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dilatorywriting · 1 year

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The Prince & The Pauper Prefect

Gender Neutral Reader x Prince Stefan (Twst OC) Word Count: 5.9k

Summary: 'Dear Ramshackle Prefect, you are cordially invited to tour the Royal Sword Academy at your leisure. We hope our libraries may have something of use to aid in your journey home. And if perhaps you find our facilities to your taste, we would be more than happy to extend you a more permanent invitation.’ Clearly, nothing about this could go wrong at all.

A/N: A commission for the very lovely @thefiasco-onyourblock. I'm having so much fun with all y'alls ideas, and this is one of the few that was asked to be public, so I'm happy you all get to see it! It was a lot of fun to dive back into this himbo~

You’d just stumbled your way back onto Ramshackle’s sagging porch after your second third fourth foray into this wonderful new world of Near-Death Experiences when the letter arrived. It popped into existence in a pleasant burst of bubbles and sparks—a scroll of soft, cream, paper stamped with a shimmering wax seal that looked like it could have been melted down out of literal gold. You waved a hand under it, over it, all around the thing in grand loop-de-loop. The letter just kept hovering in place, occasionally spitting out another bout of multicolored sparkles.

“Hello?” you tried, cautious, and the thing crinkled at the corners. Like it was trying to wave back at you.

You glared up at the grey sky for a moment, daring whatever higher power existed in this stupid world to try fucking with you yet again, before reaching out to grab the ridiculous, magic, note.

It unrolled at your touch, like a cat stretching when you scratched along its spine. And instead of some horrible prank or wayward contract, you were greeted with an opportunity.

“POACHERS!” Crowley howled.

You sighed and rested your chin in your palm. “So can I go?”

“INTERLOPERS!” he forged onwards, waving the letter back and forth like a parent raging over a bad report card. “Who do they think they are?! Trying to swipe my most precious intern—student! My most precious and beloved of students!—out from under my nose?! As if I wouldn’t be able to see through something so—so—ACK!”

“I mean,” you grumbled miserably under your breath, “it is a pretty long nose. Could hide a lot under there.”

He turned on you with a gasp, like you’d just insulted his mother. Or… whatever the Headmaster’s no doubt vaguely evil and eldritch equivalent would be.

“It’s a mask! A mask!”

He crumpled the letter petulantly between his clawed fingers and went to hurl it to the ground, but the paper smoothed itself out with another one of those magical ‘pops!’ and floated up on an artificial breeze to land neatly in your lap. Crowley sneered at the thing like he was planning to light it on fire, and honestly, with how strange and ethereal this little letter was, you sort of wanted to see him try.

“I think it’s a perfectly reasonable opportunity,” Professor Trein shrugged, unbothered by his superior’s usual nonsense.

“It’s not as if the Royal Sword Academy is known for their treachery,” Professor Crewel added, sounding a bit like the acknowledgement had to be yanked out of his mouth with a pair of pliers. He glanced your way for a moment with those narrowed, steely, eyes of his before turning that glare back on the old crow. “And in comparison, I don’t think any of us can truthfully claim that Night Raven has provided a particularly safe learning environment for the Prefect.”

Crowley sniffed, indignant. “A sprinkling of danger is all part of the educational experience!”

Trein sighed and Crewel pinched at his brow like he was fighting the start of a migraine.

“They’re just offering to let me look through their library archives for more information on how I could find a way home,” you tried, and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Which would mean less work for you, you know.”

For a moment you could see the calculations whirling behind those glowing, yellow, eyes—the promise of entirely unearned vacation time and accolades for tasks he’d had absolutely bupkis to do with. But then the sharp line of his mouth hardened in determination and he turned away from you with a huff.

“We’ll discuss this betrayal of yours later—when my poor, old, heart has had some time to stitch itself back together!” he harumphed and you sighed miserably. Then he snapped his fingers with a little ‘ah!’ and turned on you with a perfectly sunny smile. “And of course there’s the VDC to plan for! Do get on that, my favorite, little, busy bee!”

Afterwards you stood in the little alcove outside of Crowley’s office, the golden letter clutched tightly in your fists. The soft edges of the scroll lifted to curl around your knuckles, like a gentle reassurance. Before you could work yourself up into getting too upset about the unfairness of it all, Professor Crewel placed a hand on your shoulder with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll drop you off Monday morning.”

You fought the tremble that was doing its best to turn your mouth into a wobbling mess, and turned to launch yourself into his furs with a crushing hug. The alchemist patted your back with a great deal of aggrieved grumbling, but he didn’t bother to push you away either, so he probably didn’t mind you creasing his coat as much as he said he did.

Your assurance that this was just a jaunt through the RSA’s library had been… mostly a fib. Or at least, deceptive in the same way that the sweeping, cursive, missive was also sort of sneaky. You’d dealt with enough genuine schemers at this point to recognize subtle promises woven into the words of the well-meaning.

‘And if perhaps you find our facilities to your taste, we would be more than happy to extend you a more permanent invitation.’

You sighed and tucked the letter into your bag. It felt a bit wrong to be ducking away from your friends and your hovel of a home like a thief absconding in the night. But this was just… You were just looking. Spending a day away from the cloying, tarry, taste of pooling blot, and the endless runaround of all your little duties, and Crowley was not nearly the same as flipping your new friends the bird and fucking off into the sunset.

You repeated this to yourself ad nauseum as you pulled on your cleanest uniform, and then again throughout the entirety of the drive down the coast, and then more when Crewel waved you out of his car with a pointed look, leaving you at the RSA’s doorstep with a little shoo shoo gesture to get you moving.

Everything was so white. And not the gentle sort of lightness that came with nice things like fluffy sheep or foam off rolling ocean waves. It was sterile—so sharply bright in the morning light that it was nearly blue. The brick path beneath your feet was white, the guardrails lining the walkways were white, the walls of the looming castle, the impressive archways, the fluttering flags bearing the school’s regal coat of arms—all bone-bleached beneath the sun and shimmering like the architecture itself had literally been polished to a gleam. The only variation to be seen amidst the sea of monochromatic brilliance was the occasional pop of a cerulean spire—like some sort of awful party hat to top off the whole mess of it.

