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chaotic-orphan · 3 months

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Febuwhump: Day Four

“Obedience” — @febuwhump prompt!

If this doesn’t have Ambrose’s name written all over it >:)

Intoxicating Fear — part Xi

Read part one here

Continued from here

TW: forced to obey, mentions of SH, SH implied and referred to, mentions of scars, past Whump implied, past sh implied, past sh inferred, kidnapped Whumpee, captive Whumpee, sadistic whumper,

*~*~*~*~*

Kit walked out of his room a few hours later, looking worse off than before he went in, but Ambrose didn’t question him as he walked over to the kettle and filled it with water. He just sat at the table, watching him as he moved about, doing his best to ignore Ambrose’s stares.

Ambrose had Kit’s phone in between his thumb and index finger, using his fourth finger to twirl it slowly, in a controlled motion over itself and back again.

Kit took a mug out from the cupboard above the counter, spooned three spoons of coffee into a cup clanging the metal spoon into the mug and turning to face Ambrose. He was wedged in the corner, crossing his arms over his chest as he shrugged and asked: “what?”

Ambrose smiled, “what do you mean what?”

“Don’t play coy, Ambrose,” Kit said with a groan, wiping a hand down his face. “It doesn’t suit you. I can hear your cogs turning in your brain.”

Ambrose’s smile turned coy, “isn’t that my power, Mallory?”

Kit scoffed and turned, throwing his hands in the air.

“Whatever,” he mumbled to himself as the kettle boiled, the switch flipping up as the water rumbled soothingly within. “I’ll probably find out soon enough anyway.”

Ambrose’s smile fell when Kit turned his back, his eyebrows drawing together in quiet contemplation, whether to broach the subject or not.

“I’ve been thinking Kit,” Ambrose said after a while.

“Uh-oh,” said Kit, stirring his coffee.

Ambrose smiled, despite himself, at Kit’s inability to shut up sometimes. Kit turned again, steaming hot cup cradled between his palms as he regarded Ambrose with an impassive expression.

“Should I be worried?” Kit asked, taking a tentative sip.

Ambrose let out a soft laugh. “No. It’s actually something that could benefit both of us,” said Ambrose. Kit’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling, then immediately pinched themselves down into a frown, suspicious and on guard immediately.

“I know,” said Ambrose. “You have every right to be skeptical, but I think… after recent events that we should consider a way to do things more effectively.”

Kit’s lips curled back into a snarl, like that of a stray dogs. “You mean you want to be more efficient in how you torture me?!”

“No,” Ambrose said, dark eyes meeting Kit’s light ones, bright with anger. “I think we should be able to have a conversation without getting defensive.”

Kit scoffed, rolling his eyes to the sky. “I wonder, god, gee Ambrose, you’re right. I wonder why the fuck we can’t be civil with each other. It’s a real head scratcher, huh?”

Ambrose’s voice took an edge to it and Kit’s mockery fell vanished in their throat.

“There is no reason we can’t both somehow get along.”

“I don’t know, Rosy,” Kit said, which drew a cutting stare from Ambrose. “Somehow getting along with my torturer is not on my bingo card this year.”

Ambrose laughed. He laughed a moment too long at Kit’s outburst, before he settled his gaze on Kit again and his entire expression went blank like the fucking psychopath he was.

“I could take every single freedom from you, Kit,” said Ambrose, voice full of sadistic promise. Kit swallowed hard, and covered it up with a sip of his coffee. “I could have you on your knees right now begging me to hurt you again—“

“You would just love that wouldn’t you?” Kit snapped. Ambrose inclined his head at Kit, a warning, so Kit shut up.

“The truth of the matter is that I don’t want you to be some drooling, half formed thing,” Ambrose said, leaving the phone on the table and getting to his feet. Kit’s expression faltered for a moment, fear flashing across his features before schooling them neutral again.

Ambrose approached slowly. Kit took an unconscious step back but was quickly reminded that he was standing in the corner of his kitchenette and silently cursed himself for cornering himself.

“I want you to struggle and fight me, otherwise you wouldn’t be as entertaining,” he said getting closer and closer. Kit tightened his grip on the mug to stop his hands from shaking. “I want you to have your free will and be, well, Kit, because you are the most fun I’ve ever had.”

Kit swallowed, wanting to look away but too scared to do it. “Glad to be of service.”

“See?” Ambrose said, eyes bright and voice brighter as he stood in front of Kit, forcing Kit to stare up at him. “You just can’t help yourself.”

Something flittered across Ambrose’s face that Kit couldn’t quite identify. “Your defiance is what makes you so fun, but, it’s tiring subduing you all the time.”

Kit didn’t dare speak, no matter how much he wanted to. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when Ambrose put his hands on the edge of the counters boxing Kit in more. Ambrose leaned in, teeth bared in a wolfish smile as Kit’s eyes widened and he leaned back awkwardly to try and keep some space between him and his tormentor.

“See? That fear,” Ambrose whispered, as if he was saying a prayer, eyes searching Kit’s face and drinking in every last detail, every minute wince or flinch or hint of discomfort. “You just can’t bury it no matter how hard you try to hide it from me. It’s commendable really, but, this doesn’t have to be just me benefiting from this relationship.”

“Relationship?!” Kit breathed with a scoff, disgust written across his face and lacing every syllable. “I want nothing to do with you!”

“But wouldn’t you enjoy your life a bit more if there were days where I didn’t have to wrestle every piece of your defiance from your body?”

The words left Kit speechless. His chest rising and falling in time with Ambrose’s. The thought of not having to worry about Ambrose’s power invading his mind sounded too good to be true, so foreign. How long had it been since Kit didn’t have to worry about Ambrose torturing him for fun? To worry about what he was going to say in case it flipped a switch in Ambrose’s brain and made him hurt Kit.

Kit was tired. He was exhausted. Life before Ambrose seemed like a dream, not a reality. He missed being ignorant. He missed not having to be terrified every day.

Ambrose got his answer when Kit’s shoulders dropped.

“See? You want it just as much as I do.”

Ambrose leaned back, backing out of Kit’s space and allowing him to stand properly again. Kit’s eyes dropped to the floor as shame flooded his system.

Deferring to a Villain?! Who was he? He was so weak, how could he kid himself into being a Hero when he couldn’t even fight a Villain for himself?!

“What do you suggest?” Kit asked, voice quiet and broken. How could thoughts of freedom take this much life from his body?! The guilt burned red up Kit’s neck, but he couldn’t not concede. He was exhausted. He just wanted a little semblance of normalcy, and if that price was whatever Ambrose named then so be it.

“Your… obedience,” Ambrose said. The words hit Kit in the chest harder than a kick from a horse. His head snapped up, eyes locking onto Ambrose’s in accusation.

“You want my consent to hurt me?!” Kit barked out with a humourless laugh. “No. Absolutely not.”

Ambrose rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Would you just hear me out before making a judgement?”

Kit grit his teeth behind closed lips and nodded.

“I was thinking about it all. The amount of power I have to use to subdue you everyday, not letting you use your power, not letting you leave the house. It doesn’t all happen naturally. My power’s working overtime 24/7 with you. It’s getting exhausting.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Oh boo-fucking-who, he thought, torturing someone takes effort, poor Ambrose.

“So I came up with a proposition if you dare to consider it. I will leave you alone for most of the week,” he said, and Kit’s heart stuttered to a stop. It must have shown on his face given Ambrose’s smirk. “I will pop in sometimes, only two or three times a week. All I ask if that you obey this little schedule change without fighting me.”

Kit’s words came out breathless, “so you do want me to consent to being tortured,” he said, an unreadable expression screwing his face up tight.

“Think of it more as consent to not being tortured as you are now,” said Ambrose taking a step closer, closing the gap between them again. He placed a hand on Kit’s cheek, thumb hooked under his chin and tilted Kit’s head up. Dark eyes searching Kit’s. “Don’t you want to be free of me, even if just for a little while?”

Kit’s bottom lip trembled. He did, he wanted it more than anything. He wanted to have some kind of normal life even if it meant agreeing to this outrageous condition. He missed his life, he missed Superhero and his job. He missed grocery shopping and late nights with his friends. He missed being able to make decisions for himself.

“What else does obedience entail?” Kit asked, spitting the word obedience as if it was some monstrous creature.

Ambrose’s eyes shined a little at the question. “It means that when I do come and see you, you drop everything. You can still fight me, still defy me, curse me out do whatever you need to — but you simply accept it.”

Kit worried his bottom lip, eyes going faraway as he considered Ambrose’s proposal. Ambrose stepped away again, turning to lean against the opposite counter in the kitchenette. He crossed his arms over his chest again, regarding Kit as he mulled everything over.

“I can see you’re conflicted, Kit, so let me sweeten the deal,” that got Kit’s hesitant eyes back on Ambrose. “If you agree to this, I won’t attack another Hero.”

It seemed as if all air left Kit’s lungs, like an anvil had fallen from the sky and landed on Kit’s shoulders weighing them down suddenly. This was Ambrose’s ultimate cruelty. Appealing to Kit’s heroic nature, forcing him to be a martyr and shoulder the burden of Ambrose’s torment to save other heroes, the people he loves. His friends, hell, at this point his family.

Kit swallowed hard. He didn’t want to be heroic, he didn’t want to shoulder this unfair burden. He didn’t want to protect everyone from this torture, he wanted… he just wanted to be left alone.

If you agree to this, I won’t attack another hero.

Which really was a double edged sword.

If you don’t agree to this, I will attack another hero. Take another Hero hostage, do everything I’ve done to you and more. Break them, and when they break I will let you know that it’s all because you didn’t take my deal. Then Ambrose would probably present the deal to Kit again and Kit would take it, the guilt forcing his hand.

“I can have a normal life?” Kit asked, not meeting Ambrose’s gaze.

“Semi-normal, but I can’t see why not,” Ambrose replied.

“And I’m guessing I can’t tell anyone about our little arrangement?” Kit asked, voice mutinous. Ambrose stepped closer and put a hand on Kit’s shoulder. Kit suppressed a flinch, he hated Ambrose touching him. Kit glared up at Ambrose.

“If you like I can make you forget about it all until you see my face, then you could really live a life.”

“In ignorance,” Kit spat, batting Ambrose’a hand away. “No thanks. I’d rather know what’s coming than be caught unaware again.”

Ambrose smirked. “Fine by me.”

Kit licked his lips, passing his coffee cup into his left hand before extending his right to Ambrose. “Fine then. Deal.”

“Ah,” Ambrose said, holding up a finger, “I think we should try this out before you accept.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed and let out a soft tch of disapproval. He knew Ambrose wasn’t going to make it as easy as he made it out to be.

“You’re already reneging on your deal,” Kit said, looking to the side and taking a long, slow sip of his coffee. Ambrose stepped back again to lean against the opposite counter.

“I’m not, just consider this a test,” said Ambrose thoughtfully, rolling the words around his mouth thoughtfully before speaking. Kit rolled his eyes and set his mug down on the countertop with a dull thud.

He shrugged his shoulders and said: “fine. What do you want me to do?”

Ambrose’s eyes lit up in that eerie way they did when he got an awful idea to further humiliate or caused Kit pain.

“Let’s start with something easy,” said Ambrose simply, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets. “How about… sit?”

Kit scoffed and walked towards the chair beside the table. Ambrose’s voice stopped him again with a soft, “Ah.”

“What?” Kit demanded. “You said sit. I’m going to sit.”

“I didn’t say sit on a chair, Mallory.”

Kit’s eyes burned as well as the tips of his ears, shoulders bunched up. He clenched his fists at his sides and turned to face Ambrose again.

“What? You want me to sit on the ground? Like a dog?”

“Your words,” said Ambrose with an innocent smile. “Not mine.”

Kit grit his teeth, glaring up at Ambrose and keeping eye contact as he bent his knee and dropped to the ground. He planted his butt firmly on the ground and crossed his legs.

“Now,” Kit spat. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Good,” said Kit, moving to get to his feet again. Ambrose pressed a boot down on Kit’s ankle to stop him from getting up. Kit clenched his fists tight but settled himself back onto the ground.

“I didn’t say you could get up, Mallory,” Ambrose chides, removing his foot from Kit’s ankle.

Kit crossed his arms across his chest in a huff like a child throwing a tantrum but he didn’t care. He didn’t care what Ambrose thought of him.

“You’re such a dick,” said Kit, grumpy.

“Look at you, you’re adorable. Are you pouting?”

Kit bared his teeth up at Ambrose in reply. “Okay, you can stand up now,” said Ambrose.

Kit scoffed and remained stubbornly on the floor. “Fuck you.”

Ambrose shrugged theatrically. “Fine, I guess I was expecting too much of you when I proposed my deal.”

An obvious ploy for Kit to protest, but still Kit couldn’t do anything but protest. The thought of freedom… it was too enticing to say no to.

“Wait,” Kit grumbled, casting his eyes to the floor as his mind screamed at him for obeying Ambrose at all. Of his own free will!“Just… wait.”

Kit swallowed hard and got to his feet, still not meeting Ambrose’s hungry stare. “Kit,” Ambrose said, but Kit still didn’t look at him.

“Kit, look at me.”

Kit felt his blood flood his cheeks with humiliation as he raised his head to meet Ambrose’s gaze. His hands were shaking, with anger or frustration or shame Kit didn’t know, but he knew they were shaking and that he didn’t want them to.

“Show me your scars,” said Ambrose.

Kit took a step backwards, as if Ambrose had just assaulted him. His lips curled up and he cut his hand through the air as if to say enough.

“No,” Kit said, voice thick. “No.”

Ambrose tilted his head to the side. “Will I have to say everything twice, Mallory?”

“You are fucking loving this aren’t you?” Kit hissed, throwing his hands up in a helpless sort of gesture. “Whether I agree to your deal or not it doesn’t matter because you still get to hurt me like this. You’re fucking sick. You disgust me.”

Ambrose stared at Kit’s emotional outburst like one would judging the weather from their bedroom window in the morning. “Do I have to say it again, or are you flat out refusing?”

“Fine!” Kit snapped, voice higher, almost hysterical. Kit reached up to grab the collar of his shirt and hoisted it over his head to reveal his back, not taking it off all the way. He turned his back to Ambrose and said: “that one on my left shoulder? That’s from a nasty run in with Other Villain when Another Hero called for aid on a mission. I got it from his fucking scythe if you can believe it—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Here,” said Kit, turning again and shrugging his shirt back on before lifting the bottom of it to reveal the scar just above his hip. It wasn’t one but three. “Villain’s whip,” Kit told Ambrose. “It stung like a bitch but she only ever caught me once with it.”

Kit flung his shirt down and grinned at Ambrose. “There, Rosy. I showed you my scars. I obeyed your fucking command. Are you happy?”

Ambrose hummed in the back of his throat. “We must be spending too much time together, Mallory. You’re starting to understand the power of words.”

Kit’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You learn to when your freedom is limited by them.”

Ambrose didn’t say anything for a moment. He pursed his lips together, taking his hands from his pockets.

“Perhaps the deal was too premature,” Ambrose said. Kit’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, his throat suddenly dry at the prospect of losing his chance at a semi-normal life again. “I’m sorry Kit,” said Ambrose. He meant it too, because he turned to go but Kit’s hand shot out before he could stop himself and grabbed Ambrose’s arm stopping him from leaving.

“Kit?” Ambrose asked, looking down at the hand on his arm then at Kit’s face which was hidden behind his hair, his head tilted down.

“Okay,” Kit whispered. “I’ll show you… you just… you have to use the right words.”

Ambrose stiffened under Kit. “Which are?”

“You said show me your scars. The scars on my arm? They’re not mine,” Kit continued in that same grave, self-hating voice. He raised his head to meet Ambrose’s black eyes with his own haunted gaze. “They’re yours. I didn’t earn them, they mean nothing to me. My scars are mine, wholly mine. I got them.”

Kit ignored the way his voice cracked and let Ambrose go, rolling up his sleeve. “Not these. I didn’t get these, they were forced on me, much like you are. So there. Have I passed your fucking obedience training, or do you want me to bark?”

Ambrose couldn’t help but be a little impressed at Kit’s speech. He didn’t even look down at Kit’s arms the whole time that Kit spoke. He was too focused on the spark of defiance that defined Kit in his mind. The way it left a strange sort of glow to Kit’s features, made them brighter, more animated and life like. As if fighting back the rage he wanted to scream at Ambrose was going to energise other parts of his body.

He didn’t tremble once. He didn’t shake. Everything he said he was certain of, and he didn’t fear any retribution because of it. Ambrose wanted to see more of it, not less, and he feared if he kept Kit isolated and locked away from life forever that spark would dwindle down into nothing. He could search the entire planet ten times over and never find something like it again.

Ambrose smiled. “No Kit. You proved that you can do what you say.”

Kit’s eyes went to Ambrose’s with that same delicious conviction. Ambrose stuck his hand out and Kit shook it.

“I think we have a deal.”

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage roll call (tag-list, lmk if you wanna be added or removed <3 ): - @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @sunshiline-writes @burningkittypoet @honeyed-euphrates @sacredwrath @theonewithallthefixations @acer-gaysimpstuff @m3rakii @xxgalgurlxx @princess-bubble-blossom @blood-enthusiast @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @andtheysaidspeaknoww @dutifullykrispyland

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creepswrites · 1 year

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Slashers with a s/o who has a fear of needles or medical things in general please!!☆

SLASHERS with a GN! S/O who is afraid of needles and medical things!

MICHAEL MYERS

He's surprisingly understanding about it!

