I’m only attracted to fictional men, which caused me to have one guy friend and never to befriend another guy after that. Then I went on a horrible first date with a guy that I had to text my other friend to pick me up because it hit me that I was near vomiting thinking about dating an actual man. So writing somewhat realistic men and romantic dialogue with men is so difficult for me
But! Alas, all hope is not lost! I'm going to the club tonight for the first time for my friend’s b-day so I’ll have the opportunity to gain ideas for writing.
Maybe a woman yandere after or a male yandere or both…heh
"I, Everett Grey, will assist you for as long as you deem necessary.”
CW: Fem reader (she/her), clueless reader, misogyny, implied murder
WC: 3k
N: *taps mic* Is this thing on?
The frigid environment is never-ending, from the territory around you to the numb tips of your fingers that encase the handle of your canvas suitcases, a suffocation you can’t escape now. The dread of everything has made you a madwoman only after a few measly hours. Will you survive until you find shelter, or will you succumb to the cold, loving arms of death?
Though outdated, you have had an arrangement to wed a man whom you’ve only known through his portrait rather than truly court and be acquainted with. Your father wouldn’t budge on the topic of your betrothal; he was an honest man before his wealth and greed consumed him. Rather than uplifting him, it left a cold, empty husk that replaced your dear Pa. He had to have a son, an heir, and a man to fulfill his need to continue his succession, and your poor mother couldn’t bear another child with her sickly health. His many piles of wealth included you, a mere pawn, which is what you were. A solution to his troublesome conundrum was to promise your purity to another family whose business was interested in partnering up, coincidentally having a son who is also of age to marry. You could have had a conniption over the situation, but to be frank, what power did you have without your family, and what role did you have in this society? What other choice do you have but to concede, and that you did.
Preparations were made for your marriage and your transportation to your spouse; it only took a blink of your eye, and suddenly a fortnight had passed. The only other victim in this affair was the number of skirts that you scrunched underneath your palms with silent rage as an outlet for your unruly emotions.
The winter ought to have ended; Both parties meticulously planned every step, and it was predicted to be the first blossoming of spring when you departed. Yet, they neglected to consider that Mother Nature does not oblige the mere desires of mankind, which lead to your carriage going astray. Bits and pieces of your memory recall the event that transpired; the snow had decided to intrude on the forest, much like how darkness envelops the sun's flame at night. The snow never stopped; the white was the last thing you saw after the horses slipped down the cliff with assistance from the weight of the carriage itself and the additional weight of baggage for your journey ahead.
It was as if you’d awoken from a ghastly night terror from when you were just a babe, wanting to run into the arms of your mother for comfort. But it was nothing like that; it was real and horrid. The feast you had a few hours ago was ready to escape your body as your gaze landed upon your coachman escorting you, a few meters ahead of you. A sob spills out of your mouth as your breath quickens, and puffs of white condensation leave your dry, frozen lips, filling your vision, yet it still can’t hide the image. “F..f..fred..drr..ick,” you quavered softly, whether the tremors in your voice are just from the fear that infected your body or the cold swarming every centimetre of your being like wasps to fruit. You wouldn’t have known because all of your attention at that moment was towards the man beside you. While your body adapts to the shock and freshness of the whole incident, you still use some of your upper-body strength to crawl to the older gentleman. Hands shivering and oh-so-cold from the snow, your elbows help with the process, dragging your lower garment —the bottom half of your dress —to your target. The smell of iron pervades every sense of your being, and dark crimson decorates the pure white snow, visually and physically, from where the blood imprints itself…stains itself.
The stain surrounds the man’s head, almost angelic, the way it creates a halo above him and the rock beside him that caused the painting. He didn’t deserve any of this, a close companion to you when your father wasn't, filling that missing piece.
“Fredrick…” You shudder as your bottom lips begin to quiver “....Please,” you sharply inhale, holding in your cries and using all your strength, you sit on your knees, cradling his head. “Mister….Fredrick…wake up…please…” Fingers tremble and slip as you hold his head, wrinkles decorate his pale skin naturally, while crimson and bile defile it unnaturally, a contrast you never in a million years would think to see. You’re not blind, a little deluded? Yes, but blind, no, you can’t fool yourself anymore, as the coldness around you keeps your senses sharp. “Sir…I’m sorry.. I'm sorry… I'm sorry.. I'm sorry,” your voice wavers until cracking and succumbing to tears as you come to reality. Lying the elder man to rest and softly muttering a prayer, you regain your senses, still shaken up, and you make your way to the luggage that survived. Scanning the area, you see a castle in the distance, the snow giving it a veil of protection. Though it looks faded and weary, in your eyes, it's a beacon of light; it's your only chance of survival. You cover, Frederick, with your cape in respect, hoping the years of friendship were as much of a blessing as it was to you. Then trying to regain the feeling in your legs, you start a path slowly towards the black-bricked fortress.
The snowflakes from the sky slowly claim you, from your frozen hair to your frozen dress and soaked shoes. Perhaps the snow shall also claim your life. Drowsiness constricts your body's ability to move any faster, and then confusion fills your head. What do you even have to live for? What life do you have to come back to that you're fighting back so diligently to return to? You have nothing.
But.
You have to keep fighting. You have to.
As your thoughts slowly come to a standstill, you see it in all its glory.
A gray brick bridge that connects the building from one cliff to another, and the castle, oh, how beautiful the dark beauty contrasts with the thick pristine snow that surrounds it– you can’t take your eyes off of it. Almost akin to seeing a childhood dog after years, or what you would think falling in love at first sight is like. Almost in a trance, you quickly reach the grandiose structure, legs dragging against the layered snow, slipping once or twice on the iced, weathered stairs.
Steadily, you finally are in front of the impressive gate and imposing double doors that greet your mere presence. Perhaps it’s the cold that has finally made you its plaything, or maybe it’s your last bit of sanity kicking in to save you once again, but you feel a sense of unease wash throughout your being. It's like a sensation from afar that someone is watching you, but from where?
“...Hello?” Your voice breezes through the icy winds, quiet, chattering, and trembling ever so quietly, seeking any kind of salvation. Your delicate, shaky hands reach for the frozen door, barely feeling the icy temperature that burns your skin, akin to Icarus flying too close to the sun's burning ember.
“Please…h.help me.”
When no soul, god, or devil answers your plea, you accept the possibility that you’ll die on this gateway– alone and cold with your life story being left behind with your frozen, forgotten body. How cruel…how pitiful…
Not only does the weight of your thoroughly soaked, chilled clothing weigh down on you, but so do the self-deprecating thoughts that plague your mind, slowly softening you to yield to the embrace of death, answering its calling, and greeting the familiar reaper.
Yet the reunion is cut short when an angel, yes, an angel, welcomes your presence.
The sanctuary's doors unlatch and display the most alluring figure you’ve ever seen, almost glowing before your eyes, as their pleasant arms catch you before you collapse onto the cold bricks below. A smoky scent envelops you, burning your nostrils most deliciously, but underneath all the earthy, woody, and tobacco scents lies a sweet floral aroma. Hints of sweetness that conflicted with each other, overpowering one but never fully concealing the other, left a slight trace; slender hands held you close, gripping you tightly to the saint’s thick waistcoat. Long blonde locks lay on their layered coat in the peripheral of your eyes when they finally shut, caving in to your body’s needs.
If these are your last moments on this plane of existence, then perhaps your prayers have been heard for the first and final time.
—
Crackling flames, silk and velvet sheets, and the scent of herbs and citrus consume you.
Pleasant.
Charming.
Calm.
Safe.
It’s as if the events that transpired beforehand were just an untasteful story you’ve conjured up in your racing mind and nothing more. It certainly felt like it; you’ll get out of bed as usual, have some fresh bread and butter with a cup of tea on the side, or maybe treat yourself to some preserved meat. “How delightful,” you thought as you sank into the softest mattress you’ve ever lain on that matched the wool warmth of the nightgown draped on your body.
…Nightgown?
The sound of crackling flames merges with the inhale of your breath as you sit up, swift as an owl spotting a mouse.
Where are you? Who dressed you?
Your eyes jump to your hands in front of you, seeing if this is a hallucination, then you scan the room you’re occupying.
The colour red is prominent from the sheets to the furniture, standing out against the dark brown wood, which serves as the secondary standard colour. The canopy’s heavy, sturdy beams are carved and polished with such care that they seduce your eyes as they make their way behind you. Books on books surround you with various topics, but the majority are geographical books, and amongst all of them, you see your town on the side of some of the spines. They all looked handcrafted. As you push the blanket aside to walk around the room, the door creaks open.
It freezes when the eye looking scanning the room catches your stare, and a staring duel starts. But it ends when the door slams shut and light footsteps run away from the now shut door, and soon brings you outside running after those footsteps in an attempt to catch the culprit.
“Excuse me!” Your voice echoes throughout the spacious hall, bouncing against the empty walls as a plum velvet cloak flutters down the hall in front of you. “Just wait!” Yelping as your legs give out, falling onto the floor. Holding your tongue, you slowly peel off the light nightgown, revealing your calves bandaged with the utmost care. Healed scratches litter your thighs; must be from the dry bushes you walked through. As if the wind materialized them, soft porcelain large hands cover yours almost instantly, and a figure leans over you. Your eyes move beside you to the long blonde hair dangling beside you, could it be? The angel who saved you from certain death?