Say what you might about Night Raven’s gothic chic and whole ‘I mean, of course the cobwebs in the halls are Intentional’ aesthetic, but at least walking around the drab buildings there didn’t leave you feeling like someone had just set off a camera flash in your face. You felt like you were dirtying the roads by just existing near them. How did anything ever get done here without everyone having to constantly stop just to sweep up their footprints behind them?!

But such was the way of this dumb world apparently. Everything had to operate in extremes—nothing could just be normal. Real. It was all some fairytale recreation, varying only in if it fell hard on one side of the spectrum or the other.

You pulled out the letter with a sigh, and began roving over the contents yet again to see where exactly you were supposed to be headed. This whole fieldtrip turning into a miserable confirmation of your unintended loyalty to Night Raven or otherwise, at least you might be able to get some information out of these promised libraries.

You managed to cross a sweeping stone bridge, descend three separate flights of stairs, and follow nearly half a dozen signs with little, circled, stars on them before realizing you were probably only making things worse for yourself. You were still on one of those glistening, pearlescent, pathways, but now there were trees everywhere. It was a far cry from the twisting, black, forests smattered throughout Night Raven’s estate. Light filtered down pleasantly through the lush trees and the air was so nicely scented with flowers and pine that it was almost like someone had gone through with a bottle of Perfume de Forest and personally spritzed each and every plant. Which—ugh. Even the birds seemed to singing in tempo to some pre-orchestrated song. It was trippy.

But speaking of trippy—

You were so busy glaring suspiciously at a tree with a literal smiley face twisted into its bark that you didn’t notice the drop-off until it was too late. To be fair, it was still all very lovely—an overhang leading to a crystalline lake that bubbled gently under the roar of nearby waterfall. No jagged rocks at the bottom or anything. You probably wouldn’t even have to tumble all the way into the water, just into the little ditch about ten feet down. But of course, all that didn’t stop you from ‘eeping’ inelegantly in a panic as you stepped over the edge and started to fall.

And then you jerked back with a wheeze when something caught you around the collar of your uniform and tugged. You flailed wildly as you were hauled back up and into the air, and something behind you made a high-pitched, nervous, whinnying noise.

“Woah, woah, woah! Easy! Easy! You’re going to send all three of us over, you big baby!”

The huffing, angry, noises just got worse and you were dropped unceremoniously back on the pathway you’d wandered off from just in time to see a pair of hooves come crashing down precariously close to where you’d been dumped. You scurried back in a hurry, because you’d survived too much nonsense at this point to get taken out from something as mundane as a kick to the head.

The horse eventually got its singular braincell working well enough to realize it had to back away from the ledge, and you were finally able to look upon your savior without being too worried about taking a hoof to the face.

He was clearly an RSA student, what with the garishly bleached uniform and impeccably put together everything. There was a crimson cloak tossed over one of his shoulders though, which did more to break the monotony of colorless brightness than any other architecture in the entire campus, so well done him you supposed. There was a sort of effortless attractiveness to everyone in this stupid world, but your new acquaintance in particular seemed to fall hard into that ‘windswept, accidental model’ sort of look, with loose brown hair falling in a neat fringe over his forehead, and wide, warm, hazel eyes. He looked a bit like the sort of person that a school might slather on all their recruitment posters to be like ‘see! We have jocks that know how to shower and brush their hair! Look how put together we are!’

“Are you alright?” He asked, looking down at you with a canted head—curious. “You don’t look a student here.”

“I’m not,” you sighed, making your way to your feet with a sore grumble. “I have an invitation. I’m just trying to find the Headmaster’s Office,” you said, holding out the letter like a hall pass.

“Oh!” He chirped, brightening. “I can show you the way,” He offered. “Not that I’m in trouble enough to know the way there by heart or anything, but I guess just enough that there isn’t too much of a chance that I’ll get the both of us lost,” he winked and you narrowed your eyes suspiciously. Normally this sort of overly familiar banter meant you were about to get dragged into all sorts of Shenanigans.

Before you could decide whether to take the chance or politely decline, his stupid, too big, horse reared its head back with a frustrated huff. Mister Red Cloak took the mini-tantrum in stride, despite the fact that the thing had nearly just clocked him right in the face with a head that looked as solid as a boulder.

“Oh, come now,” he sighed, patting the beast’s neck. “We can finish the course later. Don’t be a baby.”

The horse made some sort of unpleasant shrieking noise like some nightmare creature from just beyond the gates of Hell that had you flinching back to avoid being Murdered, but its rider simply rolled his eyes and tugged sharply at the reins.

“What do you think, huh? Just this once?” he asked, leaning forward over the withers to talk to the raging horse in its face. Like a lunatic. “For an extra bucket of oats? And maybe, just a few—” cue an absolutely horrendous eyebrow waggle, “carrots?”

And then the horse tossed its head back with a whinny that should absolutely not have sounded anything like a ‘hell yeah! Whatever you say, dude!’ before turning and prancing around you in tight, bouncy, circles. You scrunched in on yourself, because the thing was still probably a thousand pounds of muscle and flailing limbs. Even if it wasn’t actively huffing at you anymore, now it was just getting closer faster.

“You really don’t have to,” you tried. “Just point me in the right direction and I can find my own way.”

“Nonsense!” he chirped, dropping down from the saddle to land before you in the grass with a heavy thud. He brushed at his trousers, as if he wasn’t expecting his hands to come back completely clean. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on him. “What sort of savior would I be if I let you get lost in the wild and wonderful woods of this grand institution?”

“I can see the castle,” you griped, pointing to the blue peaks over the trees.

“Last I checked, you can see it from the entrance too,” he smiled and gestured to the forested path around you, chuffing a bit like he was laughing under his breath. “Must’ve been quite a turnaround, to wind up here anyways.”