After years in hospitals himself, he's also a bit apprehensive about needles

He used to be subjected to a lot of medicines against his will so he's standing in solidarity with you

While he won't exactly go to the hospital with you if you have to, when you come back he'll actually initiate touch with you, holding your hand and touching your face

He'll let you cuddle him like a teddy bear if you need to

Michael's not the most emotional guy you know but you can tell he understands your fears when you vent to him about them

If you take medication that require you to do shots on yourself, Michael's apprehensive to help you out

Simply because it freaks you out as much as it freaks him out

Not that he'd let you see it, of course

He could be convinced to help out, so long as you promise to make his favorite for dinner that night

BO SINCLAIR

When you bring it up with him, its because you saw his room under the auto shop

Honestly, he'd been impressed the chair with straps on it, photos of his victims, and the clear signs of torture weren't what upset you

No, it was the syringes you saw on his tools tray

He'd teased you about it at first, but when he restrained you in his arms and threatened to poke you with one, so close to poking into your skin, he'd stopped when you started bawling

Lester had smacked him upside the head for it and he started taking it more seriously

Whenever guests were taken down to the little basement room, you avoided it like the plague. Not that you didn't before, you just had a greater reason to avoid it

After integrating into Ambrose, you didn't really see doctors anymore, but if you absolutely needed to, Bo would give you shots

He'd probably first try to pawn off the work on Vincent or Lester but when you pleaded with him, he caved

You were his biggest weakness and it made his heart clench to see how much you trusted him, despite everything

He even made sure the syringes in his dad's old office were put out of sight somewhere safe so you didn't have to see them

You avoided the office a lot anyways, it made your stomach hurt to be in

BILLY LOOMIS

Billy doesn't see the big deal, honestly

The two of you had been watching horror movies together, cuddled up on his couch, and you'd become incredibly distressed when one of the characters got injected with something

You'd buried your face into his neck with a sob and he paused the movie to make sure you were okay

Despite his low empathy, he didn't like seeing you cry, so you'd told him all about it

If you ever had to go to the hospital, Billy would comfort you when you saw him

He'd make sure to grab your favorite snacks and have a warm blanket ready at home

If you needed to self-administer shots, he'd happily offer to help

To be honest, he was a bit curious about it. He'd probably make a big show of it

But he'd be a bit flattered if you don't wince or cry when he does it. He thinks its because you trust him not to hurt you permanently

Billy would probably suggest "exposure therapy" via movies

When he noticed just how bad you'd shake and cry, he'd stop. He loved you, after all, but he always went for a solution before comfort

He made sure his movie suggestions going forward didn't have needles or hospitals as the main focus

LESLIE VERNON

Leslie's fine with it honestly! It doesn't bother him

When you have to pick him up from the morgue, though, he notices you shaking outside

It's not a hospital, but it's close. And you fucking hate it.

Leslie gives you a quick hug and is quick to get you out of there

But, because of his injuries, he needs your help with giving him shots

You're trembling and all but fainting when he asks, your fears completely slipping his mind until he sees your face

"Babe, looks like you've seen a ghost-?" And then it clicks

He's incredibly apologetic, reassuring you he can get Billy's help while you're reassuring him - albeit more shakily - that you can help him

After all, he'd do the same for you!

But he won't let you make yourself miserable for his sake, not at all

He shoos you to the bedroom to take care of himself and you cuddle with your pillow until he comes back

Leslie's idea of romance is laying with you in bed, drawing patterns on your skin with his fingers, telling you how he'll blow up every hospital ever so that you never feel uncomfortable

It's a little bit sweet...

#🔪 creeps writes #slasher x reader #slasher x s/o #michael myers x reader #bo sinclair x reader #billy loomis x reader #leslie vernon x reader

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bunny-yan · 10 months

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Can i ask a part 2 for yandere incubus?

TW: some minor language, mentions of intimate relations, no minors please —

You wanted to curse when you opened your eyes and the familiar inky black floor appeared to swallow your feet.

You’d fallen asleep at work. You knew you were at work because the last thing you remembered was going to the storage closet to put away some of the extra boxes that had been delivered and the next moment you were standing in this void.

It didn’t matter what time it was or where you were, the minute you went into an unconscious state you found yourself standing in this ominous alternate dimension.

You didn’t know why you were prone to falling asleep. It couldn’t be that you were tired. After spending time with the demon that continued to grate on your nerves, you’d wake up feeling more refreshed and light than you had ever felt in your life, not that you would thank him for it. You knew he would hold it over your head if you admitted it and there was a good chance he was already aware considering he plagued your mind with random chatter even when you were awake. You didn’t know how deep the connection ran, but you weren’t going to ask questions that could give him the upper hand. It would make him impossible to deal with.

You sighed, knowing better than to expect a peaceful encounter if you followed the little glowing, seemingly harmless creatures bouncing beneath the ground’s inky black surface. They were leading you to the master of this domain and yet you preferred his company to the nightmarish monsters that haunted you before.

You couldn’t imagine anyone that preferred being tortured endlessly.

It was a short walk.

A walk you wished had lasted longer because any hope at a civil, reasonable conversation evaporated into thin air when you saw Amrbose flitting around a kitchen with nothing but a pink frilly apron on. It was surreal enough, the stand-alone kitchen surrounded by a black void, but the sight of him, the sound of him humming took the cake.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you called out to him.

“Ambrose?”

The perky demon swiveled as if he hadn’t noticed you passing through the barrier, a shit-eating grin spreading across his cheeks as his eyes narrowed on your form.

“Oh, welcome back darling!” He approached with outstretched arms, crushing you in an embrace before planting a loud kiss on your mouth. “How was work today?”

You glared at him.

“I’m still at work.”

He laughed, releasing you before going back to the kitchen. He seemed to have no problem with his naked body almost being on full display, the cute bow in the back failing to cover anything of importance.

“I’m just getting dinner ready darling, it should be done in a minute. Would you like dinner? Or I could run you a bath? Or would you like-”

“Ambrose, can you please just send me back? I didn’t mean to fall asleep and I really don’t feel like dealing with you right now.”

He gasped, slamming the ladle down before picking up one of the glowing creatures and holding it close to his body.

“How could you say that? And in front of Junior!” His arms tightened and you felt panic when the golden creature began to look like a water balloon, primed to pop.

You rushed over, taking it from his arms. It was strange. It didn’t feel like you were holding anything at all. A golden feeler brushed against your cheek spreading warmth before the creature melted through your hands and fell through the ground’s surface.

Was it… alright? Did he kill it? A part of you knew your assumption was wrong, but you couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that something was wrong.

“You really are one fearless human.” Ambrose said, dropping the act momentarily to press a hand against your chest. You felt the chaotic swirl of emotions begin to disperse and the tension in your body rushed out of you like a flood. Your knees buckled, but his arm caught you around the waist to hold you upright. “You should be more careful dealing with things you have no knowledge of.”

“What was that?” you asked, feeling a slight headache and a splash of nausea.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t hostile. It would’ve consumed your soul and taken your place and I’m not interested in dealing with that again. Such an inconvenience.”

Your mouth dropped open as you looked up at him. That harmless looking creature could’ve consumed your soul? But it looked so, so harmless! You couldn’t sense any animosity in its glowing white eyes and the warmth felt strangely like a thank you rather than it searching for its next meal.

Wait… again?

“Is that an invitation, darling?” he asked, brushing a claw against your bottom lip.

You snapped your mouth shut, glaring at him as you pushed away from his grip. “I am not doing this right now! Send me back. If my boss catches me sleeping, I’m going to get fired.”

He pouted, leaning on the counter before drawing aimless shapes with his finger.

“Leaving so soon? Are you sure I couldn’t interest you in something?”

You slapped a hand over your nose and mouth right as he looked at you, his eyes shifted the pupil spreading to overwhelm the whites of his eyes. A hint of his true form, his pheromones seeped through and attacked you.

Ambrose had done this before. Your senses would flood in his scent and you would say and do things that you had never intended to. You weren’t going to be swept up in his pace. Not today. Not with your job on the line.

Backing away, you flipped him off. The closer you were, the more potent his pheromones.

“I’m trying!”

You rolled your eyes. He wouldn’t take you seriously. He was used to getting his way.

“Send me back!” Your voice was muffled behind your hand, taking away some of the strength behind your words, but it was better to be safe than a writhing mess who couldn’t remember your own name.

He frowned, eyebrows pinching together.

“No.” he said, crossing his arms.

“Ambrose, please.”

“I work, break my back, and slave away over this stove without so much as a thank you.”

Oh, god.

“You don’t greet me, show me any ounce of affection, or even try to show an interest in the meal I spent weeks preparing! I understand that your job is tough, but you need to leave your problems at the barrier. I don’t deserve to be treated like this!”

Best acting award goes to…

“I deserve sex! When and where I want it! I don’t want to be rushed into doing a satisfactory job. I want to take my time, build you to the brink, and crush your hopes and dreams before building you up all over again. On every surface I can think of. I want you to be unsure of what position you like the most so we can revisit each and every one before you come to the conclusion that all positions are your favorite when I’m taking point. I want to push your body to its limits and break them so we can do things you’ve never even had the courage to dream about.You won’t be worried about waking up or about some job. You’ll think of me and only me and give me the respect I deserve.”

You waited to see if there would be more, uncovering your face when he seemed content.

“Are you finished?”

He sniffed. “I could go on, but I find I’m more of a hands-on teacher.”

“If I eat, will you please send me back so I don’t get fired.”

He smiled, a smile that looked more like a smug sneer, but assented to your request.

You walked over to the makeshift kitchen, eyes drifting to the silent teapot that had been steaming since you’d gotten here. For the aesthetic, you supposed.

You peered into the large pot, frozen. Arms wrapped around you, but you couldn’t take you eyes away from the pink substance that was bubbling near the top.

“Are you insane?”

“It took me weeks to get this ready for you.” he said, sounding proud.

“I’m not eating this.”

“It isn’t becoming to go back on your word.”

“I’ll die.”

“Only temporarily.” he explained as if it made it any better.

During one of the happenstances that you weren’t too proud to remember, Ambrose had fed a drop of the substance to you and your body felt as if it had been lit on fire. Your body was blazing with heat and desire, something he enjoyed, but left you exhausted and in an otherworldly pain by the end of it.

“You were complaining about being tired all the time and I thought this would improve your stamina.”

“For how long?” the rhetoric question spilled out of your mouth. You panicked even thinking about how your body would feel if you attempted to consume a larger dose.

“Oh,” he said, voice lowering as he said in your ear, “We could go for months.”

You shook your head. He was insane.

Unfortunately for you, time didn’t move any differently in this dimension. Ambrose could alter time to slow down or stop altogether, but he complained that it took a portion of his focus that he’d rather use on other things.

“You’re insane and you can go fuck yourself if I lose my job and continue to do so until I find another one.”

“So as long as you don’t lose your job, I’m free to do what I’d like?”

He was a master at hearing only what he wanted to.

“Fine.” you said, knowing there was no point in arguing with the demon. It would only exhaust you and he always got his way. The sooner he was satiated, the sooner you could go back to being bored out of your mind. It made you wonder why you complained as much as you did, but something about his pompous personality rubbed you the wrong way. “Just make it quick.”

He grinned. “You know I won’t.”

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere x gn reader #yandere x darling #ask #yandere x reader #yandere male #gn reader #yan!ambrose #yandere incubus

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echo-goes-mmm · 4 months

Text

Ambrose and Elliot #25

Masterpost

Warnings: torture, murder

He sent Elliot to sleep in his bedroom. The poor thing was exhausted, and he needed a nap somewhere safe.

After a bit of prodding, Elliot had told him he couldn’t remember anything prior to ‘his old master’ and Horneswood might have some information.

Ambrose couldn’t imagine just… forgetting everything. They had to have done something to his mind. He wracked his brain as he prepped, but he couldn’t think of any natural substance that could erase twenty-odd years of memories.

Surely Elliot had a life before his captors. There was no way he would have run if there wasn’t something in his mind that knew the abuse wasn’t normal. Even if it was subconscious.

They’d find out soon enough. Elliot wanted to ask the bastard questions, and Ambrose would make sure he got truthful answers. He fished around in his jewelry box for the proper amulet.

He didn’t like using magic much; it felt like cheating. And after so many decades of shortcuts, it was nice to slow down and do things the long way.

This was not the time to do things the long way. Thank goodness he had kept all the magic trinkets and jewelry his husband had given him.

The amulet was buried under some rings, and it took him a moment to untangle the gold chain from the gemstones. It was an inconspicuous thing, a simple teardrop ruby framed in gold, but the unnatural weight gave it away.

The cold metal immediately warmed in his palm; it recognized him. He clasped the chain around his neck, slipping it under his shirt.

He couldn't remember what the enchantment was called, but it would let him know when someone was lying or not. A useful thing in an interrogation.

The rest of the preparations were easy. Ambrose rolled up his rugs and put them in the closet. He grabbed some rags and put them down before placing a worn chair in the middle of the room. He took old sheets and draped them over the furniture in case there was any blood spray.

He kept Elliot close by after his nap, occupying him with chores they could do side-by-side.

Until nightfall came.

He sent Elliot up to his room, and chatted nonchalantly with Mr. Horneswood- first name Sebastian (ew). He gently maneuvered the conversation, and found out that Horneswood was far from home, headed back after visiting relatives.

His disappearance wouldn’t be noticed for months, and like most missing persons, would be assumed dead by exposure or bandits.

Good.

He went ‘to bed’ after filing the information away in his mind.

Elliot had left the door unlocked for him, as planned, and he slipped inside.

“It’s just me,” he whispered to Elliot in the dark. He took his place by the door, hidden in the shadows. He unsheathed Janus’s dagger and waited.

It wasn’t long before he heard Sebastian whistling, the cocky shitbag.

The handle turned, and Ambrose kept still.

Horneswood entered the room, and in the dim light he saw him grin. Just a step further-

Ambrose lunged, clapping his hand over Sebastian’s mouth, the dagger to his neck.

“We need to have a chat.”

___________________

Ambrose pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside. He didn’t want any blood on it.

“I- What are you going to do to me?” whimpered Sebastian. He was tied down on the chair, rope securing his wrists to the armrests and his ankles to the wooden legs. Elliot sat on the sheet-covered couch, watching.

“I’m going to kill you, of course.” Ambrose traced the edge of his dagger.

“Please- please don’t- I haven’t done any-”

“Bullshit you haven’t,” he snarled. He swung the blade forward, stopping a scant half inch before his throat.

“Elliot has told me enough to know you deserve to die. How that happens depends on you.”

“Wha-”

“You’re going to answer Elliot’s questions. If you tell him the truth, I’ll be nice and make it quick,” he lied.

“And if you don’t… well. I’m sure you can guess.”

Sebastian’s eyes went wide, and he glanced at Elliot. Ambrose savored his ashen face, the shake in his hands, the quiver of his lip.

How Poetic.

“Look at me,” he commanded. Horneswood’s eyes snapped to his, and they were filled with terror.

“Go ahead, Ellie.”

Elliot looked unsure, but Ambrose gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s alright, love, he can’t hurt you.”

“You- you said Elliot was my new name. What was it before?” He asked quietly.

“I don’t- what do you mean?” Horneswood looked between them, tears in his eyes.

“Did- I mean. I had a name, didn’t I? Like real people.” Elliot wrung his hands, staring at the floor.

“Answer the question.” He pressed the blade to one of Sebastian’s thumbs, threatening it.

“I don’t remember- I’m sorry!” sobbed Sebastian. “Don’t!”

The amulet tingled and the air tasted sweet. It was the truth- he didn’t know.

“See?” teased Ambrose. “Not so hard.” He let up on the finger.

“How long was I with my old master?” asked Elliot, bolder than before.

“I- um- four years.”

Ambrose inhaled, tasting the air. Bitter. A lie. Too bad.

He dug the tip of the blade into Sebastian's forearm. The man screamed, and Ambrose twisted the dagger. He waited a moment.

“Try again.”

“Six!” he cried. “Please, stop!” Ambrose flicked the pommel, and Hornesood squealed like a stuck pig.

Six years. Elliot couldn’t have been more than sixteen, maybe eighteen. Sebastian was only covering his ass because sixteen was barely legal. Not that it mattered anymore; there were worse crimes afoot.

But even six years of torture surely couldn’t reduce his memory to ash.

No one forgot their own name in six years without help.

He looked over to Elliot, and clearly he hadn’t expected that.

“Is he lying?” he whispered, and Ambrose shook his head. Elliot looked away.

“I’m sorry,” whimpered Horneswood.

“Shut up,” snapped Ambrose. He grabbed Sebastian’s hair, yanking his head backwards. “What did you do to make him forget? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” protested Sebastian. Lie.

“You did more than nothing.” He pried a finger loose from Horneswood’s clenched fist, and severed it from his hand in one clean cut.

Sebastian screamed again, high and piercing.

“What did you do?”

Horneswood panted. “It wasn’t me! A mage- owed Ed a favor- some spell- so he’d obey-” he gasped, “Just stop! Please!”

Ambrose glanced at Elliot, who had tears running down his face.

Memory erasure. Elliot’s whole identity, his past, gone in a flash. Irreversible.

Fuck.

“I- I really was a person-” Elliot looked down at his hands. He covered his face, weeping.

Ambrose put down the knife.

“Ellie,” he wrapped his arms around him, “you’re still a person.”

Elliot tucked his head under his chin, pressing his face into his chest, clutching his shirt.

“I’m not,” he sobbed, “Not anymore.” Tears soaked his shirt, but he paid them no heed. “I just th-thought I was a-always this way. Meant to be- to serve. I- I didn’t know- he lied to me-”

Ambrose had already decided earlier that Horneswood wasn’t going to die easily, but now the idea of prolonging even further-

He couldn’t pass that up.

He rubbed Elliot’s back. “Do you want to ask him anything more, sweetheart?” Elliot shook his head. “Alright.”