There, above you, the moonlight glowing upon them, was the gorgeous angel that you had thought you had imagined was right next to you. Small, barely audible self-deprecatory mumbles escape them, saying how they shouldn’t have run from you because you could hurt yourself, calling themself a dimwit and using degrading language.
You really should pay attention a lot more since the situation you’re in is quite dire, but you’re distracted by how the moonlight beams its glow onto the angel’s face. Revealing the face that escaped you before, sharp, alluring ruby eyes catch your gaze as they run through every feature sculpted on the living marble in front of you. Straight nose, skin as pale as the snow, diamond-shaped jaw and lips as soft as rabbit fur, yet with all the edges on them, there's this gentleness. Their Adam’s apple bobbles, timid like a kit– the ragged sound of your breath fills the hallway, a silence between you two grows, it’s not unwelcomed but is buying time before either of you speaks.
A cough echoes, and their hand lay your dress back down to your lower calf, breaking eye contact with you yet again by glancing to the side.
A soft, resonant voice echoes throughout the room, and it almost spooks your spirit out of you.
“The informal wear…you have on…Apologies, I had to discard your old garments, as they were not suitable for your well-being. Cold fabric could induce febrile or any other diseases that could kill you by the next sundown, not only that, but the other amount of possible lethal…” He cuts himself off, shutting his eyes in embarrassment, then looks at you, “You’re most likely terrified…being awoken in such a strange place in all…” He grabs your hand awkwardly but carefully, and yet also familiarly. “Apologies for the pathetic introduction, especially as the master of the house, I, Everett Grey, will assist you for as long as you deem necessary.”
As welcoming as Everett was, he was always far from you, always lingering 10 steps away as if he were the unwelcomed guest instead of the other way around. Once during dinner together, you questioned him about drinking wine instead of eating a meal with you. He then proceeded to apologize for being odd and drank in the other room. You then had to explain to him that he didn’t make you uncomfortable, and it would be nice to have dinner with someone so kind.
You couldn’t articulate it perfectly into words or even explain it, but being near Everett felt like finishing a journal, complete. It was easy to adapt to him like a routine you used to have; every time of day became slowly filled with one another. Even go as far as reading the same books in the palace library and then discussing them.
Though it was wonderful, you have some…Inquiries…perhaps it's the nagging feeling in your head, but you've never seen Everett blink, eat, sleep or even go outside after sunrise. Not only that, the castle was barren; the only residents here are the androgynous man and now, you. With such a vast estate and so very little help, you would think it wouldn’t be well-maintained throughout, but to your surprise, it’s spotless. No dust in sight, hell, it's cleaner than your house back home. Though light overshadows the dark, you could ignore the nagging when you’ve never felt freer in your life. That's the reason why, even though you’ve healed, you haven’t thought about leaving.
After facing death, your appetite for life grew exponentially, and you wanted to partake in every hobby imaginable; you wake up from dawn to see the sunrise, then get to work. Everett, the ever-so-caring angel, always supported you and, coincidentally, had the exact supplies you needed for every project. This time, you swore that you wouldn’t need to ask for his help and bother Everett, but there you are in the garden with supplies with the blonde's stamp on it. You scoff playfully under your breath. He’s always one step ahead–you decided to take on gardening, and to your pleasure, you’ve discovered the most beautiful flowers. It would add a touch to the castle, you thought as you researched in the castle library for how to spot local flowers and how to cultivate them. Not wanting to pester him yet again, you kept it under your breath; it looks like all your efforts were in vain. It made working in the garden easier, but it still drained the life out of you like those vampire stories kids tell to scare each other.
The library was magnificent, from its height to the carpet. Dark red was prominent yet again, and the fireplace had stone carvings made with such care. The word "elegant" comes to mind. Usually, you are most energetic by sundown, sleeping when the night sky has fully darkened, leaving the stars to shine and the moon to glow. But you want to give Everett at least your notes on the book you're both reading. You just needed to wait until he woke, which was sundown.
Sleep has claimed its victory, leaving you sleeping in the chair next to the fireplace, curled up with papers scattered from your hand.
Red eyes lurk in the shadows behind the curtain, waiting for the glowing orange rays to dissipate. A soft, sweet smile graces the man’s face – you genuinely are the most beautiful thing this earth will or has created. As the darkness grows, so does he as he makes his way to you, his feet gliding carefully to avoid waking you. Your well-thought-out papers, set down on the table in a pile with the utmost consideration of how much hard work you put into explaining your opinions. Next, you were scooped up carefully and then set down on the silk couch with the blonde's coat draped across you. Eyes soften at the sight of you sleeping soundly; you’re comfortable around him, of course, you came back to him. A cold hand cups your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb gliding against your cheekbone, this thumbnail slightly scratching you lightly. Death is an impossible thing to happen to Everett, but if heaven were real, it would be anywhere you stand; your mere presence would be a sun ray he hasn’t felt in years.
He can’t be greedy, but he takes every detail, every eyelash, every pore – he takes you in. Grasping at anything he can get but…
You’re here.
With him.
You came back.
Though lost in the moment, his senses could pick up a set of foot steps that belonged to neither of you. He promised to be less selfish, but he can’t let you go, not just when he got you back. He leans in and leaves a feather kiss on your forehead, pulling the blanket up, then departs to the front lobby with one last glance. He told you in your previous life that he would give you the choice to leave him if you wished to, but he knows it’s not easy dating a mortal as someone immortal, and you can say the same point the other way around.
Everett’s canines extend– he’ll just have to extricate whoever came in the way, even if he has to add as many dead rescue men, your father in this lifetime pays for to add to the pile.
Death does not part him from his Wife or you from Everett Grey.
A/N: This WIP has been terrorizing for MONTHS! Thank you to everyone checking up on me. I fear I am just a really slow writer. Snail mail here. Thank you again for the support :3
Yandere! Cowboy who was always a close associate turned into a close confidant of yours; at times she knew you better than yourself.
Yandere! Cowboy who was the brains of the group that you lead and in charge of every single robbery from mills, stealing the occasional cattle or finest horses.
Yandere! Cowboy who always kept you level headed when you were just furious on a simple mistake that would have cost you the whole heist.
“Look at me.” Her leather gloves gripped the sides of your face. “I said look at me.”
Your eyes looked at her, your hands brushed at the intricate design of the recently stolen buscadero holder that held your revolvers. Her faded bandana was snug around her neck, a jagged scar extended from the right side of her jawline to under her right nostril.
“Where are we?” She asked.
“At camp,” you responded.
“Good,” she replied, “and where in the camp are we at?”
“Why are you doing this?” You asked. “I just need to talk to him.”
Her eyes looked to see your hands seemingly itching to reach your revolvers; a behavior that she knew far too well. Only talking that would be done would be eulogies to a shallow grave.
“We are running low on people,” she replied. “We can’t be killing them off, can’t we?”
“Yes, we can but we could have—“
“Where are we again,” she interrupted. “Are we in a cell? At the gallows because we both know that there’s a bounty on both of us.”
“We…we are at camp in my tent,” you replied.
“Good,” she replied, “I’ll keep watch while you sleep ‘cause you haven’t slept.”
Yandere! Cowboy who doesn’t trust the newcomer because they just seem a bit off; seemingly becoming your mouthpiece during planning portions of heists or crimes and starts seeing you less and less.
Yandere! Cowboy who notices your candlelight never going out at night even though you are seemingly the first one awake but often wakes up to hushed whispers of your voice and the newcomer.
Yandere! Cowboy who slowly gets a bit jealous at seeing you and the newcomer side by side; that was her spot not theirs. She notices the subtle changes that weren’t there before like the sudden change in revolvers or the amount of coins in your pocket that you used to donate to the nearest saloon when you were feeling ‘generous’ before robbing it.
Her eyes looked at your tired ones, the newcomer that had weaseled their way into her spot. Their hands that held your tired shoulders while your horse held a muffled person wrapped with your rope, she recognized the person; gloved hands trembled with anger.
“Do you know who you have tied up?” She asked.
“Someone,” the newcomer chimed.
“I’m talking to the leader, not you,” she said. “Do you know who you have tied up?”
She stepped closer to you, sitting on a wooden stump. Your face was stained with grime and specks of dried blood, reeking of fresh gunpowder from your new buffalo rifle and the butt of the rifle had specks of dried blood.
“I’m asking a question,” she replied. “Do you know who you have tied up on your horse?”
“I know who I have,” you replied. “One of the Buckley boys.”
“You might as well signed us off to the gallows,” she said. “Not just one of the Buckley’s boys but Cyrus’ kid, you realize that we have an even larger target on our backs because of this.”
Her hands pulled you away from them, arm remained around your shoulder and the dirt underneath your boots were heard with each crunch. Each step, each tether and she held one side of your face.
“What’s going on with you?” She asked. “Not talking to me, I helped you with one of our greatest heists and this is how you treat me.”
“I’m just…it’s just,” you replied, trailing off.
“What is it?” she asked. “We have been through enough together but this is nothing, remember? It’s you and me, nobody else.”