Instantly you felt your hackles rising and a familiar, prickly, heat work its way up into your cheeks.

“Thank you, for your concern,” you grit out and swiveled on your heel. “But I guess even I should be able to find my way eventually.”

The pleasantly amused expression on the brunette’s face instantly fell and he darted back in front of you with a grimace.

“Sorry—that was. Sorry. I guess I put my foot in my mouth,” he rushed out. A gloved hand came up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You snorted and glared off into the trees.

“Now you really have to let me show you the way,” he laughed, stilted and bordering on too polite. “For making an ass out of myself like that. It’s the least I can do.”

You glared at him sourly for a moment before sighing and glancing back at the looming Andalusian still prancing along the tree line. “Will… that be coming with us?”

“Helios?” he asked, like you had any concept of what a ‘Helios’ was supposed to be. Probably the horse. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said, waving you off. “He can find his way back to the stables on his own. Right, boy?”

The horse made another one of those high-pitched, blustery, noises and you forcefully reminded yourself that you had faced inky goop monsters that were personifications of your classmates’ literal demons, and also kidnapping plots involving another of said classmates diving into your brain to rewire it like you were his own personal puppet. And in comparison to all those trials, Sentient Animals should not be creepy.

“Fine,” you huffed. “It’s fine. Just—let’s just get going.”

“Right!” he beamed, instantly bouncing back to his earlier enthusiasm. “I’m Stefan, by the way.”

You offered your own name in return, if only to be polite, and he smiled like the fact that you’d managed to grit out those familiar syllables was a gift in and of itself and not just, you know, generic introduction protocol.

“You have a lovely name,” he chirped, falling into step at your side.

You snorted, still a bit too bitter and sore. “You don’t have to try so hard to be nice, you know. To make up for saying something you feel bad about, I mean. It’s fine.”

His blinked his wide, hazel, eyes at you in way that looked a bit like you’d managed to surprise him. His eyelashes were long and soft, and they brushed against his cheeks with each shutter. Never trust people with nice eyelashes, you thought a bit petulantly. You’d known you were right to be cautious.

“You think I’m just saying that because I feel guilty?” he asked, not sounding particularly incredulous or insulted so much as genuinely curious. He tilted his head at you and some of his fringe slipped in front of his eyes, softening the sharp lines of his face. “Do people normally do that?”

You didn’t quite frown at him, but it was a close thing. You could feel your brow pinch.

“…I guess,” you huffed after a long moment, turning to stare back at the path ahead.

“Huh,” he mused, thoughtful. “Well, I really did mean it. And it’s a lot better than my name by far. I mean, really, Stefan? A bit on the nose, don’t you think? ‘Crown?’ Come on. Couldn’t my parents have been anymore original?”

You glanced over at him, a bit lost. “What does that mean?”

“Stefan?” he repeated with another one of those eyelash-sweeping blinks. “It means ‘crown.’”

“No,” you sighed, long suffering. “As in, how is that unoriginal? It’s a nice name.”

“Well, it’s because I—” he trailed off, gaze lingering in open astonishment. After a long moment of gaping at you like he’d just been clobbered across the back of the head with a baseball bat, he finally cleared his throat and looked back off into the trees with a tight shrug. “Nothing. It doesn’t mean anything I guess. Don’t worry about it.” He seemed to chew on that train of thought for a moment or two longer before turning back to face you with a wide grin that was just on the right side of smug. “You think it’s a nice name?”

“Whatever,” you huffed, cheeks starting to heat with something other than bitter chagrin. “Just please get me out of this forest before I fall over another cliff.”

Headmaster Ambrose the 63rd (the sixty-third! What in the nepo-nonsense was that?!) looked like a wizard straight out of some homey after-school-special, with silver spectacles perched on his rounded nose and a soft, pointed, cap atop his head that flopped endearingly at the tip. He was an antithesis to Crowley in every sense of the word—flowing robes replacing tight vests and formal wear, faded white accents rather than sharp black, and not a single bit of Sparkling Flair to be seen. Like everything else, as nice as he seemed, it was such a stark jump into the opposite direction that it had your hackles raised in caution.

“Our libraries are some of the most extensive in the country,” he smiled, warm and fond. It made the corners of his eyes crinkle behind the rims of his glasses. “I hope you’ll be able to find something that may be of some help to your situation.”

“Thank you, sir,” you said, fighting the insane storybook urge to do something like curtsy.

He waved you off with a gentle shake of the head. “None of that ‘sir’ nonsense. You’re a guest a here! I hope my students have been treating you well?”

Stefan rubbed at the back of his neck and shot his headmaster a sheepish smile that was entirely, unfairly, handsome.

“Doing my best, sir.”

“Good lad,” he hummed, something nearly mischievous sparking in those blue-grey eyes of his. But you were hesitant to label it anything of the sort now that you’d seen what real sneaky nonsense looked like. This was more like… Children’s Program Mischief. That kind that usually involved an adult thinking themselves very clever for being able to sneak some vegetables into an afternoon snack. He turned back on you with that shining smile. “Allow me to find you an escort for the afternoon, and then we can get off to the library.”

“I’d be happy to show them around!” Stefan piped in.

“Is that so,” Ambrose mused, that same little grin playing over his mouth. “I thought you were meant to be in Equestrian Studies at the moment, hmm?”

“Well, I mean,” he spluttered, before collecting his argument and squaring his shoulders with another one of those blindingly bright smiles, “how could I possibly have left someone in need to fend for themselves, sir? I would have brought shame down on this entire institution! Heroes are meant to be made not born, after all!” He boomed, like someone cheering a school’s motto at a sports game.

All of this sounded like the largest crock of self-aggrandizing bullshit you’d ever heard, and by the time you’d had a whole internal debate with yourself over the merits of NRC’s outright nastiness versus this… whatever it was supposed to be, Ambrose was gesturing between the pair of you and saying something that you probably ought to be being paying attention to.

“Thank you, sir!” Stefan grinned, and Ambrose waved him off in that same pleasant way he had you earlier.

