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A warlock sits alone in his ice palace. He has cut off contact with everyone he ever once knew as a friend. No love reaches his heart today; instead, only an impenetrable ball of gunsteel anchors his miserable spirit to this mortal drudgery.
His foot taps nervously on the ice throne he has constructed. All this power, all this control seated firmly in his lap…and yet no one to share it with. No one to lord it over. It’s all too easy nowadays for people to run away, even when you reach out to them. No one, it seems, can stand the cold.
No one…except for his Ghost.
Burdened, perhaps, with the enslavement to the Guardian he decided to resurrect. Despite his many warnings and promises of ill futures, the Warlock’s Ghost has allowed him to pursue the dark arts to his deepest desires. And still today, even with the decreasing numbers of protests that escape the Ghost’s mouth, the little Light-spark still begrudges the Warlock to live; grants him power when he asks for it; continues to hold onto that confusing little idea called “hope” that deludes him into believing that one day, just maybe, his Warlock will return to the Light.
Like the Light has ever done anything for him.
The Warlock has complete and utter control now. He has friends, family, servants, targets, prisoners, and whatever else he can possibly desire locked away in his icy fortress. With a sweep of his hand, he can summon any jester he wants to banish his boredom.
But today he finds his appetite insatiable. No matter what toys he brings out of storage, he’s still unsatisfied. Something is itching at him. Something he’s still missing. It’s torturous, but he keeps his calm. The frost of his palace helps ground him in logic, in the grounding freeze of clear rationalization. So he considers what few assets he has not yet tried.
He summons his ghost.
The wretched scrap of metal materializes in his palm, trembling just slightly—from the cold, or from fear, it is not clear. Probably both. The blue of the Ghost’s lone eye nervously meets the Warlock’s.
“W-What can I do for you, Master?”
The Warlock tilts his head fondly. What a dear little companion his ghost has always been to him. Always there when he wakes up, whether from sleep or from death—though really, what is the difference when the power of physics-defying paracausality is on your side? But while the ghost has always had his concerns for the Warlock, he’s never once denied his Guardian what he wanted. And today, the Warlock wants something…new.
“Tell me, Ghost.” The Warlock crooks a finger that brushes up against the Ghost’s battered shell. It flinches a little in his palm, like he expected pain. “How does one satisfy a hunger that one cannot distinguish?”
The Ghost just sits there looking confused, poor thing. Perhaps he needs a clearer idea.
The finger gets bolder. It wanders its way exploratorily over the surface of the ghost, nestling into the little nooks and valleys of its surface, eliciting little gasps and hitched breaths from the Ghost.
“I-I-I…Um…”
“Hmm~?”
The Ghost lets out a small, desperate gasp as the finger finds someplace darker, warmer, more intimate.
“I, mmh…I don’t know what you mean, Master.”
The Warlock tilts his head in the other direction. “Wrong answer.”
The gloved finger suddenly shoves itself inside, ripping a half-moan, half-cry from the engorged Ghost. It’s a thrilling sensation to feel the quivering on his index finger, how the forces of the Ghost’s levitation around his hand flexes like he wants to get away, but doesn’t want to anger his master. The Warlock considers this a job well done; his toy has learned better than to flee when not dismissed.
“Master! I—!”
The words cut off into moans as the Warlock wiggles his finger experimentally, finding the sounds of the trembling, abused Ghost pleasing in the echoing chamber of ice. Lower, in the depths of robes once belonging to someone with much higher esteem than he, the Warlock feels a disturbance in his icy numbness. A sensation once long forgotten now stirs, an ugly beast slowly rearing its head from sleep, drawn from its drowsiness by the alluring noises of the frightened creature in his hand.
The Warlock pulls down his pants just enough to free his warming cock. The air is bitter with the bite of cold, but his free hand soon soothes away any displeasure by wrapping it tightly with his fist. With careful, deliberate movements, he starts pumping slowly in time to the finger penetrating his Ghost.
“Ohhh, Master, I…”
“Shh,” the Warlock soothes his Ghost. He bends his head forward to nuzzle his helmet against the leaking shell. “You’re allowed to enjoy yourself here. I won’t tell anyone who isn’t already dead.”
The Ghost is squirming in his hands. Despite the sounds of pleasure, he looks like he wants to run as far away from his Guardian as possible right now. Achingly, his tiny little voice betrays the unfaithful thoughts running through his mind:
“B-But, Guardian, it’s not right…A Guardian and his Ghost shouldn’t—AHH! ”
With a cruel twist of his hand, the Warlock jabs his finger as deep into the Ghost as he can force it, noticing how his own cock leaks at the sound of the Ghost’s pained cry. Good, then. The Ghost would listen to him better now.
“Did I ask you, dear friend, what you thought about this situation?” The Warlock’s voice is calm, even as his other hand increases speed over his shaft, precum dribbling at the sight of his debauched Ghost before him.
“No, hah—You did not, but—”
“They why,” the Warlock interrupts, giving his Ghost a threatening squeeze with the same hand fingering him, reminding him of the simple fragility of his crunchy metal shell, “does my little Icicle see fit to judge me?”
The Ghost is looking anywhere but him. “I d-didn’t! I swear! I-I never judge you, my Guardian—I only ever, hah, seek to protect you!”
“Of course you do,” coos the Warlock. He drags the Ghost down to where his cock stands flushed and hot. Shoves him in close to see what those cute, sinful noises are doing to him. “And are you proud of that?”
For once, the Ghost remains silent. The guilt he must feel inside must be unbearable. But the Warlock doesn’t care. His other hand only speeds up, the nuanced warmth inside him beginning to electrify his empty bones.
“Go on, then,” the Warlock snarls, shoving the Ghost’s eye straight into the shiny head of his cock. “Do me a favor for once and give it to me. Oh, don’t look so confused. You’re always going on about the Light and how badly you wish you could drown me in it. So go on. Go ahead and deliver me from this idea of self-imprisonment that you’re so obsessed with.”
The Ghost looks at him then—a look so filled with emotion and unreadable pleas for something to change, something to remind him not all is lost — but the Warlock is as impenetrable as his icy fortress. The Ghost relents, and Solar warmth spills out from the epicenter of their union.
The Warlock’s head falls backwards as he lets out a pleased groan. That’s it, little Icicle, he is too lost to say out loud. Do the only thing you are good for, and be a catalyst for my power.
The wetness from the Ghost’s abused hole drools onto the Warlock’s cock, only making his motions slicker and easier to pump. The Warlock’s rhythm gets faster and faster, his breaths coming out harsher and more ragged. A wicked smile now carves itself across the frozen features of his veiled face, and he thinks to himself, I have found what I was looking for.
He slips his finger out, flips the Ghost on its side, and thumbs roughly at the little swollen lips it has until the shell parts and grants him entry once more. The moans start up again, a chorus that easily spurs the Warlock closer to completion. How delicious it is to corrupt every good thing he ever got in his life and poison it on purpose, make it worse, leave it scarred and bruised and forever changed for the worse. Even the very thing that constantly gives him life, the one person who never gives up on him, reduced to a moaning, slutty mess on his lap before him. It made him dizzy with power.
He works his cock until it’s finally over, the white-hot splashes of cum splattering all over his violated companion. The thick heat of it all mists into the air, the cold in the room soon claiming any moisture released from their combined endeavor. And the Warlock shoves the used Ghost off his lap—who catches himself in the air, if a little wobbly and utterly devoid of dignity—before putting himself away. He leans back in his throne now, gets comfortable. Waits for that annoying itch from earlier to finally be scratched.
But as the Ghost humbly transmats away and leaves the Warlock to his own devices once more, he finds himself still waiting.