#ghostly~lullaby | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oceandolores · 1 month ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 18

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"He's cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed,"

summary: you spent the days with negan

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 18

masterlist!

previous | chapter 17

next | chapter 19

You’ve lost track of time. Days? Weeks? Maybe months? The lines between each are blurred into a gray, endless fog. It feels like a lifetime, every moment dragging in this hell, locked away in a basement where time itself has abandoned you. No sunlight. No air. No life.

Your skin has become paper-thin, ghostly pale, your hair longer now, wild and unkempt, hanging like threads of darkness around your face.

You can barely recognize yourself anymore. Who are you now? A hollow shell of the girl who once laughed under the Texas sun, free, warm, loved.

But now—now you are something else entirely. Your body bears the marks of your captivity—bruises, cuts, reminders of Negan’s rage.

Your muscles ache, protesting every movement as you sit huddled in a corner, shivering in the same clothes he left you with, now ragged and clinging to your bones.

You try to hold onto Joel's face in your mind, but it’s becoming harder. The image of him is fading like the light you once knew. You wonder if he's okay.

Is he searching for you? Does he even know where you are? The thought of him keeps you breathing, keeps your heart beating through the endless fear.

You imagine him finding you—saving you. His arms wrapping around you, holding you close, whispering that it's all over, that you’re safe again. But all you have are those thoughts, like distant stars barely visible in a night sky choked with clouds.

Here, there’s nothing but the endless cold concrete, the bucket in the corner, and the faint, rotting smell that clings to the air. You barely register it anymore.

You’ve learned to survive in this dark corner of hell, learned to please the man who holds your life in his hands. Negan. The name makes your skin crawl.

He took you, stole you away from everything, ripped your life apart. And for what? You still don’t understand why. Why you?

Negan comes every morning. At first, you refused to eat, refused to give him the satisfaction, but after the first time he beat you—after the sharp sting of his fist connecting with your ribs and the choking terror of his threats—you learned to obey.

Now, you force yourself to eat, to keep your body moving, even when you want to crawl into a dark hole and disappear forever. Survival. It’s the only thing left.

Sometimes, he’s sweet, too sweet, sickly almost, like a poisoned lullaby. He’ll apologize, say he didn’t mean it, that he only gets angry when you don’t listen.

Negan strokes your hair, his fingers weaving through the tangled strands, the sickly sweetness in his voice every time he speak to you sending chills down your spine.

You’ve learned to obey, to keep your head down, to be the good girl he expects—because when you’re not, when you step out of line, he turns into something else.

A storm, violent and unpredictable, his fists crashing down like thunder, his words sharp as lightning. The bruises on your skin, purpling and yellowing, are the remnants of his rage, each one a testament to how dangerous he can be.

And yet, beneath the horror, it feels hauntingly familiar. The blows, the threats, the control—it all pulls you back, back to a place you thought you’d escaped. Your father.

His memory clings to you, like a shadow that stretches across your life, refusing to fade. Even though he's dead, you can still feel him—his presence, his hands, his cruelty.

It's as if his spirit never really left, lingering in the dark corners of your mind, waiting to reemerge. You thought you were free of him, free of the suffocating grip he had on your life, but here, with Negan, it’s like you're back in his grasp all over again.

The abuse, the beatings—it’s the same cycle, a vicious loop that you can never seem to break.

You feel his hands around your neck, the phantom pressure tightening like a noose, choking the air from your lungs. He’s gone—dead and buried—but his grip remains. He’s still with you in every bruise, every whispered threat, every moment of fear.

He never truly left.

No matter how hard you try to forget him, to sever yourself from the past, he clings to you like a shadow, a ghost that refuses to leave. Your father—his voice is always there, whispering in the back of your mind, telling you that you are never enough, that you will never be free.

Even now, trapped in this basement, his presence lingers, as if he’s still wrapping his hands around your throat, suffocating you with the weight of his expectations and his violence.

You try to push him away, but it’s like he’s sewn into your skin, a part of you that you can never shed.

At night, the screams from above pierce the silence, wrenching you from whatever restless sleep you’ve fallen into. They are horrible, gut-wrenching screams—women’s screams.

The kind that seem to come from the deepest, most primal part of a person, like their very souls are being torn apart. You try not to think about what’s happening up there, but the screams fill the air, bouncing off the cold, damp concrete walls, wrapping around you like a suffocating fog.

And then there’s the sound that follows—the roar of a chainsaw tearing through the air, a sound so brutal, it feels like it’s cutting through the world itself.

After that? Nothing. Silence so deep, it presses on your chest, and you wonder what horrors have just been erased from existence.

You don’t ask him about it. You’re too afraid of what he might say. Too afraid of the truth.

But the stench in the air the next morning tells you everything you need to know. That thick, metallic odor of rot and iron—it settles in your throat, clinging to you, reminding you of the evil that lives in this house.

You know there is something sinister about Negan. You can feel it in your bones, hide under the smile and the words. You’ve always known.

And yet all you can do is pray. Pray that God will protect you, that somehow you will be spared from whatever horrors unfold above you.

When morning comes, Negan greets you like nothing has happened. He walks in with a grin stretched across his face, carrying breakfast like he’s done a hundred times before. His mood is light, almost cheerful, as if the darkness of the night doesn’t touch him.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me lately,” he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction, and it makes your skin crawl. But what choice do you have? He’s too strong. You’re too scared.

Survival means keeping him happy, following his rules, doing what he says, no matter how much it tears at your soul. So you nod and force yourself to smile, even though it feels like your face is cracking apart.

“I got something for you,” he says, and his hand slips into his pocket. For a second, your heart lurches with fear—you don’t know what he’ll pull out. But then, he shows it to you. A pen. And a small notebook.

“This’ll be good for you,” Negan says, placing them in front of you like a gift. “Thought maybe you could write. Draw. Whatever. Something to keep you sane down here.”

Sane. The word feels bitter on your tongue. Like it’s even possible to stay sane in this nightmare.

But you stare at the notebook, feeling its weight in your hands, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, a flicker of something stirs inside you. The pen feels strange between your fingers, foreign, like you’ve forgotten how to even hold it.

You open the notebook, and the blank pages stretch out before you like a vast, empty desert—an expanse of nothingness that almost makes you dizzy. What could you even write? What words could you find to capture the hell you’re living?

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the blankness is the only thing left that’s yours. Everything else has been taken from you—your freedom, your dignity, your body. But these pages, for now, are untouched. Clean. Yours to fill, if only for a moment.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him, your voice barely more than a breath. Negan smiled, satisfied with your obedience, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek. You flinched—just a little, barely noticeable—but he ignored it.

"Now I have some business to take care of," he said, his voice low and commanding. "You behave. Do not do anything you'll regret okay? Can you be a good girl for me again?"

You nodded, your throat tightening as you forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Good fucking girl,” he said with a grin, the words dripping with his twisted affection. "I won’t be long," he added, standing up from the mattress, his heavy boots echoing across the floor as he walked to the door.

The sound of the basement door closing was like a tomb sealing shut, the click of multiple locks slotting into place one after another, leaving you buried in silence.

The notebook.

It became your only refuge after that, the one place where your mind could escape the prison of this basement. You wrote. You wrote endlessly, pouring your thoughts, your fears, your pain onto the pages like you were trying to bleed them out.

Every word, every line felt like a lifeline, as if the ink could tether you to some version of yourself that still existed somewhere beyond these walls.

You wrote to him.

Joel.

It felt like talking to him, like he was sitting beside you, like you could feel the warmth of his arm brushing against yours, steady and grounding.

You imagined his low voice, whispering comfort, his hand reaching out to hold yours, and for a moment, it felt real. But Joel wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere, and that truth was a cold, jagged edge cutting into your heart.

You missed him so much it ached, a raw pain that twisted inside you, relentless, like a knife lodged deep in your chest, twisting with every breath.

"Joel, please. I miss you. I miss you so much." The words scratched at the paper, desperate, spilling from your soul like a confession. You wrote as if your words could reach him, as if somehow the ink would find its way to him across the miles, across the darkness.

Ever since Joel saved you, pulled you from the wreckage of your old life, you clung to him like a lifeline. He was all you had, the only person you trusted, the only one who truly saw you. You were so dependent on him, as if the moment he stepped out of your sight, the ground beneath you would crack open and swallow you whole.

Without him, you were scared—terrified, really. Scared of the dark, of the silence, of the things Negan might do when he came back. But mostly, you were scared of how alone you felt without Joel. It was a loneliness that burrowed deep into your bones, sinking in like ice.

You wrote everything down, pouring your heart onto the page, as if the words would somehow keep you sane. The notebook became your only friend, your only lifeline.

Each stroke of the pen felt like a small rebellion, a way to remember who you were before this. You wrote about Joel—the way he used to look at you, his touch, his laugh. The life you had together. You wrote about the nights spent on the road, just the two of you, moving from town to town, motels, dusty highways, sunsets that belonged only to you both.

Those memories were sacred, and they felt so far away now, so unreachable. The thought of never feeling that freedom again—of never hearing his voice or feeling his hand in yours—crushed you.

You would give anything to go back, to be on the road with him again, just the two of you, against the world.

Every night, after you wrote, the tears came. Silent, aching sobs that wracked your body, shaking you to your core. You prayed through the tears, but even your prayers felt hollow, slipping into the void.

Negan had taken your Bible, the one Frank had given you, and without it, you felt like a part of you was missing. You couldn’t open its pages and find the comfort you once had.

Now, you prayed in the darkness, with nothing but your tears and your fear to keep you company.

"God, please, if You’re there, save him. Save Joel. Forgive him for whatever he’s done to protect me, to protect those he loves. Please… don’t let anything happen to him. Save him for me. I need him. I need him so much."

And then, through your prayers, in this place, in this basement that smells of damp stone and decay, you mourn them.

Your father and your mother.

But it isn’t just because they were your parents, or because you share the same blood running through your veins—no, it’s something deeper. You mourn what they became.

You mourn the lives they could have lived, the people they could have been if they hadn’t turned into things they were.

You mourn for the little boy your father once was, before life hardened him, before the world broke him into the man who used his fists instead of his words.

Somewhere, deep in the maze of your memories, you imagine him as a child—wide-eyed and innocent, before anger festered in his heart. A boy who might have been gentle once, kind even, before the weight of his own father’s hand crushed whatever light was in him.

You mourn for him because no child dreams of becoming the kind of man he did. No little boy dreams of being a tyrant in his own home.

And your mother—oh, you mourn her too. The little girl she once was, soft and full of hope, long before she learned to bend under the weight of your father’s cruelty.

You can almost see her, a girl with ribbons in her hair, laughing at some long-forgotten joy. But somewhere along the way, life taught her obedience.

It taught her that silence was safer than rebellion, that turning the other cheek meant survival. You mourn for the girl she used to be, the girl who lost her voice and her strength long before you ever knew her.

Some people are not meant to be parents.

That truth settles over you like a heavy, unshakable fog. Your father and mother—they were never meant to raise a child. They were broken long before you came into their lives, shattered pieces trying to fit into the roles they were handed.

They thought if they could survive the same cruelty from their parents, then you could too. They thought they were preparing you for a harsh world, just as they had been prepared, passing down the same legacy of pain and survival.

But some legacies are not meant to be carried.

Some cycles are meant to be broken.

And you—you never had a choice. The cruelest thing about childhood is that we cannot choose our parents.

We are born into the hands that hold us, for better or worse, and we carry their shadows long after we’ve escaped their grasp. You mourn not only for them but for yourself too.

For the little girl you were supposed to be, the happy child you never got the chance to become. The girl who should have danced in the sunlight instead of cowering in the dark.

The child who should have known love, who should have felt safe.

Your childhood died alongside them. Maybe not in the physical sense, but in spirit. It died when the first bruise bloomed on your skin, when the first cruel word cut deeper than any blade could.

You grieve for the girl who once dreamed of a family that didn’t hurt her, a girl who imagined a father’s arms as a place of safety, not violence.

You mourn her because she never had a chance. That girl, that innocence, was lost long ago, buried beneath years of fear and shame.

You feel it now—the weight of all that loss, all that mourning. It presses down on your chest, as heavy as the darkness around you. You mourn for them, for their broken childhoods, for what they became.

But mostly, you mourn for yourself. For the life you might have had, if only you had been born into different hands. Hands that didn’t hurt. Hands that didn’t break.

***

That night, after hours of scribbling your heart onto the pages, exhaustion pulled you into a restless sleep. The dream came slowly at first, like an old memory resurfacing, soft and warm. You were no longer trapped in the basement.

No, you were outside—underneath a sky full of stars, the air cool and fragrant like summer nights back when things were simple. And then, you saw him—Joel, standing in the distance, his silhouette familiar, strong, safe.

"Joel?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath, but he heard you. His head turned, and his eyes found yours, dark and full of something you hadn’t seen in so long. Hope.

You ran toward him, your feet barely touching the ground, heart pounding, tears springing to your eyes. He was here—he was really here. His arms opened just as you reached him, and you collapsed into his chest, your body trembling as he held you tight. You breathed him in, his scent, his warmth—everything you had missed. You clung to him, as if letting go meant losing him all over again.

"I found you, baby girl," Joel’s voice was a low, comforting rumble in your ear. "I told you I’d find you. I’m never leaving you again. Never."

Tears streamed down your face, your sobs muffled against his chest. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold him and feel the solidness of him, real and alive in your arms. The relief was overwhelming, like a weight lifting off your chest, letting you breathe again.

But then, something shifted. The warmth of his body faded, the stars overhead dimming, and suddenly, you were back in the basement. The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat. You blinked, confused, trying to hold onto the warmth of Joel’s presence, but he wasn’t holding you anymore. He was on the floor, crumpled in front of you.

"No…" You whispered, shaking your head. "No, no, no…"

Joel lay motionless, blood pooling beneath his head, dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes closed, his face pale. "Joel!" Your scream tore through the room, your voice raw and desperate. "Get up! Please get up!"

You tried to move, tried to reach him, but your arms were bound behind your back, your body pressed against the cold concrete floor, facedown. You squirmed, panic rising in your chest like a tidal wave. The ropes bit into your wrists, leaving your skin raw, but you didn’t care. All you could see was Joel—lifeless, covered in blood.

"Joel! Please, get up!" you screamed again, your throat burning, but he didn’t move. He didn’t stir.

Through the blur of your tears, you saw him—Negan. He was standing over Joel, his face twisted into a cruel smile, his barbed-wire-covered baseball bat dripping with blood. Your heart lurched as Negan lifted the bat again, bringing it down with a sickening thud against Joel’s skull.

"Stop! Please, stop!" you begged, your voice breaking, tears streaming down your face. You cried and screamed until your voice gave out, until all that was left was a hoarse whisper. "Stop… please…"

But he didn’t stop. He kept swinging, over and over, each hit more brutal than the last. Joel’s body jerked with each blow, but he never opened his eyes. He was gone.

"JOEL!" You screamed one last time, your heart shattering in your chest as the world spun around you. Everything blurred—Joel’s lifeless body, Negan’s twisted grin, the blood, the bat, the horror of it all.

And then, just as suddenly, you woke up.

Gasping for breath, your chest heaving as you shot upright. Your heart pounded in your ears, your skin slick with cold sweat. It took you a moment to realize it was just a dream, just another nightmare. But it felt so real, so vivid, that for a moment, you couldn’t shake the image of Joel’s broken body from your mind.

You buried your face in your hands, trying to breathe, trying to calm the panic surging through you. The tears came again, hot and relentless, and you sobbed quietly, rocking yourself in the darkness.

"It was just a dream," you whispered, trying to convince yourself. But the fear was real. The pain was real. The helplessness of watching him die again and again—that was real.

Just as you were trying to steady yourself, trying to pull yourself back into the present, a voice cut through the silence.

"‘I miss you so much, Joel,’" Negan’s voice echoed in the darkness, cold and mocking. "'I pray for you every night. Please save me.'”

Your heart stopped. You turned slowly, the horror creeping back into your veins as you saw him—Negan, sitting at the edge of the room, your notebook in his hands. He was reading your words, your letters to Joel, the deepest parts of your soul, laid bare and exposed.

"I gotta say," he smirked, eyes glinting with something dark, "you really are somethin’ special, huh? Writing all these sweet nothings to your precious Joel. Too bad he ain't comin'."

Negan’s smirk widened as he caught the fear in your eyes, his steps deliberate as he approached you. You sat up quickly, your body instinctively recoiling from him as he lowered himself to the edge of the worn mattress. The small space between you felt suffocating. His presence swallowed the room, and your skin prickled, every nerve on high alert.

"What are you doing here?" Your voice came out shaky, a whisper laced with desperation.

Negan chuckled darkly, his gaze locking onto yours with a smug, possessive gleam. “Just checkin’ on you, doll,” he mocked, his tone syrupy and insincere, like the words themselves were dripping venom.

You could feel the tension coil in your stomach, your hands gripping the thin sheet as if it could somehow protect you. Negan’s chuckle echoed in the small space, and you saw something shift in his expression.

"You keep callin' for him," he said, his voice lower now, laced with a quiet fury. “In your sleep, you know that? You call his name. Joel.” The name left his lips like a curse, venomous and heavy.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as the weight of his words sank in.

"You keep thinkin' about another man, callin’ for him when you’re supposed to be mine,” Negan’s voice dripped with malice, and his eyes gleamed as he leaned closer, brushing his fingers lightly against your leg. You flinched instantly, your body recoiling at the touch, trembling.

"I don’t want what’s mine calling for someone else,” he whispered, his fingers tracing your skin in slow, taunting circles. You fought the urge to pull away, your body frozen in place, fear anchoring you.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing so fast it felt like it would leap out of your chest. Your mind scrambled for a way out, for something to say, but all you could feel was the dread crawling up your spine.

"I got you something,” he finally said, breaking the suffocating silence, his voice slick and dangerous. You blinked at him, confused, but too scared to respond.

He stood up, walking toward the door, leaving it wide open for just a moment. The fresh air from outside rushed in, cool against your skin. Your heart pounded in your ears as you stared at the open door, your mind racing. Could you run? Could you grab something—anything—and fight back? But the fear was paralyzing, locking your muscles, chaining your thoughts. You wanted to be brave, to fight, but all you could feel was the weight of his presence suffocating you.

Before you could think any further, Negan returned, the door shutting with a heavy thud that echoed in your chest. He held a package, neatly wrapped, and sat down beside you again, closer this time.

"Here," he said, handing it to you with a twisted grin. “Go on, open it. You finished your breakfast like a good girl.”

You hesitated, eyes darting from the package to his face, trying to gauge his intentions, but there was nothing but malice in his expression. Slowly, you took it, your fingers trembling as you peeled away the wrapping.

Inside, folded carefully, was a dress—a nightgown, white and beautiful, but as your fingers brushed the fabric, you realized how thin it was. Too thin. The kind that clung to every curve, every inch of skin visible underneath. The kind of dress meant to be seen.

Your throat tightened as the realization hit you. This wasn’t a gift. It was a trap.

"Now what do you say?" Negan's voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and expectant.

You swallowed the bile rising in your throat, forcing the words past your lips. “Thank you,” you whispered, hating the sound of your own voice, hating the way you had to play along.

Negan’s grin widened, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Good girl.”

Then, he leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now try it on,” he said, his tone casual, but there was a sinister edge to his voice.

You blinked, confused for a moment, before standing slowly, clutching the nightgown tightly to your chest. You moved toward the large wardrobe at the corner of the room, trying to hide behind it, but his voice stopped you cold.

"Where do you think you’re going?" Negan asked, his voice dripping with amusement. You turned back to face him, your heart sinking.