“You’re in excellent hands, Prefect,” the Headmaster assured as you were rushed out the door by the guy who was clearly going to be your newest Problem. “Take care! And please let me know if there’s anything at all that we can help you with.”

And then you were back out in the hallway, with Stefan already steering you towards who knew what. The archives, you hoped. But knowing your luck, probably not.

“You must be hungry, right?” he asked, perfectly polite. “Why don’t I take you to the cafeteria before we head over to the library?”

“I’m fine,” you said, just as your stomach gurgled a very loud complaint. You patted at your traitor of an abdomen in a silent reprimand and sighed, “You can just show me the way. I don’t want you to feel like you have to babysit me the whole day.”

“Nonsense,” he beamed, intertwining his arm with yours and tugging you off down another hallway before you could protest. He was so tall, and it should have been hard to keep up with his longer stride, but it wasn’t. “I like spending time with you.”

“What?” you blinked, thrown. Because maybe you’d hit your head or something, but you were pretty sure the last half hour had consisted of very little other than you being grumpy and unpleasant.

He canted his head to look down at you and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile.

“You’re nice to talk to,” he said. “Honest, I think. Would be the best way I could describe it. Genuine.” His hazel eyes went a bit distant, wistful. “There aren’t many people here like that. It’s different. Good different,” he promised, the corners of his smile tugging into something a bit teasing.

Your gaze tracked down to the brilliantly blue carpet beneath your feet and then around to the perfectly white walls. Other students filtered by in their starched uniforms and shiny, black, dress shoes—all impeccably groomed and all chattering idle nothings about the weather, about classes, exams. You could see the muddy imprints from your boots trailing along the floor and a few errant bits of grass fell in clumps from where they were still tangled up in your shoelaces. Something tight in you eased a bit at the mess, and you turned back to your companion with a sigh that was bordering far too close on ‘begrudgingly fond’ rather than the properly ‘put upon’ you were aiming for.

“If you say so.”

You hadn’t thought it was possible for the guy’s smile to get brighter, but somehow he managed. You squinted into the warmth of it with a strange, squirmy, feeling in your stomach that you didn’t think had much to do with being hungry.

“Come on then!” he beamed, tugging you along. “We don’t want to miss the Feast!”

“Feast?” you echoed, incredulous.

“With dancing silverware and everything,” he mock-whispered, like a secret just for the two of you.

“What the fuck,” you gaped, brain immediately latching onto the most ridiculous aspect of all of it. “How do you eat anything if it’s dancing?”

Stefan threw his head back with a roaring laugh that had you wanting to sink into your collar with your shoulders hunched up to your ears. But no one stopped to stare, or point, or snicker into their palms at his open enthusiasm. There were a few curious peepers, but once they seemed to identify the source of the noise, they all went back to wandering the halls in their perfectly pressed uniforms with nary a sly comment or sneer to be seen.

“See?” he beamed, tilting sideways to knock his shoulder against yours. “Honest. Now come on—we don’t want to miss out on all the grey stuff. It tastes way better than it sounds, promise.”

The pair of you entered the cafeteria right at the start of things, with dishes and forks just beginning to fly overhead in waves of strange, blinking, lights and motes of golden sparks. More than a few people waved at Stefan as he walked in, and he returned the greetings with polite, buoyant, ones of his own before herding you to an empty table off to the side.

“You don’t want to sit with your friends?” you asked, brow pinching in confusion.

“Hmm?” he mumbled around a spoonful of something already shoved in his mouth. There wasn’t any kind of plate in front of him, so he must have snatched it right out of the air. He swallowed and reached up to grab another. “Oh, no. That’s fine. Here! Try this!”

You leaned away from the spoon he held up to your lips with a huff and some obligatory complaints about how ‘you could feed yourself just fine, thank you very much.’ You plucked the bit of silverware from his fingers with a wary frown and very tactfully ignored that lingering, fluttering, warmth in your gut that you still hadn’t managed to completely snuff out.

“Is this… grey stuff?”

“Right on the money,” he winked, leaning forward to snatch up another flying fork. “My family’s not usually a fan of more ‘modern’ cuisine, so it’s always a treat to be able to try all the different foods at the Feasts here.”

You looked hesitantly at the goopy mess of monochromatic paste smeared across the spoon, and then back up at Stefan who was casually digging into his own floating mountain of toxic waste with an absolutely enraptured hum of satisfaction.

“Remind me to buy you a grilled cheese or something…” you muttered under your breath, before bravely swallowing the entire spoonful of sludge. And—huh. That was actually… pretty delicious. How weird.

You spent the rest of the luncheon event picking at random bits of floating foods as they danced by. Occasionally Stefan would lean forward to point out his favorites and give recommendations. He was surprisingly observant, despite whatever initial impressions his jock’s jawline and guileless grins may have led you to believe otherwise—taking easy note of the things you pushed aside and the ones you nibbled at more enthusiastically.

“Oh—you missed the desserts,” he lamented as the last remnants of a picked apart pie flew over your head.

“That’s fine,” you said, but he only shook his head and began to drag you off again with another of those brilliant grins.

And so began a weird sort of pseudo treasure hunt, where Stefan would take your hand and haul you off to some random corner of the castle with promises of whatever seemed to strike his fancy, or more accurately you supposed, whatever he seemed to think you might fancy.

“No one really uses this vending machine anymore, but somehow it always restocks and it has the best ice cream bars I’ve ever had. It’s wild! I’m sure you’ll love it!—“

“Oh, it is pretty cold down here, right? I didn’t even think about that. But… hmm… Here! I know the best place to grab a hot chocolate! It’s just over this way a bit—“

“These walls are kind of a drab view, yeah? Here! If we go down this way there’s a great little area to sit where you can see the whole bay—“

By the end of things, somehow you ended up back at the stables with that terror of a horse of his. And despite the runaround and the vaguely exhausting fact that Stefan’s social battery never seemed to wear itself out ever, it wasn’t… it wasn’t that bad, actually. Sometimes people would wave him down to talk, and he always introduced you and left the proverbial door open for you to join the conversation, but never asked you to participate, which was nice. You’d taken to just sort of slouching against his side in a food coma like a lizard on a rock as he answered whatever mundane questions all the other students asked of him. But otherwise, it was just the pair of you bopping around all over the campus.