She pressed her gloved hands against your face; holding it as if only you mattered to her and her alone.
“What are we going to do about this?” She smiled. “What are we going to do?”
Yandere! Cowboy who will have her hands in other things to get knowledge on the next heist that will cause more money to be raised on the bounty that you both shared together since you and her were one of more prominent ones in the spotlight.
Yandere! Cowboy who has the wooden box filled with golden bricks hidden in a special spot that only you and her know because it holds sentimental value to your heart and hers.
Yandere! Cowboy who for once fails to notice the growing plot of an uprising within your group due to her obsession of you being a slight overwhelming feeling but it never went to extreme levels—or so she tried to make it look like that.
“I’m not standing for this.” Her finger was itching to be pressing on the trigger of her Winchester rifle that she had stolen during a train hijacking. “They rescued you and this is how you repay them?”
You stumbled out of your tent, head aching. The cold rain touching the warmth of your skin caused an involuntary gasp while your blurred vision tried to register the scene.
She stood in the center of the woods, strewn the supposed traitors as she was always making jokes that she would tie them up by their wrists; it seems that she wasn’t joking this time.
Your boot crunched on a twig and she turned to face you, her eyes always calm; a mixture filled with hatred and annoyance. Her blue-silver eyes darted up and down your face; trying to examine you and her lips grew into a smile. She slung her rifle as it was held by a leather strap and her gloved hands held your face.
“Can’t you see?” She said, “I’m doing this for you—for us.”
You pushed her away, she pulled you back; a short scuffle between the both of you as you and her rolled in the meadow greenery around amidst the struggling of you trying to disarm her. Mud coated your clothes during the struggle and the occasional smacking into stumps of the chopped woods. Yet, she managed to stab you in the leg; she was always a better aim than you. You cried out in the pain, looking down to the blood staining your pant leg and feeling the blade turning around in your leg, your gasps echoing the seemingly peaceful meadow.
Her blood splattered on your face, your hands held her while grimacing in pain; the blood bloomed on your side that reached your abdomen. One of the supposed tied members managed to get free and used one of the spare guns to shoot; her bloodied face was buried onto your chest.
You gently pushed her off of you, staggering towards your tent; this life wasn’t working out for you…Not anymore. You looked in the small fractured mirror, seeing your bloodied face staring back. You needed something new—a new identity in a different city.
You managed to get exactly that, giving up your old ways by faking your own death as it was seemingly easier than every average heist that you had committed before for a small farmhouse and having the familiar warmth of a lover that didn’t know about your past—they didn’t need to know because the past you was a different person and they loved you.
You had managed to get a small career in the back of a saloon for stocking tobacco and cigars for an extra fee to smoke. It was a normal work day and feeling the cold barrel pressed against the back of your head.
“Tobacco.” The barrel pulled back slightly only to be pressed back again; harshly. “Give it.”
You handed the crate of tobacco to them and turned to face them; your eyes widened. Recognizing the half of the exposed face and faded familiar bandana pulled up.
“I thought you were—“ you said.
“It’s you,” she interrupted. “I finally found you.”
Before you could say anything else. She struck you; stumbling to your knees and feeling the hot blood trickle down your face, looking up. Last thing, you saw was the heel of her boot kicking you and fading into black.
Yandere Cowboy who takes out the crates of tobacco and cigars to share with her small group of outlaws; she doesn’t get too close to them since they aren’t you. Nobody could replace you.
Yandere Cowboy who purposely sets up faulty heists that ends up in her group of outlaws slowly dying one by one because she can’t have loose ends now.
Yandere Cowboy who knows where your little farmhouse is and she watches when you come home to greet your lover from a hard day at work; she knows you’re not meant for this domestic life—you just need a push towards this lifestyle.
You winced and recognized the insides of your farmhouse. Your hand touched the dried blood from, using the doorframe to pull yourself up and seeing the sight in the once organized kitchen; the food in the pot was charred, table stained with blood, broken plates and your squirming lover who was bruised and slightly bloodied in trying to defend themselves from her but their wrists bound while she aimed a revolver to the side of their head.
“Dorothea,” you cried out, “let them go. This is between us, right?”
“Right.” She looked at you then to your lover. “It is just between us.”
She harshly shoved them to the floor, putting her revolver back into her buscadero holder, watching as they scrambled to you.
The deafening noise of the bullet flew, whistling in the air and making their home in the middle of your lover’s head. The blood splattered onto your face, cradling their body in your arm; looking up at Dorothea.
“Why—“ Your voice was broken. “You—Dorothea…”
“Don’t cry on me.” She stepped closer but you stepped away from her. “Don’t be like that. You didn’t like being tied down, remember?”
“I—This life.” You held them closer to your breaking body as if this was a dream and you would wake up anytime soon. “You promised—I don’t…”
She maneuvered you to let go of them with mild disgust of how overly sensitive you were towards them; they were a corpse, nothing more. Her hands—calloused hands held your bloodied and tear stained face.
It is the 19th century and you are returning home by ship. Before you embark, you happen to find a glowing shell abandoned by the docks. It seems that the sea creatures are searching for it. Or maybe it's something else they're interested in.
content: gender neutral reader, violence, dubious consent, based on Return of the Obra Dinn
January 1802
What's the matter with me, I wonder? As if my luggage wasn't heavy enough already, I had to drag around a big shell of sorts. Found it by the docks while I waited for my ship to arrive.
It has a strange glow to it, this shell. Can't quite place it.
January 1802
Cheeky bastards! The seamen are such a flirt. From the moment I stepped onto the main deck, a handful of them haven't dropped the whistles and stares.
One of the topmen - I recall he's Scottish? - he's been pestering me about the ship. "I'll show ye around, can't find a better guide," he says. His mates laugh and clap to his petty attempts.
February 1802
Some of the sailors are dying from lung illness. I was on the orlop deck, playing cards with the three Russians, when the surgeon rushed to one of the cabins ahead.
"If it was contagious, we'd all have it by now. Damned if I know what it is, or where it comes from," I could hear him groan.
I wondered out loud if I might catch it myself, but then I noticed one of 'em rascals trying to cheat the cards.
February 1802
I saw it again tonight. Ever since we launched from Falmouth, as soon as the sun sets, there's an eerie glimmer in the distance. It reminds me of this damned shell.
Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Oh, the sea is so terrifying in the dark. There's nothing but black stretching all around. My window is low; whenever the waves break against it, the wooden walls let out a groan that awakens me from the deepest slumber. Surgeon gave me pills to sleep.
The creaks of the ship sound like a weeping maiden.
February 1802
I think the cursed glow is getting closer. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I snuck onto the main deck.
Scotsman found me wandering towards the bow, so he quietly hoisted me up by the waist. I thought he'd tell the Captain, but he sat me on the lower rigging, next to him, and we listened to the waves.
I was afraid I'd fall off, but he kept a steady hand on me.
I wish I could tell him about the light stalking our ship. Would he think I'm mad?
February 1802
Second Mate returned today on a small boat. We heard shouts coming from upstairs, so we rushed to see what was happening. Bosun had his pistol readied next to the Captain, and the sailors lifted the cargo from below.
I thought I was dreaming at first. Some creatures, unholy beings, were caught in the net. They had the body of a human, but thick, fish tails covered in spikes.
One of the Formosan passengers muttered something in Chinese, and some of the tail spikes suddenly pierced him dead. The old Miss next to me fainted on the spot, and the stewards urged us to leave. Right before I turned, I noticed one of the beasts pointing at me. It had a monstrous grin on its face. Oh, what a sight! The Scotsman guided me away, but I can't forget those eyes.
Was it malice? Such an intense stare, burning straight into my soul. Now that I'm writing all this, a memory has come to mind: the creature had the same shell as mine, dangling from its neck.
February 1802
The pills no longer work.
I can't rest anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I hear its wretched voice, calling me from the lazarette. That's where they locked those sea monsters. It sings nonsense, blasphemous lies. We're not fated soulmates. I've nothing to do with those devils.
I should've never picked up the shell. I can only pray we reach land soon.
March 1802
God, oh God, what disaster has befallen us? I don't have much time. The gun deck is in shambles, more than half the crew dead. Underwater beasts have crawled their way up our ship; strange humans with spears, saddled on top of crabs larger than I've ever seen. The poor midshipman, oh, a young boy! He set himself on fire to stop the nightmarish fiend. Threw the lamp across the floor, and the flames swallowed both of them up.
I scrambled up on the main deck, but there was no peace to be found; colossal tentacles sprawled around the ship, pulling the rigging apart, tearing humans like insects. The Captain's wife was struck by a falling pillar, I saw her crumble right before me.
Scotsman is still alive, but his arm is missing a good chunk of it. I don't know where to find the surgeon.
March 1803
They left.
They took the last boat, I only found out this morning. I tried to join them, but one of the sailors stopped me.
"Witch," he shouted at me, "the beast down by the cargo hold screams your name. You must've called it here, brought this curse upon us."
I don't know what he's talking about. Tonight I'm going to the lazarette, I can no longer bear the calling. This blasted fiend, oh, he's ruined me. I'll rot on this wreck.
Mother, I don't think I'll ever reach the shore.