"To try it on," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

Negan’s eyes darkened as he shifted on the mattress, half reclining now, one arm propped lazily behind his head. His grin grew wider, more dangerous. “I said try it here... in front of me.”

Your blood ran cold. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing tighter, suffocating you. You stood frozen, unable to comprehend what he was asking. What? you thought, your mind reeling, but you didn’t dare say it.

"You heard me," Negan said, his voice now edged with impatience, more of a threat than a request. “Try it here. Now.”

Your legs felt like they were made of lead as you took slow, reluctant steps back toward him, your hands trembling as you clutched the nightgown tighter to your chest. Your breath came in shallow gasps, your skin prickling with fear.

You moved to put the dress over your clothes, thinking maybe that would satisfy him. Maybe he would let you off this time.

But before you could pull it over your head, Negan’s voice cut through the air like a knife.

"What are you, fucking stupid?" he snapped, his tone sharp and cutting. “I said take off your clothes.”

The room spun. You felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you, the world crumbling away as the full weight of what he was asking—what he wanted—settled in your bones. You froze, your fingers clutching the fabric so tightly that your knuckles turned white.

"Don't make me say it again," he said, his voice low and commanding. The authority in his tone left no room for defiance. With a shaky nod, you surrendered to his demand, peeling off the clothes you’d worn for what felt like an eternity.

They were stained and tattered, memories of the darkness that had become your life. The cool air of the basement brushed against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his predatory gaze.

As you stood there in just your underwear, the vulnerability wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. "All of it," he commanded again, his eyes narrowing as he observed your hesitation.

You felt the tremors in your hands as you slowly removed your last layer, exposing your skin to him, a mix of fear and a desperate need to please overwhelming your senses.

Tears trickled down your cheeks, silent witnesses to the turmoil inside you. You turned away, unable to bear his hungry gaze as you slipped into the dress, its fabric a soft caress against your bare skin, but it was far too revealing, too intimate. This is basically lingerie, you thought, your heart racing as he took in your form.

“Such a beautiful little thing,” he purred, a twisted smile spreading across his face. “Now spin around for me. Let me see all of it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic drumbeat as you turned slowly, the weight of his gaze burning into you.

The dress clung to you, exposing more than it concealed. “All of this is mine,” he said, stepping closer, the words dripping with ownership.

You froze as he closed the distance, his hands trailing down your body, a feather-light touch that sent shivers coursing through you. He brushed away the tears on your cheeks with the pad of his thumb, the juxtaposition of tenderness and menace leaving you paralyzed.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His breath was warm against your neck, a stark reminder of the power he held over you. “You don’t like the gift?”

You couldn’t respond, fear stealing your voice. Instead, you stood still, feeling small under his scrutiny. He stepped behind you, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body, wrapping around you like a vice.

“Why do you want that man when you have me here, hm?” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your skin as he pressed gentle kisses to your neck, each one igniting a storm of emotions within you. “I can treat you better than him.”

Your heart ached, caught in a vice between longing and despair. The tears continued to fall, and you closed your eyes, allowing the warmth of his presence to envelop you, even as his actions sent icy dread through your veins.

You wanted to scream, to fight back against the helplessness swirling around you, but you were trapped in this moment, bound by fear. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to break free, the weight of it all pressing down on you, suffocating you.

His lips traced the sensitive skin of your neck, and every gentle caress turned into a reminder of the man you longed for—Joel. It was as if his presence was woven into your very essence, and now, here you were, lost in a nightmare that seemed to stretch endlessly.

With each passing second, you felt a chasm grow between your heart and your body, a space filled with fear and longing that you couldn't bridge.

When his fingers brushed against your breast, you flinched, instinctively moving away, but he followed with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, he looked at you like a storm brewing, full of anger and hurt. "What's wrong, hm? You don't want me?" The accusation in his voice stung like a whip, and your heart raced with a mix of dread and sorrow.

You shook your head, but he continued to advance, anger simmering beneath his skin. "Is that how you treat someone acting nice to you?" The slap was sudden, shocking, and it sent you crashing to the mattress. "Ungrateful bitch." The words cut deeper than the physical pain, sinking into your soul and planting seeds of doubt.

As you lay there, you felt your spirit fracture beneath the weight of his anger. You missed Joel’s strong arms, his gentle smile, the safety he once offered. Now, all you could feel was this relentless dread creeping in, wrapping around your throat, tightening with every ragged breath.

"Do you miss him? Or do you miss a dick, hm, little whore?" The cruel words hung in the air, a poisonous cloud that filled your lungs with despair. You shook your head, tears streaming down your face, each drop a silent plea for deliverance from this torment. "No, please... no."

But he didn’t hear your cries. Instead, the cool steel of his belt gripped your wrists, binding you in a way that made the world tilt beneath you. Your heart raced, pounding against your chest like a caged bird desperate to escape, a tempest of emotions swirling inside you.

“No, no, please,” you whispered, desperation clawing at your throat as Negan tightened the belt around your wrists, a cruel mockery of security. Each pull sent a shiver down your spine, not from cold but from the weight of what was to come.

When you screamed, the sound was swallowed by the suffocating silence of the room. A sharp pain flared across your cheek as his hand connected, the sting grounding you momentarily in the chaos.

Tears streamed down your face, a mixture of anger and helplessness flooding your senses. You could feel the fabric of your dress riding up as he unbuckled his jeans, the movement surreal against the horror unfolding.

“Stop! Please, don’t do this!” Your pleas felt like whispers lost in the wind, but they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken fears. You were trapped in this moment, suspended between defiance and despair, fighting against the reality that loomed over you.

“I can’t believe I haven’t tried you for this long,” he sneered, his words slicing through the air like a knife. “God, you must be special for that man to keep you for himself and took you away.” Each syllable was a taunt, a reminder of the love you held for another, twisted into a weapon against you.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he continued, his voice dripping with a sickening sweetness that made your skin crawl. “It will feel so much better than what that boy did.” The implication hung heavy in the air, suffocating. You were drowning in memories and fear, lost in a storm that threatened to pull you under.

The sharpness of his voice echoed in your mind, and your heart sank. He knew. He knew about Jamie, the scars etched deep within you, and the thought of it sent a fresh wave of nausea through your gut.

"No, no, no!" you screamed

"Stop! Stop, please!" You screamed as you cry, Negan still pinned down your head, "Shut the fuck up," he said.

You can feel that He positions himself from behind, the tip of his erection brushing against your butt. "STOP! PLEASE!" you shout, tears streaming down your cheeks. Negan grins wickedly, knowing full well the effect he has on you.

He entered you fast and hard, it hurts, but even then, all you can do was just scream and cry, scream and cry, "Fuck, you're so tight!" He groaned deeply as his pace quickened, rough, it hurt you.

“Please…” you whispered, your voice barely rising above the mattress that felt like a heavy weight pressing down on you, smothering any flicker of hope.

Tears flowed freely, soaking the fabric beneath your cheek as you surrendered to the wave of despair washing over you. Each sob felt like a prayer, a desperate plea to the universe to intervene, to turn back time, to rewrite the cruel script that had ensnared you.

“Joel... please... save me,” you begged into the void, hoping him to hear you, hoping he can feel you, that you are here, you're still here waiting him to save you, again.

You need him. You crave him. His strength, his warmth, the way his presence used to make you feel safe, even in the darkest corners of your mind.

***

Days blurred into nights. Negan came to you every evening, his shadow stretching long and cold against the walls as he descended into the basement.

Each time, it was the same—he would pin you down, and did it over and over and over and over again. If you fought back, it hurt more. His fists would meet your skin, and the bruises would bloom like dying flowers under his hands. So, you stopped fighting.

You learned to stay quiet, to turn your eyes toward the window while he took what he wanted. Sometimes you watched the way the trees outside swayed gently in the night breeze, imagining that you could drift away with them, become one with the wind. The numbness crept in, slow at first, then all at once, until you felt nothing at all.

In exchange for your silence, Negan began to “reward” you. Dresses, makeup, things that seemed like tokens of his twisted version of care.

The bruises hid beneath the fabric he chose, and your reflection in the mirror looked like someone you didn’t recognize—someone who had forgotten how to fight, how to scream.

Eventually, Negan moved you to his bed. It was no longer the cold, damp basement floor; instead, it was his bed—his space. He didn’t trust you with a room of your own, of course.

That would mean freedom, something he kept locked away just as tightly as the doors around this prison of a house. It wasn’t generosity that led him to this decision; it was control. He wanted you there, beside him, each night, a reminder that you belonged to him.

And he wanted you to believe it too.

Every touch, every forced intimacy, was his way of branding you, of forcing you to accept his twisted version of reality. You didn’t resist anymore—not after what happened the last time.

Your body had learned to be still, to let the moments pass. Fighting back brought only more pain. And so, you existed, a hollow shell of who you once were, doing what you had to in order to survive.

The house was a labyrinth, locked and fortified in ways that made it impossible to escape. You had tried once—how stupid and naïve you had been to think Negan wouldn’t expect it. There were locks on every door, cameras watching your every move, and nowhere to hide. You had thought maybe, just maybe, you could find a way out. But before you even made it to the front door, he was there. He’d known all along, watching, waiting. The punishment was swift, brutal.

He beat you until you could barely stand. Every strike felt like a sledgehammer to your soul, breaking something deep inside that you feared would never heal. And when you begged for forgiveness through sobs and screams, he looked at you with that same twisted smile. Like he enjoyed it.

After that, you learned. You couldn’t afford to be stupid again. The house was a jail, with walls thick and doors that were locked tighter than your own hope. The CCTV cameras were everywhere, unblinking eyes that saw everything.

Negan didn’t just want control over your body; he wanted your mind too. He played this sick game, pretending you were his partner, forcing you into the role of some perfect little housewife. It was all a game to him—house, husband, wife. He wanted you to take care of him now, as if that was your purpose. As if sparing you from more pain was his twisted version of kindness.

One thing you noticed. No more screams. You hadn’t heard any since he brought you upstairs, but you could still hear them in your mind, could still feel the weight of the chains that used to bind you down there. Negan had a room at the far end of the hall, with a thick iron door, always locked.

You didn’t know what was behind it, but you could guess. Based on everything else about him, the life he lived, the things you glimpsed in passing… you knew he wasn’t just a monster in private. He had power. He had wealth. He had a darkness that ran deeper than you could fathom.

Now, you played along with his sick fantasy. You made breakfast in the mornings, your hands moving through the motions, numb and mechanical. Eggs, toast, bacon sizzling in the pan.

You folded his laundry, cleaned the house, did everything you were asked to do, all with the heavy knowledge that you needed to survive. You needed to be smart.

You cracked eggs into the pan, the familiar sizzle filling the quiet space. Bacon followed, the scent swirling through the air, but your mind was miles away.

You let your hands move on autopilot, stirring, turning, arranging, while your thoughts drifted to Joel again.

Where is he now? Does he even know I’m still alive?

You didn’t know what day it was anymore. Time had become an illusion, slipping through your fingers like sand, impossible to hold onto.

Negan’s voice snapped you out of your reverie. He entered the kitchen, and you felt him before you saw him, his presence like a looming storm cloud.

He slapped your ass as he passed by, his lips finding your neck with a kiss that sent shivers down your spine, but not in the way you wanted.

It was always wrong, always forced, always laced with something dark that you couldn’t escape.

You set the plates down on the table, your movements mechanical as you sat across from him. Negan grinned as he took a bite of the scrambled eggs, then paused, his brow furrowing in annoyance.

“Why the hell do these taste sweet? Did you put cinnamon in them again?”

You froze, staring at him, your mind racing. You had done it on purpose, hoping the warmth of cinnamon would taste better, make him taste better.

“I told you not to do that,” he growled, his fist slamming down on the table. “I don’t understand why you like that damn spice so much."

“I... I’m sorry,” you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady, but the fear laced every syllable. You’d done it to survive, to cope, to feel something, anything other than the numbness that threatened to swallow you whole.

Negan shook his head, “We’re going on vacation,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart skipped a beat. Vacation? You stared at him in disbelief, the word foreign on your tongue, like it didn’t belong here in this nightmare.

Negan never did this—never took you anywhere, never let you out of the house. You’d been trapped for so long, the idea of leaving, even for a moment, felt surreal.

“Vacation?” you echoed, unsure whether to feel fear or hope.

“Yeah, just need to get out for a while,” Negan replied, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease. “You’ve been good this month. You deserve a little reward.” His tone was calm, almost too calm, as if you should be grateful for this twisted gesture of kindness.

You nodded, a forced smile tugging at your lips as you turned away. Inside, your mind raced. A vacation—the word was a double-edged sword, dangling freedom just out of reach but with invisible strings attached.

You didn’t trust it. You didn’t trust him.

By the time you finished packing, your nerves were frayed. You zipped up the small suitcase Negan had given you, staring at the unfamiliar clothes inside.

Dresses, shoes, makeup—things he had forced upon you, things that felt like pieces of someone else’s life. You weren’t sure who you were anymore, let alone what this trip would mean. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were leaving the house.

As you stepped outside, the air hit you like a wave, crisp and fresh against your skin. The sun was brighter than you remembered, almost painful as it splashed across the pavement.

You blinked against the light, scanning your surroundings, trying to memorize every detail—the street, the houses, the trees. Anything that might help you if you ever got a chance to run.

Negan locked the door behind you with a loud click, the sound startling you back to reality. He looked up, catching the way your eyes darted around the neighborhood, and his expression darkened. He stepped toward you, his presence looming like a shadow.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Try anything, and I’ll kill you. You know I will.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you nodded quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. Any fleeting thought of escape vanished, crushed under the weight of his threat. He always meant what he said.

With a shove, Negan guided you toward the car, the one you recognized all too well. The first time you saw it parked in front of your house, it was just another car, another passerby.

You never knew then how much it would change everything, how much it would take from you. Now, it was like a cage on wheels.

As the car pulled away from the house, you watched the neighborhood disappear in the rearview mirror, your pulse quickening as each street faded behind you.

You were leaving. But not the way you had dreamed.

Negan glanced over at you, smirking as if amused by the tension rolling off you. “You made it,” he said suddenly.

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

He chuckled, the sound bitter and low. “You made it to California. Without him.”

California.

The word hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. No. No, California. This was the place you had always dreamed of settling down with Joel—the place you had whispered about in quiet moments together, imagining a life of peace and love far from the chaos of your old life.

And now, you were here.

But without Joel.

Your chest tightened, panic bubbling up as you realized just how far away you were from Joel. So far away from the life you wanted, from the man who promised to protect you, to love you.

Instead, you were trapped in this waking nightmare, every mile taking you further from the only person who could save you.

Negan’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “We’ll go shopping first,” he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His tone was casual, almost light, as if this was just another normal day for him. But nothing about this felt normal to you.

You nodded stiffly, your mind spinning as the weight of the situation sank in. Shopping? Like everything wasn’t completely wrong? Your chest tightened further, your thoughts pulling you back to Joel—so far away now, so unreachable. You were losing yourself with every mile, every moment trapped with him.

Negan shifted in his seat, his eyes sliding over to you. You felt his gaze before you saw him reach out. When his fingers brushed against your cheek, you flinched instinctively, recoiling from his touch. His laugh was low and mocking, a cruel sound that made your skin crawl.

“Little girl’s scared,” he sneered, his voice soft but dripping with condescension. “Now, you don’t want people in public seeing you like that, do you? Looking all frightened, like I’m some monster.” His words were meant to soothe, but they came with an underlying threat, a warning that made your blood run cold. “Act like you’re my girlfriend. Because you are mine. And if you want to be safe... well, you know what to do.”

You swallowed the bile rising in your throat, your heart hammering in your chest as his words sank in. Mine. The way he said it, the possessiveness in his voice—it twisted something deep inside you, a sickening feeling that you couldn’t shake.

Negan leaned closer, his fingers tightening slightly on your jaw as he turned your face toward him. “Sweetheart,” he crooned, his tone shifting to something almost affectionate, but it was laced with menace. “You’re pale as a ghost. Put some fucking makeup on later, will ya? I can’t have you walking around looking like you’ve seen a damn corpse.”

You didn’t respond, too frozen to move, but he didn’t seem to care. He continued, eyes darkening as he spoke. “I’m gonna buy you some dresses. Nice ones. Make you look pretty for me. We’ll stay in a hotel for a day or two, just the two of us. Won’t that be nice?” His grin widened, and the weight of his words settled like stones in your stomach.

It wasn’t a question. It never was.

You forced yourself to nod, knowing better than to argue or resist. Not now. Not when you were so far from help, so far from him.

Negan led you through the brightly lit aisles of the mall, his large hand gripping yours, his presence as commanding and unsettling as ever. You kept your head down, trying not to draw attention to yourself. It had been so long since you’d been out in public like this, since you’d seen the outside world beyond the prison of his house. The colors and sounds of the mall felt jarring, almost unreal.

He’d been in control the entire time—picking out dresses, shoes, makeup—showering you with expensive, branded items you had no say in. Every time you hesitated or tried to speak, he would flash that same dangerous smile, and your voice would die in your throat. You just smiled and nodded, doing what you had to do to survive, to avoid provoking him.

Negan was wealthy, more than Joel. The things he bought were far beyond what you could ever imagine affording. He never flinched at the price tags, never hesitated to pick the most luxurious items. But the more he showered you with these things, the more you felt trapped, like he was putting a price on you, buying your compliance with each extravagant purchase.

But you could feel it deep down—something wasn’t right. Negan had never treated you like this before, never taken you out, never spoiled you with gifts. It was all too strange, too sudden. There was an unspoken tension in the air, something lurking behind his actions, behind the forced smiles and fake affection. He was up to something, and you knew better than to trust whatever game he was playing.

When the shopping was over, you climbed back into the car with him, your arms full of bags, your mind full of questions. But you kept quiet. There was no use in asking. Not when the answer would come on his terms.

The hotel room wasn’t what you expected. It was plain, with just a bed, a dresser, and a small bathroom—nothing fancy despite the luxury of the shopping trip. Negan set your bag down, full of the clothes he had bought for you, and locked the door behind him, the metallic click ringing ominously in your ears.

He motioned for you to sit on the edge of the bed, and you obeyed, your body moving on autopilot, fear guiding every step. The room felt colder now, the walls seeming to close in on you as the reality of the situation sank in.

Negan stood in front of you, his dark eyes watching you intently, that familiar threat lurking beneath his calm exterior. He waited for a moment before speaking, as if enjoying the tension hanging between you.

“We’re gonna get some dinner soon,” he said, his voice low and serious. “You put on the dress I bought you. Put some makeup on. Dress nice, dolled up—you understand me?”

You hesitated, confused by his sudden shift in tone, but you nodded. Of course, you nodded.

“I’ll be waiting in the restaurant downstairs,” he continued, leaning in closer until his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot against your skin as he spoke, “But listen to me carefully now...”

Your heart pounded in your chest as his expression darkened, his voice becoming more menacing. “There’s a friend of mine coming here. He’s gonna ask for you to come down to meet me, and you’re gonna act nice, okay? You’re gonna do exactly what I tell you to do.”

You stared at him, fear rising in your throat. A friend? What did he mean by that? Why was someone else involved? None of this made sense.

“And if you try anything...” Negan’s voice dropped to a growl, his grip on your face tightening. “If you even think about running or doing something stupid... I swear to God, I’ll chop you into pieces and ship you to that fucking old man of yours. You understand me?”

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. You just nodded, too terrified to do anything else.

“Good girl,” he said, smiling that twisted smile again before letting go of your face.

Negan walked over to the small table by the window, where he pulled something out of his pocket—a small plastic bag filled with white powder. Your heart sank even further.