Helios saw his master and whinnied merrily, and Stefan made an odd sort of chuffing noise in return that had you laughing into your palm.

“What?” He complained good-naturedly. “You’ve never barked at a dog before? It’s the same thing!”

“Of course it is,” you droned, lips twitching up at the corners.

The next destination was someplace on the coast that he was insisting was the absolute best place in the world to sit and think. Which if you wanted to do research, naturally you needed to get your head together about where to start, right? The only problem was that it was a solid hour hike away, but Stefan assured you that on horseback it was a much shorter journey.

You leaned forward on your tiptoes to get a look down the sprawling corridor of stalls, each larger and grander than the last. And each of their occupants following that exact same trend. There even looked like there was a horse with wings, which was—ah. Not helping the intimidation factor, to say the least.

“You can ride with me,” he offered. “If you’re uncomfortable, I mean. Sometimes it helps to feel like there’s someone more adept at the reins.”

You blinked, a bit taken aback that he’d picked up on your discomfort so easily. But then then you focused on the rest of that offer and you and the horse shared a Look. And wasn’t that a trippy thing to notice. You immediately forced yourself not to think about it.

“I don’t know if that’s fair to Helios,” you pointed out.

“Nonsense!” Stefan waved you off, and Helios pinned his ears indignantly. “He’s an Andalusian. They’re war horses, you know? Built to be as sturdy and strong as any horse can be.” He said the last part with a sickly-sweet uptick to his voice, and leaned up against the beast’s flank like they were sharing an inside joke. “They say Prince Phillip’s legendary steed was an Andalusian, and they rode into battle against a dragon together.”

Helios’s grey muzzle twitched prissily and eventually the horse lowered his great head to thump against Stefan’s side with a gusty ‘harumph’ that had the man stumbling forward with a pleasant laugh.

“There you are, you big baby. I knew you had it in you.”

After giving the horse a firm pat pat on his rump, Stefan turned and offered you a hand.

“It’s easier if I help you up first,” he explained.

“Isn’t there like… a ladder, or something?” You tried, and Stefan grinned sneakily before ducking behind you and hauling you up on Helios’s back all in one go. You absolutely, positively, did not squeak, or anything else ridiculous like that. It was a—a squawk! The most indignant and put upon of noises!

Stefan laughed and waved off whatever terrible sounds you were making with a bemused ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ that was the absolute least apologetic thing you’d ever heard. And then he was swinging himself up near effortlessly into the saddle behind you and looping an arm around your waist.

“Sometimes it’s better to just get it over with,” he explained in your ear, like your brain hadn’t just absolutely Blue Screened at the new weight along your hips. “Like ripping off a bandaid. I know it can all be sort of intimidating for people who aren’t used to being around horses.”

When you didn’t respond, because you were still trying to sort cognizant thoughts of the mess of ‘!!!’ that was hard at work blotting out the rest of your brain, you felt him start to shift a bit behind you. His hands flexed a bit tighter, as if the idea of you not being secure enough in the saddle was in anyway the problem here. After another moment of your continued silence, Stefan leaned forward carefully to hook his chin over your shoulder and spoke in that same carefully polite way he had when he’d worried he’d insulted you all those hours ago in the forest.

“If you’re still uncomfortable I can get you down if you want,” he offered, voice dipping low in something that sounded like hesitance. “I know I—I mean, you don’t have to go riding with me, if you don’t want to. I just thought it’d be…” He cleared his throat, and you must have been going delirious because out of the corner of your eyes you swore you could see the tips of his ears turning pink. “I can… I can just take you to the library now, if you want,” he said. “I know I’ve already been pretty selfish with your time today.”

Helios shifted to stamp his feet and you twisted your fingers nervously into his mane. You really didn’t feel entirely great about being so high, on something so wild and big. And honestly, you had wasted a lot of time sightseeing with your impromptu tour guide. If you were being in anyway rational, you should demand Stefan dismount and take you to the library like he promised. But all the same… Today had been—all of it had been…

“Just don’t let me fall,” you huffed, fighting the urge to duck your chin down into your collar to hide the rising heat in your cheeks.

“Of course not!” Stefan beamed, straightening himself back up so suddenly that he nearly tipped the both of you from the saddle. You sent him a glare over your shoulder and he laughed, loud and boisterous. “Sorry, sorry. From here out starts the ‘of course not.’ That was just a test run.”

“Whatever,” you sighed, letting him maneuver your hands to better hold the reins alongside his.

Naturally, by the time you got halfway to the beach, Stefan remembered that the library closed early on Mondays, and that you’d well and truly missed your opportunity as you’d been off gallivanting with him and his ridiculousness all day.

But you know what? It was fine. You’d just come back tomorrow. And maybe the next day too.

#Twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #Prince Stefan x Reader #Twst OC x Reader #Commission #Heroes vs Villains #My Writing #The Prince & The Pauper Prefect #Dire Crowley #Divus Crewel #RSA #Ambrose

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chaotic-orphan · 16 days

Text

Intoxicating Fear (Xiv)

Wake up call

Continued from // Masterpost

This one was a struggle, I’m not happy with the end of it, but… the first half is good enough

*~*~*~*~*

Kit woke in the middle of the night, his head on fire as if there was poison lacing through it. He lurched to the side of the bed, rolling over the damp sheets sweat clinging to his forehead and hair. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain and resting his forehead on the cool wooden floor of his bedroom.

He groaned, nausea climbing up his throat that he fought not to throw up. What would he even throw up? Bile? He hadn’t eaten anything all day.

Fuck… Kit let out another moan of pain, the terrible clanging pain of it quieting from the hammer on an anvil level pounding. Slowly, dreadfully slowly, Kit sat back on his hips, raising his head to try and sit vertically. He shivered as he set his shoulders against his bed frame, his sweat freezing on his skin, teeth chattering as he looked to his clock.