Your steps are hesitant as you tiptoe your way around the dried blood and debris, until you reach the locked chambers. The door is bent and folded away, as if hit by a great force. You do indeed notice the round prints against the rusty surface: giant suckers from a blasphemous being.
There he is, the wicked varmint who plagues your sleep! A pale creature is propped up, halfway out of the water, welcoming you with a toothy grin. The shell around his neck glows mockingly.
You throw your own shell at him. The small, ivory object rolls with a hollow thud.
"Is this what you wanted, damned monster?"
"Why, what am I to do with two?"
His voice is harsh and deep, rapping against your eardrums, scratching the inside of your head.
"I've been waiting for you. Can't leave this place without my beloved, can I?"
"There you go again with this nonsense. Villain! Drown me if you must, but spare me your deceit."
His smile falters, eyes narrowing in a frown.
"Is that how you find my love? Some petty lie told by a charlatan? Ungrateful brat, who do you think freed you from their shackles? Who do you suspect has summoned the leviathan, from the deepest trenches of the sea, to save your mortal soul?"
"The kraken left with the storm," you counter as the blood drains from your face. Could it be that you were to blame, after all?
"No, it left after the bargain."
He pulls himself up and sits on the edge of his former cage. You observe his features in mild awe: the texture of his skin, the dark locks of hair reaching all the way to the tail, the spikes breaking out of the thick, hard scales.
"What bargain," you ask fearfully.
"The last ones are free to escape, if they leave you to me."
Why, your horrified expression is not quite something he expected. Surely one must feel relief once their freedom has been guaranteed. And not just any kind of freedom - you've been returned to your soulmate.
He's spent weeks chasing the currents, trailing the faint glow in the distance. He hasn't stopped once, tail pushing forward to the promise of a reunion.
Yet, you seem unsure. Perhaps his approach has been too hurried, too nonchalant. You need a little bit of convincing, and he happens to be a master of courting.
His thorax suddenly expands, and you can almost hear the twisting sound of his ribs cracking and breaking under the pressure. A sweet voice rolls out of his mouth, a song you've never heard before. Your heart pounds tremendously, threatening to burst out of your chest, and a foreign panic floods your senses.
Despite your desire to flee, your lids are heavy, eyes slowly closing. Through your lashes, you can discern the beast crawling towards you, the same defiant grin plastered on his face.
CW: GN! reader (if I did use pronouns stone me), implied murder
WC: 584
That’s not him.
That’s not your lover.
But how can you voice your problems with a gut feeling that is more than probable to be wrong? Are you overthinking things, or are you too tired? But you can’t just shake off the feeling of impending doom, like the feeling before a storm hits.
This whole situation bloomed a few months ago.
It came in when he was supposed to return from work. It was late; the rain had ceased pouring, and the smell lingered in the air; raindrops decorated your bedroom window. Wet work boots that usually would make a mess on the wooden floors didn’t that evening; instead, they sat neatly on the doormat at the house's entrance. He would’ve made his presence known with a loud “I’m home!” However, that thing didn’t; rather than a noisy entrance, it chose to seek you out, slithering around the house, and never made more than a pin drop of noise. Finally, it found you in your shared bed that you and your love would share.
And it just stood there watching you.
Of course, you felt something was off, so you expressed your concern by asking if a situation had happened at work. It shook its head no and finally moved toward you; its body was stiff in the mere act of walking, its touch hesitant yet soft. It caresses your skin so lightly that an outsider would’ve mistaken you for a national treasure; its fingertips are icy and silky in contrast to the calloused warmth your beloved used to have. Its voice almost mocked him in how timid and serene it was versus the strong, confident voice he used to boast on and on about.
It wasn’t him.
It came home later than he used to, with more of an iron smell than you can manage. If you ever brought up the smell or the strange stains that would be barely noticeable to the average person, that thing would bush it off, making the conversation about you and pampering you until it suffocated you. You would forget about the incident for a few hours.
It wasn’t him
But…
It looked at you with so much love and devotion, as if you were the only thing in this galaxy– you swear you saw stars forming in those eyes once you caught it staring at you. It almost makes up for the lack of life behind those dark abysses you call eyes; if the eyes were a window inside the soul, it didn’t have one.
It wasn’t him
But…
How it kissed you, like it was its life's purpose, took your breath away but, in the same breath, pulled you closer to life. Its lips were his, but not at the same time; his lips were chapped and rough, but they were gentle, passionate, and soft. A feather-like sensation that would warm up your entire body more than any fireplace or warm bath could. It knew what you wanted.
It tasted sweet. Maybe that’s why the sweetness the creature would whisper in your ear whenever it could take ahold of you was tooth-rotting. It was your old lover’s deep voice but coated in much more affection than he could ever muster. It’s arms wrapped around you in possessive tenderness that couldn’t escape, but you didn’t want to anymore; even though it was cold, weirdly, it emanated the warmth you yearned for.
It wasn’t your lover.
But it is now whether you had a choice or not.
End notes: Would it be cheating if I loved the same person who killed you and took your form?
Just a quick drabble to get this idea out of my head! Hope y'all like this little snack of a fic :)
CW: Fem reader (she/her), Time-appropriate misogyny, underlying themes of comphet, implied cannibalism, weird behaviour (?), cheating (in a sense?).
N: To the two sapphics that wanted this, Merry Christmas!
New town, new neighbourhood, new people, and the sense of unfamiliarity hits you before the fresh air can as you open the mustard yellow cab door.
Suburbia.
Picture-perfect houses lined up perfectly as if they were soldiers waiting for an order from their sergeant; the lawns are flawlessly mowed, with no imperfections seen, just like the housewives inside those soulless clone houses. How…dull. Your hand unconsciously grips the metal door as your jaw clenches. Your heels hit the concrete when you finally get out of the taxi, too focused on the sight in front of you in a less content fashion.
In any other circumstance, moving into such an established community would be a blessing. Especially with the rise of Suburban houses and nuclear families after World War Two, people were scrambling to settle down before, god forbid, another war started yet again. You would have to be demented not to take an opportunity like this by its horns and celebrate. But you weren’t here to settle down with a beau in tow to populate this “great nation.” No. In this context, this place would be your collar for the foreseeable future; one misguided risk, you made one tiny mistake at your job, and now you’re on time-out.
A journalist from the big city trying to make a breakthrough, which in itself is pathetic enough, but to add fuel to the flame, you’re a woman trying to achieve that unattainable dream. Getting into a male-centred field of work should've been nearly impossible, but you dipped your toes in it at the end of the day! Which is more than most could say; maybe it was your persistent attitude in your youth that gained your spectacular references or how you constantly pestered the journalist's office for a month straight to get a job since you were more qualified than 90% of the men in that fucking building. Still, you were placed into the “woman's” section. Which was an old rundown storage closet with a rotten-wooden desk in the middle of it…
Fast-forward to later, you were given only the bottom-of-the-barrel stories to research, and god, were you tired of them, you might’ve possibly “burrowed” one story from one of the rookie's desks; it's not like he could do any better than you. You quickly sift through whatever was attainable for you. Passing through possible big stories you knew you had no chance to break through quickly, such as “unknown serial cannibal still missing, when will they strike again?” or “Local government official caught embezzling after the war.” No, the story fitting your position was “Local priest fights allegations of using church money for the devil’s lettuce.” It's a perfect scandalous piece that is easy enough to get information on and would get your name somewhat out there.
You took that story and ran with it, and it turns out the more you looked into the story, the more the allegations had truth to it. This story would be your breakthrough! You would be among the first women to break through that glass ceiling! Yet, when you walked confidently into the office with an article written and sources in your hands, you left with a broken spirit, your article being taken by a male co-worker and a transfer to Pennsylvania. Your boss shouted at you in that box of an office, demeaning you in every way, but what stuck to you is when he scoffed out that the only thing you could handle was “the housewife section” in a newspaper nobody reads and that would be your only legacy other than dying a washed-up old woman with nothing to her name.
And here you were where you belonged.
“Miss, the meter is running here. You just going to stand there or…?” a ragged, aged voice calls to you from the driver's seat. “Oh! Right…sorry sir…” You acknowledge him, breaking out of your dissociation, and march toward the cab's trunk, fighting with your heavy leather suitcases to get out of the damn thing. “Ya know, a young lady like yourself shouldn’t be doing all that work…your husband going to help you with that?” the taxi driver questions you as you struggle instead of assisting you. “Don’t have one,” you quip back as you huff, finally getting the second one out; his eyes give you run down, full of judgement. “Well, you aren’t going to apple butter a stud with that tone, that’s for sure; smile more, doll,” the older gentleman snorts as you give him the money you owe him.
As the car drives away, you turn to see your already-furnished house, partly given to you by some distant relative who brought property. You barely even know him, which is why you have to pay rent. But who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth?