“Can I sleep in your room?”

“Of course, love.” Ambrose looked over to see Sebastian. “But there might be some noise.” Horneswood’s head snapped up, and Ambrose grinned at him.

“I don’t mind, sir.”

Ambrose kissed Ellie’s forehead. “I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

Ambrose watched him go, the door clicking behind him.

“So,” he turned to Horneswood, “where do you want to start?”

___________________

“How do you feel about castration?”

“Fu’ you,” moaned Horneswood. It had become difficult for him to talk since Ambrose had pulled out a few of his teeth.

Blood dripped from the wounds on Sebastian's chest, and Ambrose considered the scars he’d seen on Elliot. He didn’t have a whip, but there were other ways. He grabbed the iron poker from the stand. Might as well finish him off. It was getting late.

“Unlikely. But I suppose you make a point. Once I cauterize it, you won’t feel the pain anyway.”

He untied Horneswood’s writs and shoved him forward onto the floor. He straddled his back, forcing his hands behind him. Once he was secured and tied, he cut away the ankle bindings.

Sebastian didn’t have the strength to move away, the blood loss weakening him.

Ambrose put the chair aside. He tapped the ground with the poker, right by his head, and Horneswood flinched.

“I’m going to beat you to death,” he announced. “Sound fair?”

“ ‘illing is a th’in.” panted Sebastian. “Your ‘od will ha’e you.”

A spark of anger flared in Ambrose’s chest. How dare he? “You know, I don’t think he’ll mind.” He clutched the poker, his knuckles turning white.

He brought the poker down on his ankles. Horneswood howled, his bones likely shattering.

Good.

The cracking of bones was sharp and loud, but it was nothing compared to the sounds of Sebastian’s wailing and piercing shrieks.

Ambrose made his way up Hornewood’s body, his feet, shins, thighs, pelvis (that got special attention), until finally his ribs.

He wheezed when Ambrose struck his lower chest, and he began to cough blood. It splattered on the floor, tiny droplets of scarlet.

Ambrose paused. He’d perforated his lung, a deadly wound, but if he stopped now it would be hours before Horneswood died. Hours of excruciating pain.

He wiped the poker down with a spare rag. He put it back on its stand.

He cleaned his dagger as Sebastian choked and coughed.

He put another log on the fire.

Ambrose went into the bathroom to wash up. He scrubbed his hands, washed his face, brushed his teeth as Horneswood sputtered on the floor.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and would be dead by morning.

___________________

Master Ambrose slipped into bed beside him, smelling faintly of blood. Elliot rolled over, burrowing into him. Ambrose was warm, and protective, and Elliot could finally relax.

“Is he dead?”

Ambrose wrapped an arm around him, a hand coming to pet his hair.

“Dying,” he said. “He won’t hurt you anymore.”

“’Kay. Thank you.” Ambrose pulled him close, humming, and the comfortable sound lulled him into a deep sleep.

taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @starfields08000 @littlespacecastle @mylovelyme @whump-cravings @zeewbee @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians @fanastyfinder @roblingoblin285 @whumpzone @snakebites-and-ink @astrokea @magdalena-writes @latenightcupsofcoffee @tobiaslut

#screaming cheering applauding #feeling good as shit in this chilis tonight #my writing #whump #ambrose and elliot #slavery whump #whumper turned whumpee

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bella-goths-wife · 2 years

Note

hello i love your writing, could you make one of the jealous slashers

Jealous slashers

Michael Myers

Michael always just casually stalks you all the time

He tells you it’s to make sure you don’t tell on him

But it’s actually to make sure your safe

He worries that even a small trip to go shopping means that your gonna get murdered in an alley and your body will be found in a dumpster

So one day when your out getting some new underwear when a man approached you

This is already a red flag for Michael because

Man?! Approach love of life?!!!! How dare he!

But when this man starts flirting with you he’s extra mad now

You were obviously uncomfortable so Michael moves closer in the shadows

Then the man picks up very revealing lingerie and says “you’d look great in this sweet cheeks” before tapping your butt

You saw Michael and brought the man closer to the exit so Michael could grab him

Michael killed him and then dragged you home

You found him to be weirdly affectionate all day and practically wouldn’t let you go

Bo Sinclair

In Ambrose everyone has their part to play

Yours was the seductress

You had to get any of the tourists back to the house by any means

But at other times you played the part of lonely wife of the mechanic

Times like these are when tourists walk in while you and Bo are having a romantic moment

But that really didn’t put some men off

Bo doesn’t get jealous if your playing the role of seductress and men hit on you, they don’t know your taken by Bo

But when men know your taken and still hit on you that’s when he gets extremely jealous

He’ll be all over you with hand holding, cheek kisses, neck kisses, holding you by your waist and yet the men won’t stop flirting with you

If you clearly show your uncomfortable he’ll step in and single the person out to kill

But if you act interested to lure the person back then he’ll still be jealous but he’ll remind himself that it’s an act

That doesn’t mean that later on in the bedroom you won’t be reminded of who you belong too

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent is unbelievably jealous

It’s one of the many obstacles that you’ll have to get over in the relationship

He doesn’t mean to be

He’s just extremely insecure because of his face

He believes that you deserve better than him and even when you reassured him that he’s the one you love, it won’t be enough

The main person he’s jealous of is Bo of course

He’s always seen Bo as the handsome one and the better one

So when you and Bo form a brother sister bond, it still makes Vincent riddled with absolute jealousy

When he sees you and Bo together he drags you away or distracts you to get your attention on him

He’s also jealous whenever you go visit your family

He just acts out of desperation to keep you with him and accuses you of cheating on him with Bo and that your actually leaving with him

Your hurt but you push through and talk out your feelings

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas isn’t really jealous, more insecure

He sees all the ‘guests’ the home has as better suited for you because he sees you as the most beautiful person alive

While he sees himself as a disgusting demon

So when another person hits on you, he’s more sad than anything

If your clearly uncomfortable with the advances the sadness he felt will quickly be replaced with anger

He’ll send a mean glare to the person and if they continue he’ll just have to get dinner prepared early ;)

If he tells you why he felt sad or ‘jealous’ the best thing to do is shower him in compliments

And maybe show him how much you love him in the bedroom later on ;)

Asa Emory

Being Asa’s pet means you help with the upkeep of all his test subjects

Your like his cute little assistant

So when your holding something for him or giving meals out and someone hits on you, he’s enraged

He’ll keep his demeanour cool, calm and collected

But his actions when torturing the person will show his inner feelings

How dare this person hit on his pet, His Pet

And you can guarantee your in for some rough sex later on

Tiffany valentine

This woman has so much confidence in herself and your relationship that she never really sees you leaving her for some random at a bar

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss her off when a gross drunk tries to touch you up

She has two types of jealousy

If its just a random drunk guy at a bar catcalling you she’s more angry that your being treated like dirt, so she’ll kill him off in the ally and comfort you

But if it’s a relatively attractive person or someone who fits her S/O’s type then she gets petty

Loudly calls you pet names so the person knows your taken

Will be all over you like a rash with affection

And if that person flirts with you then she’ll pull you into a strong kiss until that person walks away uncomfortable

Baby firefly

When she’s jealous she’s one hell of a bitch

You and her were having a lovely date at a dingy run down bar when a woman hit on you and bought you a drink

The girl would get some passive aggressive insults masked by a sweet voice for her actions

All while baby has her arm around you and snuggles her face into your neck

Will get into a full on bar fight if the girl continues to flirt with you against baby’s insults and threats

Otis driftwood

you guys had some guests over for dinner when a random guy from the group tried his luck with you

And bingo, he just bought himself a ticket to being brutally murdered and sewn to a half of an animal

When it first happens he pulls you into his lap as a warning sign

But if it continues he’ll offer to show the guy his room with you

He’ll torture the guy for hours and makes you watch and join in

He’s not above Fucking you in front of the tortured guy as a final middle finger

Get ready to soothe that bruised ego though

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year

Text

A Stranger’s Hand (10)

Summary: With a broken heart and recent truths, the tourney for Helaena’s ladies finally begins.

Warnings: angst, some foul language, mention of blood, mentions of sex

A/N: This one’s a biggie at over 8.5k so STRAP IN. IT’S TOURNEY TIME

A Stranger Masterlist

Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11

There is something extraordinary about heartbreak.

Something so overwhelmingly painful, so endlessly unbearable. And perhaps most of all, so mercilessly soul-crushing.

And yet, feels so human.

It is grief, fur-lined with fear that joy has forever escaped. It is the plate of food that you leave behind untouched. It is the uncomfortable shudder when the bath water has become too cold. It is staring distastefully at your shoes, and not having the strength to put them on. It is the flush of pink that has forever left your cheeks and migrated north to the corners of your eyes.

How could both happiness and heartbreak be two sides of the same coin, when they barely felt like they were of the same world.

In the human sense, it felt cruel, to allow people to feel what you felt at this very moment. And something that quite possibly many women before you had felt. How could the Gods have done this, to create such a feeling as this.

Perhaps it had not been part of their plan at all. And you wondered, did they pity mere mortals when they saw such despair? When they saw how something as raw, pure and visceral as love could descend into such turmoil.

Sometimes, when you clasp the sapphire necklace around your neck, you look at yourself in the mirror and think of all the things that have been said about you. That you are an inhuman female demon, that you are an innocent victim of a man-crazed forced against your will and in danger of your own life, that you were too ignorant to know how to act, that you had green eyes, that you had blue eyes, that you had both, that you have brown hair, that you have black hair, that you are of a resentful disposition with a quarrelsome temper, that you are a temptress, that you are a virgin, that you are cunning and devious, that you are soft in the head and little better than a fool and that you are a good girl with a compliant nature.

And you wonder, how you can be all these different things at once.

Sometimes when you are laying in bed, unable to sleep but too fearful to venture out into the dark, you whisper to yourself. Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne. All the men who over the past few days since the list was distributed, you learned would fight for your hand in marriage. Perhaps they would be kind. Or perhaps they would not. Perhaps they would insist on a bedding ceremony, and have their men tear their clothes from you at your marriage table, hands clamouring at your flesh as if you were a hen caught beneath the paw of a fox.

Perhaps they would take pity on you and prepare you for the duty of bearing their heirs kindly and slowly. Perhaps they would take you like the whore many supposed you were and that this meant they needn’t prepare you. Perhaps they would die quickly without planting their seed inside you. Perhaps they would live and continue to torture you with their unloving presence for years yet to come.

“Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne”

“Targaryen”

The name rouses a cloud of guilt and shame in your chest.

You thought of all this as the ache between your thighs where Aemond had been started to fade, a sore reminder.

They don’t understand. That guilt doesn’t come from the things you have done, but from the things that others have done to you.

Otto Hightower’s words are an incessant whisper in your left ear, ‘You see? How easy it is for an idea of a person to be forgotten’

And in your right, Aemond’s words from several weeks before, ‘We are wed in soul, my love’

You thought of your mother and what she would think of you. The whore or the maiden? And as Otto’s words racked around inside your head with lack of sleep, you thought more often of her and what hardships she had endured. What had happened to her, you wonder. You could almost see her face before you, but focussing on one part of her face meant that the others disappeared and blurred away into non-existence. And you wondered how long it would be before you could not remember any detail of her face. Did your father feel the same? Did he stare up at the canopy, trying to remember his wife’s face?

Despite being the middle of the night, there were still various servants strolling about the Keep in hurried manners. Preparing for traveling west to the grounds, for the tourney.

Grasping the navy robe around you tighter to make yourself appear smaller, you knocked on the oak doors, expecting a few seconds to go by before the voice would come. After all, it was the middle of the night. You looked at the moon, which was not quite full, and the longer you looked at it the further away it seemed to get.

“Lady Highgreen” came the voice of Larys Strong from between the crack of the door.

When you looked upon his face he looked expectant, almost pleased to see you at his door. For no other reason than to imagine what secrets he could draw from your pretty little mind.

“Lord Strong” you greet, not bothering to curtsy too deeply for him, “May I speak with you a moment?”

Almost too eagerly, he opened the door a slither more and allowed you to squeeze through unnoticed. His chambers were dark, lit only by candlelight, but part of you thought that perhaps it always looked like these even in the middle of the day. A sunny day and Larys Strong didn’t seem like they could co-exist together.

“I am very sorry to disturb you so late-”

“It is no bother, my Lady. Please sit” he interrupts. You tie your robe tighter out of nervousness and sit opposite where you had presumed he had been before your arrival. He limps over to a table to get another cup, “I assumed you might want some wine” he says. Again, not really a question, but more of an assumption. This time a correct one.

He gives that unreadable smile when he hands you the wine filled goblet, watching the ways you clasp your nervous fingers around it in your lap. You didn’t particularly like Larys, in fact finding him a little disconcerting, but what you did appreciate was that he was forward, to the point. Something you feel is lacking in Court most of the time.

This is proven by his opening line.

“I trust you are anxious for the tourney tomorrow”

With a curt nod, you take a sip from the cup, letting the slightly bitter wine linger a little.

“I have a duty, as does everyone else” is all you answer, but he acts like this answer is unsatisfying.

“But you do not want it”

At this, you meet his eyes. He is sitting opposite, his cane in his right hand, fingers stroking the pattern of the wood. You note that he is still dressed in his day wear, did this man ever sleep?

“I think I would be lying if I said I did, my Lord”

Larys huffs a laugh at that and you wonder for a moment what you said that was so funny. His mouth opens to say something but you endeavour to beat him to it.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but that is not why I am here”

He raises his eyebrows at the forwardness of it, but somewhat amused.

“Alright” he says, gripping his cane tighter, “then why are you here?”

The lack of formality does not surprise you. He is trying to be as unnerving as possible. A chill runs up your spine that you try to hide.

Taking in a breath, “I no longer wish to be tortured with the memory of my mother when I do not know what happened” you begin, “I wish to know about her, prior to my birth”

Larys cocks his head, “What would possess you to believe I know?”

You want to say, don’t be so cocky, but you need his cooperation, “I know my mother and father were here, both for their marriage and my birth. I believe you were here also, your father was Hand of the King at that time”

He smiles, but it falters for a moment before returning.

“Indeed. And what is it specifically that you would like to know?”

You take another sip of the wine, sending a jolt of confidence through you that you knew you’d need.

“I have heard some rumours about her, and I would like to know if there any truth to them” you start, fingers tracing the rim of your cup, “it is said she caused quite a bit of trouble, I know no more than that”

Larys’ smile seemed to fade at the mention of ‘trouble’ and averted his eyes, as if casting his mind back, to before a time where you were even born.

“I remember the wedding very well. Your mother was quite the picture. The Queen Mother, I believe, was present as a guest”

“So they were close?”

“They were inseparable. As if attached to the hip. I believe the Lord Hand may have been acquainted with your grandfather”

You nod your head in understanding. Perhaps you had not realised just how close your mother and Alicent had really been.

“The ceremony lasted well into the night, your mother and father were practically hanging off one another in love. It is a rare sight to see, for an arranged marriage”

“Why were they married here?”

“I would have thought the Queen Mother insisted on having it in the capital”

Larys sighed once he swallowed some more wine.

“Not two moons passed since the wedding when your father was hurried away for business and it didn’t take long for your mother to find herself in trouble”

You lean forward, “Trouble?...”

Larys smiled widely.

“It is said that your mother and her cousin, Lord Cameron Tarth, were discovered in a…compromising position within her chambers”

Despite the heat of the room, your blood suddenly ran cold in your veins and you shuddered, swallowing dryly. You tried to envision it, trying desperately to not let the opinion of many others colour the judgement of your late mother. For she was not here to defend herself.

You allow Larys to carry on.

“It is unclear exactly what transpired. Your mother was beside herself with hysteria for days. And only when your father returned did she finally come out of her chambers”

“What of Lord Cameron?” you ask. You are sure he is still alive, but had never truly met him.

Larys shrugs, “Some say he left for the Wall, others say he crossed the Narrow Sea. If one thing is certain he left King’s Landing with haste”

The answer doesn’t satisfy you and you’re left with a bad taste in your mouth.

“The rest are merely baseless rumours, but many in fact believed your mother had a brief affair with Lord Cameron. And not long after-”

“She was with child” you interrupt, looking up to meet his eyes, “Was she not?”

Larys merely nods, tapping a ring-clad finger on the rim of his cup, “Your mother was inconsolable. And I do not mean to offend you my Lady since you are living and breathing before me, but it was clear she did not desire to be with child”

You clear your throat, “And what of my father? What did he do?”

“Well…” he sighs, casting his mind back, eyes on the ceiling of his chambers, “...your father was annoyingly very indifferent, despite the King’s counsel. It created quite the fuss and because of all the commotion there was the fear that your father would lose allies”

The realisation hit you that this was why your father so diligently allied himself to the Greens when the Dance began. He must have felt the need to prove himself, even so many years later. It didn’t make you want to swipe the smug face off Otto’s face any less though.

“In my opinion, your mother’s image was saved entirely by the Queen Mother”

Your eyes meet him again, drawing up slowly from your lap.

“She would certainly have flung herself from the Tower of the Hand to end the pregnancy had the Queen Mother not been there to comfort her”

You ponder the answers you received for a moment, learning more here than a lifetime with your father. No wonder he was secretive about her, he had not wanted to uproot her memory and stir about such rumours again.

So you polish off the rest of the wine in your cup and clasp your hands before you, offering a small curtsy before making for the door.

“Thank you Lord Larys, I appreciate your honesty”

Watching you leave with a smirk, Larys responds, “It is no problem, Lady Highgreen”

Before placing your hand on the doorknob, you swivel on your spot, seeing Larys’ eyebrows raised to his hairline.