He tossed the bag onto the table, along with a couple of pills in a clear container. “Now, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with dark amusement, “you're gonna have a little fun tonight. You’re gonna need this.”

You shook your head instinctively, fear shooting through your veins. “No, I don’t do th—”

Negan’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, threatening look. He stepped forward quickly, his large hand grabbing your face roughly, his fingers digging into your cheeks so hard it hurt.

“You think you get to say no to me? After everything I’ve done for you? You’re mine now, you don’t get to refuse me.” His voice was low, menacing.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you tried to shake your head, your voice trembling as you pleaded, “Please, I don’t want to—”

He squeezed your face tighter, cutting you off. “You’re going to take those fucking pills, and you’re going to snort this,” he snarled, his eyes flashing with cruelty.

Your heart raced as you stared at the drugs on the table. Panic swirled inside you, but the terror in Negan’s eyes, the violent way he held you, made you realize you had no choice.

You didn’t know what he was capable of, but you were sure he meant every word of his threat.

Negan let go of your face with a shove, and you stumbled backward, gasping for breath as your skin stung where his fingers had been. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating. “Go on,” he said coldly, “take the pills. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

With shaking hands, you reached for the pills. They felt like poison between your fingers, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Negan, not with the way he was staring at you.

You knew there was no way out of this. You could feel your soul breaking as you placed the pills on your tongue, forcing them down with a dry swallow.

“Good girl,” Negan said mockingly, watching your every move like a predator. He grabbed the bag of white powder, dumping some onto the table. Then, he handed you a rolled-up bill. “Now snort this. It’ll help loosen you up.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t move fast enough. He slammed his hand on the table, making you jump. “Do it!” he barked, his patience running thin.

You shakily took the bill, your mind racing with desperation. Every fiber of your being screamed against what was happening, but you were trapped—cornered.

Slowly, you leaned over the table, and as you inhaled the powder, you saw your friends do this, you have never take it before, your vision blurred with tears, your whole body shaking with fear and disgust.

Negan’s eyes darkened with satisfaction as he watched, a twisted grin spreading across his face. “That’s my girl. Now you’re ready for a good time,” he said, his voice dripping with venom.

He turned and headed the door, “Now, get ready. I’ll see you downstairs.”

The door shut behind him, and you were left alone in the silence of the room. The air felt suffocating, your mind racing with questions, with dread.

You stood up slowly, your body shaking as you moved toward your bag. The dress he had picked out for you lay on top, soft and elegant, but it felt like a costume—a mask you had to wear to get through this night.

With trembling hands, you picked it up and began to change, your mind going blank as you prepared yourself for what felt like the next step in Negan’s twisted game.

You stood in front of the mirror, your hands trembling as you smoothed down the dress Negan had chosen for you. It clung to your body in all the right places, elegant and far too glamorous for a simple dinner.

Your reflection stared back at you, but you barely recognized yourself—pale, hollowed-out eyes, with layers of makeup hiding the exhaustion, the fear. You were doing exactly what Negan had told you to do, like a puppet on strings, hoping that by following his orders, you could stay safe.

A knock on the door startled you. You grabbed your purse, your heart beating wildly in your chest. This was it. You were about to meet Negan’s "friend," the one he’d warned you about.

When you opened the door, your stomach dropped. The man standing in front of you was older, dressed in a suit, his graying hair slicked back, but there was something off about him. His eyes roamed over you, slow and deliberate, starting from your feet and lingering on every inch of your body. The smile on his face was thin, predatory.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted, his voice smooth, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

You forced a smile, your lips feeling like they might crack from the tension. “Just a second, I’ll get my purse,” you said, retreating into the room. You felt uneasy but tried to convince yourself it was nothing. Negan said you were going to meet him downstairs.

But then you heard it—the unmistakable click of the door closing and locking behind you. Your heart leapt into your throat, and you turned, seeing the man now standing inside the room, the door sealed shut. Panic rippled through you.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky, trying to make sense of the situation. Maybe he was just being overzealous. Maybe he didn’t mean any harm.

But he smiled again, that same unsettling smile, and took a step forward. “Negan told you we were going downstairs, didn’t he?”

Your stomach twisted into knots. You forced yourself to nod, your voice barely a whisper. “Yes, he’s waiting for us…”

The man chuckled, low and mocking. “He used the old excuses, huh?” His eyes gleamed with something dark, something vile, as he continued to advance on you.

You stepped back instinctively, feeling the panic rise in your chest. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just kept coming closer, his steps deliberate. “You’re quite young,” he said, almost to himself, like he was studying you, enjoying your fear. “How old are you?”

You took another step back, the edge of the bed pressing against your calves. “What is going on? Where's Negan?” you tried again, your voice wavering with the growing dread.

But he just smiled wider. “It’s alright,” he said softly, like he was trying to soothe you. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be quick.”

Your blood turned to ice. “What? What do you mean?”

He laughed again, a sick, twisted sound that made your skin crawl. “Of course he never told you. You thought this was just a nice little dinner date, didn’t you?” His voice dripped with condescension. “I heard you’re experienced with older men.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your mind raced, trying to connect the dots, and then it clicked—the shopping, the hotel, the dress, this strange man, the way Negan had spoken to you before he left. This wasn’t just vacation.

“No,” you whispered, your breath catching in your throat. “No, no, you’ve got it wrong. Negan said—”

“I know what he said,” the man interrupted, stepping closer until he was towering over you. “But I paid a lot of money for you. You better be worth it.”

The realization slammed into you like a freight train. Negan hadn’t taken you out for dinner. He had sold you.

“No, no, no,” you muttered, shaking your head as the panic clawed at your insides. You turned to run, but his hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back.

“Ooh, fiery, are we?” he sneered, his grip bruising as he pulled you closer. “I like that.”

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing in his hold, but he was stronger, and before you knew it, he had tossed you onto the bed. The soft mattress did nothing to cushion the impact, and your body hit with a thud, the air rushing from your lungs.

You scrambled, trying to push yourself up, but his weight was on you in an instant, pinning you down. His hands gripped your wrists, forcing them above your head as he loomed over you, his breath hot and sour against your face.

Your mind spiraled in a whirlwind of terror and disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. Not like this. You’d survived so much, endured so much, and now this? You felt the crushing weight of helplessness pressing down on you, suffocating you.

“No, please,” you begged, tears streaming down your face as your voice cracked. “Please don’t do this.”

"Please, I beg you, sir, please don't" you cry, no God, not this please, no.

He laughed again, that same cruel, mocking sound, and leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered,

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. This won’t take long.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your mind racing for an escape, but there was none. You were trapped, powerless, and every second that passed felt like a step closer to losing yourself completely.

In that moment, all you could think about was Joel—his face, his touch, the way he’d promised to keep you safe. But now, you were so far from him, so far from everything you had ever wanted. And as the man’s weight pressed down on you, suffocating, you realized with chilling certainty that no one was coming to save you.

You were alone.

IM SORRY BUT THIS CHAPTER LAZY ASF, I SWEAR I WILL DO IT BETTER NEXT CHAPTERS, ENJOY!

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corkinavoid · 3 months ago

Note

By the way, when ghosts and Ancients appear, should there be any visual effects and sensations? Like Frostbite? A drop in temperature? Surfaces becoming crusted with ice?

For example, a headcanon on Danny who is a cosmic Ancient, an eldritch, a cryptid, a ghostly entity. How would all of this affect him showing up next to a human?

Ooooh, that is a good question, I like it!

To start, yeah, I think there would be plenty of visual and sensory effects when Ancients appear in the living world. I actually think it goes for all the ghosts - you know, the eerie feelings and static and all that - but it's more noticeable with Ancients.

So, in my head, Frostbite makes the space around him colder, and he is always standing on a thin layer of snow. Like, it doesn't start snowing when he appears, but there's always this snow under his feet, so when he walks, you can hear his steps creaking over it. Imagine how that would feel on a silent summer night when you just feel the temperature drop and the steps coming from somewhere.

Next, Clockwork is pretty self-explanatory, he has time either stop or slow down around him. Pandora would have this weird feeling of thousands of eyes looking at you - like you are standing in a gladiator arena, and everyone's waiting for your next move. I feel like she could also bring sand with her in the same way Frostbite brings snow.

Vortex has winds blowing, little hurricanes forming and stuff just wildly flying around, and Dora has the temperature around her go up, actually. Standing next to her is like standing next to an open fire, and when she walks, she leaves burning footprints on the floor, only they are not human, they are dragon.

Nocturn brings night. Like, wherever you are, even if you summoned him at noon, when he appears, it's suddenly night, and everything is dark around you. He can also make people fall asleep if he is too close.

As for Danny, Ancient of Space, I feel like when he is present, everything becomes silent. Not eerily quiet, but kind of like the feeling you get in the absence of all sounds, like in space. Maybe there's also this weird, low hum of cosmos present. It also gets cold, like with Frostbite, but it's a different kind of cold. Comparatively, standing next to Frostbite is like standing in a walk-in freezer, when standing next to Danny feels cold on the brink of hot, like you're already experiencing hypothermia but there's no source where it's coming from. Also, with Frostbite, you can wear a coat and be fine. With Danny, you're going to feel the cold no matter the amount of clothes.

Also, his voice is getting distorted differently to other Ancients, but, errr, I think all the Ancients have different voices. Nocturn's voice is a lullaby, Clockwork's is a whisper, Pandora's is thousands voices in one. Danny, then, speaks like he has a very good radio overlay on his voice - it's perfectly clear, but you can still hear it's not a normal human voice.

I'm not sure if I mentioned all the Ancients, but that's as far as I got, so if you want me to add anyone, comment it <3

#danny phantom #ancients #frostbite #dora #pandora #clockwork #nocturn #vortex #danny ancient of space #cork asks #cork writes

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mioumiau · 3 months ago

Text

vodnik!Emil Kladivo x male!ghost!reader

Sub!Emil, Dom!Male!Reader, mirror sex, ghost sex, dirty talk (?) —//— English is not my first language and this is my first time writing, I may have used some words wrong 😭

Reader is a ghost who recently lost his life, now you are in front of the vodnik's toy shop admiring his handmade dolls meant to serve as a new body for the restless spirits who wander the world.

Emil looks up from his current work, noticing the ghostly figure standing by his shop, he sets his tools aside and approaches the ethereal being. As he's getting closer, you can't help but admire his exquisite green eyes, green hair, and… Nevermind, everything is green about him.

"Ah, a lost soul seeking refuge in a physical form… Come, let me prepare a suitable body for you." His voice is as soothing as a lullaby, matching the calm and composed man he is.

You walk into the shop, determined to get what you've been longing for.

"I am looking for one with the most stunning dark hair you got, something similar to the one I owned before death got the best of me."

You were always fond of your own appearance, and even though you don't look as good as you did alive, you want to reclaim the beauty you lost to the worms that had nibbled on your cold body.

He carefully selects a doll, crafted with intricate details and delicate features. This one has long, dark locks cascading down its back, just like the ghost had described.

"Ah, here it is… Seems like I got just the right doll for you."

Your eyes scan through the doll, admiring every detail.

"Actually, this is better than I imagined… It must be expensive, am I right?"

He chuckles — "I trade the dolls for materials and some records, if you can bring me some."

"Don't you take money?"

"There is no use of money if I can't spend it, I cannot take the risk on being attacked by feral humans on my way to the city."

"I see…" — You nod — "I suppose I should come back another time, I lack of the materials you need at the moment."

The vodnik's gaze meets yours, a kind smile flashes on his face.

"No, no, that won't be necessary." — He pauses — "I sense your sincerity and desperation. I'll delay the fee this time, dear spirit."

"It is not correct of me to leave without offering you something in return, Mr. Kladivo."

The older tilts his head as his eyes soften, and chuckles — "Oh, it's alright. And you don't owe me anything, but if you insist…"

Emil clings weakly to the mirror in front of him, your hands wander through his chest to his tighs. His moans are barely audible as you pepper kisses and ocasionally nibble around his neck.

His head feels light, only wondering how did you manage to get him in such a lewd position; Yet, the feeling of your fingers poking his entrance was enough to distract him from any thought forming on his mind.

"You're just so perfect, I couldn't resist…" — Emil whimpers at your comment — "Egocentric people are more likely to become ghosts in the end, surely you understand."

Emil turns his face away from the mirror, only for you to direct his face and make him look at his flustered reflection again. The spirit's cold touch against his bare skin only intensifies his arousal, as does the mirror reflecting every moment of his submission.

"N-no more… i-it's embarrassing…" — He whines —

"Is it really? Aw… Then I must be wrong about your erection down here…"

His reflection's whines turn into choked gasps as he feels the ghost's cold fingers wrap around its hard length. The mirror reflects Emil's face, his eyes squeezed shut as the ghost begins to stroke him.

"I- I can't… Ng-hhh~♡"

He arches his back, and lets out a muffled moan as cold, slick fingers begin to stretch his hole. Emil's face is buried in his arms, his body shaking, and completely helpless to the ghost's manipulations. His body convulses, and his legs try to close, only to be forcefully held open. The vodnik lets out a choked, desperate cry, his body feeling hot, in contrast with the cold touch on both his most private parts.

"N-no… it's too much… Feels too much~♡"

"Please, let me show my gratitute by making you feel good, Mr. Kladivo."

His body tenses, and lets out an embarrassed whine. He can feel the hard pressure against his thigh, and aknowledges that it's the ghost's private part, only serves to heighten his arousal.

"P-please…" — He pleads, then you lift him up by his tighs — "O-oh?!"

The vodnik is surprised by how easy you picked him up — How did you do that?

His legs touching his chest, body heavy and helpless as he's lifted up and penetrated from behind. Emil's reflection lets out a series of loud, desperate moans, his body jerking with each powerful thrust. "Ngghh… I-it's too dEep… (Y/N)~♡OH MY~"

Emil's face is a mask of pure pleasure, his mouth open in a soundless scream, tears streaming down its cheeks. Since your ghostly form doesn't reflect on mirrors, Emil can only see his own body convulsing with each thrust, being split open by apparently nothing.

His mouth is forced open, and a cold, invasive tongue slips inside, silencing his desperate cries. The older can do nothing but accept the kiss, his body convulsing with each pounding from behind. "Mmphhh…" He blushes at the wet sound you two make while kissing.

As the ghost continues to pound into him, Emil slowly relaxes, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth hanging open, panting with each breath.

His body grows heavier as he slowly gives in to the sensation and comes closer to his orgasm.

"Nhh… nhh… N-no… I'm gonna…! DON'T SToP~!! ♡"

"How could I stop? Hearing those sweet noises you make…" — You pause only to kiss him again — "I want to keep hearing your voice…"

Emil lets out a final cry as he finally reaches his climax, staining the mirror with his semen. His limbs go limp, and he hangs helplessly in the ghost's embrace, completely spent.

The ghost's hold tightens, and with a final, powerful thrust, buries himself inside Emil's warm walls. The room grows cold, and an icy chill runs down Emil's spine as he feels the ghost's release, he looks at his reflection to see his hole gaping wide open, dripping with fluid.

Emil blinks dazedly, looking at his reflection in the mirror, seeing the mess he's in. He slowly turns around, and you take the chance to shower him in kisses♡

—//—

For context: Misadventures Of Laura Silver is a game about two detectives (Laura and Orewell) who investigate paranormal cases, and a vodnik (Emil) happened to be on their list. I don't think the game is well known, but I wanted to write something for this man🥹 For more context, Emil is this silly guy right here:

⚠️ I really don't know if the creators have anything against using their characters to write this kind of stuff, I'll imediatly delete the post if there's anything wrong!😭🙏

#dom male reader #top male reader #male reader #sub character #emil kladivo #misadventures of laura silver

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rainforestakiie · 3 months ago

Text

Priest Adam x Devil/King of Hell Lucifer part 03

The Imp

hi everyone! i am back with the third instalment of @inubaki’s request! ahhh i really love this haha thank you for all the artwork you and your friend made inubaki! I truly hope you will like the new part!

‘A Priest observing that one of fathers in his charge seems to be heavily distracted by something no one else can see. Father Adam had come to them young, an unwanted fourth child to a Nobel family hoping to gain the church’s favor. Life is hard for Adam whim continues to wait for his family to return for him, growing into despair until one day he suddenly improves. He claims he’s spoken to an angel. And, to his credit, does give information far beyond what any child should know. But the older Adam gets, the more distracted he becomes. More happy, but conflicted. Till one day he disappears.'

The Imp (Priest Adam x Devil/King of Hell Lucifer) = Part 01. Part 02. Part 03.

Steve was so pretty.

At the age of fifthteen, Adam’s thoughts still swirled endlessly, drawing him deeper into an almost hypnotic trance. His apple-green eyes gleamed like rare gems, their light reflected in the dim room as he watched the older boy from his shadowed perch. He knew he shouldn’t be this close to the window—shouldn’t let the sun’s deadly rays creep too near—but he couldn’t help himself. Kneeling just beyond the reach of the light, shrouded by heavy, dark curtains, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Steve was... exquisite. The sun kissed his skin in a way that made him glow, the soft light rendering his freckles as constellations across his cheeks. Adam wanted so badly to trace them all, to memorise their patterns like secret codes only he could decipher.

A breathy, wistful sigh escaped Adam’s lips, his heart all but melting as he watched Steve helping a younger child to their feet after a clumsy tumble. The older boy’s kindness was as radiant as the sun that bathed him, bending to the child's level, his voice low and gentle, like a lullaby meant to soothe all fears. Adam’s chest fluttered, warm and tender.

"Steve would make a wonderful father," Adam murmured dreamily, his cheeks flushing as the thought wrapped itself around his mind like a delicate vine.

It was a bit childish, Adam thought, a flicker of embarrassment settling in his chest. After all, he was nearly sixteen—too old, perhaps, for such whims of fancy. And yet, here he was, allowing himself to drift into a world of impossible dreams. He let out a quiet sigh, tearing his gaze from the fogged window and curling himself tighter behind the heavy drapes, as if their shadowy folds could cloak him from the outside world.

In his lap, a few worn sheets of paper rested, supported by the weight of an old textbook. Though Adam had never been particularly skilled at drawing, he found comfort in it. Sister Emily had once taught him how, before her sight had been stolen by the creeping darkness that now clouded her eyes. It was one of the few things they had shared before the world dimmed for her.

His fingers brushed softly over the rough paper as he sketched, his strokes delicate, almost reverent. Tonight, his heart betrayed him, and he found himself sketching an image that lived only in the recesses of his mind—a portrait of him and Steve, their faces softened by affection, surrounded by the ghostly outlines of two, maybe three children.

Steve was beautiful in a way that made Adam’s heart ache. The way he smiled, so effortlessly sweet, like a secret whispered in the dead of night. Adam couldn’t help but give in to the tender pull of his imagination. He let it wrap around him like a blanket, warm and bittersweet.

Oh, how he would love for that dream to be real. To be a family. To belong somewhere, with Steve by his side, and the laughter of children filling the empty spaces around them.

He shifted slightly, leaning against the wall where it curved into the window, and returned his eyes to Steve. His thoughts began to wander, drawing up images and possibilities that made his body tense with a peculiar mix of yearning and nervous excitement. A dreamy smile tugged at his lips, a deep sigh spilling from his chest like a whisper meant only for the shadows.

Would Steve ever even consider...with him?

“To get married and have children…” he whispered shyly, a touch of a dreamer smile lighting up his lips. “With Ste-”

The sudden, jarring crash of a door slamming behind him made Adam jolt, his heart leaping into his throat. He whirled around, eyes narrowing as they tried to pierce through the dim room. Has someone crept in behind him? Was this another prank from the church kids, trying to frighten him with their mischievous tricks? His pulse raced, but the room appeared empty, still cloaked in its usual shadowy stillness.

