smiling when there were people to see it.

Now, he grins fully. His teeth large and white and Maker it makes him all the more gorgeous, but it’s so strange. 

Even in his armor - especially in his armor - he is terrifying and he is stunning. He can coldly slaughter a mark in front of you and then turn around and pick you up in his arms. His gloved fingers warm on your face - vibrating with power - as he murmurs something sweet to you - as he holds you flush against his body. 

**

You fuck up in a fight - nearly get killed and Din loses it. He goes rabid, stalking up to the twi’lek responsible and breaking his neck with his own hands. It takes you several minutes to calm him down, to pull on his arm and tug him back toward the ship as he shudders with each furious exhale. 

That night, you let him use you as he wants. He trembles as he holds you down and fucks you. Your knees hooked over his shoulders, his cock everywhere because it’s like he wants to soak you in him. Your ass. Your cunt. It doesn’t matter. 

He takes and takes and takes and it’s not without its pleasure. It’s just incredibly intense and overwhelming. You feel like you might be drowning. You struggle with each sharp breath that’s punched out of you with the force of his strokes. You’re chafed and raw and can barely lift yourself so he does it for you. He hauls you onto your hands and knees, thumb pressed tight to your clit as he tilts his hips downward to sink deeper inside you.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbles with each short, brutal snap of his cock. It knocks something mind-blowing that’s located at the center of your core. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.” He threads his fingers through your hair, combing it back before he takes hold of your waist to anchor you in place. Sweetness within bruising ferocity.

Your lower muscles are locking up tight. You’re cresting the wave of your third climax and it’s making you babble and whimper like you’ve lost your damn mind.

And maybe you have.

You want to tell him you’re tired. You want to collapse into the bed and sleep for hours. You want to cradle him against your chest until hopefully - blessedly - he has no dreams - no nightmares - just peaceful unconsciousness. 

But - he flips you onto your back and just keeps going.

“I need you,” he snarls. “I fucking need you. Almost lost you. It’s - it was too close.”

“I’m here,” you reassure him. “I’m here, Din.”

He doesn’t seem to register your words. He frames your face with his forearms, his hips rolling Into the cradle of your pelvis slow and steady as you wrap your ankles around his waist. The sweet, burning spear of his cock that he moves in and out again and again. He pulls to the tip of the bulbous head, catching it on the rim of your pussy before he’s sliding back in to the hilt - his balls grazing your ass.

He is so beautiful above you - his expression so torn up that you find yourself wanting to soothe him. You palm his brow as he pounds you into the thin mattress - your shoulders scraping up the sheets. 

He grabs your wrist to kiss it fiercely, to run his tongue over your skin. You almost think he’s going to sink his teeth into you - bite your vein until you bleed and lick it up because it would be one more way to have you.

**

It’s disarming. You can’t say no to him. You can’t question him. You know that something is wrong - something insidious is growing inside him. You’re smart - you can qualify and quantify and calculate and every path takes you back to a single variable:

That fucking Darksaber. 

You don’t know who to speak to. You shouldn’t contact Bo-Katan because you’re almost certain she’d betray the both of you. She’d take advantage. 

Maybe, Boba? 

A Jedi?

The one who took Grogu. Maybe, they could visit him.

You feel like you’re on a very small island. It’s you and the man you’d die for and it’s all fucked because you have somehow become his lifeline. You are keeping him wired to the rest of the galaxy - to the thrum of life outside their ship. He is dependent on you to a degree.

It used to be Din Djarin - your fearless, stubborn lover who always maintained the voice of reason. Always quick with dry humor. Always knew instinctively what to do. You were just the girl who went along with him - the girl at his side who helped with Grogu and was pretty good with a blaster.  

He is not...he is not anymore. 

You can’t recognize him. He is changing by the day. His eyes once rich and brown have turned to something black. Hungry. Predatory. You sometimes reach out for him, touch his shoulder and he’ll whirl around - nearly stabbing you in the gut with that haunted-looking sword. 

Sometimes you hear him talking to himself. 

Sometimes you find him sitting on the floor of the hull - staring quietly at the weapon locker where the saber rests.

You’ll call to him, beckon Din to wake him - to shove him out of whatever memory seems to be holding him down. He’ll startle, shaking himself as if trying to unlatch the thing clawed into his skull. He’ll walk over to you, running his knuckles across the hump of your cheek. 

“Hi, pretty.”

Everything is fine. Everything is okay. 

And then he stops responding to that after a while. His name is no longer enough. Your grip on him is losing its power. Your influence. Your love.

You’re scared. You miss Grogu and Greef and Cara and that golden time when things had not necessarily been perfect, but at least they’d been happy.

**

One night, they’re lying in bed and he drags you against him. He digs his jaw and chin painfully into your temple. It’s as if he is trying to rub himself into you - form a bruise - push his body into the last place that it is warm and safe for him.

“You’d never leave me, right?” he asks as his fingers skate over your chest and hip. “Even if you should.”

What was taking him so long anyway? Any other person wouldn’t have wasted a second to claim me and the glory I give. I looked down, fists relaxing at my new form, proud to be wearing beskar’gam again after years of that ridiculous plastoid and cape. 