“I must ask” you begin, “why is it that there are no records of my mother being here?”

Now Larys looked confused, “Oh there certainly are. Just perhaps not where you would expect them to be”

Why is everyone so cryptic here, you think to yourself.

Without another word, you leave, with even more questions than what you started with. The sky that you had observed before was tinged with a light blue, the sun threatened to come over the horizon. Every hair on your arm stood on end and a shuddering breath escaped your mouth. Your father would be arriving soon no doubt. Part of you couldn’t stand the thought of returning to your chambers.

You chant once more.

“Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne”

Usually being up at the crack of dawn was no trouble to Aemond. He had always been early to rise. It meant that he could roam about and pretend for some while that the Keep was all his own.

But this morning he felt as if he could sleep the day away without issue.

The maids rushed about his room, laying out his clothes for the day ahead, scurrying away quickly when he pushed his torso from the mattress. With a heavy sigh, the pad of his index finger traced the scar that lined half of his face. It flared with irritation and a heat emanated from beneath the skin, making it much more sensitive than it would otherwise be. It was like his body knew the consequences of today, what hardships it would bring.

He ran his fingers through his silver hair to untangle the knots he had formed in his sleep, rising to observe the plane of land outside his window. A particularly itching feeling began in his chest to look down to see if you were asleep in your usual spot, as you so often were in the months at the Keep. And how he wished he hadn’t. For when he looked down, you were there, eyes softly closed and basking in the morning sunlight, a cloud of warm breath expelled from your mouth every so often with the chill of the dawn.

Begrudgingly, he pulled his clothes over his body, making an extra effort to appear more formal and put-together. He pulled the strap over his eye and had barely attached it when a knock at his chamber door sounded.

Sigh, “Enter”

He immediately regretted his harsh tone when he saw who it was.

“Helaena”

She looked sombre, with dark circles under her eyes, and the top of her nose was pink as if she had been weeping. She was dressed also, today donning a cream gown with yellow detailing. She was always one for lighter colours, in stark contrast to her younger brother.

Not a moment sooner was the door closed when Helaena rushed over to the window, “Is she still there?” she asked.

Thoroughly confused, Aemond could only guess who she was speaking of, “Yes, she is”

“Good. I need to speak to you”

Aemond stood awkwardly as if waiting and took a seat. Despite her hurried state, the Queen merely stood there, mouth agape, forming the words in her head first.

So it was Aemond who spoke first. And he might as well speak plainly on a day like this.

“She knows, Helaena”

Helaena met his gaze, as if it was the same thing she was going to say.

“She knows about Alys”

Aemond had never told Helaena outright about the relationship he had begun with you. But he knew, she knew. She would always know everything that happened, whether she wanted to or not. A blessing and a curse at the same time.

“You and I both know that none of it is true” Aemond began,

“Of course, we know, but she does not” Helaena began to pace about the room, “Our dear grandfather has put the idea in her head that it was a fully fledged relationship, with a child!”

Aemond huffed, even casting his mind back was incredibly difficult to do. The war, realistically, was not that long ago. But the scars felt by them were still fresh.

“It was nothing like what he said”

“She manipulated you, Aemond. And lied through her teeth to advance that child to the throne”

Aemond’s left side of his face inflames irritably.

“She sought her chance and paid the price, no more need be said about it”

“There does when she believes you indifferent to her” Helaena argues,

“Rather she hates me for believing I would abuse her in such a way” Aemond murmurs in response, fingers tapping at the side of the armchair.

“Well then do something about it, Aemond!”

The younger brother is silenced at his sister’s volume. A rare sight to behold. Her lilac eyes bore into his and the intensity of it makes him want to turn away. Some said there was little fire in Helaena, but this wasn’t true. There was fire, but in her words.

“I cannot stand you moping around allowing her to marry somebody else” she huffs,

“It is not only my decision, Helaena. And who is to say she would even accept me now?”

“Do you hear yourself?” she asks almost too angry to form words, “If you offered your hand to her, do you think her father would be in any position to refuse?”

“Only if I participated for her hand”

“So why don’t you?”

Aemond purses his lips and looks up. If there is one thing he hates, it is to be reproached.

But Helaena, with that aforementioned fire, does not back down, “Your pride?” she asks.

“Helaena” he sighs.

A muffled squeal is heard through the glass of the windows and Helaena looks out, seeing that your father had surprised you with his arrival by sneaking up on you in the gardens. You had your arms thrown around him, positively joyous at his arrival. For a second, the despair disappears from your face, but the moment your father turns his back, the unmistakable drop is there.

Helaena inhales sharply, looking towards her younger sibling, “They will all be here soon. I shall hope you make your decision on what is more important soon. Your pride or her”

Aemond felt he’d had the air knocked from him once Helaena had left. His scar was sore as was his mind, swimming with thoughts. He knew he had to act. He had felt what it was to have her, not only in body but in mind and soul. Aemond had a taste of what it was to feel someone’s kindness touch him so intimately and now he did not have it, he felt the sheer chasm of loneliness that the lack of her touch would allow him to fall into. The blackened abyss of what it was to watch someone you loved walk away.

No, he thought.

This couldn’t happen.

This will not happen.

He was a fucking Targaryen.

And by the Gods, he cursed himself for forgetting the words of his own house.

Four carriages were lined up for the ladies, their fathers and Queen Helaena. Seven ladies in total were queued up to board their respective carriages, hands clasped before them, their gazes stuck on their feet before them. They looked so sombre and depressed that there may as well have been chains clanging between their wrists. Instead their father’s hand wrapped around their arms, some harshly and some with indifference.

Arm in arm with your father, his large, comforting hand on yours, your other hand bunched up the skirt of your dress to allow you to step up into the carriage.

“You look exquisite, child” your father said, taking his spot opposite you.

You merely smiled at his compliment, brushing some dust from your skirts. The maids had chosen all different colours for each of Helaena’s ladies, all varying shades of soft pastels. You noted that each house wore loosely a colour that their house represented, with Lady Lannister looking the most striking in a soft shade of crimson. Of course, it had meant that you wore a soft, pale blue with golden accents, akin to the bird that donned the sigil of House Highgreen.

A vaguely golden figure shuffles into the carriage and Helaena sighs as her back meets the seat. The Kingsguard murmurs nervously outside,

“My Queen, this is not your carriage-”

She merely closes the door to ignore him, barely turning her head to meet yours, she reaches over and takes your hand, intertwining her fingers into yours. She sighs again and closes her eyes, almost appearing as nervous as you, though there was little need for her to be.

Your father chooses not to say anything, instead busying himself with the view outside, watching the landscape go by before taking the road to the Waterfront to make the hour-long journey to the Tourney Grounds.

Helaena’s hand remains in yours the entire way. She had so much to say, but could not in the company of your father. So as much as it pained her to do so, she remained quiet. But you knew she was thinking of you when her grip tightened every so often.

“Will the King be in attendance, my Queen?” your father asked, knowing the answer but intent on making some conversation.

Helaena forced a smile, “Indeed, my Lord” she said quietly, “my husband prefers to ride on Sunfyre if it is nice weather”

You furrow your brows at this. It was most certainly not nice weather, in fact, it was so cloudy that at any moment the clouds could have opened to bring forth a storm. And because of the anticipation of it, it locked in the humid heat, making the air uncomfortable to breathe.

Aegon had most likely ridden the dragon to be rid of female company while he could.

“I hear Prince Daeron will be visiting from Oldtown for the tourney, your Grace”

“A rare occurrence indeed. All of us are rarely in the same place at once these days” Helaena says, squeezing your hand. It was almost painful the way her slender fingers gripped yours, but the pain barely reached you.

Instinctively, your fingers came to your necklace, turning over the pendant over and over again in a nervous gesture. The glint of the sapphire made your father look over briefly, his own fingers twisting his wedding ring. The whispers of what Larys had told you whirred around your brain and looking at your father now only made them louder. Would he ever have told you about her? For some reason, you don’t think so.

The carriage jolted to a stop, making your heart lurch from your chest.

Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne.

They echoed like a curse. Like the curse of being a woman.

Your father exited the carriage first, then Helaena, who never released her hand from yours.

“Y/n” she said quietly, in a hushed voice, “Look at me”

You obey her without question.

“...there is a broken shield…the ground opens up…he has black armour…”

She begins her usual babbling when she is nervous, “Helaena..” you say in comfort, trying to use her name to break her from her trance.

Her lilac eyes meet yours and both of her hands hold yours.

“You must be ready”

And just like that. She is gone.

You watch the back of her disappear in the crowd of her ladies, not knowing anything of what she meant.

You half-run to your father, taking his hand. His usual smile is something so comforting, but now, on the brink of a marriage proposal, seems so distant. He watches as you smile sadly at him, tears glazing your eyes and his hand rests on your face,

“Oh my sweet girl” he says lovingly, his mouth barely moving beneath his beard.

All notions of doubt were cast away with those words. It reminds you of being a child again. But most of all it serves to remind you that you are his daughter, and he is your father.

You barely register your head leaning against his hand, but before you can find further solace in him, you turn away. What you said with your eyes needn’t be said out loud and your hand lingers in his for a moment before you join the rest of the ladies. One lady in a blush dress is being berated by her father, with words such as ‘stop crying’ and ‘stop this ridiculousness’ being popular phrases.

You walk alongside Lady Lannister, who has resorted to silence, simply staring up at the dark clouds overhead, watching the sun as it tries to force its light between them.

She takes your hand as you file into your seats, all sitting in the front row. Helaena has the centre spot beside you, right opposite where the King would be seated. But he was not here yet and very well may be late to his own tourney.

Your eyes scanned the opposite seats. There was a seat akin to a throne for Aegon, two beside him and another next to those which Alicent was seated in. On Aegon’s left there would be his youngest brother, Prince Daeron and on his right, would be Prince Aemond. But all three were empty. On the other side, sat as surly as ever, was Otto Hightower. It was difficult to know for certain, but his eyes seemed to flit between you and his granddaughter, Helaena. His words were still haunting your idle mind, and it rang there like a curse.

You feel Lady Lannister’s leg twitch with nervousness as you look over to Alicent, nodding when you meet eyes. Her expression is distant and she immediately looks away once she gives a smile of greeting, staring into a random void that was anywhere but here.

A band of at least a dozen men clad in armour began to file onto the field before you, while the staff began to write the schedule on the board for all to see. You watched them write all the names, gut wrenching to see that your name was placed last, right after Lady Lannister. And as well as that, the names of the men who submitted names were also written there.

It made your furrow your brows. All names were in alphabetical order, save yours. And when your eyes spotted your father sat on the opposing stands, his brows were scrunched together in question as well.

A ray of sun poked from between two dark clouds as Aegon advanced to his spot with another silver haired young man, who you presumed was Daeron. Daeron the Daring, they called him, for his endeavours during the Dance. And from this angle, as he sat and observed the people before him, no wonder he had earned the nickname, for he looked every bit as mischievous as you had expected him to be.

The band began to play when Aegon took his seat, initiating the beginning. At this you furrowed your brows. Aemond was not here. A little part of your heart that still had some hope died immediately and your spare hand clenched the skirts of your dress, stress overtook your senses and you felt like you could vomit right there and then.

Helaena leaned to you, “I will not let you go” she whispered.

More cryptic messages, you thought.

“I thank you all for joining me on this joyous day” Aegon’s voice immediately halted everyone, and all eyes were suddenly on him. There was a slight slur to his voice as he continued, “Let the tourney for Queen Helaena’s ladies, begin”

His eyes were trained on you it seemed as he sat down, a goblet of wine instantly materialising in his hand. The band’s music was a welcome distraction to all the chuntering and whispering going on amongst the ladies, especially the lady who was first to have her hand fought for. Two men mounted their horses in their respective colours and the lady seemed to weep silently just watching.

She clutched her flowered favour in her hands, almost so tight that she crushed the petals. Other women resorted to letting their eyes wander, and when you did, you could see the outline of Kings Landing with Aegon’s High Hill visible only barely beneath the blanket of dark clouds.

The clash of swords made you jump in your spot and a high-pitched male cry sounded out, cheers and clapping erupting from the stands as one man was pushed from his horse. A trail of thick blood followed his limping form as he clutched his leg, his ancestral sword still firmly in his grip.

It was only when the winning bachelor raised his sword that his opponent dropped his weapon, “I yield!” he shouts, not wishing to risk either more blood nor his life for the likes of a woman.

More silent tears adorn the lady’s cheeks as she stands, lowering her favour onto the winner’s sword. In truth she may have been more upset at the bloodshed than at the prospect of marrying the victor, for he was known to be quite kind and not bad on the eyes. Nonetheless, she took her seat once more as her flowers decorated the hilt of his weapon and he took his leave with a big grin on his face.

If the first one was quick, the following tourneys were slow. Some of the ladies had as many as six men fighting for their hand, so often it would result in hand to hand combat, with swords swinging, cutting the very air around them. The thud of their swords on shields was enough to send a dull chill into the spines of the spectators, with their hearts making a similar noise.

You look up to see Aegon lean over in his seat, speaking with Alicent. Whatever he asks, he has to repeat over the noise of the band, shouting and cheering and the only thing you read on his lips is ‘Aemond’. Alicent shrugs her shoulders and Aegon turns back to lock eyes with you, peering over the rim of his goblet. Flitting between you and Helaena as if in question.

Otto never takes his firm gaze off you for more than a few moments as the hours drag on.

You finally breathe when the intermission begins. Six out of Helaena’s ten ladies now have their prospective husbands, and at least half of them would not stop weeping. So you followed the ladies as they all crowded to the refreshments, most if not all of the ladies with a generous cup of wine in their hands. When you look across the clearing, something jumps inside your chest when you see your father smiling jovially in conversation with Alicent Hightower and for the first time all day it felt like, she was smiling along with him.

“Lady Highgreen”

The familiar voice of Otto Hightower behind you soured your mood instantly. Begrudgingly, you turn to face him and offer a slight curtsy, not quite making all the effort.

“My Lord Hand, how are you today” you ask flatly, not hiding the annoyance on your features.

Much like you have seen Aemond do with other people, he revels in the discomfort he brings and smiles, “It is a fine day for a tourney” he comments.

Why does everyone keep saying that, you think, it is foul weather.

But you just nod your head, taking a sip of wine and steal a glance at your father. His smile has dropped once he sees who is speaking with you.

When Otto realises you will not dignify him with a response, he continues, “I hope the Prince’s absence is not of your doing” he says.

You cock your head at him, “I know nothing of his whereabouts, Lord Hand”

“Do not play coy with me” he warns, his voice low and serious. Quiet as well, to not upset your father, who is still watching.

Your ring finger taps against the goblet, eyes averted.

“There is no great plot. Whether the Prince is present or not is of no great advantage to me”

“And I was born yesterday” he answers.

You lock eyes.

“I have not spoken to him. Nor has he spoken to me. As I asked” You counter his words.

“Do you expect me to believe that. Truly?”

“Believe as you wish, Lord Hand. I have said my truth”

Otto is about to return the favour, when your father crosses the clearing, intent to talk to you. And like a cockroach in the ray of light, Otto scurries away, not even sending your father a mere greeting.

“What did the Lord Hand want?” your father asks and you’re shocked by his rather serious tone, as he is so usually found with a smile on his face. But now he watches Otto walk away, as if making sure he is truly leaving. Burning a brand into the back of the man’s head.

“He spoke of the tourney, nothing more”

Your father knows this is a lie, but does not explore further as he looks down at you, an ever-fatherly protective expression on his face.

“You are on Otto’s bad side, when you ought to be on his blind side, dear daughter”

“Father?...”

A look flashes across his face and he lovingly places a kiss to your forehead, almost instantly snapping back into his usual persona. You go to open your mouth once more, but in a flash he is gone. And even when you look back across the clearing, Alicent is gone as well. Each of them feeling more like a ghost the longer the day went on.

As you all filed back to your seats, Lady Lannister stuck to one side of you and Helaena to the other, you gripped the favour in your lap. It was a ring of blue flowers, the ones that grew knee high in the fields at Green Hill and the only ones that were native to that region of Westeros. They were tied with white and golden ribbon, colours to reflect House Highgreen once more.

You watched as the tourney ramped up once more and now with wine in their bellies, it had become significantly more violent. Two young men had already been carried away with what appeared to be life-changing injuries and now it seemed like the men were purely doing it out of enjoyment and not at the prospect of marriage.

Seven men lined one side of the grounds, their respective betrothed’s favours around their weapons. Then eight. The ninth tourney begins and two of the men who fight for Lady Lannister had also placed their names for you also, but whether that would happen was another thing entirely. Lady Lannister took in a breath and gripped your hand tightly and who were you to refuse her this kindness? This comfort.

The two men grunted like animals, almost matching the sounds their horses were making as the two began to fight. You sit and watch the sun disappear beneath the dark clouds, seeing how the rain begins to fall somewhere far away and threatens to come closer. But just as quickly, the fight is complete and Victor of House Risley lays flat on the floor, his leg facing a direction it most certainly shouldn’t be. His shield that donned his house sigil is completely shattered.

The crowd erupts in applause and Lady Lannister’s fate is sealed with Rickard of House Thorne. Her father across is clapping and nodding in approval as she stands and places her favour on the tip of his sword, watching as it sways to the hilt towards his face, which smiles up at her. He has a kind enough face and you only hope that she is at least happy. When she takes her seat once more, she no longer weeps and does not reach for your hand. It is as if her soul is taking refuge within herself.

Since Victor is critically injured and Rickard had claimed Lady Lannister as his betrothed, that left two men for you. Marq of House Ambrose and Bryndemere of House Tarth. You swallow dryly and grip the favour, now empathising with what the previous ladies had all felt. Briefly, you look over at your father, almost in a last-ditch effort to plead for him to call it all off. But he merely looks on as Victor is hauled away screaming. By now the ground is wet with blood.