Adam pouted, shrugging off the unease as he let the thick curtain slip from his fingers. He turned back to the window, his heart instantly skipping a beat as his gaze locked, wide-eyed, with Steve’s. Heat flooded his face, a small, startled sound—almost a squeak—escaping his lips as Steve grinned and waved at him. Adam’s first instinct was to return the gesture, to raise his hand in a shy, almost desperate wave. But when he tried, he couldn’t.

Something was holding his hand down.

His breath hitched as his brow furrowed in confusion. Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his hand. There was nothing there, no visible force pinning him in place, yet he could feel it—the unmistakable pressure of fingers intertwined with his own. Cold. Unseen. His pulse quickened as he bit down on his bottom lip, his skin crawling with a mixture of fear and something darker, something strangely sweet.

But the invisible hand did not let go.

Adam’s breath caught in his throat as his wide eyes darted back to Steve. He wanted to scream, to beg the older boy to come to his rescue, to tear him away from the unseen force that gripped him in its cold, spectral hold. But his voice refused to come. He could only watch as Steve smiled at him through the glass, so warm and gentle, blissfully unaware of the creeping dread filling the air. The older boy waved again, the gesture as sweet and kind as ever, a picture of innocence framed by the sun.

But then the window shuddered, an unnatural tremor that sent a chill racing down Adam’s spine. Before he could process it, a sharp, echoing crack erupted across the glass. The sound was so loud, so sudden, it tore a startled cry from Adam’s lips. He shot backward in a blind panic, his legs slipping out from under him as he scrambled away from the window, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

The cracks multiplied with terrifying speed, crawling outward like the limbs of a great spider, their jagged lines stretching not just across the window, but creeping up the walls around it, spreading like a dark web of shattered reality. The light from the outside seemed to warp, bending unnaturally as the fractures claimed more of the wall, pulling shadows into their depths.

Adam’s pulse raced, every fibre of his being screaming for him to run, to hide, to escape the sinister web that seemed to tighten around him. Yet, amidst the chaos, his gaze flickered back to Steve, still standing there, still smiling, still so impossibly unaware of the nightmare unravelling before them.

It was as if the world had splintered around Adam, yet Steve remained untouched, suspended in a moment of sunlit perfection while Adam was dragged himself deeper into the darkness.

Powerful rumbles coursed through the room, the sound reverberating like the growl of a hidden beast. The cracks clawed their way further, creeping up the walls and spreading like dark veins overhead. Adam’s body trembled, his muscles locking in place as dread settled deep in his gut. He hunched over, pulling his knees tightly to his chest, his arms folding protectively over his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable—the ceiling giving way, burying him beneath a rain of jagged debris.

But instead of the crushing weight of collapse, he felt something else—a hand. Solid. Firm. Resting on his shoulder.

Adam’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest as a sharp yelp escaped his lips. His mind spun with confusion, his stomach twisted into painful knots. He jerked around, expecting to see the worst. Yet, there crouched beside him was... Steve.

The older boy’s soft, warm gaze met Adam’s wide, frantic eyes, his concern palpable as his hand rested gently on Adam’s trembling shoulder. Steve’s voice was as soothing as a breeze in the summer sun.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his tone filled with care, like he was coaxing a frightened animal out of hiding.

Adam’s breath came in shallow, wheezing gasps as he blinked away the confusion clouding his vision. His gaze darted around the room, expecting the cracks to still be there, the walls to be crumbling, the chaos to remain. But everything was as it had been before. The window was whole, the air calm, the floor solid beneath him. No cracks. No dust. No falling ceiling. Just the quiet, dimly lit room and Steve's comforting presence.

A soft whimper escaped Adam’s throat, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as his bottom lip trembled. It had all felt so real—so terrifyingly real. He could still feel the echo of the rumbling in his bones, still see the image of the fractured walls crawling across his mind.

“Adam?” Steve’s voice was more urgent now, filled with worry as he rubbed comforting circles on Adam’s back.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong? Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to... You looked so frightened. I got worried and came to find you."

Steve’s words washed over him like a balm, but Adam’s mind couldn’t fully grasp them, not yet. The confusion, the fear—it still lingered, lurking in the shadows of his mind. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, wasn’t sure if it had been a trick of his mind or something darker, something otherworldly that had toyed with him. All he knew was that Steve was here now, real and solid, grounding him in this strange and eerie moment.

Adam's eyes flickered nervously toward the window, the remnants of terror still coursing through him. His throat tightened as he swallowed, his whole body trembling as if it could collapse at any moment. The crack remained etched into the glass, jagged and unnatural, exactly where Steve had been standing just moments ago. It hadn’t vanished like the others. It was real.

"Come on, Adam," Steve’s voice was a gentle murmur in his ear, steady and warm. Adam felt Steve’s arms slip beneath his own, lifting him up with ease. Under any other circumstance, Adam might have grumbled, his pride wounded by needing to be held like this. But now, he didn’t resist. Not with the lingering fear still clutching at his chest. Steve held him close, his presence as comforting as it was grounding.

"I think you need to lay down," Steve continued softly, his voice a soft tether pulling Adam back from the edge of panic. "Sister Sera told me about your condition with the sun. You weren't standing in the sunlight too long, were you?"

Adam’s mind raced as Steve’s words cut through the haze. No... there were no burns. His skin wasn’t blistered, his flesh wasn’t melting under the relentless burn of the sun’s touch. But... had he been in the sun’s light longer than he thought? His condition made him sick, left his skin raw and ruined if he was exposed too long... but this wasn’t that. Or was it? The crack in the window... could he have caused it?

No. No, that wasn’t possible. His hand still tingled from something else, from the cold, inhuman touch that had bound him. The pressure, the weight of those unseen fingers—he hadn’t imagined that. Had he?

"It’ll be alright, Adam," Steve chirped, his tone almost too bright, a beacon in the darkness of Adam’s confusion. Steve led him out of the classroom, the halls of the old building feeling even darker now, colder. "It’ll be alright."

Adam continued to stare back over his shoulder as they left the room, his gaze fixed on the spot where the crack had shattered his world. Even when the window disappeared from sight, his eyes remained glued to the void behind him, waiting—hoping—to catch a glimpse of something. He always saw something, didn’t he? The strange, the inexplicable, the things that lurked just beyond the edges of reality.

But this time... there was nothing.

The silence in his mind was louder than any crackling glass, more oppressive than any shadow. He felt safer with Steve’s hand holding his…

His drawings had mysteriously disappeared…

~#~

“There,” Steve exhaled with satisfaction, stepping back from the wardrobe with his hands on his hips. “Now nothing can get out during the night.”

Adam’s lips twitched in the faintest of smiles as he lay curled on his side, tightly cocooned within his blankets. His gaze lingered on the old pink skipping rope Steve had used to tie the wardrobe doors shut, a flimsy but sweet attempt at protection.

“Don’t tell Eve I swiped her skipping rope,” Steve added with a playful grin, spinning on his toes with a lightness that made Adam’s heart flutter. He practically skipped to his bed, his clear blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “But seriously, if you can’t sleep or have another nightmare, just crawl into my bed. You don’t have to wake me up.”

Adam gave a meek nod, feeling a strange warmth bloom in his chest. His heart did a tiny, giddy dance at Steve’s words. The kindness made his face burn with embarrassment, and he quickly pulled the quilt up over his head, hiding from the older boy’s clear gaze. His cheeks were flaming, and he was sure his blush was as obvious as the daylight he dreaded.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Steve asked softly, his tone growing quieter, laced with concern. “You’ve been shaky ever since this morning.”

Adam hesitated before poking a hand out from beneath the covers, offering a weak thumbs up. He couldn’t help but smile when he heard Steve chuckle in response. That sound—so light and free—was like a balm for his anxious soul. He peeked out from his blanket fortress, watching Steve’s blue eyes sparkle with amusement. The grin that tugged at Steve’s cherry-red lips only deepened, his dimples carving into his cheeks in the most charming way.

Ah, Steve was just so... cute.

“Well, if you say so~” Steve whistled cheerfully, tossing himself onto his bed with a dramatic flop.

Adam bit his lip, holding back the laugh that bubbled up inside him. He wasn’t sure how to let it out, how to release that strange mix of joy and unease swirling inside him. Instead, his gaze drifted back to the wardrobe. His heart quickened as his eyes locked onto the pink skipping rope, tightly wrapped around the handles. Would it really hold? Could something as fragile as a skipping rope keep that... thing... inside?

His stomach twisted in fear as he recalled the black silhouette that always lurked within the wardrobe’s depths, emerging only at night. It was there every time the room fell into shadow, a dark figure that terrified him to his core. It growled and writhed behind the doors, furious when Adam would crawl into Steve’s bed for safety, as if it resented the comfort he found there. Steve had never seen it. Steve never heard the growling, never felt the cold presence hovering just beyond the threshold of that fragile pink rope.

Adam’s heart trembled with fear, even as he lay curled beneath the safety of his blankets. He hoped, desperately, that tonight would be different—that the rope would hold, that the silhouette would remain locked away, where it couldn’t reach him. But in the silence that followed Steve’s soft breathing, Adam’s gaze lingered on the wardrobe, waiting, fearing, knowing deep down that it was only a matter of time before the thing inside stirred once more.

Adam couldn’t recall when he drifted into sleep, but as swiftly as a rubber band snaps, his eyes jerked open. His vision was a foggy swirl of shadows, distorting reality and sending an aching pulse through the bridge of his nose. Slowly, cautiously, he sat up, pressing his palms hard into his eyes as if to wipe away the heaviness lingering in them.

Everything felt...off again. Uncanny. Wrong. An uneasy whine rose from his throat, and he forced his tired gaze to the cross above his bed. It was upside down, mocking him in its eerie defiance, because of course it was. He groaned softly as his sore legs protested when he stood, reaching up to set the cross right again.

His body sagged against the wall, feeling the coolness seeping into him like a whispered warning. His head lolled slightly as he glanced toward the wardrobe—it was still tied shut, securely bound, as if whatever lurked within hadn't stirred. Relief washed over him, and he let his forehead rest against the cold plaster, the contrast to his own feverish warmth almost comforting.

He stood there, unmoving, the chill of the wall seeping deeper into his skin. His eyelids began to grow heavy again, dragging him toward that perilous edge of sleep. But no, he wouldn’t let himself succumb. Not standing like this, not in this place. He was about to surrender to the blankets, retreat into their cocoon, when something caught his attention—a slight draft or perhaps just a shift in the darkness.

He blinked. The bedroom door was open.

Had Steve left it ajar? Adam turned his head, eyes searching for the older boy who slept soundly in the bed across the room, blissfully unaware of the creeping darkness that surrounded them. The church felt hollow, its silence heavier than it should be. Adam’s gaze returned to the doorway, his throat tightening as a sharp taste of fear swirled in his mouth. He bit his bottom lip until it stung.

There, directly in the centre of the threshold, sat a candle. A solitary, ominous candle that sent an icy tremor skittering down his spine. He inhaled sharply, his lips thinning as a shiver locked his muscles in place. He knew that candle. He had seen it before—years ago, in a memory that clawed at the corners of his mind like something too dark to fully remember.

A black candle with a flame that flickers white and purple. The sight of it tightened his chest, dredging up old, buried nightmares. His fingers curled into the blankets, knuckles white with tension, his nose twitching as fear gripped him. He could hardly tear his eyes from the flame, watching it dance inside its ancient silver holder. If he looked closer, he could make out delicate carvings—small apple-like shapes etched into the tarnished metal, winding around the base where the handle twisted upward in an elegant curve.

But Adam didn't dare step closer. The past was too close now, breathing down his neck, reminding him of that time...the time he was placed on that altar...

Adam’s breath hitched, a jagged edge catching in his throat. He pulled his knees tightly to his chest, curling inward as his eyes darted around the room. Everything seemed the same, yet an invisible tension lingered in the air, whispering of something unseen but waiting. Nothing appeared out of place... but that feeling of wrongness clung to him like a shadow, refusing to be shaken off.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pushed the heavy quilts away, their warmth slipping from his skin as he moved to stand. His knees buckled beneath him, nearly sending him to the floor. He steadied himself with a shaky hand, the tremors in his body growing more pronounced as he crept toward the candle. It sat there so innocently, yet the flickering of the white and purple flame was anything but comforting. It seemed to beckon him, to draw him closer with its strange and hypnotic glow.

Adam poked his head out into the hallway, his heart racing as his eyes scanned the shadows that stretched out on either side. There was nothing. Just the emptiness of the night and the eerie quiet of the old church. His lips pressed into a thin line, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he pulled his head back inside and returned his gaze to the candle.

Its flame flickered softly, casting strange, dancing shadows against the walls. Adam hesitated, a cold sweat gathering at the nape of his neck as he bent down toward the strange light. His hands shook violently, but he forced them forward, fingers curling around the handle of the silver holder. The metal was cool to the touch, the carvings beneath his fingertips smooth and strange. As he straightened up, lifting the candle from the floor, his eyes remained locked on the flame—unable to look away, as though something deeper than fear compelled him to keep watching it.

The flame danced as if it knew something he didn’t. Something dark and ancient.

Adam inhaled deeply, his breath shaky, his hand trembling as he gripped the cool handle of the candle holder. His eyes were locked on the flickering flame, its white and purple light swirling hypnotically, refusing to release him from its spell. It danced with an almost mischievous life of its own, teasing the edges of his thoughts.

What should he do? Where had this candle even come from? A cold unease twisted inside him. Maybe… maybe he should wake Steve. Steve would know what to do; Steve always knew what to do. Over the past year, Steve had been endlessly patient with him, a constant source of warmth in Adam’s otherwise haunted nights. That thought sent a flutter through his chest—sweet and soft, a rare comfort in this place of shadows. Steve had stayed by his side, soothing him through the long, sleepless nights, even allowing him to slip into his bed when the thing in the wardrobe refused to let Adam rest. Those moments meant more than Adam could ever express.

But then, out of nowhere, a sound—a faint, childish giggle—broke through the silence from somewhere to his left. Adam’s breath hitched sharply. His body stiffened, and he whipped around, just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of something small and fast darting past the end of the corridor. His eyes widened in alarm. The figure was too quick, too blurry to make out which child it was. But his heart raced at the thought—if Sister Sera caught them, they’d be sent to the Bobo Box.

Adam’s face scrunched in worry, torn between waking Steve and following the mysterious figure. He cast one last glance toward Steve’s sleeping form, then, with his heart pounding in his chest, cautiously started down the corridor.

The air inside the church clung with an unnatural chill, far colder than it should have been. Adam shivered violently, his lips tinged a deep blue. He hunched his small frame, clutching at the oversized sweater draped over him. It was Steve’s, a gift surrendered when Adam had been caught admiring it. Though it hung baggy and awkward on him, it offered a peculiar comfort. He slowed to a halt, lifting his gaze to the towering grandfather clock looming above. Its hands jittered and spun as though they were caught in some unseen frenzy, their movements unsettlingly erratic. Adam’s brow furrowed in confusion. He had never seen the clock behave like this before. Sister Sera had mentioned Father Michael had crafted it many years ago. It was a relic, ancient and cherished by the church.

A lump formed in Adam’s throat as he squinted at the clock's glass, straining to focus on the reflection staring back at him. A shadowy figure loomed there, silently watching from the doorway that led into the parlor. Adam’s heart thundered, freezing for a beat before surging into a frantic rhythm. He spun around, his breath catching as the dim light flickered unnervingly. A soft, eerie giggle echoed through the still air—a sound that sent a shiver racing down Adam’s spine.

The figure was small and childlike, but there was something wrong about it. Another eerie laugh escaped its lips before it turned abruptly and bolted deeper into the church, its form darting far too fast for Adam to truly make out its features. Despite the icy dread coiling in his chest, Adam’s feet betrayed him, propelling him forward in pursuit of the mysterious child.

His lips twitched as if trying to call out, but no sound came. His voice was trapped in his throat, silenced by fear. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat so strong it echoed in his ears. Adam gasped for breath, a stifled sob escaping him as he pressed on. His legs trembled, heavy with exhaustion, yet he couldn't stop running. He had never raced through the church like this before, knowing full well that such disobedience would earn him sharp strikes to the hands.

The ancient floorboards groaned beneath his feet as if whispering secrets long forgotten. Above him, the ceiling creaked with the sound of countless tiny footsteps, as though an army of unseen children scampered about. The flickering light bulbs overhead swayed back and forth, casting ominous shadows that danced mockingly around him.

Adam turned in a frantic circle, his eyes locked on the trembling ceiling above him, where the sound of countless small feet scurried in a maddening loop. It was as if unseen children were racing overhead, encircling him in an eerie dance. His breath caught in his throat, a sharp, panicked whimper escaping his lips as he twisted on his bare feet. He stumbled, nearly collapsing to the ground but managed to catch himself just in time.

He bolted into the dining room, the largest and most foreboding space in the church. The walls loomed with cold, grey stone bricks, their rough surfaces jagged and unkind. Adam hated the floor, sharp-edged stone that had cut more than one careless child’s foot. The arched windows, small and narrow, were lined with black, prison-like bars of iron. They cast dark shadows on the room’s interior, making the space feel more like a dungeon than a place for gathering.

The room was ancient, older than anything else in the church, and its age seemed to seep into the very air, thick and heavy with forgotten time. A single long, weathered wooden table stretched across the centre, rarely filled despite the church being crammed with orphans, nuns, and priests. When Adam stepped inside, his skin crawled with a sudden, visceral dread.

He froze, his bare feet pressing painfully into the unforgiving stone. A sharp sting radiated from his left foot, but he barely noticed. His wide, apple-green eyes stretched in shock as the breath caught in his chest, his heart squeezing so tightly it felt like his ribs might snap under the pressure.

The dining room had transformed into something out of a nightmare. Red candles covered every surface, their twisted wax forms flickering with strange black flames that burned coldly against the darkness. The table was draped in a deep crimson cloth, rich and velvety. But what made Adam's blood run cold were the children. Every stool at the table was occupied by pale, porcelain-faced children, their eyes impossibly large and glossy, black as endless voids. They weren’t human eyes. They gleamed with a soulless, alien shine. Their skin was smooth and polished like fine china, unnervingly perfect, and Adam felt a shiver skitter down his spine as he heard soft clicks and whirs when they tilted their heads in unison, just like fragile, wind-up dolls.

They were pristine, flawless in every detail. Their hair, ranging from golden blonde to deep brown, was meticulously groomed, and they wore clothing of finely tailored black, white, and red. Every movement was deliberate, too precise, as if they were posed, waiting for something. The air hung thick with tension as Adam took a hesitant step forward, and in that instant, the doors behind him slammed shut with a thunderous bang.

Adam let out a scream, spinning on his heel to face the doors. He lunged for the handles, yanking with all his strength, but they refused to budge, as though sealed by some invisible force. His heart hammered wildly in his chest as he turned back to the room, sweat beading on his forehead.

The sound of laughter—a chorus of eerie, high-pitched giggles—filled the air, but it was far from playful. It was ghostly, distorted, as if thousands of children were laughing in some dark, twisted harmony. Adam’s stomach churned violently. His eyes darted back to the children, their painted lips now curled into sweet, yet sinister smiles.

His gaze drifted to the chair at the head of the table, the one closest to him. It was newer than the rest, the wood a deep, blood-red hue with plush black cushions sewn into it. It didn’t belong here—certainly not where Sister Sera usually sat. As Adam stared at it, he felt an icy tingle creep across his skin, a dark shadow pooling in the farthest corner of the room where the light refused to reach.