As you take in your new life, your eyes bounce from the russet brown asphalt shingle roof to the moss-green mowed lawn. A sigh escapes you as your eyes finally drift to your neighbour's house; it's nothing too shabby; it's nearly identical to yours, sparing a few minor details such as colour and different window positions. Your curious eyes wander through one of the windows in your line of vision at a woman in her early to mid-twenties, skin so pale you could almost mistake her for a Jane Doe in a morgue. Her blonde hair resembles hay you would see decorated inside a barn, and her eyes are as lifeless as a cloudy blue sky before it rains. Her thin fingers scrubbed away at porcelain plates dazedly, hunched over just a bit over her sink so that she could compromise for her taller-than-average height. Once aimed at the dishes below her, her eyes now meet yours; her movements stopped like a deer in headlights.
You goan, she probably thinks you’re giving her the royal shaft. Well, that’s it for first impressions. You give her a smile and a small wave, hoping she doesn’t misconstrue your curiosity for something worse and rush into your new abode. Her murky blue eyes clear the more they follow your figure, fading into your house.
-
Love.
It’s simple yet complex to comprehend. Since the dawn of time, humans have expressed love through multiple forms of media, languages, and art. Yet, despite all this knowledge of the emotion, it never resonated with Annabeth. No matter how many romance novels or novels she read in general about the topic (much to her mother's dismay), it never clicked. It didn't click when boys started paying attention to her in high school, and it didn't click when she debated the pros and cons for each boy in her grade to have an answer when her friends asked her about what boy she had a crush on. Maybe she was just broken; the emptiness of her heart matched her stomach when her mother took meals from her to have a figure to attract whatever city boy would come waltzing in their small town—born and raised to be a housewife, to have children then die like the cattle at her meemaw’s and peepaw’s farmhouse. So she adapted, pushing aside her heart-racing anxiety that should’ve been the flutters of butterflies in her stomach anytime a man romantically talked to her. All that is in the past now…she changed her “habits”…she has a husband, a good home, and he has an excellent job for the both of them.
At least up till now.
The house next to her was always empty except when, once in a blue moon, the owner would come for a few days or even a month to check up and maintain the property. She didn't know the man well, she doesnt even remember his name – so when she felt eyes on her, the lonesome woman didn't expect you…
There you were, staring at her in your grey blazer and matching skirt; your shoulder pads, as did your belt, accentuated your figure. Your eyes…such an alluring sight that they froze her on the spot, hypnotizing her until you retreated into the building. The breath she didn’t even know she held slipped out of her mouth, and her heart drums rapidly against her ribcage like it never had before.
One blink.
Two blinks.
What…
The soapy rag slipped from her hand, causing warm water droplets to splash on her face. This action snapped the blonde out of her trance-like state.
Her pupils expand, her eyes frantically move left to right, and there’s a flare-up in her flight or fight senses, yelling at the housewife to do something! Anything! as if her body is unconscionably sending signals throughout her body to make a move, but the question is…for what reason? Annabeth thought of the most rational reason she was feeling such a strong emotional response, and of course, the only logical explanation was that she just really wanted to be your friend.
The back of her hand wipes her once-damp cheeks.
Yeah, that’s the only possible answer.
The next few weeks became a blur of events, from immediately baking you sweets the next day to “welcome” you into the neighbourhood and telling you if you ever needed anything to holler at her. To her inviting you to dinner with her husband to help you get “accumulated” more into such a new environment from the bustling city– she’s an idiot. God, she’s a grade-a dumbass for even thinking that she could pull something off like this; why is she even nervous?
The nail between her top and bottom teeth snaps, yet another fingernail lost to the unknown anxiousness of the night. The dinner went well, right? She hustled away on the food for a day or two and put the excellent cutlery out—you laughed throughout the night, talked to her, and complimented her. You wanted her opinion on topics, which barely happened to her in the first place! This night was…no, it is a smash, so why did she feel she was doing something wrong? Guilt in the back of her head slowly crept up like the common cold in an elementary school.
Heels clack against the title-checkered floors in the kitchen, and there you were, hand resting on the kitchen door frame, holding an empty wine glass by its stem. Your lipstick smeared onto the clean surface of the rim, and a small liquid of red wine remained in the cup. She didn’t notice you at first, too lost in her turbulent thoughts, till you said something.
“Mary,” you softly say, attracting her attention immediately.
It took her a second to recognize and respond to the name, but Annabeth did.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you; your husband just told me to tell you he’s resigning for the night,” you inform her sluggishly.
“Ah…” She exhales
“..bless your heart, you didn’t hafta go through such a fuss just to tell lil’ ol’ me,” the blonde sputters, leaning against the kitchen counter, her bony finger tucking an out-of-place hairpiece behind her ear. “Does he always leave you to wash the dishes without helping ?” You griped, a crease forming between your brows as you set your wine glass on the counter closest to you. “ innit my duty, ya know, as a housewife or something,” she jokes, but you make your way toward her; “at least let me help…it’s the least I could do after you’ve given so much of your hospitality to me.” As you make your way to her, the more of you ingrates itself into all of her senses, the way your perfume smells so divine, the way the summer season has kissed your skin, and the way your lips move, sounding out every word that leaves them.
The way…
“Please…” Her soft hands stop you from coming further, the young woman’s voice timid yet light as a feather, “At least let me keep something of my hometown and give ya some southern hospitality. Yer real nice for looking out for me, but I don’t mind it.” She changes the subject so that you can no longer interject. “It’s late out. Do n’tcha got work in the morning, you mentioned earlier.” As if reality hit you, your eyes widened. “Ah! I forgot, gosh, I'm such a ditz; thank you again for your hospitality. You didn’t have to do anything; I really appreciate it.” you say in a hurry, and unbeknownst to you, the woman in front of you is heating up more than the fireplace in the next room.
“No, thank you! For coming over and entertainin’ me,” She insists while fiddling with her frilly apron nervously. “I’m worried we’ll go on all night in a gratitude cycle if I don’t leave now. I’ll see you soon…I mean, we are neighbours,” you laugh.
“Mhm, I’ll see you…” Annabeth nods
You smile and thank her again for good measure, then make your way out of the kitchen, but before you leave, you stop at the archway.
Her breath hitches
“Before I forget…and feel free to say no since you’ve done enough for me already, but you are the only person I know in this town. I was wondering if you don’t mind helping me with my work; clearly, I'm not a housewife, again, you can say..”
“I would love to!” She exclaims in excitement, “I mean…ahem, I would love to, anything to help,”
“Then I'll see you soon,” you smile at her; by god, it's radiant.
When she hears the front door close and footsteps fading into the background, she squeals excitedly, having to bite her pointer finger to keep her voice down. She’s downright flush. The colour has finally seeped into her life, and it's like a rainbow after a rainy day; you, you are…you are something. She can tell you’re a great friend.
With newfound enthusiasm, she finishes cleaning the dishes in record time, finally putting down the wet rag before something catches her eye. The wine glass you left is still in the same place as before; she reaches for it and inspects it carefully. Usually, she would’ve washed it right away, but she doesn’t…she just stares at it, almost burning a hole in the damn thing. Yeah…she needs to wash it…dazed she grabs the damp rag near her, but that doesn’t clean the glass. No, her mouth moves without warning as her tongue caresses the rim where your lipstick was once stained. She was taking in the flavour of your lipstick and you, in a way, creating more smudges than there were in the first place.
There was a creak of a bed upstairs, a slight noise that snapped her out of whatever haze she was in, and her fingers twitched. Right, her husband. Her eyes automatically move toward the meat cleaver hanged. No, she changed; she has a new life now…she can’t. She looks down at the wine glass in her hand and bites one of her fingernails.
What is she doing?
And why…is her heart racing again?
She washes the cup but doesn’t put it back in its rightful place; instead, she hides it like a secret treasure. Finally, she resigns for the night, making her way up the stairs, and she hears it again: her husband moving in his sleep, causing the bed frame to creak.
Her fingers twitch involuntarily at her side.
It’s okay, though.
Now she has something to look forward to; she’ll see you soon.
End notes: What?...no! I wasn't gone for.... almost half of the year, hahaha...
On a real note, every time I wrote, I felt like it was slop that should be burnt at the stake, but then it hit me last week that I'm literally writing for practice. I'm going to write slop, and that's okay!!! I also felt like I did too much for this fic, so I had to rewrite it so many times.
But! in the holiday spirit! I'm back!
I tried to write a country accent and input some 50s slang, but I don't know if either worked LOL!!! WATCH Carol (2015)!! Okay, I'll shut up now hehe
I really enjoyed your Regency Era yandere story! I would love to see a second part where he earns her affection back and proposes!
Notes: AH, THANK YOU! Maybe, in the future, I'll write a whole fic about Ambrose proposing. But for now, here's how his proposal would go from the top of my head.
Yandere! Lord, who, after months of courting, piles of love letters that made the mail coach dread delivering to your estate and taking you out on many splendid and lavish outings of carriage rides throughout every road in the city, afternoon tea that was filled to the brim with treats only royalty could enjoy, and lovely walks along the pier. And, of course, secret rendezvous in the nearby forest away from the public’s scrutiny eye where you both could be yourselves. He decides to ask your father for your hand in marriage, and as the words of approval leave your father’s mouth, he's out the door!
Yandere lord! Who, if it were his idea, would’ve asked for your hand way earlier. Yet, he was a patient man for you and waited for you to fall for him entirely, and when you dropped subtle hints about desiring an engagement, he immediately marched to your father.