“I feel sick…” you whisper to yourself. But Helaena must have heard you, as she places her warm, comforting palm on your knuckles, peering over to see your expression.

“We will not let you go” she says.

The two remaining men enter the field and you hold your breath, fearing that if you let go, so would the dam that was holding your tears back. Marq is wearing silver armour with trims of yellow in reflection of his house and he barely offers a glance in your direction as his squire laces up his gloves. Bryndemere on the other hand, with lance in hand, cannot tear his eyes off you. You think that this is not because of some infatuation, but more so that you two were well-acquainted as children, being distantly related through your mother’s Tarth side. He almost has an sympathetic expression, before placing his lacquered black helmet upon his person, matching with the rest of his armour.

You close your eyes, intent on not watching at all. But the first clash of weapons is too bone-shattering to ignore and you jump in your seat, gripping Helaena’s hand tighter. You feel a protective part of you flare as Bryndemere is flung from his horse, gasping for air as he’s hit square in his chest. His father stands on the opposite side, mouth agape, to see if his son is alright.

Marq, on the other hand, merely dismounts with a swagger in his step towards him, drawing his ancestral sword from his side to strike down. Once again, a shield is shattered, with its piercing splinters flying about. Marq’s laugh echoes inside his helmet as he raises his weapon to strike.

“I yield!” Bryndemere begs.

With a sigh, a part of your dam breaks and you close your eyes, several tears fall down your face. Ambrose it is.

Victorious, Marq removes his helmet and revels in the cheers of the audience. His own father is clapping, almost deafening the man next to him. You place Helaena’s hand back on her lap and stand, hand finding purchase on the beam before you when you sway uncontrollably on the spot. When his eyes land on you, you swear it activates a different part of your subconscious that tells you to run.

But instead he waltzes towards you, extending his sword for your favour.

No sooner do you take one step and the entire audience falls into silence. A great sound is heard like no other that echoes about the deserted land around you. While difficult to describe, it was only akin to the crumbling of stone, the crash of waves against rock and the chaos of a great fire. A single drop of rain falls between your feet when you look around. It seems like the world holds its breath, ready to hear it once more.

It happens again but closer, all the wind knocked from everyone’s lungs when the very ground sways beneath you, rocking the stands. While it is too close for comfort, a great dragon claw grips the ground behind the stand and the very earth opens up to reveal the damp mud below, the unmistakable tracks left behind.

With your breath heaving in your throat and ground still moving beneath you like being aboard a ship, you look up. It is distant enough that it’s almost difficult to see, but it is Vhagar’s large head that turns around the stand to let out her famously loud cry, sending the dust in the air vibrating. Your watery eyes track her scales up her neck to her back where there was his silhouette sitting atop the mighty dragon. He was sat calmly, the only movement was his stark silver hair against the darkened clouds.

Women screamed, some even fainted at the sight of Vhagar. And you did not see, for your eyes were locked on his form, but Aegon and Otto both stood from their seats. Aegon had a confusing look on his face, not able to tell if he was amused or annoyed. Otto on the other hand was seething from head to toe, shaking his fists. Alicent had her hand on her seven-pointed star necklace at her chest. Daeron stayed seated and smiled, as if saying finally, something interesting.

“Aemond…” were the only words that came from your mouth in a whisper.

Helaena almost laughed with glee.

You can feel the first smattering of rain on the side of your face as the wind picks up, showering droplets onto your face. You swear you see him turn his face down to look at you, but the distance makes it impossible to tell. What you can see is how naturally he dismounts his great dragon, a helmet in the shape of a dragon head in one hand.

Only when he approaches does everyone get a good look at him. His hair is down but pulled away from his face, his eyepatch fixed in place over it. He has one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other is holding his helmet, his gaze is locked on yours for a moment and you forget briefly how to breathe. He doesn’t look anything like you remember him.

When you think of Aemond and his presence, he seemed stoic, impassive and very much an observer. His aura was intimidating in general, but as time went on this front crumbled before you to reveal a sensitive, emotional human behind it all.

But now. There was something else in his eyes and not necessarily when it was aimed at you, but something had taken root there.

Marq made the mistake of opening his mouth in a smile, “My Prince! So nice to see you”

Aemond didn’t return the greeting, only granting him a darkened look.

“I’ve come to duel for Lady Highgreen’s hand”

The words that come from Aemond’s mouth almost make you weak and you barely feel Helaena’s kind hands guide you back into your seat, her thumb stroking your skin.

Marq huffs a laugh, “My Prince I am afraid I have claimed her hand for myself already. Fair and square”

Helaena swallows and the audience as well as the band are deathly quiet. Afraid that if one sound was made that it would shatter the tension between them. Aemond’s smile almost makes everyone more uneasy.

“I see no favour on your sword, Lord Ambrose” he draws his own sword slowly and hands it to a squire, who visibly shakes, “Do you refuse your Prince?” he smiles.

Marq swallows dryly, clearly nervous. He knows it, he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. The Prince wishes to toy with him and he is in no position to refuse. Rather, he needs to put up a good fight.

“And where is your name on the board, Prince Aemond?” Marq questions it, but it’s clear from the shake in his voice how he feels, “You would take away what is rightfully mine?”

When Marq talks of you as if you are an object to be bartered for, a noticeable chill runs up your spine.

Little does he know that his bark is only giving Aemond more satisfaction.

“Hm” he seems amused, “Rightfully or no, duel me or I will take her to Dragonstone myself and make her my wife”

A few womanly gasps emit from the stand, half in shock at the scandalousness of it, the other half seem to look on smiling. Your breath catches in your throat at the vulgarity of what he threatens Marq with, but in reality, a little part of you that had that love left for him begins to unfurl.

When Aemond gets no response, the squire hands his sword back to him once he’s placed his helmet on and he points the tip towards the Ambrose man.

“Either way, Ambrose, she will be my wife. And she will be mine”

You can’t tell if you’re afraid or thankful for what Aemond says. Your father looks absolutely shocked and you’re not sure if that’s entirely a good thing.

But Marq of House Ambrose, in front of all these people, is not likely to swallow his pride and yield. Instead, he places his own helmet back on and gets into a readied stance. For a brief second you dare to flit across to the King and his family.

Alicent looks half-shocked and half-relieved, Aegon and Daeron are amused. Otto is most certainly not and you dare say, he will make his distaste for it all obvious once the tourney is over, whether the result is favourable to you or not.

As skilled a swordsman as Aemond is, your heart lurches in your chest at the mere thought of him risking any injury for this. You had thought many men who fought here today were brave and skilful and yet some had lost limbs for the sake of a betrothal. Your fingernail dug into your palm to distract you from the emotional turmoil you felt in this moment. Tugging in two directions. One tugs in the way of heartbreak, the thought that something inside you had been lost forever at the revelation several nights ago. On tugs in the way of hope, a hope that despite all that, he did feel something.

The first clash of swords rings out, followed by a sharp swish as Aemond pushes Marq away with his weapon. You just know that Aemond is smiling beneath the helmet he is wearing, loving the humiliation he imagines Marq must be feeling. The two continue this dance for several minutes, mostly because Aemond revels in the torture that this must be for the audience. Marq delivers his own flat strike onto Aemond’s shoulder and whether he is pretending or not, it clashes on his armour and sends him to his knees.

In a stroke of confidence, Marq straddles Aemond and attempts to plunge the sword down beneath him with a loud grunt. You wince when he parries it, sending the two longswords flying a fair distance. Aemond hooks his foot beneath Marq’s leg, flipping him so the poor Ambrose man is on his front, writhing around while the Prince’s foot is flat in the centre of his back.

You almost jump out of your seat when Aemond draws his dagger, pulling Marq’s head up from the dirt by his hair to place the blade beneath his neck. It shocks you. You’ve never seen Aemond act so brutal before. And it stirs something inside you which has never seen the light of day before.

Aemond almost looks bored when he says it.

“Say it”

“I yield” Marq hisses, but Aemond pulls his hair even more so.

“Louder, so they can hear you”

Aemond locks eyes with you now and you can see his lilac eye shimmer in the darkness of his helmet.

He sighs when Marq doesn’t respond, so he pushes the dagger so it is flush with the tender skin of his throat.

“I can’t hear you”

“I fucking yield!”

Once Aemond pulls off his helmet, the audience erupts into thunderous applause. He makes no big show about it, egging them on, and instead keeps his eye firmly on you. The rain falls thick and fast now and your waves form locks as they dampen, it makes the dried tears on your face appear as if it’s just rain now and you feel a warm trickle of it run down your neck.

Without breaking his gaze from you, he raises his hand to pull off his eyepatch and stands before you at the stands, bending to pick up his longsword that had been launched in the duel. He twists the hilt in his palm a few times and stays still as the applause continues.

You look down at him, still clutching your favour in your hand, the petals now moulded to the shape of your grip. For a moment you consider if his mournful look is an apology. As if despite the show he had put on, he was still asking for your hand. And only when he was sure he would be forgiven, would he raise his sword to accept your favour.

He appears tired, you now see. And he thinks the same of you. Weak and pale, as if all warmth has disappeared. It’s here, with the absence of the eyepatch, that you see how red and inflamed his scar looks, and how much he must ache. For a moment, you glance over at Vhagar who is almost watching the interaction with as much interest as the audience, her throat rumbles when your eyes catch her.

Only when you look back at Aemond does he mouth, my love. Almost in a question.

Your body moves before your mind and you stand, letting Helaena’s hand slip out of yours and she watches with a child-like glee at the scene before her. You give a very slight smile as you reach out, the tip of his sword is within reach. The rain penetrates your clothing into your skin as the flowers float to the hilt of his sword, you exhale with a wracked laugh, finally allowing a genuine smile to pass your features.

Aemond looks a mixture of relieved and happy when the flowers reach his sword. He ignores the stares of his family, of your father and of everyone else; his attention is specifically you. And for as long as he lives, will only ever be you.

You barely register Aemond’s arm reaching out to wrap around your waist, suddenly feeling embarrassed when he effortlessly lifts you off the stands. The smile is unmistakable on his face now as the audience shout and cheer for the dramatics the Prince is offering. He leads you by your hand back towards Vhagar, the pleading voice of Alicent and your father becomes muffled and distant. Aemond seems a man charged with power when he lifts you to the saddle in front of him wrapping the reins around your waist.

“Sōvēs” is all he commands to his dragon.

“Aemond…!” you shout in shock as Vhagar lifts her feet to flap her wide wings, naturally grasping his arm to keep you stable. A natural dragon rider, Aemond barely sways in his spot and keeps his arm around your waist as the rain pounds down, mixing with the mud and blood on the tourney grounds. In the distance, as Vhagar lifts to the sky, Marq of House Ambrose is being berated by his father. And you briefly see your father stand where he was sat in the stands, a proud smile on his face.

Taglist: @m00n5t0n3 @boofy1998 @merakiaes @hanihoney88 @let-love-bleeds-red @bellaisasleep @watercolorskyy @heavenley1927 @ryswritingrecord @partypoison00 @gaeela-6 @saeselkie @padfooteyes @introverbatim @queenofshinigamis @thatkingofgirl @ryswritingrecord @dahlias-and-marigolds

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early20sfailingplenty · 6 months

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💕 I have a request!

Could I please have some heavy angst headcanons, behaviour-wise, for an emotionally devastated, completely withdrawn and deeply depressed Vincent Sinclair who sincerely believes that he's been rejected by someone he's fallen hopelessly in love with?

Heyyyy ~ Kelly!!!💖 This is a fun little one to write; you sent it in about a year ago but I've only just found the energy/inspiration so I hope it's still something you're wanting to read about! I was curled up in bed eating my weight in chocolate cake and watching House of Wax scenes as I wrote this, so I hope you enjoy! If this goes well, it'll serve as my comeback into the fandom.

Reader details: as always, "you", Y/N, gender neutral reader, no coded language.

TW; Vincent haaaaaates himself, depictions of child abuse (canon compliant), Vincent makes decisions for the both of you without discussing them with you beforehand, miscommunication trope my beloved, Vincent's behaviour and thought patterns are unhealthy, canon compliant depictions of violence, morally grey reader who knows about and passively participates in canon compliant events, angst, Vincent is emotionally constipated AND he genuinely believes you don't love him like he loves you, dehumanisation of nameless and faceless people who come into Ambrose (canon compliant).

This is an angst fest and does not have a happy ending.

Word count: 1, 487.

Of all the people who had passed through Ambrose (and never made it out), no one had gotten under Vincent's skin quite like you had.

The people who came into Ambrose were either canvases for Vincent or a fun day for Bo. Even rarer were the ones destined for Lester, if only because he didn't partake in the family business as often as the twins did.

The ones destined for Lester always ended up in literal pieces in the roadkill pit, with many an animal thrown atop the human chunks for good measure. Very few entered Ambrose, but even fewer got to leave.

Vincent was never anything more than delighted, thrilled when he hunted, killed and then prepared his artform... and no one had ever gotten under Vincent's skin.

Not until you, and no one but you.

Of all the people who came into Ambrose, none of them had ever been perfect before Vincent had started his work on them. He immortalised the beautiful and romanticised the ugly.

No one but you, and he found himself wanting to keep you perserved while you were still alive.

It totally threw him for a loop and if Bo had been able to listen in on Vincent's thoughts, as he so often claimed he could, then it would have thrown Bo for a loop too.

Your very existence took Vincent by surprise and just like how Vincent always deals with the unknown, he totally shut himself down from you. He put in a word for you with Bo to tell him in no uncertain terms that you were not to be harmed in any way, but that was the extent of his involvement with you.

Vincent's act of shutting himself down from you was one-sided but it caused enough pain for two people.

As far as you knew, Vincent wasn't treating you any differently. He was very rarely around you but he was barely around anyone except Bo. So you thought little of it.

Lester did think something about it, but a sharp look from Bo would silence the youngest Sinclair, and so Vincent was blissfully, agonisingly, left to his own torturous devices.

It wasn't that Vincent had fallen in love with you at first sight - such a concept seemed terribly unrealistic, especially for him - but he had known from the moment he had laid his eye on you that there was going to be something between you.

And just his parents had done to him before he had been old enough to take his first shit, Vincent wrote himself off.

His attraction to you turned to intrigue, which turned to yearning and then desire and then red hot want which would have rendered him speechless if he had been able to speak.

Vincent had initially made himself put in a good word for you with Bo, to help you stay in Ambrose with your life intact. But then as time progressed, he found himself putting your favourite snacks down on Lester's grocery list, convincing Bo to let you go with Lester, making sure you had the thickest blanket he could find because Ambrose could become cold at night... on and on the gestures went, but you seemed not to reciprocate them.

In truth, it was because Vincent was unreadable to you. As days turned to weeks which stretched to months, you formed cautious bonds with Bo and Lester, but Vincent remained unreachable to you. He was kind to you, but he was also totally withdrawn from you. You couldn't read him, you couldn't tell what was going on behind that mask, he was just... a wall.

You tried to express a rather twisted sense of gratitude for basic necessities but whenever you thanked him, Vincent would nod in such a way that it felt like your thanks was just an annoyance to him. His kind actions combined with the coldness of how he treated you after the fact, confused you, and you found yourself keeping away from him as best as you could, your heart aching. How could you properly thank him if he didn't let you? It was like he was only being kind to you to keep you quiet, to keep you where you were. Vincent was giving you emotional whiplash and you didn't know what to do about it.

There was more to Vincent than he was showing you and you knew it, but he was silent, he loomed over everyone in any room he was in, and he was truly intimidating.

It served to keep you away, which was what Vincent wanted, but it also caused him pain, because he longed to be close to you. Before Vincent knew it, he had fallen hopelessly in love with you. Once upon a time, he had been the Golden Child, the favourite of the three Sinclair children. He had been expected to die soon after being separated from Bo, but he had lived, and out of guilt had Trudy and Victor practically smothered Vincent in love, much to his developmental detriment.

They hadn't loved him for him, they had 'loved' him to alleviate their own guilt, and it had fucked Vincent up as badly as their abuse and neglect had fucked up Bo and Lester.

And so it was that Vincent was outwardly cold to you, or, at the very least, seeing to be totally unaffected by your presence in Ambrosde, and yet when you weren't there, it seemed that everything he did was for you, to make your life easier in a world you should never have known existed.

A world in which the dead remained so, encased in their own tombs, and and the living were haunted by the ghosts of themselves and all they never got the chance to be.

Vincent had closed himself off to you, rejecting the idea of you ever loving him before he ever gave you the chance to even consider such a thing, and as such, you inadvertently closed yourself off to him, too.

Your every attempt to thank him was rebuked, your every want to appreciate him left ignored, your every attempt to even minutely bond with him the way that you were slowly bonding with Bo and Lester was ignored...

Vincent never gave you a chance, he condemned the possibility of you loving him before such an experience could bloom within your mind, and in doing so, he practically shot himself in the foot. He was condemning you just like his parents had condemned him before he had even taken his first breath after being separated from the back of Bo's head.

He fell into a depression worse than anything his brothers had ever seen, to the point that even his artwork, his momma's legacy, was suffering for it.

To an untrained eye, all was fine with his figurines. They came out perfectly, not a hair out of place.

But to Bo and to Lester, they could see flaws Vincent usually poured himself into trying to fix. They could see hairs stitched back into the waxed scalp half a centimetre out from where it should have been, they could see raised patches through the clothing restitched onto the victim once the wax had cooled, they saw Vincent spiralling so badly that he ended up committing novice mistakes his mother had beat out of him decades ago.

And it was because of you.