The porcelain children never broke their gaze, their smiles never faltering. Suddenly, a little china girl sitting at the far end of the table rose to her feet with a soft clink of her joints, bowing deeply, her red-tinted cheeks gleaming like polished glass. Across from her, a china boy stood up with a sharp, mechanical movement, his bow so deep his head nearly brushed the floor. They moved with a strange fluidity, their limbs clicking like clockwork dolls, each motion accompanied by that unnerving sound.

Together, they tugged the chair out from the table, their eyes never leaving Adam as they gestured for him to sit. He hesitated, his gaze flicking between the two doll-like figures. Their painted smiles stretched wider as they gestured again, more insistent this time, urging him closer.

With a racing heart and no other choice, Adam inched toward the chair. His foot throbbed from the cut, but the pain felt distant, swallowed by the suffocating fear that gripped him. His wide eyes darted between the children, unable to comprehend how they moved so fluidly, as if alive. He lowered himself into the chair, the cushion soft beneath him.

The moment he sat, the two doll-children pressed their small hands to the back of the chair, pushing him in closer to the table before silently returning to their seats. Adam’s heart raced, his breath shallow and quick, as the room seemed to close in around him. And still, those wide, black eyes watched him, unblinking, waiting.

Nervously, Adam gnawed at his bottom lip until the sting of pain shot through him. His shoulders hunched in tight, a small tremor running through his fingers as he crossed them protectively over his stomach. His gaze flickered meekly over the children seated around the table. They appeared no older than four or five, but there was something deeply unsettling in the way their glassy eyes tracked his every movement.

Without warning, the silence shattered. The children erupted into joyful cheers, their voices shrill and almost too sweet. Party poppers exploded in their tiny hands, sending colourful streams of confetti spiralling through the air. Adam's eyes widened in shock, watching as the dining room was suddenly bathed in a warm, golden glow. It seemed almost festive now, but despite the change, Adam instinctively shrank back, his mind swirling with confusion and unease.

Across the table, a pair of red and golden eyes gleamed through the shifting light, pinning him in place. Adam gasped, his breath catching in his throat as he straightened, startled. There, seated casually at the far end of the table, was Luci, his sharp grin cutting through the room like a blade. Its arrow-tipped tail swished lazily behind it, the movement almost hypnotic. A crisp white top hat perched atop its head, casting shadows over its face, but leaving those unnaturally beautiful eyes to glow vividly in the dimness.

"Mama’s home!" the china children chorused in unison, their mechanical voices high-pitched and eerie as they bounced excitedly on their stools. Their arms flailed in a strange imitation of joy, and above the Imp, a banner unfurled with a soft flutter.

It was stained a deep, rusty red, the words scrawled across it reading, "Mummy’s come home!"

Adam’s breath hitched painfully in his chest, each inhale trembling as his lungs struggled to keep pace with his panic.

"M-Mummy?" he stammered, the word barely escaping his lips, as if his voice had been trapped somewhere deep inside.

The Imp’s grin widened—impossibly wide—its cheeks flushed a deep crimson that seemed to glow against the pale skin. Its gleaming eyes never left Adam, staring straight into him, through him, as if the creature could read every desperate thought racing through his mind. But Adam’s attention was abruptly diverted by movement at his side.

One of the china children had waddled up to him, its porcelain limbs clicking softly as it carried a large, rolled-up piece of paper. It released the scroll with a careful flick, allowing it to unfurl in front of Adam. His heart nearly stopped as the image was revealed. It was a sketch, eerily familiar, but larger and far more detailed than the one Adam had once drawn in secret. Only now, Steve was gone, completely erased, and in his place stood Luci, looming proudly. They were surrounded by children—each one smiling with wide, jagged grins that mirrored the Imp’s sinister expression.

Adam swallowed hard, his throat tightening painfully as his gaze lingered on the twisted smiles. They stared back at him from the paper, their sharp teeth gleaming like tiny, hungry blades. A sickening chill crawled up his spine, making his stomach churn. His pulse raced, pounding in his ears as he fought to tear his eyes away from the unnerving scene.

Luci’s voice echoed softly in the back of his mind, almost a whisper, but it carried a weight that made Adam’s blood run cold.

"Y-Y-You..." Adam stammered, licking his dry lips as his gaze flickered nervously to the Imp’s piercing eyes. He swallowed hard, barely able to form the words as they trembled on the edge of his tongue. "You... built... me a family?"

The Imp, Luci, responded with a slow, prideful nod, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. His lips curled into a sharp, knowing grin as Adam hesitantly pointed a trembling finger toward himself.

"And..." Adam’s voice shook, barely audible as he struggled to comprehend the nightmare unfolding around him. "...I’m the M-M... Mama?"

The room was suddenly filled with the sound of eerie giggles, the china children kicking their feet with uncontainable glee. Their glassy eyes never wavered from Adam, their joy unsettling in its falseness. Luci tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes gleaming brighter as he gave a deliberate, luring nod, his grin widening as if this revelation was a game he had long been waiting for Adam to understand.

Adam inhaled deeply, his lips twitching involuntarily as his mind wrestled with the horror before him. He looked back at Luci, his fingers twitching uncontrollably. A family. A make-believe family, created from some twisted fantasy. It was terrifying—every child seated around the table had an unsettling, doll-like quality that sent shivers down his spine. Yet... there was something else. A strange, warped sense of being touched. Luci, his Imp, had pieced together a family for him. A grotesque, chilling gesture, but a gesture nonetheless.

"And... and..." Adam struggled to find his voice, his thoughts spiralling as he grasped for clarity.

Before he could finish, Luci leaned forward, his movements fluid and predatory. He propped his elbows on the table, his long claws threading together like pieces of a delicate puzzle. His sharp teeth glittered in the dim light, and his eyes... they swirled with an enchanting, dangerous allure that made Adam’s pulse quicken. He couldn't tear his gaze away, as if Luci’s eyes had woven some dark spell around his mind.

"I’m the Mama... and you’re the Papa?" Adam finally whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, trembling with both fear and an unsettling sense of acceptance.

The china doll children erupted into another round of gleeful squeals, their delicate bodies shaking with excitement as they bounced on their stools. The sound was unnerving, yet Adam couldn't look away from Luci’s intense gaze, his heart pounding faster in his chest with each passing second.

Suddenly, Luci rose to his feet, his movements swift and effortless. He climbed onto the table with an unsettling grace, his clawed feet clicking against the wood as he revealed a lavish red and gold throne behind him. It had been there all along, hidden in plain sight, and Adam felt a chill run down his spine as he realised the throne had been the Imp’s rightful seat.

His eyes fell to Luci’s goat-like hooves as the Imp began to walk slowly down the centre of the table, the candles flickering in his wake. Luci's figure loomed larger and larger until he stood directly over Adam, casting a dark shadow that enveloped him entirely. Adam’s heart raced wildly, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts as Luci’s glowing eyes bore into his very soul.

This was no ordinary family. It was a nightmare wrapped in velvet, a macabre creation crafted from the darkest parts of his imagination. And yet, Luci stood before him, offering it all with a grin that promised so much more than Adam could ever understand.

….but…Adam smiled.

Luci held out a black claw and Adam took it.

#fanfic #hazbin hotel #adamsapple #lucifer x adam #au #guitarduck #fanficiton #horror #horrible story

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 6 months ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 18: Unleashed

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.7k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

CW: Chapter gets dark - please be cautious

A howling tempest is whistling in your ears, muffling your ability to think clearly. A biting frost permeates your body, seeping into your bones and desiccating and fragmenting them. Although it’s agony, there is a peculiar pleasure in the descent into exile. The wraith strums a ghostly lullaby, like harpies enthralment, that encourages you to close your eyes and float away in the cyclone.

Your lashes flutter as you resist the temptation to let your dimming eyes shut. Icy vines braid and curl up your spine and caress your brainstem, coercing you to allow yourself to be devoured.

It sounds so easy, so serene, like the bottom of that dark lake where everything was wondrously still, still, still.

It starts slow, snowflakes fluttering through the irises of your dying eyes, each one descending to your soul. The first flakes melt and sizzle like drops of water touching a hot surface, but the barrage increases, and the fire within cannot sustain the onslaught.

Your very spirit is being doused, and it throbs as your psyche is pelted with sharp hail, chilling you to your very core and numbing you of your will to fight. The melody of violent winds, ice, and snow is rapturous, a perverted sonata that you long to get on your knees and recite.

You want it to sweep you away, sedate you, and submerge you gently into that final eternal night. It promises to remedy the heavy emptiness, and you pine for the feeling of not feeling at all. There is no drowning it out, no resolve to struggle, and the glacier you’re tripping on has cracks. There are tears creeping out of your eyes, turning to ice pellets as they hail down your cheeks.

Yes! Yes! The voice warbles as everything goes dark. Let go.

The crevice between your feet collapses, and you’re plunged into the frigid abyss. You fall down, down, down, until you find yourself in a barren whitescape with nothing but snow in all directions. Jagged icebergs the size of mountains jut impossibly high into the grey-blue sky and drift erratically with surreal speed, making them look like teeth trying to saw through the horizon.

The cold is lethal as it forms ice crystals in your lungs when you try to breathe, and even though your breath is as cold as death itself, it billows in misty clouds when you exhale. You try to suppress the urge to breathe so the biting cold can’t nip at your throat, lungs, and nostrils, but it’s hard when your jaw quakes and you’re nearly crippled by shivers.

You wade through the waist-deep snow in this hellish, frostbitten land. It’s difficult to form coherent thoughts as you feel yourself freezing to death. Your ability to move is quickly being confiscated as your limbs stiffen. Your skin is wind-burnt and blistering, cracking like dry firewood.

You will die here, or perhaps you’re already dead — you do not know.

An enormous shadow passes over the landscape, blotting out the meager light the dark, cloudy sky provides, but your neck will not crane to look up.

The terrain shudders under your feet as something immense lands just out of sight. Powdery snow is belched into the air like a puff of wafting smoke. When was the last time you were able to blink? Your eyes cannot focus quite right. The muscles in your face strain to war against the thin layer of ice accumulated on your skin.

A looming figure takes shape in the snow drifts, coming toward you, making the ground under your feet tremble with every step. It seems to shake an iota of sense back into your senseless body, and you find yourself taking steps toward the silhouette.

A dragon emerges from the squall; five chromatic heads in all colours rear up on regally serpentine necks to evaluate you. Their nostrils flare, shooting vapour into the air with every breath. The scales reflect the low light and appear almost prismatic, with strips of bluish-green, purple, and grey, glassy-smooth, running down the massive body and merging into a bronze that covers a long tail, tipped with a stinger.

Each head moves individually, sinuously slithering through the air until each one is poised close to your body. They are massive, each with maws twice the size of your body and flaming eyes of all different colours that examine you intently.

Their jaws open, revealing long, tapered teeth and forked tongues, and their hot breath wreathes you, dispersing the ice in your veins and biting frost in your muscles.

Although the figure does not seem to speak, you hear an alluring voice in your head. It is bewitching and gently ethereal. “Do you know me, child of night and dragons?”

Why you recognize the voice and why it soothes you is unclear, but it awakens your soul, sparking the white-hot blaze of your being roaring back to life with a vigour you have not felt for what feels like centuries.

“Tiamat.”

The dragon’s lips pull back, baring her teeth in a viscous smile. She opens her mouth and blows her scalding breath over you. “You do not belong in this realm, night stalker.”

The ice accumulated on your hair melts away, leaving it limp, wet, and sticking to your cheeks. Drops of water rain from your scalp, down your face, dripping off your lashes.

“I am lost. He is lost. We are lost.”

“Lost, thou say?” Timat’s laughter sounds like a celestial chorus that the stars themselves dance to. “Thou hast just been found. Wake, bloodkin, return to your realm, and seek the Lord of Lies. He shall hark thy plea.”

Tiamat rears her scarlet-scaled head, unhinging her jaw like a snake, with the ominous white glow of Hellfire scintillating in her throat. You reflexively take a step backward, putting your hands up to shield yourself as the white, molten flames burst.

Nothing survives Hellfire.

Her voice serenades. “Burn bright, child of night, blood of dragons.

The flames swim through the air with a crackle, enveloping you in a tornado of light so bright that you wonder if your eyes will be reduced to ash. You’re thrust off your feet, plunging you back into the abyssal depths you fell into, and careening directionless at an unfathomable pace.

You see yourself floating in a black, bottomless netherworld. The impression of movement halts you horizontally above your lifeless shape. Wake up; you want to scream, but you do not have a voice.

You must claw your way out of this watery grave.

Reaching toward yourself, you find that the other version of you mirrors your movements. Your fingers touch, and her eyes — your eyes — snap open and glow white. The Hellfire swirls around you both and flares out like ghostly, liquid flames in the shape of wings that curl around and fuse into you.

In a rush, you’re shot like a meteor, rocketing through planes of existence and bending time itself.

Your eyes flick open to see Rhapsody poised above your chest, the polished silver blades glinting in the candlelight. With a hard, inhumane scowl on his face, Astarion's lifeless eyes are fixed on you, the light obliterated by insanity. Rhapsody whistles through the air, plunging straight for your static heart.

Something beckons you to wield it — something new yet ancient, both familiar and unknown. When you reach out and grasp it, a blinding light is released from you in a destructive shockwave. Astarion cries out, staggers back, and rubs his eyes furiously.

“You petulant little shit!” He barks, his voice oozing revulsion and vitriol. “You will not leash me — you cannot leash me! I created you, and I will destroy you!”

Try as you might, you cannot get your feet to move as your mind fails to construct a viable strategy. You will not survive a battle with him, and you can’t imagine you will get too far even if you flee. Astarion shakes his head, blinking rapidly. His eyes coast around the room, unfocused, and his arms reach out, fingers grasping blindly.

He cannot see.

It’s only a matter of time before he heals, but it does give you a chance. You must make a decision quickly. Astarion cocks his head, growling like a feral animal with his lips pulled back in a snarl, trying to listen for your position. As soon as you move, he will be able to pinpoint your location.

You know what you must do, but you don’t want to do it. Furthermore, you don’t know if you have time to do it before he regains his sight.

Casting Misty Step, you bolt into your room, rifling through your drawers until you come across the scroll you need and stash it. Astarion is in the hall, and you quickly cast Gust of Wind to push him off balance and snatch Rhapsody from his grip before he has time to right himself.

“Fool,” he snarls, spittle flying from his lips as he lunges toward you. “I need no implements to end you. I will tear your limbs from your body as easily as wings are torn from a fly.”

You cringe at his tone — so cold, so unfeeling, so full of loathing. You sprint to the door, throwing it open and hurtling down the streets. Glancing back, you make sure Astarion is following you. His eyes remain aimless and restless in their sockets, and he moves erratically and only when he hears you.

“Astarion!” You call out, making sure you’re far enough away that you have time to make it to the next target in this death race.

He barrels toward your voice, fingers clawing through the air as you reappear at the next point, calling out again and again and again, keeping yourself always just out of reach, until the Crimson Palace looms out of the darkness.

You sprint for it, throwing yourself through a window. The glass lacerates your skin, and you know you’ve made a mistake. Astarion scents the air and races toward you. You tense your muscles like Astarion has taught you, roll back onto your feet, and dash through the halls toward your target.

Astarion is quickly gaining on you, hunting you through the halls with the finessed movements of an apex predator. His movements become more fluid, and you know he’s starting to get his sight back.

You are running out of time.

Veering left and hurling yourself down the steep staircase, you narrowly avoid his clutch.

“Oh, I have missed this, my little treat,” he taunts. “Chasing you around these halls, teaching you all sorts of delightful lessons. Do you remember my lessons, pet? Oh, how I loved the way you screamed.”

Of course, you remember his lessons vividly. The tortures and torments he subjected you to in the name of taming his unruly spawn, making you a perfect, pretty arm piece to dazzle and delight his opponents while he carried out his twisted ambitions.

And oh, how you screamed and begged for death.

And oh, how he laughed and laughed and laughed.

The corridor is like running headfirst into a dark tunnel with no light at the end. The air is musty, and the only sounds are your battering footsteps and the drumming of Astarion’s rapid heartbeat. Your eyes skip over the wall, searching for the invisible wall, and whirl, running through the illusion and into the dank, stone-brick room.

The kennels.

Your prison stands empty and desolate — the cage he had constructed just for you.

He had been so proud of himself when he commissioned this cell to be built with its chains, restraints, and locks too complex to use Knock on. You swallow thickly, forcing the memories down as Astarion enters.

“Ah,” he smiles menacingly, strolling in casually. “It’s good to be home. Isn’t it? I must say, I’m surprised that you would lead me here of all places. Did you miss my expert administration? I shall remedy that.” He tsks, clicking his tongue as if chastising a child. “I can deny you nothing, after all.”

Luring him into the cell was an easy enough feat, but you’ve run out of time. Astarion can see, but by the way his eyes are narrowed, you don’t think completely.

“Astarion.” Tears slip out of your eyes as your fears well up. “Please come back. Don’t make me do this.”

He sneers with a wide, eerie Cheshire grin. “I am Astarion no longer, but you know that, don’t you? He drowns.” Astarion points to his head. “In here. I am devouring him, making him rot from the inside out until the pest is conveniently lost. I will exhaust his light. He slips away from you, even now.”

You lash out with the Weave, casting Hold, but he dodges your attack with a fleet movement to the side and slams into you before you have time to recover. You’re thrown to your stomach on the stone floor, his boot pressed into your back, leaning his weight on you.

“Stay,” he commands, and you’re immobilized as the compulsion branches out in your mind and twists through your muscles. You cannot see the self-satisfied smile on Astarion’s face, but it’s evident in his voice as he purrs. “Good girl.”

Astarion leans down, grabs Rhapsody from your hand, and chuckles. “We could have had it all, love. Power, wealth, pleasure — if only you would have just fallen in line, been obedient, but you were always an obstinate little cunt, weren’t you?”

Astarion lowers himself, sitting on your legs and squeezing your arms to your sides with his knees settled on either side of you. You cannot speak, and the only sounds that make it out of your mouth are strangled whimpers.

The pointed tip of Rhapsody presses into your back, not yet hard enough to break through skin, and you think you know what’s coming. He will plunge the dagger into your heart.

There would have been a time when your imminent demise would have brought you a sense of peace and relief. You’d sought an end to this nightmare often enough in the past year. Now, it’s only fear and the overwhelming feeling of failure that nestle in your chest.

You try to conjure up happy memories. Astarion’s face lighting up in camp when you walked toward him, the walks through the forest in the dappled moonlight, the way he would slip into your tent and cuddle you when he thought you were fast asleep.

You try to remember his eyes when he proposed, so vividly crimson, wistful, and happy. In that moment, you could have been just another madly in love couple. It all seemed so ordinary, so beautifully human, that you didn’t think about all that opposed the bright future he was offering.

I forgive you, you think, though the connection between you is sealed. I forgive you.

Thoughts move sluggishly through your head, as if getting caught on the sticky threads of spider webs. The cold metal bites into your skin. Slow and steady, Astarion carves into the flesh of your back with precise movements. The shock hits you first, realizing that he’s mimicking Cazador’s torture, and the pain soon follows. It feels obscure for a moment; your brain not able to conceptualize what’s happening.

The shock wanes, and the sensation strikes with an intensity that makes you almost lose consciousness. Your limbs itch to scramble as your brain wails at your body to thrash. When your muscles don’t comply, everything swims around you as your psyche dissolves.

“Ah-ah,” he tuts flatly as he focuses on the canvas before him. You can hear the blade cutting through your clothing, tearing and rending skin and muscles alike. “Stay with me, darling, and no going into shock either. I want you to feel the art of it.”