Yandere! Lord, who already had your engagement ring prepared years beforehand, even when he was abroad. It was a valuable little thing. It wasn’t just a big stone on a gold ring; no, it was made carefully with thought. The ring is engraved, and it is not just one heavy gem– it is a large jewel surrounded by other smaller ones. Each placement was placed for a purpose.
Yandere Lord! Who announced the news to his father one evening and when The Earl rejected the idea entirely. He didn’t take that very well. It’s a shame his father became bedridden; it was almost as if someone repeatedly throughout these past days put drops of strychnine in his meals. It's a pity that his father won't attend his wedding, but alas, what can you do?
Yandere! Lord Who plans your proposal meticulously, ensuring everything goes soothingly and accordingly. He decided to propose when you both would but off in the forest. It was late at night near a small lake, a picnic laid out with your favourite foods, desserts, and drinks. The fireflies (which he anticipated to appear) decorate the small area, setting the mood more than any candlelight could; the small body of water is graced with a layer of blooming water lilies.
Yandere! Lord, when your back is turned away from him, gazing at the beautiful flowers in the water and complementing the scenery. He kneels on one knee, holding the ring box towards you. When you suspect something is in the midst because of how silent the loud-mouthed lord is, you turn to face him, only to be met with his sincere yet vulnerable gaze.
Ambrose delicately says your name. “You’ve bewitched me, body and soul, if you’ll only grant me the honour to become your devoted companion in this life and more by allowing me to become your husband.”
“Will you marry me, My sweet?”
End notes: Ambrose's dad is getting reversibly traumatized by his own son....
”𝒶𝓈𝓀 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓁𝒹, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼'𝓁𝓁 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒷𝑒𝓎𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓈 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈.”
A continuation of my oc Ambrose, The lord
N: Don't I have a gift for you, Anon! God, I had to rewrite this so many times, BUT I'M DONE!! Eat up! This is a long one! I had to watch so many gun videos (like two), which was unexpected...
CW: Fem reader (she/her), acts and talks of violence (not towards the reader), implied murder, threats, guns, fluff (with the reader lol), mocking, power balance (?) Jealousy (or pettiness)
Wc: 3.5k
A shotgun sound echoes throughout the forest, followed by yet another dead Grey partridge and light crunches of leaves beneath stomping leather boots.
“That bastard of a man! A prick! Son of a bitch! Son of an adventuress at that!” Ambrose stops in his tracks, reloading his sporting rifle with more gunpowder. Anger consumes his entire being. ”Did you hear what that bloody cocksucker Patrick said to her?” He hissed through his clenched teeth, grabbing the tiny 0.5 mm sphere lead bullet and layering it on top of some fabric. Shoving it inside the rifle barrel, “If what he said changed from the last few hundred times you’ve re-told the incident, then I have no utter clue.” The younger male rolls his eyes, picking up the tenth bird Ambrose has slaughtered this afternoon. He ignores his younger cousin’s sarcastic quip and continues. “ ‘If you wish for a lovely evening, do not be a stranger; send me a letter, and I'll be by your side.’ I should’ve darkened his daylights when those vile words left his devil mouth.” He fixes his gun upright, pushing the first trigger, waiting for another prey to be a victim of his wrath.
“Is she spoken for? Have you outwardly said you intend to court her?” His cousin questions, and Ambrose, in retaliation to his younger relative’s question….blushes like a young girl. Clenching his jaw, he answers, “No,” “Are you mad?!?” “I’ve attempted…but my nervousness has sabotaged me alas.” Astonished, his cousin continues, “Then you have no right to be jealous of her, you fool.”
Bushes start rustling. Ambrose aims and squints instantly, with a pointer finger on the second trigger. A small grey rabbit appears, and immediately, it's killed straight through its skull; a soft smile appears on Ambrose’s face. “For her, I'll be whatever is needed.”
“You are not sane.”
“Don’t be rude, Finch. This is love in its purest form. One day, you’ll understand.” The older male shrugs his shoulders.
“Now,” Ambrose reloads his gun, repeating his past actions, but this time, he looks straight into the other male’s eyes. “What do you know about Patrick Barton?” “I do not-” Ambrose cuts him off. “ Do not lie to me, young Finch…” His voice becomes lower, mocking, his aura more sinister. “You frequent more gentleman clubs than I; lord knows I hate the people and atmosphere of said clubs– Your mother grumbles enough to mine about the subject.” In goes the gunpowder: “You surround yourself with such…’ vast’ personalities from the elites to the ladies of the night.” The grey-eyed man reaches into his waistcoat for a lead bullet. “Yet you tell me– you don’t know about a mere Lord.” He scoffs.
Finch watches his older cousin's actions. Of course, he only asked to spend time with him for information regarding the apple of his eye’s new ‘suitor.’ The young man knows his current situation, the number of Grey partridge carcasses he holds because of Ambrose, and how far deep he’s in the forest, alone with his turbulent cousin. This was a warning, a show of sorts, that he could join these insignificant birds. He tries to swallow the heavy lump stuck in his throat. Ambrose was always the odd man; his smile never reached his eyes, his charm as real as a disloyal man’s ‘ I love you.’ His older cousin wasn’t above putting his hands on his own blood to get what he wanted– Ambrose’s father’s scar is evidence enough.
“He partakes in Hell’s, frequents them more than gentleman’s clubs, a gambler of sorts. Loves it! He brags about the thrills of it and his winnings. Folks whisper that he’s a dishonourable shark. But it's not just hell establishments he attends; If there's someplace to gamble away his earnings, he's there,” Finch sputters his confession.
“And Mills? Does he attend those as well?”
“Yes,” The younger lad answers his senior instantly.
Ambrose just hums in return.
Just finishing his task, he aims for his cousin; he wears an inexpressive face, his grey eyes darkened and vacant, with no light, no soul.
“Wait, wait! I told you what you wanted!” Finch pleas. He could run, but in retrospect, how far can he go? Ambrose has a fucking rifle. He’s a good shot, no, an excellent shot. Hell! It’s borderline impossible how he always hits his targets, especially with how hard it is to aim for those things. Finch is panicking; his cousin has already pushed the first trigger. The nervous lad just accepts it; what else could he do? He closes his eyes, expecting his death to come quickly, then he hears a gunshot…
And he's fine…? Another Grey partridge falls from the sky right before him, its dead eye looking at the twenty-year-old.
Ambrose’s gun aims towards the sky. He lowers it. Then he casually approaches the stunned male, who lets out a staggered sigh, relieved he escaped death by a hair. Ambrose looks down at Finch, grabbing his shoulder and leaning in close. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me ever again, especially when the topic concerns my love.” Finch nods rapidly, shaking like a leaf. “Of course, sir, sorry.” Then, the older male releases his shoulders. “Good. Gift those birds to a peasant; perhaps they’ll make dinner with it, oh, and the rabbit, too. Say I have decided to help my community or something along those lines.” He looks at the sky. “I have a woman blessed by aphrodite to court.” His smile is bright, contrasting how he was a mere few seconds ago. He pats his younger cousin’s back and leaves the forest– The lifeless Grey partridge stares back at Finch, and he stares back.
Social calls…How dreadful. Worse is conversing with Lord Barton. He’s a bore, vulgar, and has an underlying inconsiderate, bitter personality. Having your mother as a chaperone does not make the situation any more bearable.
“Have you ever pondered about the future?” he inquires.
What kind of wet rag question is that?
You put on a gentle smile. “Of course I have. Since I was a chit, I would read the local papers with my father-” He cuts you off “Children.” You look at him in confusion. “Pardon?”
The gentleman looks at you like you’re the biggest dunce in the country. “Children, how many children do you wish for? It would be sensible for us to have eight or ten,” “Hah…well…” you lift the tea cup to your mouth.
The man has no decorum…
After that fiasco, you decided to take a stroll downtown, and perhaps you’ll get a book from the local store, some new fabrics from a linen draper, or even some oils. Your pin money given to you by your parents could only cover one item... what a conundrum….
“Do tell me why the viscount’s only daughter is doing without a chaperone?” He leans against the brick wall, arms crossed, his smile beaming.
“Lord Howard, have you dropped your hunting hobby in exchange for stalking?”
He chuckles. “Witty as always, but dare I disappoint? I was just strolling about my day and coincidentally saw you– Perhaps fate has decided for us to meet?” He pushes himself off the wall and offers his arm. Was it coincidence or fate…? No, it was none; it was all Ambrose, him asking your fellow lady peers about your whereabouts. Then, wandering near whatever local shops would possibly pique your interest. Memories play in his head, such as when you both were young and would rendezvous at the local forest. You would acquire many hobbies when you were younger– your mother said you would have a higher chance of obtaining a suitor with diverse skills. He would remember them and watch you in amazement when you talked about them.
You made him feel human. You made him feel alive. His father was never a loving one; he gained the son he wanted, and his heir then wanted nothing more to do with him. The only attention Ambrose earned from The Earl was if he needed reprimanding. Every laugh that was too loud, every fork that he unitized improperly, every action, small or big, was scrutinized. His mother was a vacant husk of a woman at home and a social butterfly in the public eye; she watered herself down to being a wife and a mother. She was neither. He detested both of them and hated that damned empty feeling of his soul and heart that matched his vacated house; he felt nothing. His world was as grey as his eyes.
