#Miss Faye | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunsburns · 2 months ago

Text

love in the dark

pairing: luke castellan x reader

summary: after waking in the woods, you find yourself in luke castellan’s arms. his touch feels like comfort, but his words reveal something far darker—you’ve done something terrible, and he made you do it.

word count: 1k+

warnings: fem reader, violence, there isn't too much plot, blood, death, angst, gore, murder, manipulative!luke who is lowkey turned on by violence and reader isn't any better.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve done something terribly wrong.

It starts as a nagging itch deep in your bones, creeping under your skin, spreading with each laboured breath. The night air is crisp, too sharp, and bites at you in a way that makes your whole body tremble. You stand in the middle of the woods, bathed in an eerie silence, the shadows twisting between the trees like waiting figures, and you swear the darkness is closing in around you.

Something is wrong—horribly wrong.

Your ears are ringing. At first, it blots out everything, but then it fades, leaving you exposed to the sounds you can’t ignore: your ragged breathing, your pounding heart, the slick, sticky feeling crawling over your skin. Sweat, you think at first, but why does it feel so thick?

Your arms ache. A deep, bone-weariness that isn’t unfamiliar. It reminds you of sparring sessions with Clarisse—the brutal ones, where she never lets up, always driving you into the ground with the excuse that real battles don’t pull punches.

“Life or death,” She’d always tell you.

But this ache is... different. It’s not from practice, not from training. No, this is something darker, something that reaches inside you, twisting, pulling at your insides.

And your stomach—oh gods, your stomach. A gnawing dread curls there, turning over on itself, a silent scream lodged in your gut. Your body trembles, your brain fogged and sluggish as it tries to catch up with the horror that’s clawing its way to the surface. Why are you in the woods? Where are your campers? What happened?

Your fingers twitch, and that’s when you notice—your spear. It’s still clutched tightly in your hands. But it feels wrong, foreign. The familiar grooves, the worn-down handle that had once brought you comfort, now presses into your palms like a stranger’s touch. It’s heavier than it’s ever been, a leaden weight that drags you down.

Before you can make sense of it, the spear is taken from your grip. The absence of its weight is shocking, and you blink as you hear it fall to the ground with a dull thud against the dry leaves and sticks. Hands touch you, cupping your cheeks, warm and soft, grounding you in the storm of confusion swirling in your head.

“You did so good.”

The voice is low, familiar. Comforting, in any other moment. But now it just twists that dread tighter, an invisible noose pulling taut.

“Luke?” Your voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and raw. You taste blood on your tongue, metallic and bitter, and it doesn’t feel like it’s your own.

“Yes, it’s me, baby.” His breath is warm against your cold skin as he presses his forehead to yours.

His hand cups the back of your neck, fingers weaving through your hair. You should feel soothed by the closeness, but the tremor in your chest betrays you—your body knows better. There’s something wrong in his touch, in the way his thumb grazes your cheek, a little too possessive, a little too… certain.

“You did so good,” he repeats, his thumb brushing the side of your face as if you’ve done something worthy of praise.

His lips brush yours, softly at first, a whisper of contact, and you let him kiss you. You’re not sure why, but the instant his mouth meets yours, your body responds. Your chest unclenches, your shaking hands ease against his chest, and a sickening comfort blooms. You lean into him. You find the safety you’re starved for in his warmth, even though you know—you know—that this safety is a lie.

The kiss deepens. His lips press harder against yours, insistent, and you feel him pulling you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair as if he’s afraid you'll slip away. There’s a hunger in him, something ravenous. It gnaws at you, urging you to surrender further, to give yourself up entirely. His mouth moves with quiet desperation, drawing you in, pulling you deeper, and you feel it—the way he consumes you. Every second, every breath, it feels like he's swallowing you whole, drawing out the pieces of you you didn’t know could be taken.

He kisses you with an open mouth, hoping you taste you, mould himself into you, to eat you.

There’s no denying the hunger.

It grows. It festers. His hands grip you tighter, possessive, as if your very essence is something he can devour. You hold onto his shoulders, nails biting against his skin through his shirt, and he kisses you deeper, more desperate now, pulling at your lips with a raw intensity that leaves you breathless. The air is stolen from your lungs, and every inch of you is consumed in his need, his want. It’s as if he’s draining you, bit by bit, feeding on the very core of you.

His hands move lower, wrapping around you fully now, pulling you into him until you can barely tell where you end and he begins. He’s everywhere—his touch, his heat, his breath—and you feel yourself slipping further into him.