Astarion’s compulsion takes hold, and you’re alert, all your nerves aroused and buzzing back to life at his behest. It is a mind-obliterating kind of torture. If you were able to writhe, you’re not even sure your body would, as you lose sight of the ability to consider how to get it to stop. A bone-deep nausea overwhelms you, and your mind is seized by the white-hot agony mutilating your flesh.

He mumbles as he whittles away at your back. “I may not be the same man, but I do have most of his memories. Do you want to know a secret he keeps from you? Do you remember the first time we had sex in that forest? He loathed every second of it. Every one of your pretty little moans made him want to retch. It disgusted him — you disgusted him. How easy you were.”

The pain frays the edges of your mind as your husband, your lover, sketches a tapestry of heartache into you with his words and dagger. Every drag of the blade is like an artist's brushstroke, and your blood is the watercolour of his unspeakable masterpiece.

“Oh my,” he croons with feigned empathy. “Wherever are my manners? You may speak, my love.”

As soon as your lips are no longer stitched shut by his compulsion, an insensate wail erupts from your throat. It rebounds off the walls and echos, cutting through the silence like ghosts lamenting the torture this room has been witness to over the centuries.

Astarion still talks, but his words are just another hum flowing over your ears but never sinking in.

You don’t know what prompts you to laugh, but you do so bitterly and madly. Your own laughter is so hollow that, at first, you’re not sure if it is you until words start to form between the hysterical mirth. “I am fucking coming for you. I will defy the Gods to save him, and I cannot wait to make you choke on my light.”

The dagger punctures deeper, through muscle and into bone, you’re quite sure, and another hoarse, harrowing cry is loosed from your lips.

“Yes, sing.”

For me.

He’s said this to you many times in this room, a haunting mirror of Cazador, and you wait for him to finish, but nothing comes. The knife carving your back stills, and Astarion’s heartbeat goes from being steady and rhythmic to clattering with such intensity that you cannot tell if it’s skipping beats or beating so rapidly that the sound just merges into one thundering call.

“Illyria?” The blade buried deep in your muscles begins to tremble, no longer the steady-handed glide, and you wince as it vacillates your raw nerves. It clatters to the floor abruptly. “By the Gods. What have I done?”

Astarion throws himself off you, his back thudding into the back wall of the hellish cell so hard it knocks the breath from his lungs in a wheeze. The compulsion pales, receding from your mind, and your body shakes uncontrollably as shock starts to set in.

Your mind wants to slip away, your eyesight blurred by the tears welled in your eyes that you were unable to shed without permission, but you force yourself to focus. The muscles in your arms tremble violently as you aim to push yourself up to your feet, but you only make it to your knees before the pain makes your body wrack, dry heaving between fitful sobs.

A noise between a croak and a gasp hiccups from Astarion. When you look up at him, his eyes are wide with horror. His hand covers his mouth, and his still-flickering eyes brim with tears. You stare at him, wanting to speak and tell him it’s okay, but instead you ravenously take in every feature of your Astarion to try to rid yourself of the cold countenance of the man who flayed your back. Your eyes focus on every soft feature, on the lustre of those wide, mortified eyes and the rampant fear in them.

You have not yet decided if you want to run from him or crawl into his arms, kiss him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, but his eyes still rock between dimness and lucidity.

“Stay with me, Astarion,” you choke out, begging him not to go, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“Oh Gods. Oh Gods.” His voice breaks, cracking and tight with emotion.

Astarion looks around frantically, and you see the recognition of this room, but also the confusion with the concrete walls and barred door surrounding him. He may never have seen this cage, or if he did, you imagine he would not know what purpose it served.

He’s unsteady on his feet as he reaches for the shackles hanging from the wall and snaps them around his wrist, clicking each padlock into place with a hiss as the silver manacles burn his skin.

“You have to get away from me. I will kill you. The darkness, I cannot walk away. I am—“

You see the moment he loses himself again, the flickering light in his eyes dying out like a cooling ember. You grab the dagger, stumble out of the cage, and slam the door closed. You remove the scroll from your pocket and unravel the parchment with shaking fingers, leaving bloody prints all along the edges.

The incantation flows quickly, but precisely, off your tongue as you recite it. The words glow golden, float into the air, and the scroll vanishes. The blue-white shimmer of Arcane Lock encompasses the cell door.

Astarion hauls on the restraints, testing their strength with a calculating look at the locks. The shackles are made for you, thick chains braided together to make sure you could not escape, and locks too complex for any spell. The silver in the manacles is meant to weaken, but there’s no knowing if it will affect him in the same way it did you. He observes the incandescence pulsing around the door.

His deathly, cold eyes peer at you through the darkness. “Clever, clever girl. What’s to stop me from just compelling you to dispel it?”

“You’re welcome to try, but it won’t work. Only a Wizard has the ability to suppress this spell.” Your silver tongue lies perfectly and effortlessly.

A silence stretches out between you for what feels like an eternity before he sinks into the darkness of the cell. His voice is unnerving. “It’s only a matter of time before I get free. Enjoy what little time remains of your life.”

You nod curtly and stride out of the room. Closing the door to the kennels, you bolt through the halls to Astarion’s old study and pull out all the drawers until you find the ring of keys that he kept well away from you. You descend the stairs back down into the hall, terrified that you will see Astarion standing in the dark, but it remains empty. You shove keys shakily into the lock until one finally spins with a satisfying click.

It’s a pointless endeavour. If Astarion escapes, he can break the door down, but it gives you some small sense of comfort to know there’s another barrier between you and that monster wearing Astarion’s face.

You’re not sure what you will do if he gets curious and compels you to let him go. There was no time to plan quite that far in advance, but for now, he seems to have accepted that you cannot dispel it.

You can do nothing but pray that his ignorance of the arcane arts still holds true.

The walls themselves seem to brood at your presence and press in on you. You drop to your knees on the floor, and the open wounds on your back flood you with fresh agony with every movement. You would whimper, perhaps scream, but the thought of giving Astarion the satisfaction makes you grind your teeth and dive deep into the solitude and silence.

The silver shackles burn your wrists and ankles and drain your strength. The rough stone blocks grate at the skin on your back like sandpaper, but at this point, it’s almost a welcome sensation.

How long have you been shackled now? Weeks? Months? You cannot seem to keep your grip on reality these days. Sometimes you think you hear voices outside of your cage in the darkness. Seven thousand souls tell you that you deserve this, that you brought this upon yourself, and that you should rot in here for eternity as they will rot in the Hells. All true, true, true, you think, and you let it hurt until that too stops.

Hunger has become an all-consuming, mind-numbing pain. Bloodlust is such a complex patchwork of sensations. It is a pain of pressure, of maturing, of constantly growing larger, larger, larger until your limbs cramp and jerk. You want nothing more than to die before your body can twist itself into excruciating positions and lock up on you, and even then, the hunger grows.

You cannot die from starvation any longer. This pain will only ever increase. Every second, the burbling acid in your stomach seems to burn hotter in the pit, an agony that often makes you whimper and weep.

At least you are not entirely alone. You can hear the bugs, feel them clambering against your naked skin. Sometimes they are light; others are heavier, with chitinous shells and legs that prick. They chitter and clatter their pincers together. Sometimes they bite between your toes, climb over your face, and through your hair. You don’t have the energy to brush them away, and so you don’t.

You have not yet decided if you might try eating them.

You haven’t moved — not so much as a twitch of a finger — in what must be weeks. It goes on and on and on until you’re very sure that this is all you will ever know for the rest of your immortal life.

Hunger, pain, loneliness, and bugs.

And then you hear the lock click, and you squint your eyes against the dim light of the candle that is set just out of your reach. You smell brandy and rosemary, and your lower lip quivers. You bite it to stop it from giving away your emotions.

“Don’t do that.” Astarion says, “Is that how you want me to see you for the first time in weeks, pet? Weak?”

Weeks… Is that all it’s been? It felt like years.

You hate that you are relieved to see him, happy to hear the devil's voice, and smell home, even if this home burns down around you even now.

Astarion grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and forces you to look into his dead eyes. “I bet you’re starving. Hm?” He grins sadistically, turning it into a fake pout. “I do not like to see that look upon your face. Worry not. I’ve brought you dinner.”

He twists and grabs a silver bucket, turning it over and letting a dead, decaying rat splat on the floor beside you. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of it. It’s been dead for some time, and you can see and hear the maggots writhing underneath its rotting pelt.

But Gods, you are so hungry.

When you don’t immediately go for the rat, Astarion grabs your restraints and tugs hard, making your raw, blistered wrist light ablaze, and you whimper. “What? Not good enough? You ungrateful bitch. I lived on this diet for two hundred years.”

He kicks the rat forward. “Eat it. Now.”

“Please,” you croak weakly. Your voice has not been used in a while, and it sounds odd in your ears. “Please, Astarion. Don’t do this. I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you want, but please.”

“I said.” Astarion grabs a fistful of your hair and shoves your face in the mushy corpse, rubbing your nose in it like a pup who has had an accident in the house. “Fucking eat it.”

With its putrid guts already spread across your face, you sob as you bite down into it, your fangs sinking into fetid flesh and stinking muscles, and feed.

It is worse than you thought it ever could be. Your mouth is filled with bits of congealed blood, but mostly puss and death and decay, and you swallow it down because you have no other choice.

“Gods,” Astarion grunts with his lips curled in disgust. “Hush now. You are terribly ugly when you cry, darling.”

You don’t dare trance and instead remain still and soundless, with only the pain igniting your being keeping you company. Fear keeps you rooted to the floor on your knees. Fear that if you leave, he will not be here when you return. Fear that if you dare move, he will strike from the shadows. Fear that you wasted too much time, and he is truly gone.

Fear. Fear. Fear.

Fear so sharp that you can feel it enclosing around you, squeezing the air from your lungs, making it feel incomprehensibly thin. Even though you do not need it, you try to gulp it down in shallow breaths, but there is no relief from the fear or the depravation that still strangles you.

You long to feel the connection with Astarion so you can stop feeling so boundlessly empty and alone. How easily you can get used to having another presence always at the back of your mind. It was comforting to know he was always there, nothing more than a thought or feeling away, but now that comfort too has been ripped away.

Sometimes you think you feel him touching your mind, but the sensation is fickle, like the wings of an insect tickling with soft, fluttering whispers.

There is no time to remain in this state of dejection, and yet you wallow in it. Perhaps you should not have told him, and this is your fault, but perhaps it was only a matter of time.

Nothing good ever seems to last.

You need help, but anyone who aids you will be in grave peril. Getting to your feet is a monumental effort; the scabs of the raw mosaic on your back split and reopen anew. You wonder what he sculpted into your flesh. What scars will you carry for eternity? It’s not like you will ever be able to see them, but maybe that’s a blessing.

You let yourself back into the kennels and force yourself to face him. There is a fleeting hope that when you light the candles, your husband's warm scarlet eyes will be what you see, but that, too, is another disappointment.

Astarion’s eyes remain almost matte, like once-polished rubies forgotten and dulled by the patina of time.

He sits on the floor, his arms resting on his bent knees, and watches you with a keenness that makes you shudder. You hold his stare. You will not be shy or meek. You cannot afford to show such weakness.

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse, clipped, and unsteady.

“Why what, pet?”

You ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind since you walked out of this wretched place — since he allowed you to walk out of this place. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Last night?” He snickers. “I wanted to hear your angelic cries once more before I—“

“No,” you bark, cutting him off. “Not last night. Why didn’t you kill me before? You had every opportunity. There was no one here to stop you.”

Astarion leans forward, making the chains rattle. There is a gleam in his eye, those perfect lips pulling back into a cruel smile. “Because I love you, of course.”

You almost want to laugh, as if he’s just told you a hilarious joke, but there is a resoluteness in his voice, a matter-of-fact intonation, that tells you that this is a truth to some extent.

Even this version of him, this soulless, fragmented rendition, loves you in his own twisted way.

It also indicates what you fear most: that this monster before you is still Astarion, and the only thing that stands between your Astarion and this one is the tattered remains of whatever is left of his soul.

If you fail in your quest and run out of time, this hateful, power-hungry savage will replace the man you knew. What would you do? Every atom of your being longs for him. If you cannot be his saviour, will you languish in the dark with him if only to keep him company? Would you be capable of hating him — killing him — if need be?

You wish to believe yourself resilient enough to roll your betrayal, sadness, and anger into loathing to release you from this self-flagellating love, but you know you will never be able to. There is still a soft part of your heart harbouring hope that if you keep getting up every time he knocks you down, if you keep fighting, there might be a happy ending at the end of this cluster fuck.

Or perhaps it is only your ending that awaits you at the finish line.

“That was quite a fancy trick,” Astarion drones, tearing you away from your thoughts. “Blinding me.”

You don’t bother answering before leaving him alone, locking the door uselessly behind you once again, and making your way to the main floor of the palace. The dust has settled in a thick blanket on the furniture, with cobwebs stretching out in every corner and between the slender candles in their opulent candelabra. It makes the atmosphere of this palace of nightmares all the more foreboding.

“Mizora!” You call out, knowing the cambion is ever watchful.

The air heats, smelling of sulphur and brimstone, and the oily blot opens up on the floor. Mizora’s fluid form arises, wings unfurling with her usual flair.

“That was quite the show last night.” She smirks with fangs peeking out of her lips. “Stupid, pet. Very stupid.” She sports a faux pout. “I thought you much wiser.”

“I’m not interested in your chastisement.” You cross your arms and immediately regret the way your shoulder blades stretch your injured skin, bringing fresh tears to your eyes. “Tell Shadowheart to meet me here.”

“What do I look like to you? A messenger pigeon?” Mizora tsks haughtily.

“If you want me to kennel Mephistopheles, you’re going to do as requested.”

Mizora huffs indignantly, stretching her wings out and jutting her chin up. You stare at her unyieldingly, not allowing your face to display your uncertainty, pain, or fear.

“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, waggling her clawed fingers at you. “I will fetch your darling little Cleric.”

Once Mizora disperses, you head straight for the library. It’s one of the bigger rooms, lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases that are brimming with all kinds of tomes and books, ranging in age from new to ancient. Your fingers and eyes flit over the titles as quickly as you can, looking for anything even remotely related to infernal contracts, deals with devils, the nine Hells themselves, or arch devils.

The knock on the palace door makes you jump, and you are cautious as you make your way through the latticework of halls and corridors, trying to light candles as you go so that the palace is less oppressive.

Unsurprisingly, it does little to help.

When you finally tug the door open, you stay carefully behind it because you’re not sure if your sun protection has been rescinded, and you’re not interested in finding out. Shadowheart is waiting with her armour and weapons, arms crossed, and tapping her foot in the way she does when she’s either irritated or worried.

“You sent Mizora to fetch me? What in the blazing Hells is going on?” She strides into the palace, dropping her pack at her feet and putting her hands on her hips. “Why are we here, and where’s Astarion?”

Once the heavy door is shut and locked, you come out of the shadows where you’ve been hiding it. Even though you try to swallow them, tears weep from your eyes. “Astarion is downstairs. He’s locked up in the kennels.”

“Locked in the kennels?”

Shadowheart finally turns to look at you, and her stern expression vanishes. Her brows round, her eyes widen, and she pulls you into a hug, unaware of the wounds on your back. You wince as her arm folds over the barely healed lacerations. Shadowheart tries to jump away when she feels the cool wetness of your blood against her hand, but you mutter pleas to stay.

Eventually, when the bloodlust threatens to overwhelm, you let Shadowheart go. She stares at her blood-dappled hands and back at you.

“Show me.” She instructs, but you hesitate. You don’t want to show her this. She might not be able to forgive Astarion, and if that’s the case, she might be more likely to try and kill him than help you save him. “Turn around, Illyria.”

You do so slowly, with your head hung in defeat. Shadowheart’s heartbeat increases, and she gasps.

“By the Gods! Did he do this to you!? Did that monster finally show his true colours?!”

“You don’t understand,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault. It’s not him.”

“We have to get you cleaned up, and then I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“No!” You yell, grasping her forearms and falling to your knees to beg. "Please, before you make any judgments on him, hear me out. Please, Shadowheart.”

“I... Ugh. Fine. Take off your shirt. We have to clean your wounds. Do you have any clothes here?”

“Astarion might,” you mutter. “I can go look up in his room for something.”

Shadowheart helps you carefully pull your shirt off, but it seems almost melded to your body, and it peels off some of the formed scabs as well. You can feel the blood dribble down your back. It scents the air with a coppery perfume, which makes your bloodlust surge.

Shadowheart is quiet while she works on patting your wounds as gently as she can, trying to clean them, and using her healing magic again and again and again.

You don’t have the heart to tell her which blade these were made with and why they will not heal.

“These are not healing well.” She comments, almost perplexed.

“They will heal in time.”

Shadowheart accompanies you to Astarion’s old room, and you pull out drawers only to find most of them empty. The various wardrobes are the same, but you do manage to find one shirt that still resides here, apparently not good enough to be packed and taken with the others.

His old camp shirt.

You slip it on; at least the fabric is soft and does not get caught on your wounds. It is, of course, much too large for you and likely looks beyond ridiculous, but it’s something at least.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Shadowheart says softly, her usual prickly demeanour nowhere to be seen.

So you do. You explain it all from top to bottom and back again. You tell Shadowheart about the way his mind sounds if you use Detect Thoughts; tell her about the version of him that lurks within; and about Mizora and Mephistopheles.

You conveniently leave out the marriage proposal.

“Hells!” Shadowheart rubs her face. “I knew there was something we didn’t know about that godsforsaken Rite. Fuck. We were such fools. So the man in the kennels, the man that did that to you, is not Astarion?”

She means that you were a fool, but it matters not.

“He is Astarion,” you answer. “But he’s a version of Astarion that’s been corrupted. He’s not the Astarion we know.”

“I want to see him - this version of him.”

“It’s not a good idea.” You shake your head. “I don’t actually know how long it will hold him.”

“How are we going to get our Astarion back?” Shadowheart says. “What’s brought him back before?”

“Me,” you say, sitting and combing your fingers through your hair. “It’s usually me, but this time seems different. He came back for a moment, but he was gone again quickly.”

“We’ll get him back, Illyria.” Shadowheart says it with a smile, but it’s forced. She squeezes your shoulder. “We will find a way, or he will.”

You nod, “Until then, we need to learn everything we can about infernal contracts and how to negotiate them.” You rise from the chair with renewed determination. “I pulled some books from the library already. We can start there unless you know where to acquire more specific books.”

“What do you mean negotiate them?” Shadowheart retorts with her brows pinched. “Don’t we want to destroy the contract? I very much doubt Mephistopheles will be willing to renegotiate if it means putting a muzzle on him.”

“Who said anything about Mephistopheles?” You grin wolfishly. “I’m going to negotiate new terms with the Lord of Lies.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. Your support gives me the motivation to keep this fic going.

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's been a while since we’ve seen this version of Astarion... We need our Astarion back!

Tiamat - Real or hallucination?

Lord of Lies - Bad idea? Most likely...

Posting a day early because it's my birthday tomorrow, and I'm not sure how drunk I'll be by the end of the day 🤣

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion baldurs gate #astarion bg #astarion bg3 #fangs and fractured hearts #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion x named tav

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whereiivygrows · 1 year ago

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the song my tears ricochet (by taylor swift ofc) is literally SO lucy gray and coriolanus coded? like for example:

“You know i didn’t want to have to haunt you but what a ghostly scene”

- perfectly sums up coriolanus and lucy gray’s relationship by the end of the book

“Cause when i’d fight, you used to tell me i was brave”

- during the games coriolanus had to tell lucy gray that she would be able to win, that she had a chance to survive. And so when she fought against other tributes of course he was proud she was surviving but when she fought against him in the end of the book…. well we all know how that went.