Or, it was because of Vincent's assumptions about you, made due to his self-loathing which he had never questioned. He could romanticise the ugliest of gestures, the most grotesque of crimes, but he couldn't extend that same 'courtesy' to himself and it always saddened Lester and angered Bo.

Vincent didn't blame you for anything. He blamed himself. He withdrew from his brothers, he neglected his art, he shut Jonesy out of his workshop instead of letting her sleep on the mattress he kept down there for times when Morpheus called his name so sweetly that Vincent couldn't resist long enough to get back up to the house before Morpheus' sand got in his eyes...

And it stayed that way.

Vincent remained hopelessly in love with you, he kept himself away from you, believing with everything he was that you would never, could never, love him, and so to spare himself the heartbreak, he broke it himself more thoroughly than you ever could have done (not that you would, but Vincent had kept himself away from you so well that you would never think to yourself that there was more compatability between the two of you than either of you knew).

You pined, you ached, to know and to love Vincent, but he had made that decision for you, he had taken the choice away from you, and now the both of you were profoundly suffering and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

In time, maybe one of them would do Vincent a solid kindness and break the ice between the two of you. But why would they, when this was so much more entertaining?

#slasher x reader #house of wax #bo sinclair #vincent sinclair #lester sinclair #house of wax x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #house of wax 2005

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jeweled-blue-eyes · 9 months

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What's your view on Claude as emperor? We know he's described to be a tyrant.

Claude is incompetent. He's both paranoid and at times extremely careless. He ignores opportunities presented to him that could solve his problems and instead chooses to make things worse than they could have been. On top of that he's suicidal and has no problems to drag people into hell with him. The last one is a hc/my interpretation of the succession crisis in the lp verse I'll elaborate:

Claude outlawed black magic and then used black magic on himself, meaning if he had been meticulous an entire branch of science is about to go extinct, there would be no black magician left who could help him in case he suffered the side effects and even if there was they would be unlikely to reveal themeselves since that would mean admitting they had been practicing the arts illegally in hiding all the time. Moreover Claude didn't see that the law would be followed through. Is the usage of black magic prohibited but not the theoretical teaching of black magic or the distribution of books that concentrate on this specific topic? Why is there a former black magician selling books on dark magic in the capital city? Is this allowed?

Had Claude made good on his promise to kill any magician who couldn't heal Athy it might've resulted in a shortage of magicians (who are already rare). Furthermore his readiness to kill anyone who annoys him would eventually lead turned down job offers, empty spaces in the staff and a burn-out of those that stayed and were given the work that was meant for their colleagues. It might make Obelia more vulnerable to attacks depending on if magicians are used in the military or not.

He allowed someone like Lucas to be Athy's playmate. He said it was okay because Felix didn't find anything suspicious about him when he investigated him. Shouldn't the fact that they found out nothing about him make him suspicious enough? Magicians in Obelia must be registered. I would find it concerning that there was a powerful magician kid running around the palace that somehow managed to evade the radar of every known organization. Lucas is unable to name any parent, teacher or guardian, he has no adress, passport, isn't registered anywhere, the academic circles have never heard about him, he has no school report, reference or recommendation. Should Lucas have forged a document this too calls in question Claude's competence. If not even the Emperor of Obelia is able to tell an enchanted paper from a real one then how are the citizen of Obelia supposed to tell conjured money from real money and can be expected to be held accountable if they unknowingly pay someone with fake coins?

The employment of maids that would steal from and abuse a princess, classist/racist teachers (Athy's dancing teacher for example) and guards that don't take their duty seriously and allow a stranger to walk into the princess' private quarters. Also making his own sworn shield Athy's guard as well. In case of an attack it's impossible for Felix to protect both of them. Claude and Athy are not always in the same room together. They aren't even living in the same palace. Did Claude expect Felix to multiply somehow?

When he was about to gift the Imperial seal to child Athy and then just threw it after Felix. That was irresponsible. There is a reason why royal seals used to be rings and were kept on your own body. Anyone could have taken the seal and issued orders with the power borrowed with his name.

Why tf is there a mana eating plant living on palace grounds. Was the Graeco-Roman tyrant aesthetic not enough for you, Claude?

Torture and mutilation is legal in Obelia even though it's a known fact that torture is useless since most people will say anything under torture to make it stop. Are we in the middle ages? What law of Claude is exactly progressive? Apparently sexism still exists even though the first ruler of Obelia was literally a woman (queen Ambrose)? Whose fault is it?

Not arranging a betrothal for Athy or at least a dancing partner for LP Athy. Claude couldn't have known about Jennette's appearance, which means most likely Athy would have become his successor. How would Athy gain the noble's respect if she didn't even have a companion at her own debutante ball on top of everything else? Everything he did sabotaged her future reign. Isn't the point of a debutante partly to find a good match for your daughter if she isn't already promised to someone? It would have also been a clever way to get rid of her and forge connections.

LP Athy's rushed execution casts doubt on his capabilities as a ruler in the eyes of everyone. It is said that Claude was a just and wise ruler. This image shatters however when it is revealed that Claude ordered the execution of someone innocent. His own daughter and no less. And to make it worse he doesn't care that he executed the wrong person, doesn't look for the real culprit or punishes those that wanted to see LP Athy gone. How can you still believe in justice in Obelia? That a mere countess could influence Emperor's actions must mean he's either stupid or callous. If even a royal isn't safe from a mock trial that means no one really is. Confessions can be coerced, legal steps be skipped, unusal punishments are now possible outcomes. (remember Rosalia only aimed for Athy to be exiled. That her execution was a surprise to even her must mean something about the laws and usual proceedings that Claude ignored).

The succession crisis in the Lovely Princess that shouldn't have been a succession crisis in the first place since Jennette had the greater claim. What was the plan before Jennette entered the palace? Claude hated Athy, would he have wanted her to be his heir? If not then why didn't he look into who else was availible to him as a potential successor? Any noble that could have been adopted into his family? Competent advisors? Distant relatives? Eventual remarriage or one-night stand that could produce him an heir? To my knowledge neither Athy nor Jennette were taught how to rule a country. He didn't name Jennette his heir or made Athy and the lords swear fealty to her. I'm certain he didn't write a testament either.

So Claude refuses to name a heir and continues to neglect his health through alcohol, working overtime, and sleep deprivation. This man was not planning to make it to his old age.

I saw someone suggesting Claude making himself immortal to prove a point and I don't think he would do it. In my opinion Claude didn't want to be immortal. He hated his life until he met LPJennette/WMMAPAthy. I also think he didn't give a fuck about Obelia since he never made an effort to secure the succession. It was obvious that he favoured Jennette in the Lovely Princess yet she was never made crown princess until Rosalia stepped in and framed Athy for attempted murder. I think he meant for Obelia to perish with him. He did almost everything on his own, and while yes this was partly because he trusted no one and was not a team player it could have been also because the smarter people at court would be aware that after his death everything would have been in shambles. They'd refrain from further assassination attempts.

What would follow after Claude's death wasn't his problem, it didn't concern him at all. And that's terrifying. That's what makes him unfit as a ruler. He just doesn't care about his country or his people. Their plight merely exists to lift him from boredom. Their well-being is only ensured as long as he lives and not beyond that. Intentional or not LP Athy and Jennette were set up for failure through his actions or his lack of thereof.

#wmmap #who made me a princess #answered asks #anti claude de alger obelia

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scatteredthoughts2 · 2 days

Text

" ARE YOU A WITCH OR ARE YOU A FAIRY "

Are you a witch or are you a Fairy,

Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary ",

A old Irish rhyme, or is it all true,

Because her husband he burnt her, and up the chimney she flew.

He thought she was gone and would never return,

He poured oil from his lamp and set her to burn,

Her father and sister and her brother did watch,

As her husband threw down a flickering match.

The priest said a mass and she looked like a ghost,

And her throat couldn't swallow the priest's Holy Host,

She said she was cured and the Fairies had gone,

She said that the priest and her husband had won.

She was let out of bed and to the kitchen she went,

She was weak from her illness, she was tired and spent,

She refused to eat up the meal put before her,

So her husband stood up and continued his torture.

He tried pushing food down the wee lassie's mouth,

But she choked and she spluttered and the food flew back out,

Her family looked on all aghast and in shock,

And they begged Michael Cleary, " oh please Michael stop ".

Now you know how it ended for poor Mrs Cleary,

Whom her husband had thought was replaced by a Fairy,

But he was arrested and from his home he was led,

And brought to the gallows and hung until dead.

So are you a witch or are you a Fairy,

Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary,

An old Irish rhyme or is it all true,

Because her husband he burnt her, and up the chimney she flew.

-----------------------

March 4th, 1895

Ballyvadlea, Ireland

-----------------------

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

#ambrose harte #writerscreed #poetry on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetselixir #smittenbypoetry #poetryportal #poetrysavedfromobscurity #scattered thoughts #so many tears

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songstresstinyteacup · 20 days

Note

Lilith catching Zelda with her cat o’nine tails after a fight with Sabrina.

The sharp click of stiletto heels, no less than three inches tall, typically announced Lilith’s presence to anyone within the Spellman Mortuary, be it Sabrina, Ambrose, Hilda, or Dr. Cee, but alas it was not the four of them that Lilith sought.

It was Zelda that Lilith was looking for, following an explosive fight between the matriarch of the Spellman household and the newly-resurrected Sabrina, during which Ambrose had cowered, and Hilda and Kenny were at their shop, blessedly having missed the entire row.

The click of her heels, often accompanied by the faint scent of brimstone mixed with a seductive floral and musk perfume that Zelda had purchased for her during the past Solstice, served as warning enough.

Or at least the demons in Hell had learned to think so.

Lilith’s eyes scanned the parlor, then the kitchen, and then Zelda’s office at home within the mortuary, but the familiar coiffed red tresses were not to be found anywhere within.

The demoness huffed as she brought her hands up onto her hips, continuing her saunter into the hallway and up the stairs toward the bedroom that she shared with Zelda.

The house was conveniently empty following the row, Sabrina had stormed out in a cacophony of slamming doors and stomping feet, Ambrose had cut and run almost immediately after, though of course Lilith hadn’t bothered to chase after the cowardly warlock, and with the comic book shop open till the witching hour, she hadn’t had to worry about finding Hilda and Kenny in a compromising position on her search.

Bile rose in the back of Lilith’s throat at the memory of her accidental intrusion, yet, at the same time, she was highly impressed with just the amount of chains Hilda had her husband bound in.

The clock chimed in the hall, and Lilith muttered a curse under her breath as she realized how long it had been since she’d left the house after Sabrina.

Every fiber of Lilith’s black and twisted soul had called out to her to stay with Zelda, rather than chase after the teenage witch who seemed to have a death wish, but Lilith had been able to push her guilt at leaving Zelda aside, heaven-bent on lecturing her niece.

Sabrina had needed to be informed just how much Zelda had gone through to get her back, and with Zelda crumbling to pieces under Sabrina’s angry words, that duty fell to Lilith.

Even so, Lilith was back in the mortuary now, and actively seeking her wife, so she continued through the hallway until she reached the threshold of their closed bedroom door, pausing with her hand on the knob, listening.

Quiet sobs could be heard from inside, and Lilith’s heart wrenched at the sounds.

She hated it when Zelda cried, hated it more than Lucifer and the kings of Hell, and, somehow she hated it even more than she hated herself, and so Lilith pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The Queen of Hell had expected to see Zelda crying, expected to see her wrapped in a dressing gown and curled into herself on the bed. Lilith had also expected to see Zelda clutching a bag of ice in her hands, an alternative to harming herself in the various other ways Lilith had learned that Zelda used to torture herself with.

What Lilith had not expected to see, however, was Zelda, sitting on their bed, the bodice of her dressing gown pooled around her hips leaving her chest, shoulders, and back exposed, and her cat o’nine tails in hand.

“Zelda Phiona Spellman, what in Hecate’s name are you doing with that?!” Lilith hissed, striding forward and grabbing the flogger with one hand and using the others to pry Zelda’s fingers off of the handle.

“Leave me alone.” Zelda whimpered, clenching even tighter around the flogger’s handle, but she hadn’t the strength Lilith had, not at that moment, and before Zelda could utter a single word more, Lilith had the flogger.

Lilith strode over to the fireplace, lighting it with one glance and slinging the flogger into the flames, watching as it burned.

Zelda flung herself off of the bed, lurching for the fireplace, hand outstretched, but Lilith was quick to pull a weeping Zelda into her arms and hold her close.

They remained that way for a moment, Lilith staring at the flames, Zelda weeping with her head down, before Lilith guided Zelda back to the bed and sat her down.

“I think you’ll find that I’m very much incapable of leaving my beautiful wife alone, even when she asks me to.” Lilith tried with a wink, but Zelda just began to cry harder.

Lilith quickly gathered the despondent High Priestess into her arms, clutching her close.

“Just breathe, darling. Can you do that for me?” The demoness whispered, taking and releasing a large breath in the hopes that Zelda would follow suit.

Zelda took all of two breaths before another sob bubbled up in her throat, and Lilith pulled back slightly.

“She hates me, Lilith. Sabrina hates me.” Zelda sobbed, and Lilith ran her fingers through Zelda’s hair, once perfectly coiffed, now wild and messy from the force of Zelda’s grief.

“No. Do you hear me, Zelda? Sabrina does not hate you, she just didn’t understand exactly what you had to go through to get her back. She won’t make that mistake again, I swear to you.” Lilith cupped Zelda’s face, wiping away the tears there.

Zelda, on the rare occasion where she allowed her emotions to show, still managed to be mind-bogglingly beautiful. Even with red, bloodshot eyes, a red-tipped nose, tear stains trailing from her cheeks down onto her neck, Lilith still couldn’t believe Zelda’s innate beauty.

“Come here, my love. Let me clean these up for you.” Lilith soothed, stepping over toward Zelda’s vanity to pick up a tin of salve, returning to the bed to sit down and gently rub some onto all of the marks Zelda’s flogger had made.

Red angry marks mottling Zelda’s skin should be a crime, Lilith had often stated more than once, a crime to mar the alabaster flesh, unless Lilith herself had been the one to make the marks.

Lilith’s brow furrowed at the thought, even her marks were not so extreme as these.

“Lilith?” Zelda’s voice was small, unsure.

“Hm?” Lilith hummed in response, moving Zelda’s fiery tresses to one shoulder so she could reach a particularly nasty mark on Zelda’s back.

“I’m sorry.” Zelda mumbled, and Lilith inhaled.

Zelda almost never apologized for anything, and she was apologizing to Lilith when Lilith was not the one in pain.

“I don’t ever want to see that infernal tool again, Zelda. Do I make myself clear? If you’re struggling you can always summon me. I’ll gladly come to you.” Lilith’s tone was firm, but gentle.

After a moment, Zelda nodded, and Lilith carefully pulled the silk dressing gown back up and over Zelda’s body, taking care not to let the fabric brush over the welts on Zelda’s fragile skin, then Zelda pushed herself back up and in the direction of her vanity.

Zelda’s fingers had barely skimmed the handle of her hairbrush before Lilith tutted, then she turned to face the demoness.

“I believe that particular privilege belongs to me, Zelda, dear. Go on to your creams and salves.” Lilith breezed over, wrapping her own fingers around the brush handle and revelling in the weight of the antique steel brush.

Last Solstice Lilith had very nearly replaced the entire brush and comb set with a new one made of solid gold, befitting the station of the Queen Consort, but after discussing the idea with Hilda, Lilith had learned that the silver vanity set had been the very last gift Edward had given his sister before his death.

Still, the silver was sturdy, cool to the touch of Lilith’s palm as she lifted it and began to pass through the ends of Zelda’s hair.

Touching Zelda’s hair was one of the rarest privileges, not offered to just anyone. Hilda was only allowed to touch it when treating wounds or tending to an ill Zelda, no other member of the family or coven was ever granted the same.

That had been before Lilith had quite literally strode into a grieving Zelda’s room, intent to meddle and pester until her promise to a young Sabrina Morningstar had been fulfilled in its entirety. Now Lilith herself held the right to handle Zelda’s fiery tresses as much as she wanted.

Lilith’s careful gaze flickered between Zelda’s reflection in the mirror and the brush in her hands, watching as the High Priestess took off her ruined makeup and applied her nightly skincare routine, ending as always with the lotion being applied to her hands and arms before Zelda put her wedding ring back on.

Lilith carefully replaced the brush on the vanity, taking Zelda’s left hand in her own and bringing it up to kiss her knuckles, the edge of the wedding ring cold against Lilith’s crimson coated lips.

“Better?” The demoness inquired, and Zelda nodded, keeping hold of Lilith and dragging her in the direction of the bed.

Lilith waited until Zelda was settled under the duvet, then snapped her fingers to change into her own nightgown and lay next to her.

“You’re going to get lipstick on the linens again.” Zelda hummed, eyes already bleary with sleep.

Lilith grinned wickedly.

“Oh, Zee, I very much intend to. Hilda can scold me later.”

#my writing #caos #madam spellman #zelda spellman #lilith morningstar

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chaotic-orphan · 6 months

Text

Intoxicating Fear (VI)

Part one here…

Continued from here…

*~*~*~*~*

Kit’s body ached everywhere. It hurt to sleep if you could even call it that. Every time Kit turned over or moved his head, or adjusted the pillow he was in pain.

The dull aching everywhere nearly blinded Kit to the fact that he was in a bed. Lying down. Unrestrained. With a pillow!

Which meant that he wasn’t with Ambrose.

Had he… had he woken up when he was supposed to be doing Ambrose’s bidding, because this wasn’t a foreign bed this was Kit’s bed. He knew because he could feel the springs in his old mattress digging into his ribs.

The same mattress Superhero had told Kit to get rid of, but Kit just couldn’t part ways, and Kit’s pillow was perfect for him, not too firm but hard enough to support his creaking neck.