“Bah?” My vision tunneled to the source of the sound. A familiar small, green, big-eared creature stood just inside the hall holding up his tired little arms for someone to take off his cuffs. So innocent. So scared. And so very strong with the force. Unbearable guilt bore down heavy in the surrounding Force. I had never been used for something so despicable as to hold a baby hostage - old as he may be. I hoped, in that moment, to be destroyed. Not even the worst of Mand’alors had been so cruel as to hurt an ad.

Djarin hissed at Gideon to cuff himself and strode to the kid with more determination than physical strength to carry him there. The cuffs were quickly snapped apart by his hands. Immediately, the child’s Force presence grew to immeasurable heights, all encompassing. The sense of safety and home enveloped me like a blanket the moment Grogu was in the crook of his buir’s arm. The sight lifted my guilt enough to become bearable. My blade may have once been close enough to singe the baby’s robe, but at least I was not forced to give the final blow.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Gideon quirked a brow, acting as though someone could truly forget about me. Ha! What a joke. 

“Come, Djarin,” I demanded, voice venomously low. “Let me do the honors of ending the life of this pathetic Imp.”

“The darksa-”

“What,” I growled over Gideon reminding him of my presence. “How do you not remember winning me in combat?” My gloved finger pointed at Djarin accusingly as he made his way over. “You flung me over here when you disarmed him.” 

I scowled behind the helmet, watching as Djarin picked me up from the ground, tugging me closer to scrutinize and looking as though he had no idea the power he held. Grogu’s tired gaze flicked between it and my ghostly self before finally cooing a quiet hello. 

“Move,” Djarin stated firmly, moving back toward the Imp, pulling my ghostly form with him. Out of habit, I moved as though I had legs of my own. When Gideon didn’t respond, I sang my darkest tune, morphing from a ghostly presence to a piping hot silhouette of a blade.

Gideon understood the threat for what it was. A promise of death I would gladly handle. Now moving, I reached out to Din.

***

Din Djarin was hallucinating. A concussion, maybe? It was the only explanation, considering the hammering he received by a dark trooper minutes earlier. One moment the laser sword-thing was on, and the next it morphed into a ghostly looking version of himself, standing between him and Bo-Katan.

“Not once,” it said, flabbergasted as Moff Gideon explained what the laser sword was. “Not twice. But three times!” Its arms raised in exasperation. “Three times you tried to give me away. To her,” it looked over its shoulder. “She, who was not worthy the first time I was given to her.”

Pointedly ignoring it and Gideon, still not understanding why Kryze wouldn’t just take the stupid thing, Djarin gently set Grogu down on the floor for safe-keeping.

Still, Din swore it muttered something along the lines of Mand’alor the Di’kut, even as alarms blared and the dark troopers boarded the ship. He ignored it. It would go away. Eventually. After a good, long sleep. For now, he had to figure out a way to get Grogu to safety. He’s all that mattered. The only thing that mattered.

“Use me,” it stated like a soldier volunteering for war. “Di’kut,” it spat at him after not immediately responding, and not for the first time. “I can slice through those droids like butter,” its arm flung out, gloved hand pointing to the door the droids were quickly pounding open.

But Din had never fought with a sword, let alone a laser sword. To go at those things with a weapon that felt heavy enough to be a bag of wet sand just carrying it around sounded like a bad idea. So, Din pretended he didn’t hear it. Pretended he didn’t see it standing there in his face, smacking him in the helmet with its vambrace. The clang of beskar against beskar was deafening to his already pounding head.

“Jetti,” he heard the apparition say, sounding put-out for missing out on the action currently playing on the small security screen. Of a cloaked figure with a laser sword of his own, easily destroying darktroopers left and right. The apparition looked straight at him and he could feel the accusation as it muttered an ‘I told you so’ under its breath. 

Still, Djarin thought, he had nowhere near the skill with the sword like the Jedi clearly had. His shoulders sagged, disheartened he would have to give Grogu, his son, away to a stranger - a stranger who could clearly keep the kid safer than he ever could - just after reuniting with him. 

The pounding at the door stopped. He slammed the button with more force than necessary, opening the doors when nobody else would.

Everything after that was a blur. He remembers telling the kid to go, that he would see him again, of showing Grogu his face, of a non-existent being incessantly badgering him with the same accusations over and over and over. Like a backwards echo, getting louder and louder.

“He is your son.”

“You are his buir.”

“An aruetii, really?” It huffed. “And a Jetti, at that.”

“Mand’alor the Dar’buir.”

That’s when he snapped, unable to take anymore of its abuse, not caring if everyone on Fett’s ship would hear and think him crazy, even with the door closed to the bunk room.

“HE WILL BE SAFE. WITH HIM,” he roared, throwing the helmet he had yet to put back on at it only for it to fly straight through and hit the wall with a loud BANG. “Can’t you see? Life with me- It’s dangerous- Not safe,” he pleaded through gritted teeth before deflating, his second wind done and gone. Long before the Jedi flew off with his son. “Grogu needs training and not the kind I can give him,” the words tasted bitter on his tongue, no matter how true they were.

“So, now I exist,” it sounded triumphant.

“No,” Din shuffled over to a bunk and fell on it, not caring that his armor pinched and dug into his scratched up, body bloody and broken. “Leave me alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

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