“And I still talk to you (when I'm screaming at the sky) And when you can't sleep at night (you hear my stolen lullabies)”

- oh my god these lyrics are so perfect it’s literally them. Coriolanus screams at the sky for Lucy Gray when hunting her down and her lullabies definitely still haunt him at night knowing everything that happened with her.

“You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same”

-when coriolanus was hunting down lucy gray he saw a figure and shot at it, hoping he had finally got her. all that was left was her earring. this is where i think it really killed him. she was gone now and all she did was haunt him

“You turned into your worst fears”

-coriolanus’ father wasn’t a great man. and by the end of the book coriolanus’ kindhearted self was gone, and tigris saying “you look just like your father” confirms that he had turned into what he didn’t want.

#girlblogging #just girly posts #the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes #the hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #tbosbas #lucy gray x coriolanus #coriolanus x lucy gray #coriolanus snow #corio snow #lucy gray #lucy gray baird #i’m just a girl #taylor swift #taylor swift lyrics #folklore #hunger games #tom blyth

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astralnymphh · 1 year ago

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Pooks you r feeding me so good with all this vamp Ellie content I love you… I need the vamp Ellie somno neowww…

okay so.. somno vamp!ellie addon to this post ౨ৎ

so blehh, you've passed out, and ellie's got about say– 30 seconds before you arise? and that's just pushing the limit, but anything for a little fun story, hmm?

a swerve of ellie's cold steel–esque hand rides up the side of your face and cups it, keeping your head mostly upright. her other grip handles the hind of your thigh up to your chest, imparting her the space to grind raw on you, "fuuckk!," a grizzly howl clashes from her chest, head thrown back and torso tall as a willow tree, bucking her greedy little pussy all over yours. ellie is quite orientated when it comes to leveling at your clit, smushing hers perfectly against yours, the two little beads tamping on each other while her pussy lips smash and crease with wetness forming, gleam of heaven. squelch, squelch, squeelch, the sound most endearing– it excites every hormone in her body to surge. forget the sick habit, forget her guitar, the noise of sex banging and reek of pussy sleek carrying to her senses was a lullaby in itself– no, a lull, to release. grunts begin to enrage that girls' poor chords, expressing her pleasure in the utmost potent of moans, "uhhuhhh, f–fuck, that pussy good, best fucking pussy– ghnn, made for minee– ughhnn.." just as she fringes the line between cumming, fucking faster into you– the point of her thighs chafing red, butt clenching in with muscle grooves carving on the small of her back and up, a concentrated chisel between the likeness of pinched brows, and the short strings of cum that stick from her bushy labia to yours, draping the rise of your crotch with the unstable movement given. then, like a flipswitch, ellie cums. her orgasm resounds off the walls, pertaining to that of a ghostly grit as you begin to wake, blurry mist eating up your vision. "yess– fuck, fuckfuckfuck!" echoed between your temples, the only thing you could register of reality before a tug on your arm was evident, hand pryed open and pressed to her cold, dry lips, a drag of sharp fangs scratching your palm, little groans vibrating upon the skin. you croak, "els' mhh.." and attempt to push your hips up, failing due to the hale force keeping you imprinted on the sweaty, sopped mattress, skin slightly itching with that hot muck sweat plastered across your back. a squeak of lips pops off your palm, the hand grasping your wrist craning it down to the plush of your navel, cooing, "ahh, just woke up? missed s'much babe.." with a bedroom–eyed smile, accompanied by a one–sided smirk wrinkling a single cheek, which you were able to glimpse at now that the blur has washed away. you grumble, "mhh, oh, i'm fuckin' naked." you double your chin as you peer plumb to your splayed out body, widening your eyes to a globe. ellie giggles, "yeahh you fuckin' are– ohh, mhh.." and wiggles her pelvis sparsely, relishing the afterglow of her orgasm still aligned to your cunt, woozing her eyes slightly closed, sexily closed. ahh, but what's an orgasm without seeing your girlfriend reach it too? certainly, not of a filling nature. ellie perks her brows, sighing inward, "still want it baby? can eat ur' pussy." and chuckling dryly, fangs snagging out in her open mouth smile.

"please? l'mme eat that fuckin' pussy.."

#ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #⤹𓍢ִ໋aestras asks #ellie williams x fem!reader #sapphic #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #lesbian #ellie williams fic #ellie williams blurb #vampire!ellie #vamp!ellie #ellie williams drabble #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams fanfiction

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ssparksflyy · 6 months ago

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my tears ricochet but its jason grace and his 'lover' that he cant be bothered to give attention to

"even on my worst day, did i deserve, babe all the hell you gave me? 'cause i loved you, i swear i loved you 'til my dying day" but its his lover knowing she wasnt perfect, but also knew she didnt deserve the way he treated her.

"i didn't have it in myself to go with grace and you're the hero flying around, saving face" but its his lover watching him be everybody else's hero and prioritizing people he hardly knew.

"and if i'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? cursing my name, wishing i stayed" but its his lover watching him at her funeral from elysium and seeing how pathetic he's acting, saying he misses her, as if he didnt once tell her in an argument she was the last thing on his mind at the time.

"you know i didn't want to have to haunt you but what a ghostly scene, you wear the same jewels that i gave you as you bury me" but it's the way he can't think of anything else but her, no matter how hard he tries, after she's gone. but it's the way that he had the audacity to wear the necklace he gave her when they started dating to the funeral.

"'cause when i'd fight, you used to tell me i was brave" but its their 'honeymoon phase' where he used to treat her as if she was the only person he'd ever care for.

"and i can go anywhere i want, anywhere i want, just not home" but it's the way he infiltrated her home that once adored her and made it all about him. the way camp half blood was once the only real home she ever knew, but now it wasn't. the way that jason once served as a home to her, only for a very short amount of time, but she was incapable of reaching that home as well.

"and you can aim for my heart, go for blood, but you would still miss me in your bones" but it's the way that he now realizes and regrets how much and badly he hurt her. the way she'll forever haunt him. the way he refuses to ever forgive himself and knows that apart of him died in shame that day.

"and i still talk to you (when i'm screaming at the sky)" but it's the way that when she was alive, his lover would beg all the gods for a way out. the way she wouldn't allow herself to leave but begged for the strength to continue fighting for his love that simply was no longer there.

"and when you can't sleep at night (you hear my stolen lullabies)" but its the way that jason can't stop replaying the one video he has of her singing by the campfire and the way he can't fall asleep without listening to it.

"you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same" but it's the way that jason could've saved her from dying, but chose to help another camper in need, thinking you'd just get hurt and would heal eventually. the way that decision is the reason why he can't get out of bed in the morning, the way that decision is what causes him to lose himself.

"you turned into your worst fears" but its the way that jason realizes that he's no better than his father, the man he hates most, for being so careless and heartless when it came to somebody who loved and adored him in a way nobody else could.

"look at how my tears ricochet" but it's jason grace and his lover who both lost themselves for each other, but at different times. one of those times, being far too late.

his lover died in battle against an invasion of monsters in the woods of camp half blood. jason saw her just minutes before she passed, knowing he couldve helped her, but instead decided to help the camper who was only a year younger than her and who's name he didnt know. he figured she'd be fine and accepted the fact she'd get hurt, but knew she would heal later. years later, he's still killing himself from within for being unable to answer the question, if he knew it all then, would he do it again?

#felt a little sad and now you have to suffer with me :)#got this idea like a week ago nd decided to make it into a mini blurb #im kinda obsessed tho #percy jackson #jason grace #jason grace x reader #jason grace x you #by bells ♡⋆ ࣪.

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i984 · 2 years ago

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Dreams of Lavender Confessions

|Pairing|: Wednesday Addams x gender neutral reader

|Warnings|: Ooc! Wednesday Addams, post-Nevermore Academy Wednesday Addams, established relationship, cuddling on a couch, 'I love you's are uttered, jaw kissing, Wednesday Addams is whipped for you, forehead kissing, falling asleep together.

|Summary|: Through the years, Wednesday has loved you the same way; tonight is just a ritual.

|A/n|: This was requested by @tundra1029 and it turned out more like a drabble, but I hope it brings your beautiful request justice.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Cozy.

It's one word to describe the evening.

There's a pleasure in sinking from the puffiness of your couch. The string that pulled relentlessly on your back all day loosens; popping joints can be heard in the quiet room.

Toes freezing and eyelids drooping, you mindlessly scroll through your phone. Wednesday sits rigidly at the other end of the sofa, your body taking up most of the space. Her presence, though ghostly silent, soothes you in a way warm baths would never dream of rivaling.

It was one of those nights; when content soaks your body in a lavender haze, not a care for the buzzing world.

You spare a glance at the girl, catching her with a look you've grown to memorize over the years.

It was the one she had the first time you confessed to her, your second year at Nevermore Academy. The one she had when you kissed her knuckles tenderly while a slow melody sways both your bodies at the Rave'N Dance. It was the gaze she held when you were both leaning on her balcony railing; the sky was a sea of stars, but she was looking at you.

It was the smile she had when you took her out for dinner, and the bouquet of flowers you gave her earlier for graduation sits on the restaurant's table. It was also the face she made when you lay on your shared apartment floor for the first time, her figure somewhat leaning on the door frame, unpacked boxes still scattered across the space.

And she's looking at you exactly like that right now; through all those years together, yet her soft eyes haven't dared to change. It's a hushed secret between two perfect halves, an eternal promise sealed with a courteous nod or a searing kiss.

She's what fills you to the brim with bliss, your arms now stretching out, beckoning her to meet your body in a tight embrace.

Wednesday moves and lays her weight on top of you, her warm hands resting on your sides. Her scent invades you, and if you close your eyes, you can make out the image of a wet forest—vividian pictures painted with amber, myrrh, and wormwood.

Her face came close to yours, soft breaths fanning down your neck. There's a beat where she lingers, eyes dazed—before she finally leans down and lets her lips press a delicate kiss against your jaw.

"I love you," Wednesday breathes out as she pulls back, admiring her reflection in your glowing eyes. She rests her head on your chest—the slow rhythmic drums calming her own fluttering one—feeling your hand tracing the nooks of her loose braid. You giggle as you wrap your arms around her petite figure, head moving to whisper in her ear.

"I love you, too." Your fingers brush her bangs, parting them slightly, mouth leaving a chaste kiss on the exposed skin.

Leaving a sigh into the room, you look up at the ceiling while your hands pat her head gently. The coziness sang you a lullaby, and your eyelids slowly drooped, taking the devoted lovers to a land of saccharine dreams.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

|A/n2|: I think I quite like how this turned out. Thank you for requesting and reading! Also, if anybody wants to be in my tag list, please interact with this post accordingly :)

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dailydragon08 · 23 days ago

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Use Me

Pairing: Luke Skywalker x F!Jedi!Reader Summary: The third and final chapter of Darkness Calls (and you can find part 2, Closing the Tomb, here). While off on his own to try and find the answers he seeks in solitude, Luke gets much more than he bargains for that ends up requiring an entire rescue operation. What will you find once you enter the half-ruined Temple of Kyber on Jedha, and will both of you have the strength to fight against it? Warnings: brief vision of pregnant reader from the future, Anakin strangling Padme, ghost possession, canon-typical violence, injured Luke & injured reader, angst with a fluffy ending. A/N: Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated, and my masterlist can be found here. This fic is also included in my AO3 (DragonHeartstring360).

Hyperspace thrummed all around him, bathing everything in a ghostly blue glow, but Luke hardly noticed. He had his own ghosts to deal with at the moment. Even from deep in his meditative state, cross-legged on the floor of the Redeemer’s main hold, bits and pieces of the visions he’d received from the Khofar temple invaded his mind. Clad in nothing but his pajama pants and new glove—your glove—the blue hue from outside the viewport lit his lightning scars up as if it was burning through his nervous system all over again.

Eyes darting back and forth under his lids, the images from the ruined temple returned unbidden. The closer the two of you had gotten to the jedi texts, the more the traps, visions, and ghostly sensations had intensified. It hadn’t helped that you’d become separated at one point. He wasn’t even sure what you had seen. But he couldn’t get his own visions out of his head.

There were multiple times he thought he’d found you, only for you to turn around to reveal something distinctly off that proved you’d never been there in the first place. Other times, he saw a mirage of himself alongside you—you smiling at him in an openly loving, romantic way before grabbing his hand and pulling you along after him, followed by turning a corner to see another version of himself caressing your now pregnant belly. But then the vision had turned dark and he’d seen his father caressing his mother’s pregnant belly before gently smoothing his hands up her sides to wrap around her throat, her eyes bulging in horror before both of them faded into mist. You in full black, jedi robes (that flattered you more than he liked to admit) with several padawans running in front of you, laughing and playing, before strolling up and kissing him like you’d done it a million times before. Anakin and Padmé pretending to give each other nothing more than a friendly hug in public while Obi-Wan eyed them suspiciously before turning the other way. More visions of a life with you that sometimes would slowly morph to show hints of darkness and of him potentially hurting or even failing to save you in time, finally coming to a halt with his father’s and his own voice distantly screaming in unison, “You will not take her from me!”

Luke’s eyes shot open with a gasp. He panted and gazed through the door to the cockpit at the light of hyperspace. Unaware of how hard he’d been gripping his knees with his hands, he raised them to his chest. Your small initials sewn in red thread on his glove caught his eye and he gently ran his thumb over them. He wished more than anything that you were here, but he didn’t always have a clear head with you—especially when your Force signature was so close. He was always attuned to you like a magnet and just wanted to sink into your presence like a warm bath. But for him to concentrate enough to find the answers he sought, he couldn’t afford that distraction.

He glanced at R2 charging in the corner and almost turned him back on just for the company, but decided against it. Sighing, he stood and made his way to the cockpit, unsure what to do with himself. He had grown accustomed to falling asleep with your nearby presence a soothing lullaby and didn’t realize how elusive it would be without you. Plus, every time he closed his eyes, he just dreamed of your crestfallen face in Home One’s hanger and couldn’t bear to see it again. It was almost enough to make him turn the ship around and just pull you into his arms. Almost.

He flopped down hard in the pilot’s seat and buried his face in his hands.

~***~

You carefully advanced through the crumbled hallways of Khofar’s temple. After turning a corner, Luke had somehow disappeared and calling his name, retracing your steps, and reaching through the Force had yielded no results. So there seemed to be no other way but forward. At some points, the old stone hallways seemed to morph into something much sturdier and darker, to the point that you could’ve sworn you’d stepped through a portal into a different place. At one point, you’d reached a fork in the hallways with a giant stone statue of an indiscernible jedi fighting a giant, flaming serpent—but when you’d turn around again, it was gone.

At one point, you thought you’d finally found Luke and ran up to him in relief. But he hardly acknowledged you and was even more cold and distant than he had been before you’d given Obi-wan’s ghost what-for. He sunk into the shadows, the darkness swallowing him whole, and you’d chased after him—only to find him again a half hour later, ecstatic to see you and running up to you to cup your face in his hands. His eyes sparkled with their usual warmth, but this time, more openly affectionate as he placed a long kiss on your forehead before his entire form dissipated into mist. You’d stared at your empty arms in what almost felt like grief before pushing on. One last time, you found an apparition of him sprinting at you as if in battle—except this lightsaber was a glaring red. As he got closer, the horror of his yellow eyes slammed into you like a wall of bricks. But before you could draw your own weapon, he ran past you into shadow once more, screaming, “You will not take her from me!”

You awoke with a jolt and for a moment, wondered if you were still in the shadows of the temple. As your eyes adjusted, you recognized your own private quarters—thank the Maker you’d excelled in rank enough to own some. Your relief was short-lived, however, as a strong sense of foreboding came over you that felt almost like it came from the Force itself. Something was gravely wrong.

Luke.

As if on cue, your comm began buzzing erratically on your bedside table. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and picked up with a bleary announcement of your rank and name.

“Y/N,” Luke’s voice frantically cut through the static.

“Luke! Where are you? I can hardly hear you. There’s too much interference.”

You could only make out every few words. “On Jedha—old jedi temple—still here.”

“You’re all the way out there? I thought Leia said you were going to Yavin IV—”

“Listen, please, there’s not much time—inside temple—darkness here—chasing—I’m trapped.”

“Luke, what’s going on?” You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly alert and with a painful tightness in your chest at the resounding silence. “Luke, talk to me.”

“Help—” The message went fully static.

You cursed, already up and putting pants on when the comm buzzed again, this time with coordinates. You sent another message back saying you got them and were on your way, staring at the device in hopes of a reply. When several minutes passed without one, you quickly stuffed yourself into a flight suit, barely paying attention to whether things were secured correctly, and packed a bag full of everything you would need for a rescue mission.

Luckily, it was the middle of the night cycle, so the space station wasn’t as busy as usual. You sprinted through the hallways, at some points even skidding on the slick floors towards the hangar and x-wing you’d hardly had to use since joining Luke. Your fingers slammed the on button of one of the charging astromechs as you raced by, the little droid obediently following you to get loaded up. As the ship lifted off the hangar floor, the viewport closing around you, you reached out into the Force. You could feel Luke’s signature faintly, like a small, flickering candle in the dark that suddenly grew the tiniest bit brighter at your presence.

Hang on. I’m coming.

As you sped out into space, you thought you heard the faintest response: Hurry.

~***~

The x-wing hardly had time to land before you were leaping out of it. “R8, stay with the ship.”

Surveying Jedha’s landscape, the feeling of foreboding grew even stronger, and things were made even more eerie by the light of the setting sun. As you headed into the dip of a giant, blackened crater, wind whistled between crumbling structures so twisted, you could hardly tell what they used to be. It felt as if your progress was being watched, but when you reached into the Force, all you could sense was the terror, pain, and destruction of a city destroyed. If you sank deep enough into it, you could hear distant blaster fire, screams, and final pleas before it was all silenced by the thrumming blast of a super laser.

Opening your eyes, you finally looked at the remnants of a giant tower striking up like a spear toward the sky. As you picked your way among the wreckage, the intense aura of the temple before you grew stronger—almost as if it were luring you in. It felt oddly comforting, but dangerous at the same time, its signature tinged with a darkness that made you double check your saber was still attached to your belt. Something horrible had befallen the Temple of Kyber, and Luke was trapped inside with it.

Checking that your coordinates were correct, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Although you tried your hardest to sense Luke, the other sensations flowing through the Force from the temple seemed to drown him out. You thought you caught bits and pieces of his signature here and there, but it was quickly eclipsed by whatever else was going on inside.

Suddenly, the bright spark of his signature pierced through the darkness to weakly say, here before it was gone just as quickly. Your eyes flew open and you didn’t waste any time rushing forward through an ornate stone doorway that was somehow still intact into the darkness beyond.

The lack of light and noise in the dark halls made the place feel even more haunted. Pieces of the walls, ceiling, and even the floor in some areas, were crumbled and worn. After what the empire had done to the place, you were surprised it was still standing at all, especially with all the carnage around it. Its powerful presence in the Force must’ve somehow protected it, testifying to its strength. Although it carried an air of finally being home for the first time, you could sense all the ghosts and lost souls orbiting around and stuck, like a moth to a flame. Occasionally, you thought you heard more screams and pleas in the temple’s shadows and quickened your pace.

You held your wrist comm out in front of you, switching your gaze between Luke’s coordinates and the ground in front of you to avoid any traps or unwelcome guests. In your other hand, the blade of your lightsaber cast a glow over the dark stones enough for them to almost seem familiar.