Kit was at home!

Ambrose fucked up, Kit could call Superhero right now, tell him exactly what’s going on and what Ambrose did, he could catch Ambrose!

Kit was halfway out of the bed as this thought crossed his mind, a giddy feeling numbing the bruises, cuts and trauma his muscles had endured with the fucking cattle prod—

His electricity.

Kit wasn’t wearing the rubber gloves. Or rubber anything for that matter!

Kit fell out of bed, his leg not quite carrying his weight, but it didn’t matter.

Kit sat on the floor, licking his lips in anticipation as he brought his hand in front of his face and with bated breath… clicked his fingers.

Blue sparks cackled around Kit’s hand like a glove, and it was like Kit was being revived. The relief it felt to see the bright electric blue, to hear the soft buzz of power, to feel the electric currents in the air.

Kit let the power wash over them. He clicked his fingers in his other hand and let the sparks fly from his fist down his arms up to his elbows and from there he just let it rip.

It got to Kit’s shoulders, to his chest, he could feel his hair stand on end from the currents but none of it fazed them. Not one bit. Kit could feel the power thrumming behind his eyes, and he knew he were same colour as his electricity and for a while Kit just sat there completely engulfed in the wash of his power.

It felt like relieving a muscle that had been stuck in one spot for too long and was cramping, or, cracking his back, or, stretching his shoulders in the morning.

Kit’s electricity reinvigorated him with the energy surging through him just because he could.

He was his own conduit.

His own person.

His own mind, not Ambrose’s puppet, he was 100% Kit right now, because Ambrose fucked up with his twisted compulsion. Kit almost cried with joy.

Kit let his electricity dim and got to his feet with a renewed fire to find Superhero and tell him everything… but first… Kit needed a shower, he needed to feel the warm water pound on his back and relax the rest of his aching muscles.

Kit looked to his bedside table and saw his phone plugged in and charging. Ambrose really did make sure Kit was living a normal life when he wasn’t conscious…

Kit didn’t want to open the phone; he didn’t want to read the text messages he didn’t send. And yet Kit’s feet padded over to his table and picked up the phone. The screen lit up. Kit’s heart dropped as his eyes stared down at the date and time.

He wanted to be sick.

It wasn’t days he was with Ambrose; it wasn’t weeks, it was a month and a half since the docks.

A month and a half of Kit’s lost time… where all he remembered was Ambrose and his cruelty. A month and a half of nobody realising that Kit wasn’t in fact Kit, but Ambrose’s vassal.

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and put in his pin. The same pin it had always been, at least Ambrose didn’t have the foresight to change that.

Instead of going to his messages and torturing himself further, Kit went to his Spotify and clicked into his shower playlist.

How long had it been since he heard music?

A month and a half, a snide voice told them in the back of his head, but Kit ignored it and just let the music wash over them.

Oh yeah, he was going to be singing this at the top of his lungs in the shower.

Kit grabbed a towel, some underwear and made sure to lock the bathroom door just in case. When the hot water hit his back, he let out a long sigh of relief. His shoulders were so tense after Ambrose had made him dangle in chains for who knows how long? The water seemed to get under Kit’s skin and unwind every knot and ache in his muscles leaving him feeling refreshed and calm.

The smell of Kit’s soap and shampoo made him relax even further. It felt as if nothing had happened to him in the last six weeks and that he was just going about his daily routine of waking up, showering, going to work tell Superhero he was tortured.

Kit’s stomach growled the second after he had turned the shower off and he smiled to himself. How normal a feeling it was to be hungry. How entirely mundane, that Kit’s body’s nerves were telling him to eat. Reminding him to do it.

God when was the last time he had tasted food for himself?

Kit got hungrier just thinking about it. He dried himself and dressed as quickly as possible. He stopped the music on his phone, towelling his hair dry, not too bothered with how he looked as he descended into the kitchen, ravenous with hunger.

The smell of bacon made his mouth all but water and it wasn’t until he saw Ambrose that he realised he shouldn’t have smelled bacon to begin with. Ambrose saw Kit too and grinned at him, smirk wicked sharp.

“Morning,” Ambrose drawled. He looked too strange in Kit’s kitchen, a towel over his shoulder and a spatula in his hand he used to turn the bacon over in the pan.

Kit’s hand shot out on instinct, but his electricity simmered from a glove of reassurance to nothing but pathetic sparks as Kit felt the icy sludge of Ambrose’s power creep into his mind.

“Come on, Kit, none of that now,” Ambrose said, clicking his tongue. “I let you sleep in and everything, made you breakfast. Tell me you’ll behave, and I won’t restrain you further.”

Kit bit the inside of his cheek, frozen where he stood. A part of him wanted to lash out and go mad and kill Ambrose where he stood, but another part, a bigger part of him was too scared of being restrained again. He was enjoying the limited freedom Ambrose was giving him, and until seeing the bastard Kit was happy.

God he was so stupid for thinking Ambrose would just let him go, or fuck up in his commands… Kit was such an idiot.

“Well?” Ambrose asked, cocking an eyebrow at Kit, interrupting Kit’s thoughts and reminding him that he hasn’t answered.

Kit’s shoulders sagged at the demoralisation of having to articulate his submission, but Kit could beat himself up about it later. Right now, he was starving, and he wanted to be able to eat unhindered.

“I’ll be good,” Kit said quietly, swallowing his pride.

Ambrose beamed at him like a proud parent and gestured for Kit to sit at his own table. “Good. Sit! Breakfast is almost ready.”

Kit sucked in a deep breath and crossed the room to his table, pulling out a chair, settling heavy into it. He was facing Ambrose as he worked in the kitchen, not daring to take his eyes off of him for a moment. His heart started beating a little faster in his chest as he felt the weight of his phone in his hand.

If he called Superhero right now… Superhero would know. He could come and find Ambrose. Catch him in the act.

“One egg or two?” Ambrose asked, smiling over his shoulder at Kit.

“Uhm, two please,” Kit replied, licking his lips.

“So polite, Kit. Of course. Two eggs coming up,” Ambrose said, turning back to the counter and grabbing two eggs. Kit glanced down at his phone and back at Ambrose quickly. Just in time too because Ambrose turned back to face Kit a fraction of a second later. “See how nice it is when we can be civil.”

Kit forced a smile, which came out more as a grimace, and nodded.

“Could this be the turning point for us, do you think?”

“Maybe,” Kit said, nodding again. “You never know.”

Ambrose smiled, satisfied, and turned back to the pan, cracking the eggs into it. Kit’s fingers moved quickly under the table as he heard the eggs hit the pan with a sizzle and a spit.

He found Superhero’s contact and hovered over it for a second, looking back at Ambrose to see him whistling by the stove and with a heavy swallow Kit pressed the call button and left it on the chair beside him, making sure the volume was down.

But it didn’t matter.

Because a couple seconds after Kit had put his phone down and looked up innocently at Ambrose, he heard the start of the song ‘bad moon rising’ playing by Creedence Clearwater Revival and his blood ran cold. Ice rushed through his veins, and he so very desperately wanted to cancel the call, but he couldn’t move. All he could do was watch as Ambrose reached into his back pocket and answer the call without so much as blinking.

“You know, Kit,” Ambrose said into the phone, his voice echoing because the phones were in the same room. “I really thought we could at least get through breakfast without you throwing a tantrum. Guess not.”

Kit was out of his chair before Ambrose finished the sentence, feet on the wood floor, sprinting, lunging for the front door. He was only two feet away when a piercing screeching sound echoed between his ears and Kit screamed, trying to force himself through it.

He was so close.

He had to power through it.

Then it got too loud. Unbearable and Kit’s leg went like jelly, his vision swimming, the world tilting until he was on the ground, curled up into a tight ball, eyes squeezed shut trying to push out the ringing in his ears. The screeching lessened, leaving a dull ache in its wake and Kit wanted to throw up as the world spun around him.

“Kit, Kit, Kit,” Ambrose chided, feigned disappointment but it sounded so far away. Kit vaguely heard his footsteps approach and knew he had to get away.

Kit turned onto his stomach and reached out to the door, swallowing the bile in his throat with his motion and pathetically half-dragged himself forward. He only got an inch before the heel of Ambrose’s boot slammed down onto the back of Kit’s hand and dug in.

Kit was a wreck. His mind both hazy and frantic, thoughts like bullets shooting through a foggy moor, his chest heaving with the effort of his screams and his pathetic attempts of escape. All Kit saw was Ambrose’s foot draw back before slamming into the side of Kit’s jaw a second later, flipping him onto his back. Ambrose didn’t release Kit’s hand, so Kit was staring at the ceiling, arm twisted above them awkwardly. He must have bit his cheek because the stench of iron overwhelmed his tastebuds as he glared weakly up at Ambrose, eyes still having trouble focusing.

“God, Kit. I will just never get bored of you. Of this. Look at you… so strong, so sure, so noble, and yet there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me.”

Kit pushed weakly at Ambrose’s boot with his free hand, just because he could and just because he didn’t want Ambrose to be right. Kit could do something, he could try and get away. Try and escape. Ambrose hadn’t taken any of the fight from Kit, he was going to defeat Ambrose, someday. Somehow.

He just needed to be patient and let Ambrose think there was nothing Kit could do to stop him…

Yeah.

Kit believed that, or he could, if he forced himself to try and completely disconnect from reality and ignored how well and truly fucked he was.

“Awh,” Ambrose cooed, lifting his leg and stomping it down on Kit’s chest instead of his hand. Kit’s eyes bulged and he wheezed, his body curling around Ambrose’s boot, trying in vain to push Ambrose off of him. It was no use. Ambrose leaned down over Kit, shifting more of his weight onto the leg on Kit’s chest, effectively pinning him to the ground like an ant under a giant’s boot.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this. Tired eyes wide with panic,” Ambrose said, digging his heel in further and grinning when Kit tightened his grip on Ambrose’s ankle and grit his teeth to prevent the scream from escaping his lungs. “The bags really do wonders to the character of your face. Truly, Kit. I must admit I’ll always be a little weak in the knees at the blood staining the inside of your lips when you gasp.”

“Why don’t you take a fucking picture?!” Kit hissed, spit flying from his mouth in anger, rage flaring ugly inside him. “And then leave me the fuck alone!”

Ambrose’s dark eyes smiled down at Kit like a cat’s alight with interest. He didn’t drop the eye contact for a second as he reached into his pocket and took his phone out, snapping a photo of Kit. Kit blinked at the flash, stunned for a moment. Bewildered Ambrose would actually take a picture.

“You’re right Kit. That was a great idea. I think I’ll make this my screensaver.”

“Motherfucker!” Kit howled. Something hideous that could only be described as vengeful wrath fuelling his body as he shot forward from the ground. For a moment Kit could revel in the shock on Ambrose’s face as he hooked his arms around Ambrose’s knee, driving his heels into the ground to push himself forward and flip Ambrose onto his back.

Kit got on top of him, taking every advantage as he saw it. He had a very short window of time where Ambrose’s brain would be trying to catch up with current events, Kit would know. Ambrose had him in a constant state of shock and fear, trying to claw at the situation and adjust but all too slowly.

Kit pinned Ambrose’s shoulders to the ground using his knees. He didn’t even reach for his power. Instead, he punched from the waist, letting out a half-shocked gasp when he felt his knuckles collide with Ambrose’s perfect cheekbone.

Was he dreaming?

No. Even if this was a dream, Kit didn’t care. He didn’t have time to dwell on things.

Act now, think later.

Ambrose struggled under Kit, but Kit laughed a little giddy as he sent his second punch straight for Ambrose’s throat. Ambrose gasped under him like a fish from water and it was a bit addicting seeing him choke on air. Seeing him being strangled for once, breath robbed of him by Kit, instead of the other way around.

Kit punched Ambrose’s temple, but he felt Ambrose’s familiar ice-cold touch slide down the muscles in his arm and slow the impact of it, so Ambrose wasn’t knocked out cold. Which was a pity, but it also meant Kit got to punch him again. This time Kit’s knuckles crunched against Ambrose’s nose.

If Ambrose was able to get a hold of his power for a moment to stop Kit’s punch that meant he needed to knock him out now.

At that thought Kit’s hand ignited like a match dropped to petrol his electricity crackling happily around his fingers, blue sparks flaring and turning almost red. Kit grinned down at Ambrose who’s struggles renewed tenfold. Kit dropped his hand to Ambrose’s face and stared mesmerised by the reflection of his power in Ambrose’s dark eyes, like fire glinting off marble. In the reflection Kit saw himself too and he recoiled in horror.

Ambrose grinned below Kit as Kit’s electricity dissipated with a weak whizzing sound. Seeing Ambrose’s grin, Kit’s arm moved before his mind did and this time his punch landed straight on Ambrose’s temple. Ambrose’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp under Kit, his head hitting the ground with a gentle thump.

Kit’s eyes blew wide, not wanting to move at first. His hand reached down and pulled Ambrose’s eyelid down and saw that he was actually unconscious. Then Kit was on his feet, running to the bathroom and slamming the light on.

He stopped in front of the mirror over the sink, and it was still there.

Kit stepped closer to the mirror, staring deep into the reflection that didn’t look like Kit. He was used to his eyes turning an electric blue when he used his power, but his eyes… the eyes reflected back at them were a violent scarlet, and not just his eyes. The veins under his eyes were the same garish, bright red mixed with a few of Kit’s familiar electric blue and a deep purple where the two colours collided.

Kit reached a shaky hand up to touch the veins and saw his hand still coated in the same mix of red and blue and purple. He clicked his fingers and electricity buzzed to life in his palm, his electric blue and Kit nearly sighed in relief.

Until the red sparks started flying again and shot out at the light in the bathroom. Kit flinched as glass shattered above him and fell like twinkling rain down onto the tiles with a clatter. When Kit looked back at the mirror those red eyes stared back hauntingly at him, and Kit swore for a moment that his eyes smiled like Ambrose’s.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) — @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whatwhumpcomments @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @princess-bubble-blossom @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain

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ariya-the-1st · 2 months

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Twst characters headcanons

• Jade and Floyd want to eat Azul and have made up hypothetical plans for it.

• Jade likes attacking Floyd for no reason when he’s bored.

• Epel secretly works out at night but whenever anyone finds out he immediately gets embarrassed.

• Vil is gay.

• Rook chops off pieces of people’s hair to keep.

• Chen’ya likes drinking milk and eating dairy based foods even though he’s lactose intolerant.

• Crewel is wealthy and was born into wealth.

• Grim doesn’t like Lucious because he’s jealous he gets more attention.

• Sebek doesn’t really love his dad but his dad loves him.

• some of Deuce’s old friends are in juvy.

• Ruggie tries to eat Jacks cactus.

• Sebek loves Silver in a platonic way.

• Floyd likes eating bean boozled jelly beans.

• Idia is bisexual but likes men more.

• Sam was abandoned by his family but was taken in by a merchant.

• Baul, Sebek and Sebek’s dad were forced to go on a camping trip because Sebek’s mum wanted them to get along.

• Cater plays pokemon go.

• Azul cheats at uno.

• Ramshackle was abandoned because the house warden went on a homicide.

• Kalim is in love with Jamil.

• Ace’s brother is similar to Jack Heart.

•Ace’s mum is dead.

• Deuce has never met his dad because he’s in prison and Dila has a restraining order on him.

• Silver has narcolepsy.

• Ruggie has ADHD and was prescribed adderall.

• Ruggie sells his adderall to people to get money.

• Ruggie tries getting Silver hooked on adderall so he can get more money.

• Ruggie did drugs one time and didn’t like it.

• Crowley likes ducks.

• Crowley knows he’s a pain in the ass.

• Crowley made out with Ambrose one time and deeply regrets it…(Ambrose liked it)

• Lilia drinks a 2 litre bottle of coke before bed every night.

• Ortho has no problem morally with killing, torturing and eating people.

• Riddle’s mum wears earrings her affair partner got her.

• Riddle’s mum had a pregnancy scare with her affair partner.

• Riddle’s mum is homophobic and sometimes racist.

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #twst headcanons #headcanon #headcanons

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echo-goes-mmm · 3 months

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Ambrose and Elliot #26

Masterpost

Warnings: dehumanization, conditioning, murder mention, referenced past torture

Elliot woke up alone. The space beside him was cold; Master had been gone a while. Probably off to get rid of the body.

He buried his face into the pillows, squeezing one of them to his chest.

Master Ambrose had killed someone. Murdered a man. For him.

Elliot thought Ambrose was the kindest man in the world, but Horneswood’s screams last night told him that wasn’t true.

What did that mean?

Elliot rolled over, and sat up. Thinking was so hard, always, but he had been clever last night. He’d been right; there was a before time. Before his old master had gotten his hands on him.

His cleverness frightened him. It was so much easier to be stupid and dumb. It didn’t give him headaches like being smart did.

Elliot got out of bed and straightened the covers, smoothing out the wrinkles.

He was good at making things neat. He liked it; cleaning made his head quiet.

He should check to see if there was any blood left on the floor.

Elliot slipped out of the bedroom, but the sitting room floor was spotless. The furniture was back in its place, the rug spread out again. A part of him was disappointed; he wanted a distraction from last night’s revelations.

Elliot made his way downstairs. There was no sign of Ambrose.

He made himself a bowl of oatmeal and ate slowly. The hot food and late morning sunlight made him feel a bit better.

There was dried mud on the floor, and he didn’t know what it was from, but he welcomed the opportunity to scrub something away.

He grabbed a dishrag from the kitchen and a bowl of water, and got on his knees to wash away the mud. It was good work, and satisfying to see the dirty floor become shiny again.

The front door opened, and he knew from the sound of the swing that it was Ambrose.