Till he met the colourful Viscount’s daughter– If he got kicked by a horse and lost his memory, he would still somehow remember the day you two met—the memory ingrained in his bones, body, and soul. On the way to your estate, the stately carriage was soundless and suffocating, as if the air was thick. Ambrose remembers how he bore his eyes into his obsidian-polished boots, wishing for the minutes to pass faster.
You were a naive hoyden the first time you introduced yourself; you forgot to say his title and yours. Using his common name and giving him an oh-so-sweet genuine smile, he hadn’t ever seen such an authentic smile for him and only him—not for his parents nor his riches. Just him. Your parents scolded you while apologizing profusely for your ‘disrespect.’ Before his parents could utter something backhanded yet elegant, Ambrose smiled. He didn’t know he could do that. For the first time, the young boy speaks up; he feels this protectiveness over you. But, at the moment, Ambrose couldn't care less about his father's punishment that would soon come; the only thing that mattered was you, and soon he’d found out that it would always be you.
An airy laugh escapes you. “Do you wish for us to be caught in a scandal every time we meet?” He raises a faux, worried face and voice. “Me?!? As a future Earl, I am fulfilling my gentlemanly duties by escorting a fine young lady and keeping her from potential dangers. What’s so scandalous about that?” You take his arm. “You’re far from sane, My Lord.”
“For you, My lady? I hope so,” He says proudly with his chest out.
A comfortable silence lulls you as you look at how the sun hits the trees, people, and him. The sun's rays lighten his dark brown hair, blessing it with an orange hue and grey eyes, becoming Iridescent, more akin to a pearl.
“The latest on dit says Lord Barton has called for your company?” He inquires
Your face grimaces at just the sound of his name. As much as you loathe the man, he is a viable suitor with good money and an excellent reputation, but a suitable suitor does not equate to a good man. “He’s…an interesting individual…” His jaw clenches. You’re not being open as he wants; you’re holding back…he hates that you might be hiding something. Not you per se but that damned rake Patrick. “He’s a rake,” he spits out, and you gaze at him. He’s uncharacteristically serious.
You smile. “He is,” Ambrose turns his head to you, returning your smile.
“Quite the feat to dissect the woman you are trying to woo as well.” The gentleman’s eyebrows furrow. “He did not,” you huff. “Oh, he did!” Ambrose stops in his tracks and mummers your name softly. “If you would only permit it, Allow me to court you,” You raise an eyebrow at the sudden question, “Pardon?” He continues, “That bastard doesn’t deserve you.” “And you do?” he chuckles. “No, but I’ll do everything you ask me to, then maybe one day I'll deserve you; you wish for dresses? I'll buy you the tailor and store. Money is far from an issue. Heavens, ask for the world, and I'll give you it with the stars and beyond as accessories.” He turns his whole body to you, his hands finding yours, his leather gloves causing a barrier between your soft ones.
He hates that
“Ambrose…”
“Please…only if you’ll allow me.” The love-sick man entreated
“But what about the other more suitable ladies? I’ve heard-”
“I do not care for them,” He interrupts you. “Every second I was apart, I only longed for you. The only reason I kept my studies up was to be the perfect suitor equal to you.” He caresses your knuckles. The butterflies in your stomach flutter more after each word spills out of his mouth. Your relationship with Ambrose was vague at most. You couldn’t put your finger on it; every time you were in his presence, you had this comfort no one else could recreate. You were hesitant to put a label onto it, and maybe you feel this way because he was the only man you truly felt you could be yourself with.
“If you wish to court me, you must’ve thought to ask my father for permission rather than myself.”
“I could’ve,” He pauses, “But I'd rather ask you first; I need your permission. I am not marrying your father, am I? I need to hear you wish for me as much as I yearn for you,”
You amuse the thought. Ambrose is a prick at times, his teasing relentless, but despite that, he’s charming, sincere, soothing, and protective. He’s a good man, indeed.
“I’ll bite, My lord.”
“Please do.” He smirked, masking his nervousness.
You slap his hand lightly, reprimanding him, “Let me continue, you brute…I’ll allow you to court me.”
“Truly?” he exclaims, Astonished.
“Truly,” You nod meekly.
In a haste, he kisses your bare hands, each knuckle, each finger. “I’ve been blessed indeed,” his voice is as blissful as a child receiving a sugary dessert. You yank your hands away from him, flushed from his actions. “You dog, we are in the public,” you scold him. “I shall make it up to you in our next outing; I vow,” You swear you could see a wagging tale behind him. You sigh.
The day went on, and by sundown, Ambrose had hired a post-chaise for the both of you despite your protests of you living just around the corner. He claimed he had ‘Earl-like duties to attend to’ and you were just on the route back either way. As a gentleman should, he dropped you off promptly; as he left in the carriage, away from your estate, you softly ran your fingers over your knuckles. A smile adorns your face.
“What an oaf,” you whisper to yourself.
A fond grin decorates Ambrose’s face, a few giggles even, but as euphoric this day was, he did have business to attend to. A certain lord has decided to make his lacklustre presence known, and Ambrose couldn’t celebrate until he exterminated said pest.
Gentleman’s clubs were boisterous, loud, and untrustworthy. The men here are just as vile as the feed that is fed to pigs. The soon-to-be-Earl disliked them and only engaged in them because he needed to build his reputation. He may be judgemental, but he isn’t an idiot. Others may regard him as a friend, but for him, he could care less for it. The males around him start to recognize Ambrose, yelling pleasantries, which he would return and shut down politely or…as politely as he could in his eyes. A booming voice reverberates against the wall of the finely furnished building, only belonging to the one and only Patrick Barton. Unconsciously, a scowl appears on the young man’s face. Ambrose knew more than he led on about Patrick; he heard whispers of Barton’s hobby in the mills, rigging the boxing matches that were bid on by elites and peasants alike. Word says he would pay one of the desperate participants to lose on purpose– word is bound to escape one day or another. It is not a sustainable income source. Yet another reason Lord Barton is not fit for you.
Ambrose walks towards the table where the bastard sits, narrowing his eyes.
Lord Barton and his goons recognize the lord approaching them. Barton speaks first: “Lord Howard! Is it a blue moon? What on earth might’ve convinced you to come out of that dreadful estate?” He laughs, arranging some snuff onto the mahogany to snort. “Perhaps it’s because you plan on courting his woman.” a nameless male inquires. “No, could it be? I don’t blame you, Ambrose; she is a fine woman, isn’t she? She is just in need of training,” another male said, joining in. “So does every woman in this country.” Another chuckle escapes the vulgar lord.
Ambrose’s leather gloves wrinkle. His fist clenched to prevent him from beating the man in front of him into a pummel. He has a plan, the grey-eyed man repeats in his head. Then he forces a smile on his face. “On the contrary, I've decided to pick up a new gambling hobby; why not ask the man of the hour himself for advice? Or even a game or two.” Ambrose signals a servant and orders drinks for the table. The man in question gets up, slapping Ambrose on his back. “Atta boy, never let a woman come between men; let bygones be bygones, what a joyance plan! Come, come.”
The night continues, and Patrick is as drunk as the rest of the men in the club; Ambrose, the gentleman he is, offers him to join his carriage in his words. 'Let’s start this newfound friendship off with a bang.'
Cold water hits the once-drunken lord, and he awakens, gasping for air on the cold textured ground. ‘Where am I?’ he thinks, discombobulated, looking around and grasping his situation. The dark forest surrounds him, almost engulfing him; the trees blow along with the wind, and the creatures of the night rustle in the background. A voice comes from the shadows, luring him away from his racing thoughts, “Gunpowder is such a messy substance, but did you know a man invented a gun powered by air? What a time to be alive! How revolutionary!” Patrick looks at the man, most of his body consumed by the darkness of nightfall, the moon only making his grey eyes visible.
“Ambrose, what the utter fuck-”
“Don’t interrupt.” He says sternly.
“As I was saying, a gun powered by air,” He continues. “A watchmaker of all things invented it; how preposterous! He eliminated gunpowder entirely and named this new gun Windbüchse or, I know you only know English, so pardon me, I'll translate, wind gun.”
“It’s far better than my hunting rifle; the tedious thing is quite a hassle to reload. But this wind gun can load much faster, 20 rounds a minute! Compared to the other, it is much quieter. It's a shame its range is far smaller.” The man standing pouts. “But all is well. The Austrian army decided to order thousands of supplies, and it’s fortunate I even got my hands on one.”
Patrick squints, trying to distinguish Ambrose, and it finally sets in. In a forest he doesn’t know of, with a man who has a gun in his hand in the dead of night. Not just any man but a Lord known for his physical fitness and hunting expertise since he was a just a lad.
Fuck
“If this is about your lady, Ambrose, you can have her! There’s no need to do this!” Patrick tries to reason with the love-sick lord, yet it's no use. The other man scoffs, “I’ve always detested men like you, greedy, hypocritical. Ready to jump boat when things get too tough for your liking– where is your backbone? Where is your spine? Your pride?” Ambrose circles the pain-filled man on the ground. “You never deserved to even be in her presence; you aren’t even entitled to breathe the same air as her,” He then spontaneously kicks Patrick's ribs, causing him to curl up on a ball, yelping. Ambrose looks down at the pathetic man.