6.15 a.m.

He needed to get something, painkillers something, water— anything. He grabbed his shirt by the collar and yanked it up over his head, throwing it down beside him on the floor. It landed with a heavy wet slap, but Kit didn’t care. He did the same with his bottoms and pushed himself to his feet, his muscles aching as he walked to his wardrobe and grabbed some fresh pyjamas, pulling them on. Some fresh socks.

The house was almost expectant, eerie, as Kit opened his door and padded down the hall, hand on the railing as he took the stairs. As if the house had been woken with Kit’s nightmare or… something. It felt like he had eyes on him, but he didn’t care enough to investigate the shadows peeking at him in his mind.

He grabbed the painkillers, filled a glass with water and turned to walk back up the stairs. Rain pattered heavy against the roof, wind creaking the gutters and trees outside. The changing shadows were just that, shadows as the dawn tried to yawn awake. The skies oppressed with the rainclouds and poor weather, and Kit fell asleep before first light broke, curling up in Mentor’s bed, arms wrapped around himself, shivering to sleep while the house’s shadows watched over him.

Kit woke again later with that same ear shattering headache that drew a cry from his throat. He didn’t wake in a cold sweat like last time, but the headache was somehow worse like a migraine. The pressure was unbelievable and it felt as if someone had reached inside his skull and took his brain, squeezing it in the palm of their hands like putty and Kit opened his eyes as a single name crossed his mind: Ambrose.

“Motherfucker,” Kit ground out as he got his feet on the ground, the room swaying as he stood. Shit… where did he leave his phone? Kit’s feet stumbled forward just before he reached the door, hand flying out to catch himself on the wall. He wasn’t going to make it downstairs if Ambrose didn’t at least let up a bit.

I’m coming! Kit thought as loud as he could, over the thunderous rolling of sound and pressure. He didn’t even know if Ambrose’s power worked like that. How far was his reach? Could he even hear Kit’s thoughts from so far away? Kit paused at the railing of the stairs, white knuckled grip keeping him upright.

The headache lessened in pressure, but remained there in the back of his mind, thrumming impatient for Kit to reach his phone. Kit walked down the stairs carefully, dreading every step closer he got to his phone. He turned it on and waited for the screen to reboot. There’s no way Ambrose knew where he was, did he? Did he have to be close for his power to work? Or did it just matter that he was in the city — could his reach be that strong?

Kit had only put his pin to unlock the phone in when Ambrose’s name flashed across his phone. Kit answered after the fourth ring, just to piss him off.

“What?”

“Christopher!”

“My name’s not Christopher, Rosey.”

“Fine, Mallory,” Ambrose drawled, far too chirper for Kit who was just dragged out of bed. “You slept in.”

“I would have slept longer if you weren’t so fucking needy.”

“I did knock first, but you weren’t answering your door.”

Kit froze, turning his head to the front door. “I didn’t hear you,” Kit said, voice thankfully even.

“That’s fine. You can see why I went to plan B then. Just let me in now, it’s cold outside.”

Kit didn’t answer. A beat passed between them. Then, “Kit. I’m waiting.”

Kit licked his lips. “Can you even force me over the phone?”

Ambrose laughed a cold, humourless chuckle. He didn’t answer, instead he said: “Kit, open the front door.”

Apparently he could. Kit felt his feet carry him forward, his heart thundering in his ears, because what if Ambrose knew where he was? What if he was waiting outside that door? Kit didn’t want him in his house. His childhood home, where he had countless memories with Mentor.

Kit swallowed hard as his hand settled on the lock. It clicked open and Kit opened the door. He let out a small laugh as he did, seeing his porch empty of any sadistic villain.

“Kit, I’m getting impatient.”

“I opened the door, Rosey,” Kit told him. Kit felt a sudden sharp streak run through his mind, as if searching for a lie.

“I told you that you weren’t allowed to run, or disappear,” Ambrose said. Kit could hear the cold anger in his voice and could imagine Ambrose’s face right now.

“Maybe you’re losing your touch, Omen,” Kit said with a laugh. “Better luck next time. I’m going back to bed.”

“Kit—!”

“Bye, Rosey. Have a nice day.”

Kit pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up on the bastard when Ambrose’s voice rang out again. “Do you want me to find that water Hero instead, Kit? Oh, what was their name? Tides?”

Kit’s thumb hovered over the red end call button, his heart hammering against his chest. He should hang up. He should hang up. He wanted to hang up. Hasn’t he suffered enough? Wasn’t it somebody else’s turn to suffer the sadist?

His hand was shaking and he wanted to scream. Just end the call! It’s not your fault what a fucking Villain does. You can’t control his actions. Nobody would ever know that you could’ve saved Tides, it would be a tragic accident and—

Mentor’s face flashed through Kit’s mind and he balled his free hand into a fist at his side. Did he really want to have to visit two people in hospital, especially when he could have prevented one of them from being there in the first place?

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick—”

“Fine!” Kit spat into the phone. He could almost see Ambrose’s horrible smile.

“If you are not at your apartment in an hour, I will make good on my threat, Mallory. See you soon.”

Ambrose hung up. Kit stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone and cursed, slamming the door shut and letting out a long, guttural: “FUCK!”

His voice crackled and echoed with electricity, his phone like a battery in his hand that he was draining. He let out a breath, straightening and focused on moving the charge back into his phone until the screen blinked up at him.

Fuck, at this rate he would need to wear power dampeners just to ensure he didn’t cause any power outages on the way back to his apartment. His apartment… His apartment where Ambrose was waiting, and probably pissed off.

God… how long had he been free of the bastard? Two, three days? Such a short amount of peace, and the first day Kit had spent most of it sleeping! He didn’t even consider enjoying it because exhaustion had forced him into bed.

Kit had a quick shower and left, taking the metro back to his apartment. The entire way his mind raced with the sheer power that Ambrose possessed. How was any Hero ever meant to beat him? To defeat him?