After wondering just how deep in the temple Luke was—and consequently, how much trouble he was in—one of the hallways dumped you out into a large room with several other murky doorways branching off of them. A hole in the roof let a beam of light pierce down to reveal a stone statue of a jedi, lightsaber raised, fighting off a flaming, serpent-like creature. You took a step closer, recognizing a body type, style, and even lightsaber very similar to yours, but with a missing face eroded by the weather.

Wait… You thought back to your visions in the Khofar temple and realized why this place felt so familiar. The moments when the hallways shifted and changed into something else, they were matching the exact stone here—and you’d even seen this exact statue in your visions.

Before you had too long to ponder what it all meant, Luke’s signature broke through again from the hallway directly behind the statue: here. You checked the coordinates on your wrist comm, realizing he should just be on the other side of that hallway. Another quick, jabbing connection highlighted the pain and delirious state he was in, and you took off running.

It felt as if you’d been running for several minutes, with no light or doorway visible up ahead. Unsure what happened, you blinked and were suddenly in a giant amphitheater. Every time you saw a section of the stone stands in your peripheral vision, you could’ve sworn you saw people sitting there and watching you—but when you looked directly at them, they were gone. Several small altars formed a circle on the ground level, with a larger shrine complete with all sorts of glowing red symbols carved crudely into the stone itself. Black smoke twisted and danced around it with a necklace hanging from its pointed tip, the red jewel surrounded by a twisting metal rune. Levitating above in a standing position, his head bowed to the side, was an unconscious Luke.

You nervously glanced around. This would be the perfect place for an ambush. But the floor was free of traps and trying to sense other lifeforms in the room yielded the same muddled, confusing results as before. You quickly, but carefully started towards your friend and as you got closer, noticed the bruises and cuts littering his exposed skin. He was pale and the dark circles under his eyes were just as prominent as on Khofar, with chapped lips betraying his dehydration.

A low droning growl made you stop in your tracks just a few feet away from the middle altar. You felt the sound vibrate in your chest as the mist converged to form the silhouette of a body climbing out of it. It became more humanoid as it used its upper arms as if yanking itself out of a hole, but no features formed. Just a black, misty figure with startingly clear yellow eyes. As it found its feet, it held out its hand and a black blade formed, thrumming with dark energy.

You swallowed hard as you readied your own weapon. Glancing at Luke’s floating battered form gave you a new wave of determination as the shadowy creature began sprinting at you. You held your ground, stepping out of the way just as it was about to collide with you. You arced your lightsaber towards the back of its shoulder, but it twisted at the last minute and caught your blade with its own. The resounding crash of saber on saber echoed through your head, but as you got a closer look, you realized the creature was holding an actual blade versus something that had grown from its hand. Maybe that meant you could disarm it.

The shadow twisted its blade around, trying to dislodge your own, before lashing out with its other arm. You tucked and rolled away just in time to avoid razor-sharp claws, but not a solid kick to your side. The motion threw you off balance and sent you sprawling a few feet away. You groaned as you dragged yourself up onto all fours, your side throbbing. There was just enough time to jump out of the way as the creature’s weapon came down on the floor just where you had been moments before. Before it could turn, you lashed against the back of its shoulder. It shrieked as a fiery, smoking line formed, reminding you of lava before the entire creature misted into nothing. Its shrill screams still echoed through the amphitheater and you could sense it wasn’t gone for good.

The dark mist around the center altar disappeared just as Luke plummeted to the ground, his head narrowly avoiding the pointed tip of the stone structure. You rushed over just as he began to slowly lean himself on an elbow, holding his head in his other hand and grimacing.

“Luke!” You let him lean against you in an attempt to sit up. “What did it do to you?”

“What…who?” He finally opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. “Where am I?”

“We’re on Jedha.” You looked around nervously as another distant shriek filled the air. “I think that thing is going to come back any minute. Do you know what it is or what its weak spot is?”

“Weak spot…?” He finally turned his eyes to you, but the blue color you’d come to know and love so well seemed…off. “I don’t…who are you?”

You felt your heart drop into your stomach. “What? Luke, it’s me. Y/N.” You watched in horror as the color of his eyes continued to shift until one eye had turned completely yellow, the other not far behind. You grabbed his shoulders and shook him as if you could rattle the evil out. “What did it do to you?”

There was hardly any time to register Luke’s eyes turning completely yellow before he whipped his saber off his belt and slashed at you. You reared back enough to survive with only a light, burning scrape to your jaw, crying out at the pain.

The distant shrieks suddenly became cackles as you noticed an unformed clump of black mist flying behind Luke’s head to wrap around behind you. Staggering several steps back, you tried to keep an eye on Luke and the creature at the same time. “What did you do to him?!”

More mutated laughter was your only response as the smoke slammed into Luke’s body, disappearing beneath the fabric of his jacket. The same growl as before now escaped Luke’s lips before he raised his lightsaber and charged straight for you.

“Luke—” You barely got out of the way in time, parrying his strike as you went into a series of evasive maneuvers. “Luke, fight it off!”

“Fight me off,” he replied, his voice carrying a deep, unsettling undertone. He continued to attack as you went on the defense. Over time, his movements became more stilted and less precise, as if his limbs suddenly weren’t obeying him anymore. He swung at your head, but pivoted at the last second, one of his eyes fading to its usual blue. He leaned against one of the smaller altars and panted, gripping it hard. “Y/N—”

You hovered several feet away, feeling like your heart was being ripped to shreds at the amount of pain and turmoil he was in. “How do I help you?”

Another sick laugh rang through the cavernous room. He’s mine.

Luke’s eye flickered back to yellow as he swung wildly, the green of his saber casting an almost sickly glow all around you. You’d been so concerned and disturbed by what was happening to your friend, that you didn’t realize how close you were to the center altar until your black slammed into it. You ducked just as Luke’s weapon came down and in your absence, cut off a chunk of the shrine. As the stone fell to the ground, another shriek rang out and a small amount of black smoke flew out of Luke’s chest and across the room.

He turned to look at you, his eyes blue again and his breathing heavy. “The altar—”

The mist that had escaped from Luke suddenly reappeared, folding and twisting midair until a humanoid silhouette landed on the ground once more, rage filling its piercing yellow eyes. The wound you’d made pulsed and smoked on the back of its shoulder. It clutched what you could now see was a darksaber in one hand while reaching towards you with the other. You felt a jolt as you were thrown across the room and slammed against the wall, falling limply into the stands. As you forced yourself up on your elbows, you looked down to see Luke now dueling the figure as best he could in his weakened state. Darkness still clung to his Force signature, but you could sense him fighting it off with every ounce of strength he had.

You hurried to your feet as Luke lost his balance and stumbled, landing on all fours and holding his head. As the creature stalked towards him, you hurried to the center aisle between seats.

“Hey!” you yelled, distracting the shadow long enough for it to turn its head. You threw your lightsaber at it, using your hand to guide the blade as it spun toward the creature’s head like a boomerang. The blade just missed its neck, but the edge of the hilt smacked into its forehead with a hollow thunk and sent it sprawling to the ground.

You hopped onto the guardrail and slid down, running to Luke’s side and using the Force to zip your weapon back into your hand. Luke struggled to his feet and staggered away from you as fast as he could. A quick glance back at you revealed yellow eyes once more, but he didn’t attack, instead continuing his trajectory toward the outer circle of shrines. His cybernetic gripped the stone head so hard, you could see tiny cracks forming and were glad the strength of the metal had never been turned on you—at least, not yet.

As the shadow tried to regain its feet, you vaulted yourself into the air, bringing your lightsaber down on nothing but dirt floor as it rolled out of the way just in time. Thinking quickly, you struck down with your fist into the creature’s face, surprised at the feeling of striking solid flesh. Its head struck the floor with a gruesome smack as it lay there, stunned, but with enough wherewithal to use the Force to bat your weapon out of your hand. It flew towards Luke’s feet where he still gripped the shrine as you struck the creature’s face over and over with clenched fists. You flew up towards the ceiling again as a gnarled, smokey hand shot towards you.

“No!” you heard Luke cry as he seemed to find his strength and charge at the creature again, this time with both his and your lightsabers in each hand. He slashed them both out in a lethal x that sliced the shadow’s hand clean off. It screamed as you plummeted towards the floor.

Luke turned off your saber and tossed it to you as you stood, focused on the creature as yellow and blue fought for dominance in his eyes. “The amulet!” he cried, his voice strained as he parried a blow from the shadow. You could see his arms straining as he tried to keep the dark blade away from his face as it inched closer. “Destroy the amulet!”

As you sprinted towards the center altar, the shadow whipped its head towards you. It tried to push Luke to the ground, but he held on and took it with him to create a jumbled pile of limbs on the floor. It faded into smoke just as you raised your weapon, only a few steps away from your goal. You felt something behind you throw you back several feet as you lost the grip on your weapon. The shadow, now wounded with orange, glowing, and smoking fissures in several places, stood between you and the amulet. It let out one final shriek as it vaulted itself toward you, but stopped midair. You glanced at Luke to see him still struggling to rise from the ground, his back turned to you and hands planted firmly against the floor. If he wasn’t stopping the shadow, then who was?

Sensing a presence behind you, you craned your neck to see a small child who couldn’t have been more than 10. He was dressed in traditional jedi robes, a small padawan braid hanging behind his ear, with a blue, transparent tint to his body. His ghostly eyes turned to you as his clawed hand hung in the air, holding the shadow in place. “Go.”

You clamored to your feet, recovering your saber and sprinting straight at the altar as the shadow fought the ghost’s grip. It howled in dismay as you again raised your saber—this time, nothing impeding you as you sliced straight through the center of both stone and jewel.

The shrill noise that came from the shadow made you cover your ears. You glanced over at Luke to see him doing the same, curled into a ball on the ground. The ghost of the young padawan was gone and the creature fell to the ground before collapsing on its knees. Small pockets of light began appearing all over its body until it exploded in a shockwave that knocked you off your feet. As it exploded, so did the center altar, which crumbled into a heap of at least a hundred different colors of kyber crystals.

You stood frozen for a moment, wildly looking around the amphitheater for any further threats. When nothing greeted you but the sound of your own heart hammering in your ears, you rushed to Luke. You sank to your knees next to him and before you could say anything, he was pulling you into his arms. He flopped back on the floor with you in tow, reminiscent of how he held you aboard the imperial cruiser.

For a moment, you both lay there panting. “Is anything seriously injured?” you finally mumbled into his shoulder.

“I don’t think so. Are you all right?”

You nodded, squeezing his shoulders as you caught your breath. You weren’t sure how long you lay there, but eventually Luke groaned. You took that as your signal to slide off his body onto the floor next to him, laying a steadying hand on his back as he sat up. He stared at you for a moment, nothing but exhaustion and relief evident in his thankfully blue eyes. He closed them for a moment before opening them again, giving you a tiny smile and gently rubbing the backs of his fingers against your cheek. He stopped just before his hand reached the cut on your jaw and he frowned. “I’m sorry—”

You shook your head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He continued to gaze at your cut, his lips pressed into a thin line. He sighed and glanced at the massive pile of kyber crystals littering the floor, the creature’s darksaber lying abandoned just beyond it. “You don’t happen to have a bag with you, do you?”

You helped him to his feet and the two of you stuffed as many crystals as you could carry into both your pockets and waist packs. Luke stopped in front of the darksaber and sighed before sheathing it, taking a moment to examine the black hilt.

“What was that thing?” you asked.

“A Sith ghost,” he replied, slowly turning the darksaber over in his hands.

“I thought those couldn’t exist.”

“According to the texts we found on Khofar, they can, but are attached to a tether and can only travel a certain radius outside it—the amulet.” He attached the dark saber to his belt. “I have no idea how that one got there.”

Finally, you made your way toward the hallway, both of you glad to put this place behind you. As you made your way back, you noticed Luke leaning on the wall heavily, pausing every few minutes to rest. You slipped his arm around your shoulders and started a slow trek back the way you’d come, passing by the statue of the jedi battling the fireworm. You felt Luke do a double take and could sense his worry and curiosity at the fact the statue looked a lot like you, but he remained silent.

Passing by the broken holes to the outside world showed the moon high in the sky. The darkness only added to the eerie whispers of the place, and you even wondered if you could occasionally feel ghostly fingers reaching out to you. A shiver ran up your spine at one point as more whispers filled your ears.

Luke pressed himself closer to you. “I feel them, too.”

You nodded, grasping the fabric of his jacket in your fingers.

As you rounded the corner, the giant front doorway offered some sense of relief—but not for long as you noticed a small figure blocking it. It couldn’t have been more than three feet tall, with large, pointed ears that resembled one of the other Force ghosts you’d seen Luke talk to. The two of you slowed to a halt, still close to the wall. Luke leaned the arm that wasn’t wrapped around your shoulders across you as if to shield you with his body. “…Master Yoda?”

The figure stepped into a patch of moonlight to reveal a more feminine figure and shoulder-length brown hair. Although she appeared to be the same race as Yoda, she was someone else entirely. She folded her hands behind her back and her jedi robes parted to reveal the small lightsaber hilt at her belt. “Courage leads to peace. Peace leads to love. Love leads to healing. “A sudden gust of wind rushed through the doorway and scattered her form into the night.

You and Luke glanced at each other with wide eyes before continuing. You carefully helped him down the temple steps and he guided you to where he’d hidden the Redeemer behind a larger ruined structure. As you rounded the ruined wall, R2 came whizzing down the boarding ramp with a series of excited chirps. Equally enthusiastic whistles made you turn as your own astromech came to greet you from the other direction.

Luke chuckled weakly, rubbing R2’s dome affectionately. “Hey, buddy.”

Another gust of wind blew and you shivered. Luke’s arm fell from around your shoulders to gently rub your arm. “Let’s get on board.”

Once up the ramp, you flicked the overhead lights on. The two of you breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief at the familiar surroundings. Luke unwound his arm from around you and slowly made his way to the couch in the main hold. He sighed and winced as he sat, leaning back against the plush cushions that you had helped him pick out. He’d been very insistent when he’d first shown you the renovated ship that you add any touches you wanted, since he wanted it to be your home, too. You had no words to describe the relief you felt knowing it still was your home.

You filled two glasses at the sink before making your way over to him. As you set them down on the nearby table, you felt your own bruises and cuts sting their way through the adrenaline. “Do you think you can take your jacket off, so I can look you over?”

Luke nodded and leaned forward, undoing the buttons. You did your best to keep butterflies in your stomach out of the Force, but likely didn’t succeed with the surprised look he gave you. As he extended his arms behind him, he screwed his eyes shut. You rushed over to quickly slide the fabric off his arms, revealing a black t-shirt that clung to him in all the right places and golden skin.

Focus. You gently took his arms in your hands, turning them this way and that before moving onto his face and neck. You kept your touches gentle so as not to hurt him, trying to ignore the way he relaxed and leaned into your hands several times. “Nothing feels broken?”

“No, nothing like that.” He turned worried eyes on you. “I think you were thrown around more than me.”

“I think I would’ve known if something was broken by now. Nothing bad under your shirt?”

He looked down at his torso. “Not that I’m aware of, but…” He suddenly lifted his shirt over his head, exposing his lean chest. The web of lightning scars crisscrossed in various patterns across the whole of his torso, upper arms, and even crept onto his neck in a way that shouldn’t have made him look as otherworldly as it did. You knew you couldn’t keep your embarrassment from flowing through the Force as you tried not to ogle and part of you wondered if he knew what he was doing.

You suddenly became very interested in the ceiling.

“Well? Does it look all right to you?” he asked with the slightest bit of playfulness in his tone. Was he actually… flirting with you? No, he couldn’t possibly be.

“Mm-hmm, yep,” you replied, studying the wall very closely.

“You’re not even looking.”

“Skywalker.”

You continued to avoid his eyes, but could sense him smiling to himself. The little shit. He gingerly pulled his shirt back over his head before leaning against the back of the couch once more. You finally looked at him and lightly shook your head, leaning a hip against the nearby table.

It was quiet for several moments. “I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

“Of course I would. Why wouldn’t I?”

His guilt poured through the Force. “Well, I…haven’t exactly been treating you the best and for that, I’m so sorry. We should be making decisions about the new order as a team, not shutting each other out.”

You couldn’t help a tiny smile and flicker of hope. “As a team?”

“Of course.” He gently patted the space on the couch next to him, reaching over to squeeze your hand as you sat. You felt your stomach do somersaults. Watching him fly away without you made you wonder if you’d ever have this sort of affection from him ever again. “We’re jedi. We have to stick together.” His thumb hovered over the edge of the cut on your jaw and his eyes turned dark. “I’m so, so sorry—”

“It really wasn’t your fault—and you fought it off, even while it was still trying to control you. That was pretty impressive, and I think proof that you won’t turn out like your father.”

He paused, pensive. “It…felt like my attachment to you is what allowed me to resist it.”

“See? Attachment isn’t all bad.”

He winced, rubbing his arm. “But Master Yoda always said fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering. On that imperial cruiser, I…” he glanced at his feet and turned quiet. “I was so afraid to lose you.”

“I think fear is only a gateway to the dark side if you let it control you all the time…which has never been, and never will be you. And whoever that…figure was did seem to have an opposing view of that phrase.”

His thumb gently swiped back and forth over your hand. “I think that must’ve been Master Yaddle. Master Yoda told me about her a few times.”

You nodded. “I think it’s good to weigh both versions…but not be so afraid of fear itself that you end up just giving in to it anyway by denying yourself things that any sentient being needs to live.”

Luke nodded. “I think…if you agree, of course…that the no attachment rule is no longer necessary.” He met your eyes again, a small spark of hope returning to his gaze. “You were right. I should’ve listened to you sooner, and I’m sorry.”

You tried to withhold your tears of relief as you squeezed his hand back. “I think that’s a good idea.” You bumped his arm playfully. “And you’re forgiven.”

He chuckled, leaning back into you with a soft smile and warmth back in his eyes that you’d missed so much. He nodded towards your still entwined hands. “Is…this all right?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, trying your best to control your expression. “Are you okay with it?”

He nodded, turning to gaze at your hand in his. “I, um…I know you’ve said you feel a bit touch-starved sometimes and I understand that feeling. If you’re all right with it, whenever you need some physical affection…” he looked at you again, the farm boy shyness and jedi smoothness fighting for dominance across his signature, “I’m here. I’m happy to give any hugs, hand holds, or little touches here and there. You can use me.”

You felt tears of relief pooling in the bottom of your eyes and did your best to sniffle them back in before they fell. “You can use me, too.”

The soft look on his face was reminiscent of your visions on Khofar. Pulling yourself out of your reverie, you gave his hand one final squeeze before gently wriggling yourself loose. “We should both get some rest. You, especially, need it.”

Luke nodded, hiding a yawn behind his gloved hand. “I think I need some food, water, and a shower first.”

You both stood. “Do you want me to make you something while you shower?”

He smiled. “No, but thank you. You’ve done plenty, and you need rest, too. Although I should look you over first as well—”

You laid a comforting hand on his arm, and he laid his own hand on top of it. “I’m fine, really. Just some bruises and scrapes. I promise, nothing feels broken. But if you’re still worried about it in the morning, you can look.”

He nodded with a weary sigh. “I think tomorrow I want to see if R2 can find a blueprint of the temple. Maybe there’s a library that’s still standing and holding some helpful texts—and before you ask, yes, I’m sure I’ll be all right to go back in…Just maybe not the amphitheater.”

You nodded, glancing at your initialed glove on his hand. “Okay…don’t stay up too late, then.”

He smiled. “I won’t.” He hesitated before gently cupping the back of your head and leaving a soft kiss on your forehead. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Now it was your turn to smile. “Night, Luke.” As you made your way to your room, he grabbed your hand in his and didn’t let it slip away until you were out of reach with the door firmly shut behind you.

~~~~

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