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Master.” He kept rubbing away the dirt.

“Fine?”

Elliot paused. “Yes, Master. Just fine.”

Ambrose’s footsteps came closer, until he was standing right next to him. Elliot leaned into his leg, sighing. Master Ambrose put a hand on his head.

It was nice.

No matter what happened before, it felt… right to kneel at Ambrose’s feet.

“You called me Master. Twice, now.”

Elliot pulled away. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s just-” Ambrose sighed. “Are you sure you’re alright? Last night was a lot.”

Elliot stared at the streak of mud left on the floor. “I don’t know. But, um, I’m glad he’s gone.”

Master hummed. “Me too.”

“What- what if you get caught?” Elliot hadn’t really thought about it, but now…

“Oh, I already talked to the elders. They understood.”

Elliot blinked, and looked up at Ambrose. “What?” He wasn’t sure he heard him right.

“I took care of it. They know, and it’s fine.”

“They just… let you kill people.”

“I mean- no- but, well. I’ve been here a long time, and they trust me. And it’s not like Horneswood was a ‘beloved member of town’ or anything. I did have to tell them about… what he did to you. I’m really sorry about that.”

Elliot thought it over. Gods, he was tired, and so mixed up inside.

He didn’t want a bunch of people hearing about his old master, but if it kept Ambrose from getting into trouble it must be fine.

“Okay.”

He picked up the rag and went back to scrubbing the floor. Ambrose watched him for a moment before wandering off.

Elliot let his thoughts melt away, and felt at peace.

___________________

It was only noon-ish, but Ambrose poured himself some wine. An old bottle from before he moved to Little Wood; a good year.

He didn’t drink much, but he felt he deserved a little treat.

Elliot didn’t seem any different. Still quiet, still not-quite-there when he wasn’t being addressed. He just drifted around like a ghost. Doing housework. As usual.

Ambrose guessed that was the best he could hope for. A part of him wished Elliot would be less jumpy, more relaxed, but that still seemed to be in the far future.

He began to work on some soup while he sipped on his drink. He needed something to do to take his mind off of the lingering horror of last night.

Wordlessly, Elliot caught on to what he was doing, and joined him in the kitchen.

For someone who often didn’t understand kindness, he was plenty observant of everything else.

Elliot grabbed some of the vegetables he’d pulled out and started to roughly chop them as Ambrose took care of the aromatics.

“Do you want some wine?” Ellie didn’t drink, but it was polite to offer.

“Okay.” Huh.

He poured him a glass and they worked in silence.

Ambrose poured some oil into the pot and added the onion and garlic, listening to it sizzle. When it began to smell nice, he put in the ground beef mix he had set out.

Once it was browned, Ellie added the chopped tomatoes, celery, carrots, green beans, and potatoes. Ambrose stripped some dried herbs off their stems and tossed it in while Elliot fetched some stock.

Soon it was simmering, and Ambrose finished it with some pepper and coarse salt.

Ambrose ladled out two bowls, and Elliot took their wine to the table.

The soup was good and comforting, and the tension in Ambrose’s shoulders gradually bled out of him.

Elliot didn’t seem interested in getting seconds, which was odd. He pushed around a scrap of meat with his spoon, head on his hand.

“Are you alright, Ellie?”

“Why are you so kind to me? You don’t have to be. I wouldn’t do anything if you weren’t.”

Ambrose sat back in his chair.

“Everyone deserves kindness.”

“What about Mr. Horneswood?” Ambrose swirled the wine in his glass.

“I’m a hypocrite,” he shrugged.

Elliot didn’t smile at the joke. It wasn’t really a joke anyway. Ambrose turned to look out the window. Gray, dirty slush sat on the ground, matching the gray, sad sky. He took another sip of wine.

“How long will you let me stay here? I’ve only ever caused you trouble.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. I’ve broken your dishes, I’ve gotten in a fight, I haven’t stopped crying and taking up your attention, and you just murdered someone for me,” listed off Elliot.

Ambrose didn’t quite know what to say.

“You help me out,” he said. “And I like you. You can stay as long as you need to.”

“And when I don’t need to anymore?”

“You can still stay.”

Elliot bit his lip and put down his spoon. He took a sip of the wine in his glass.

“Do you love me?”

Ambrose stared at him. Elliot met his gaze, and this was the most exhausted Ambrose had seen him since the first few weeks.

His hair was longer now, bangs brushing just above his blue eyes. It was clean and fluffy, still stark white like snow or clouds.

Elliot had even put on weight, and looked nearly healthy.

Aside from the deep dark shadows under his dead, dead eyes. Usually they were vacant and fleeting, but now that he was focused and alert (despite the wine, somehow), Ambrose could see the damage in his soul.

He looked away.

“I had a husband once, did you know?”

Elliot looked down at his bowl, shoulders sagging. Ellie shook his head.

“No, Master.” There was that title again.

Ambrose poured himself more wine.

“One day he just left. Didn’t say goodbye. A long time ago, but-” he shrugged. “-Still hurts. Then I moved here.”

“I didn’t know,” Elliot whispered.

“All that to say, I love my husband. I wish he’d come back.” Ambrose reached out, his hand on Elliot’s. “I can’t love you that way-”

“I don’t mind.”

“-But there’s more than one way to love someone, and I care for you deeply. I’ve been incredibly lonely since he left, and I value your company more than words. I hope you’ll stay, even when you don’t need me anymore.”

Elliot didn’t move. “You love me?”

“Mhm.”

“No one’s ever loved me before.”

“You mean, you don’t remember.”

“No. I mean no one has.” Elliot looked up at Ambrose, his eyes shiny with tears. “If someone loved me, they wouldn’t have let my old master do those things. They would have come for me. Right?”

Ambrose didn’t have an answer.

#I cried writing this chapter.#Song that pairs with this for maximum hurt: What Was I Made For? by Billie Eilish #our favorite boys are back!#I wrote this one in like two hours why does Ambrose & Elliot fly by and my new stuff doesn't?? :'(#Ambrose and Elliot #my writing #whump #slavery whump

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hauntedbestie · 2 years

Text

Hide 'N Seek

Bo Sinclair/F!Reader

word count: 2.7k

summary: Bo gives you the chance to win your freedom. But what if you don't want it?

warnings: implied stockholm syndrome, references to self-harm, references to physical/mental torture/abuse and murder, im back on my bullshit

It was meant to be a game.

Hide and seek, but with a twist. The twist being that you were technically being held captive, and this little game was how you’d win your freedom. Bo would let you out, generously giving you an hour to run and hide somewhere and, should you make it to sundown without him catching you, he’d let you go. You weren’t stupid enough to believe that the man who incapacitated your friends so his brother could turn them into wax figures would actually let you go after what you’d seen, but the thought of getting to roam freely for a couple hours was very nice.

This would be the third round, your third attempt at besting Bo in his town. The first had lasted about an hour, he found you hiding behind his mother’s casket in the church but did give you the privilege of walking yourself back up to the house because he had something to tend to in town for Vincent. Not one to even try to betray his trust anymore, you went straight to the house and to his room and he found you there two hours later.

“Did ya eat?”

“No,” you’d murmured, looking up at him when he asks why. “You didn’t tell me I could get food. You just said to go back to the house.”

“Baby’s learnin’,” he had praised, leaning in to kiss your head. You do your best not to cringe at the contact, it was still very unfamiliar to have that kindness extended to you. “I like that.”

The second attempt lasted four hours. You’d guess he found you in the movie theater at around noon based on the sun’s positioning. It was then that you learned that Bo knew exactly where all the figures should be – since he’d counted your extra head in the fifth row on the left side. That time he didn’t send you home, instead keeping you by his side as he tended to basic maintenance around the town.

“You really know where everyone is here?” you asked, watching as he screwed in the new lightbulb.

“Sure do. I’m the one that had to put ‘em there. Mama had a plan all sketched out, we’re just finishing it.” He sounded proud, and you crack a smile when he looks down at you from his perch on the ladder. He doesn’t smile back, but you know by his tone that he’s not upset with you. “I reckon you’re starting to get used to where everything is by now.”

“I’m not sure about that.” You really aren’t. There were places you’d seen a lot of, the church and the museum itself, that you probably did know the layout better than you should. The town as a whole, though? Not so much. That’s why Bo always won the game.

And here you were on your third attempt, listening to Bo as he talked to Vincent and Lester. Something about staying out of your way today, acting like you weren’t even there if they saw you because you were allowed to run around today. But this was your time, and you move back to Bo’s bedroom and climb out the back window – intentionally pushing off the wall to avoid the trap that you knew was in the bushes beneath the window. Lessons learned the hard way.

The game had started at dawn, technically, and now it was 6:45am. The sun was still working it’s way into the sky, but you still had some darkness to work with as you made your way to your chosen hiding spot this month. You’d thought about it over the last couple weeks, and now you knew what Bo expected of you. He was going to look low, in places that were easy for you to get in and out of – he was not going to look up.

There was one house that you knew had a ladder behind it and a chimney you could hide behind should you need it. You were going up hang out up there until you couldn’t, then when the sun set, you were going to get out of here. That was the deal that Bo made with you. And then you’d head for-

Oh, fuck, where could you go? You’d been in Ambrose for…how long had it been? At least three months where you’d been kept in the house – Bo’s room specifically – but there was a while where you were in the basement of the gas station at the start of your stay. How long was that? Was anybody still looking for you? Did your family think you were dead? Had it been so long that they’d given up?

The thought had you stopping midway up the ladder, uncertain that winning this game would even be worth it if everyone thought you were dead. Life here wasn’t so bad these days; Bo was nicer to you now that you stopped crying and trying to escape so much, Vincent would let you watch him work (he’d even started to let you work with his wax to make your own art), and Lester, well, you didn’t get a lot of time with Lester but he always gave you extra snacks and that was enough.

“Smart girl got a head start.” Bo’s voice nearby has you startled, and you freeze on the ladder to avoid making any unnecessary noises. Based on sound, it seemed like he’d be heading towards the church, so you give it a moment before slowly continuing up the ladder. You had dressed light, ready to move at a moment’s notice and used sunscreen to prepare for sun exposure. You were more than just smart, and you bask in that information as you lay back on the roof.

The only issue with this plan was that, if it worked, you were about to be bored as hell.

If the plan was going to work, you’d have to keep still unless you absolutely had to move, since you did not want to draw any attention to your little rooftop. You didn’t have any sort of mp3 player or game to play, all you could really do is watch the clouds and listen to Bo try to stay quiet as he cussed his way through town trying to find you.

The time gives you the chance to really think about how long you’d been there. You knew for certain at least three months, that part was easy. It had been wintertime when you’d watched your boyfriend at the time be rendered immobile by a well aimed knife to the spine; the plan was for your group to travel for a basketball game, college sports had been a big deal to your boyfriend, and it had been his birthday weekend. The marks on your arms that you’d given yourself to keep track of the days in the gas station basement had long since healed, thanks to Vincent’s caring touch, so the count you had of the early days was gone. You did know that it was October now, thanks to the calendar kept in the house, and it was….January (you think) when you’d left for that weekend trip. Nine months, give or take a week or two, which was a long time to be missing.

Nine months of fear, pain, tears, and hunger; but there’d also been light in the darkness. Life in Ambrose was a life where you had very few responsibilities. You did laundry and stayed out of the way, that was pretty much it. Sometimes the brothers would hurt themselves in their work, and you’d tend to those injuries if the opportunity presented itself, but that wasn’t much of a responsibility. The care was returned; Vincent’s care over your injuries, both the ones you’d inflicted upon yourself and were inflicted upon you in your captivity, Lester making sure you ate enough, and Bo sleeping in the living room chair for three weeks after moving you into his bedroom in the house. You’d been given your own bed in the large room but clearly, he was aware that you weren’t comfortable sharing a space like that with him at that point. Obviously, the man cared enough about you that he’d do that, and that was enough for you right now.

The world outside might have forgotten about you, but you knew the brothers here wouldn’t.

You don’t even register how long you’d been on the roof until it starts to get cold. You must’ve fallen asleep at some point, since the sun is now setting, and you decide that if Bo hadn’t found you yet, he likely wouldn’t. Which meant that you won, but was getting out really a prize if you had nowhere to go?

“Oh you’re fuckin’ kidding,” you hear Bo from down below, and turn your head to see him looking up at you from the street.

“Hey,” you greet, turning so your legs dangled off the edge of the roof. “Spend all day looking?

“Fuckin’ everywhere, and you were up there this whole time?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” you confirm, watching as he moves out of your line of sight towards the house. It’s only a couple moments before he’s sitting on the roof beside you, a quiet settling between you since you both know what it means now that you’d won. “I expected that you’d be looking anywhere but up.”

“People do tend to go low when they hide. You’ve been paying attention.” The praise is rare, and to an extent you hate that you grow warm at his words. Bo meant what he said when he was giving compliments, though, that’s why the words meant so much. “Where do you wanna go? I’ll take you there, give you money for a bus ticket, whatever you want.”

The moment of truth, and you shrug as the daylight continues to fade into dark. The stars were becoming visible, and you look up at them as you try to prolong your response. Because you didn’t know, and you didn’t want to make any decision like that. It was too much to think of; the idea that your family had given up, that everyone you knew before thought you were dead. Maybe it was better that way?

“Well?” he prompts, and you look over at him to see that he’d taken his hat off and was holding it tightly in his hand.

“I’d like to stay here, with you, if that’s okay?”

That wasn’t a question either of you had expected to come out of your mouth, but you knew deep down it was what you wanted. Why try to become someone else somewhere else, declare yourself alive again and have to answer questions you didn’t want to answer? Put the Sinclair brothers in danger when you really didn’t want to? Life would be easier if you stayed here; better, even, you were sure of it.

First he nods, and you take the opportunity to scoot closer so you can rest your head on his arm. He tenses at the contact but relaxes quickly, and you crack a smile when you feel his hand on your back. Bo was….abrasive at worst these days and you found a weird brand of comfort in him letting you stay and be so close to him without him explicitly initiating.

“Yeah, sweetheart, you can stay here with me.” The verbal confirmation has you relaxing, and your eyes close when you feel a hesitant kiss be pressed to your head. Were you sure what was happening here? Not at all. But in this moment where you’d just denied your opportunity to go back to the life you once had to keep the life you have now, you needed the comfort and were grateful that Bo was allowing the close proximity. “That’ll make Vincent happy. He really likes you.”

“Does it make you happy?”

This time he pauses, but you don’t move to look up at him. You don’t want to see the uncertainty in his features or look him in the eye should he lie to you.

“I chose you all those months ago, to have you finally choose me is a blessing.”

“Then why give me the chance to leave?”

“Because you’re not a pet. At first it was kinda like that, yeah, but then it became more than that.” You still weren’t proficient at translating Bo-speak, since the man kept anything that was vaguely reminiscent of a “feeling” close to his chest unless he was so mad that he snapped, but you supposed that he was saying that he cared about you. The fingers on your back begin to gently tap, and you look up at him finally to see him looking at you. “Look, I care, and I want you to be happy. I just have a fucked up way of showing it, according to Lester.”

“It is a bit fucked, yeah,” you agree, letting out a small laugh when he rolled his eyes. “But I’ve come to care about you too, Bo. Vincent and Lester, too, but you’re my favorite - don’t tell them.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that nugget of knowledge between us, sweetheart.” The assurance has you smiling, but he looks like he has more to say so you keep your gaze on him as he cracks a small smile of his own. “But Mama always said that good things come to those who wait, and also something about God sending angels in different forms, and I think I got both of those in you. Just needed you to actually want to be here.”

“I like playing this game, but we’re going to have to figure out different prizes for winning since I don’t want to be anywhere but here.”

“You think you’re going to keep winning?”

“Plenty of hiding spots here. You just have never had to think about it.”

He nods at that, and you take a moment to rest in the fact that you’d never really just sat and talked to Bo. Small couple minute conversations while he was working on something and you watched, or short questions that didn’t require lengthy answers or follow up from him were the norm, not sitting side by side chatting like this. You hoped there was more of this now that you weren’t going anywhere, since changing your mind about staying wasn’t on your agenda.

“I’m heading out to town tomorrow; you’re welcome to join if you want.”

“I’d like that, Bo,” you murmur, feeling him relax a bit more. This was nice, surprisingly comfortable given the circumstances that brought you to him and the events of the past nine months, but you weren’t going to question anything about it. You knew better. Questions would destroy your outlook on the situation. Bo cared about you, and you cared about him. Perfect world, no need to question it. “Thanks for not killing me after I punched you in the face that one time.”

“It was one helluva punch, that’s for sure.” The compliment has you smiling, your eyes closing as he leaned in again and the familiar feeling of his kiss on your forehead has you sighing. “Told you that you’d learn to like me.”

You weren’t going to tell him that ship had sailed over a month ago. You don’t have a chance to, as Lester is calling out for Bo to see if you’d been found yet. Bo stands, and you look up at him as you realize the moment is over now and he’s putting his hat on so he can go be an elder brother.

“You can stay out here as long as you like. House’ll be unlocked, I think I’ll have to make dinner since I doubt those two did. Hopeless, both of ‘em.”

You could stay out, but instead you stand while volunteering to make dinner if it was needed. Bo hated cooking, and was terrible at it, and you’d had enough time to yourself on that rooftop for one day. So he heads down the ladder first, watching closely as you make your way down after him, his hand settling on your back for added support when you were in reach and staying there until you were on solid ground. That warmth leaves your back, but your hand does brush against his multiple times on your way back up to the house as Bo tells you about how his supply runs usually went to prepare you to tag along on tomorrow’s run.

#bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x female reader #bo sinclair fluff #bo sinclair fanfic #bo sinclair #house of wax

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