A smaller voice in his mind echoed a poignant: how will I ever defeat him?

But… No, if Ambrose was really as strong as he wanted Kit to believe then he would have taken over the city at any given moment. He could have wiped the minds of the city’s entire population and made them think that Ambrose was the number one hero, and why stop there? Why not the mayor? Or something else more grandiose and Ambrose-y.

No… There’s no way Ambrose would just let the world be if he could do that on such scale. There had to be something local about his ability. Some restraint. Something that stops him from controlling whoever he wants, whenever he wants.

The information didn’t stop his palms from sweating, or the dread from building in his stomach as he came to his stop. The doors opened with a soft whoosh and a creak and Kit stepped out into the underground. His apartment was a five minute walk from here.

He checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes. He could hang back for a minute, maybe dawdle away some of the time so he wouldn’t have to see Ambrose again for as long as he possibly could. Then Mentor flashed through his mind again and he found himself ascending the steps to street level and walking towards his apartment.

Towards Ambrose.

Towards Omen.

Towards his tormentor.

His heart shudders to a stop when he sees Ambrose in his charcoal overcoat he wore the first day Kit met him on the docks. No doubt he was wearing some expensive suit beneath.

He looked so out of place in front of Kit’s small white block of apartments. He looked too much like a stranger, a foreigner who wasn’t properly acquainted with the style this side of town — as if Ambrose had just walked the wrong side of the river and was about to knock for directions.

Kit’s apartment was on the rougher side of the city because he liked it that way, and too many times he had seen people who dressed like Ambrose getting jumped or mugged on the street in certain alleyways.

Kit almost scoffed at the thought of someone jumping Ambrose. He pitied the imaginary thief who would cross Ambrose’s path.

You crossed my path, Kit.

Kit blinked then stopped. Ambrose was standing on the small path that led up to Kit’s apartment on the second floor. His back was turned to Kit, standing relaxed beside the railing. Ambrose knew that he was here and he didn’t turn his head to show he knew.

You’re so dramatic.

Ambrose turned his head this time, his dark eyes capturing Kit’s and smiling. Tick, tock, tick—

Kit started walking after that. He didn’t want to give the bastard any reason to go after Tides. He checked his phone for the time to see he still had four minutes. He took a breath as he ascended the steps to where Ambrose stood waiting patiently.

Ambrose regarded him with a cool look. “Where were you?”

“Not here.”

Ambrose stared at him for a beat. Then he said, “fine. Open the door.”

Kit didn’t fight his body as it obeyed the command. To be honest he was happy he didn’t have to look at Ambrose for those few precious seconds, his alabaster skin closer to some statue than an actual human.

The lock opened with a click. Kit pushed down on the handle and the moment the door cracked open, Ambrose shoved him inside. Kit stumbled forward, half expecting the attack and turned to face Ambrose once he regained his footing.

Ambrose smiled coldly at him, closing the door behind him and locking it again. “Kit,” he said with a drawn out sigh. “I trusted you to obey the terms of our deal.”

“No, you forced me to obey the terms of our deal,” Kit snapped in reply. “And if you fucked up the terms in the first place, it’s not my fault.”

Ambrose took a step forward, and Kit fought himself not to match it with one back. “Where were you, Kit?”

“If you thought I was just going to wait here like a little puppy for you to drop in whenever you feel like it and torture me, you are sorely mistaken.”

Ambrose clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I knew it was too premature to trust you with your freedom. You’re still so defiant. What have you got left to prove?”

“If you think I’m just going to obey every command you—”

“Get on your knees.”

Kit’s knees hit the floor before he realised what happened. He had only begun to push himself up when Ambrose’s black eyes flashed above him, his lips that horrible red against his marble skin. “Stay on your knees.”

“You’re a fucking—”

“Bark.”

Kit did his best imitation of a dog. He could feel the humiliation crawl pink up his neck at the sound.

“Look at me,” Ambrose said, and Kit glared up at him, fists balling by his sides. “See how you obey every command for me? You’re so good at it, like a little puppy.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“I wouldn’t have had to do any of this if you just told me where you were hiding.”

Kit’s lips curled back into a snarl. “Make me!”

Ambrose clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and walked past Kit. Kit turned his head, but stared back at the door when Ambrose told him to not turn around. He could hear Ambrose taking his jacket off behind him and laying it somewhere. Then he heard the sound of his tap turning on, and a moment later the click of the kettle.

Kit’s lips curled up viciously, his nose crinkling at the sound. What the fuck was Ambrose doing?! It’s ridiculous. Well fuck that. Fuck him. Kit reached for the electricity in his kettle and pulled it from the plug. The kettle stopped thrumming. Ambrose sighed behind Kit and shoes clacking off the wooden floors got closer and closer until Kit could feel Ambrose standing behind him.

“Show me your electricity,” said Ambrose.

“No,” Kit said.

“Show me your electricity, Kit,” Ambrose said again, and this time against his will, Kit’s fingers clicked the spark into his hand and he held up his arm for Ambrose to inspect.

Ambrose hummed behind him. “It’s not red anymore.” Ambrose walked around Kit to face him, and stared down into his eyes. “Hmm.”

“What?” Kit snapped.

Ambrose reached his hand forward and pressed his finger to Kit’s forehead. Kit shivered as the familiar ice cold sludge of Ambrose’s power flooded his brain and his electricity stopped cackling in his hand. The kettle thrummed to life again, back to boiling and Kit stared mutinously ahead at his floor.

“Good lad. You haven’t forgotten the futility of struggling in my absence it seems. You can stand up now.”

Ambrose walked back to the kitchen, but Kit stayed on his knees for another moment before getting to his feet. He walked to his table and sat down at it, running a hand down his face as he watched Ambrose get two mugs from the cupboard and grab the instant coffee.

He hated seeing him. He hated seeing Ambrose so at home in his apartment, as if they were roommates or friends. He wanted so bad to just murder him in that second, but the heaviness of being back here, under Ambrose’s control it was… exhausting. Kit was so tired and it hadn’t been what? Ten minutes yet? Twenty?