The metallic taste between your lips intensifies, thickening with each kiss, and your body shudders when you realize it’s not coming from him.

It’s coming from you.

Your hands instinctively push at his chest, fingers slipping against the wet fabric of his shirt. It’s soaked. Cold. Your stomach flips as your hands glide over his skin, over something slick. He winces and you pull back just enough to look down. His shirt clings to his body, dark and saturated with... blood.

The scent of it finally hits you—coppery, thick, and suffocating. Your head spins as the world sharpens around you. The fog clears just enough for you to see him clearly in the pale moonlight. Dark streaks of crimson run down his face, staining his neck, his shirt, and his arms. There’s a gash on his abdomen, deep enough that you can see the tear in his flesh through the ripped fabric. But Luke isn’t concerned. He doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, a slow, insidious smile spreading across his lips.

“Oh, Luke…” You choke on his name, the dread curling tighter, suffocating you. “What did you do?”

His smile widens, his eyes glinting with something dark. Something twisted. “Not me,” he whispers, voice filled with awe. “What you did.”

His words slam into you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. "What I—?" You don’t finish. You don’t need to.

Your hands fall to your sides, your eyes trailing down, and the blood-soaked horror hits you all at once. It's not sweat. It's not just his blood. It's everywhere. The dark, sticky substance clings to your skin, matting your hair and soaking into your clothes. It drips from your fingers, and your palms, and when you look down at the spear lying in the dirt, you realize the blade is slick with it too.

No.

Your heart lurches. Your stomach twists painfully. You drop to your knees, eyes wide and unseeing, staring blankly at the blood—so much blood—as the memory rushes back in a dizzying, nauseating wave.

You were in the woods. Training. No, not training. You remember now—Luke was with you, whispering in your ear, urging you on, his voice soft and soothing, guiding your hands. He told you it was right, that you had to do it. For him. For the cause. You trusted him. Gods, you trusted him.

But when the figure stepped out of the shadows, when you felt your spear plunge deep into soft flesh, there was no enemy. No threat.

Just a kid. Someone you knew. Someone you cared about.

Their body is lying somewhere nearby, hidden in the darkness, a crumpled heap of torn flesh and broken bone. You don’t dare look. You can’t. But you feel it. The weight of what you’ve done crushes you, a suffocating guilt that claws at your throat, making it hard to breathe.

Luke crouches beside you, his bloodied hand running gently through your hair, like a lover’s caress. "You did it for me, baby," he murmurs, his voice soft, it drips with sweetness, coaxing you to surrender to it, even as a part of you recoils. "For us."

Tears burn in your eyes as you stare at the blood on your hands, the life you’ve taken. You want to scream, to tear yourself away from him, but you can’t. His grip is iron, his influence heavy. He leans in close, lips brushing your ear, and his voice is a sickly sweet poison.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear, and it’s as if time itself slows. His words are honeyed poison, seeping into your very soul. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the words sink in deep, making your breath hitch, and your heart twist. “So, so incredible.”

His lips brush the curve of your jaw, soft at first, almost reverent. You don’t know what to feel—fear, guilt, or the faint flicker of comfort his closeness offers.

Your body trembles as he moves closer, his hands gliding down your arms, his touch gentle, careful. “It’s okay,” he whispers, his lips trailing to the corner of your mouth, teasing. “There's no need to feel bad. You didn’t hurt me.”

“Luke-“

“You did the right thing,” he breathes, his lips ghosting over yours, lingering, tempting.

His hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you into him as if the physical closeness will anchor you to him for good. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and sure, as if the violence, the blood, the act you’ve committed—it all means nothing to him. He just wants you.

He presses his lips to yours, slow and deliberate, as if branding you with the kiss. The warmth of his mouth seeps into you, an intoxicating mix of comfort and power.

But deep down, beneath the haze of his touch, you know this isn’t comfort.

His lips move against yours again, hungrier now, demanding more as his fingers slide over your waist and pull you closer as if he’s solidifying the pact between you. The kiss deepens, and with it, so does the sense of inescapable fate. You try to pull away, to think, but he chases your lips, capturing you again. Each time you draw breath, he’s there, pressing his mouth harder against yours, ensuring every inhale is filled with him.

“You’re all mine,” he murmurs, kissing the words into your skin, and you can feel the finality in them, the promise.

His hand trails down your back, pulling you into his lap as if you need to be cradled in this moment of devastation. The blood on your hands smears against his skin, mingling with the fresh cuts that line his chest. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just holds you.

And you realize—he’s never going to let you go.

Not now. Not after this.