“You should really think about getting a cafetière Kit. The coffee is better than instant.”

“Sure, i’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh come on now, you’re not already defeated are you? Are you sulking?”

“Sure.”

Ambrose hummed his disapproval but didn’t say anything else in reply. He walked to the fridge and opened the door, his eyes going to the milk and grabbing it. He frowned staring down at the expiry date. The 21st… that was four… five days ago? Ambrose’s frown deepened as he put the milk back in the fridge and closed the door. His eyes skimming over Kit at his table, expression dazed.

He hadn’t been home in days, or he would have noticed his expired milk. Interesting.

Kit only snapped back into reality when Ambrose placed a cup of steaming black liquid in front of him. “Thanks.”

“Oh Kit, don’t be so glum. This was our deal, right? Your life for a couple visits a week.”

Kit let out a deep sigh as he grabbed his mug closer and stared down into his coffee. Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t want this. He wanted Kit to have more life, not less.

“So,” Ambrose began, schooling his features into a more neutral expression. “Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“My life, right?” Kit said, his eyes finally raising to meet Ambrose’s black ones. “That means you don’t ask about it.”

“Oh come on, tell me what you did while I was gone. The first thing you did.”

Kit immediately thought of his minor breakdown the second Ambrose left and he grimaced, setting his lips into a thin line and bringing the mug into his hands letting it hover just beside his lips.

“I went for a run.”

“And how was your run?”

“It felt… good.” Kit wasn’t lying. The run was the one thing that kept him sane after his minor meltdown. He hoped Ambrose was true to his word and staying out of his mind. Otherwise he would see everything… just in case Kit tried his best to make his mind go blank.

“Now, see? It felt good. I give you back your life, your autonomy in return for a few visits, I’m not unreasonable Kit.”

Kit scoffed and took a sip of his coffee.

“What else did you do? Where did you go?”

Kit stared down at his coffee. Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Do I have to force everything out of you, Kit? I have no qualms about using my powers on you as you know. In fact, I quite enjoy it.”

“I went to see my mentor,” Kit snapped, eyes locking onto Ambrose’s black ones. “Happy now?”

Ambrose smiled. “Ecstatic. How is Superhero?”

Kit’s grip tightened on his mug of coffee. Ambrose raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Was Superhero not your mentor?”

Kit set his jaw and looked away. Ambrose wouldn’t know, of course he wouldn’t know. As far as Ambrose knew, Mentor was before Kit’s time. Before Kit ever became a hero. Ambrose probably thought Kit came up through the ranks with Superhero, not Mentor.

And if that’s true then that means Ambrose wouldn’t know what Mentor meant to Kit, and Kit liked it better that way.

“I thought I said I don’t want to talk about my life outside of you,” he said instead of telling Ambrose to fuck off.

Ambrose hummed. “Look at me, Kit.”

Kit obeyed, swallowing as his eyes found Ambrose’s. The two black pools seemed to swirl like a storm, drawing Kit further and further in until he was lost in their abyss.

“I don’t want—”

“I don’t care,” Ambrose cut in, effectively silencing Kit’s protests. “Answer me honestly, is Superhero your mentor?”

“Why do you care?!” Kit snarled.

The corner of Ambrose’s lips tilted up slightly. “I care because you’re trying to hide something from me, and you know how much I love—”

“Torturing people, yeah I know.”

Ambrose sat back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders casually. “Always the hard way.”

Kit’s brows furrowed at the villain. Shit.

“Tell me who your mentor is, Kit.”

“Why?” Kit asked, anger leaking from his voice, replaced with a guarded almost pleading sadness.

“Because you’re protesting too much.”

“Please,” Kit whispered then froze. Ambrose froze too. Then his lips turned up into his smirk and Kit knew Ambrose was going to force him to tell him about Mentor.

“Tell me who-”

It was Kit’s turn to cut Ambrose off. “Mentor,” he ground out through gritted teeth. Ambrose’s eyes widened slightly, his eyebrows twitching up in surprise, his lips slightly parted, froze mid-sentence.

A moment of silence passed between them. The moment turned into a minute, and Kit just closed his eyes and drank his coffee in the silence. He could feel and hear the cogs working in Ambrose’s head trying to match the timelines up and coming up blank.

“You’re joking,” Ambrose said eventually. Kit looked away, it felt as if someone had a hand around their heart and squeezed it. “Oh. I see. You’re not joking… but Mentor was Superhero before—”

“Yeah,” said Kit. “I know.”

“Then—”

Kit’s scoff cut Ambrose off, his eyes going back to Ambrose’s. “What? You want my whole tragic backstory, Rosey?” He asked with a sardonic smile. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Mallory, I—”

“Didn’t know?” Kit supplied, his voice rising in pitch. “You didn’t know? Does it look like I give two shits about what you know or not?! I don’t need your false pity, or your remorse for your actions, Omen, because we both know you don’t mean it.”

Ambrose’s expression darkened. His features schooled into neutrality, but Kit could read him by now. The subtle too-tight wind of his jaw, the coolness in his eyes, Ambrose was pissed and he was about to take it out on Kit. Honestly? Kit didn’t care. He preferred it when Ambrose was cruel to him, at least then he didn’t have to think about Ambrose possibly having human emotions, or being human at all.

When Ambrose was hurting Kit he was just a villain, and Kit could hate him completely without second guessing himself.

Ambrose stood up and Kit braced himself for impact, whatever it was. Then Ambrose grabbed his jacket, and walked towards Kit’s front door. Kit frowned, staring after the villain. “Hey! Where’re—”

“I’ll see you later, Kit.”

The door opened and closed. Kit flinched, his heart pounding in his chest and his thoughts racing through his brain.

Mainly: what the hell was that all about?

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @beatenbruisedandbloody @404lunar1216 @whumpyworld @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper r @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl l @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast t @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland @mononeigbour @lovethiswriting

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