“But, I am a fair man, unlike you, so I'll give you a chance to run while I read you the note I have written in your writing announcing your hasty departure after news of your rigging in the mills comes to light, your writing was not hard to duplicate as well; who knew mother’s penmanship lessons would come in handy,” He chuckles.
“Now run, monkey, while you still can.” He sets the trigger and then turns the spindle of his gun clockwise till a clicking sound can be heard, indicating he doesn’t need to turn it anymore. Ambrose opens the barrel, puts in an 8.5 mm bullet, and then shuts it.
“I’m sure we can talk this out reasonably, money! I have money! Have it all; buy your woman something nice-” Patrick feels his thigh get warmer at first rather than the pulsing pain of a bullet shooting through his thigh that would soon follow shortly after. He screams.“To think you have the naivety to think I couldn’t fund my lover for generations on end,”
Ambrose rolls his eyes. “Scream louder; perhaps you’ll awaken a bear to save you,” yet again, he starts reloading his wind gun, faster at that, “I am not one to repeat himself nor give mercy. Run, rabbit.”
With adrenaline coursing through his body, Patrick runs…or well, attempts to.
Ambrose reaches into his waistcoat for the forged letter, clearing his voice to read it while his other hand holds his gun. Though his attention should be on the task at hand, he is utterly distracted by possible outing plans you would adore. Shall he go canoeing with you? Or a picnic? A carriage ride underneath the newly blooming cherry blossoms? Why not all three?
Oh. how he longs to see you again.
Notes: I'm gonna be so honest, romance is the hardest thing to write for me. It's probably noticeable, forgive me (⇀‸↼‶)
I had to do some research for this one, but it was a fun process learning more about Regency lingo and gun history.
For my next full fic. I was thinking of a yandere! Cannibalistic 50's housewife, but idk….hehe…if you have any ideas send them to my inbox!!
I'd like to say again THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT!!! Reading all your kind words makes my little shy heart soar (o^ ^o)
see you soon, my little guppies!!
OMG, 100 FOLLOWERS!?!?! WHERE DID ALL OF YOU COME FROM!?!?! I'm extremely grateful y'all don't get me wrong but I'm equally surprised and terrified...
Does this call for an intro post?
Why do I sound like a grandma trying to figure out the internet...
Hehe, also! A little window into my real life! While writing my last fic, I decided to finish some of it at work. Tell me why three of my co-workers walked into the break room while I was writing. Trying to hide my laptop screen didn't make me look better...
N: I just finished the Fallout show, went on YouTube and fell down a rabbit hole of lore about the game. I decided Vault 11 shall be sacrificed (hehe). Everything I put in this fic is from the videos I've watched and the fan wiki, so it's like semi-accurate…
Cw: talks about suicide, suicide (not the reader), violence, yandere tendencies, gore(?), death, manipulation, coercion, talks of death, should be gn! reader safe.... if not, put me in the chamber
WC: 2.2k
Quiet. It was quiet. The silence is deafening, yet the ringing in your ear grows louder and louder, each second feeling as if eons had passed. The automated computer voice repeats in your head like a catchy song you’ll hear on those dusty records, the ones Mama used to play and dance to.
“Congratulations, citizens of Vault 11! You have made the decision not to sacrifice one of your own. You can walk with your head held high, knowing that your commitment to human life is a shining example to us all. And to make that feeling of pride even sweeter, I have some exciting news. Despite what you were led to believe, the population of Vault 11 is not going to be exterminated for its disobedience. Instead, the mechanism to open the main vault door has now been enabled, and you can come and go at your leisure. But not so fast! Be sure to check with your overseer to find out if it's safe to leave. Here at Vault-Tec, your safety is our number one priority.”
You were young when your parents escaped the bombs to the vault you're situated in right now; you grew up believing that damned computer about sacrifices and watched your fellow vault mates get killed one by one. You waited for the time it would be you in that same chamber. Now, with this information surfaced…they died for what? An experiment? What would have happened if you had been voted overseer…
The lump in your throat grows heavier, and the arguments and yelling in the background become more and more apparent that you can't ignore them anymore. Your eyes drift to the man standing tall and proud beside you, Charlie, his hair still somehow slick back; he still looks perfect even after the maddening chaos of events that transpired these past few days. His blue jumpsuit was as crisp as an ironed suit that the actors would wear from the moving pictures on television before the vault. His expression is as vacant as his blue eyes, his soft lips decorated with a barely visible smile. As he watches the other three vault survivors argue, Your brows furrow.
Why isn’t he affected by the news like everyone else? This information is soul-crushing and life-changing!
Then again, you reason with yourself that maybe this is his way of coping; who are you to judge and microanalysis him like some psycho? Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep or the sense of safety ripped out of your hand like candy stolen from a baby. Heavens, you might nearly flip your lid entirely if something else happens. You sigh. To believe you almost were insinuating that Charlie would even be a drop suspicious, and of what, exactly? He saved and shielded you from the massacre that only left the five of you remaining; he was your childhood best friend..how could you? You reprimand yourself.
His eyes finally meet yours, and the sympathy and worry you sought appeared when the blonde saw how distressed you were. “Are you alright?” his soft voice fills your head–drowning out the talks of whether the group should commit suicide in honour of your dead vault men or venture into the outside world to educate others on how your vault was misled. You were somewhat dissociated from the whole conversation. Reasonably so.
His hands, soft yet calloused, turns your head side to side to check for any visible injuries he might’ve missed, which he shouldn’t have—knitted eyebrows and razor-sharp eyes search frantically for anything.
Charles or… As you’ll call him later in your relationship, Charlie, has always been like this. When you met him, he was a reserved kid, a trait that would carry on from his pubescent to adolescent years.
When other kids grew out of their shyness and worrisome attitude and eventually adapted to the vault, he was pushed aside. Well, that wouldn’t be the only reason. His father was the first overseer of Vault 11, the same overseer who thought the best course of action was not to tell the vault residents about the sacrificial system they were now to live with. That same choice he made was the reason for his death, and he was the first to test the new system. He wasn’t a good man. He was greedy, a neglectful father and husband, and so on. A family now ruined by one man’s ill-considered decision; Charles's mom wasn’t much better, the textbook definition of a hypocrite. Bad-mouthing her dead husband, the same one she defended when said husband would push his son away.
Most would fear having no one at the end of the world, but it became Charles's life; while everyone adapted to vault life, Charles adapted to the misfortune of the consequences of his old man’s actions. You decided one day to talk to him while others stood clear. It was a simple conversation; others would just brush it off…which he did initially. But after that day, you would constantly seek him out, and with that, you wore a genuine smile and interest every time you talked to him. His walls crumbled into dust for you and only you. You were like a shooting star he wished for. His reputation grew because of you and, with that, his feelings for you sored. You became his way of life. In his teen years, he decided to become the best match for you– He would participate in every extracurricular activity the vault would provide to make him an unstoppable force of a man. The perfect golden boy was made..for you.
He had the “perfect body,” perfect sperm count, unmatched intelligence, and charisma—he perfected them (even if you were the only one he talked to for long periods)—strength, agility, endurance—all of it. He will be everything you need and more. With that, he made sure no one would vote you as overseer…
He was so soft on you that it would rival feathers. Do you need help lifting that? He's already there. Do you need help with your pre-war history? He’ll just sit you down and study with you for hours. Are you bleeding from an accidental cut? Don’t worry he just finished his first aid training. He already had a plan for you both for everything that would happen.
Everything
“I’m fine…” You grab both of his hands gently. “...Well, not fine, fine, but I'm not hurt.” You smile weakly up at him. “It’s okay. You and I will get through this,” He coos, pushing strands of your hair away from your face and behind your ear. His touch is warm and tender, yet the words you hear next aren’t.
“Fuck..I..I can’t do this I’m sorry.” A man, short in stature, starts backing away, gun in hand, clearly distressed. Your eyes move away from Charlie’s to your fellow survivor; unknowingly to you, Charlie rolls his eyes at the man's “dramatics.” “We don’t deserve to leave...That thing called us a shiny example..f..f.fucked! Thats fucked! I..I can’t live with that!” Another man says, “Anyone would’ve done what we did.” A woman comments, “You ask me? That's exactly the problem. Now, let’s get on with this.”
“Wait,” you say, stunned, as if he had predicted this would happen. Charles moves his hands to cover your eyes. The short man is first, putting his gun on the roof of his mouth and pulling the trigger, not sparing any more time; the woman is next, the second gunshot. Then, with a sigh and short prayer, the last man repeats the action done by the others. Each lifeless body hits the floor one by one, and then there is silence.
What the hell.
You try to understand the situation, but your brain has yet to catch up…it’s all too much. Charlie whispers calming phrases while he shields your eyes with one hand and rubs patterns along your back with the other. Tears start rolling down your face…and you sob. Hard. His hand moves to pet your hair, soothing you while you let it all out of your system.
He moves his body to shield you from the gruesome events that have just taken place; he moves both of his hands and cradles your face. You try looking behind him out of curiosity, but he stops you before you can.”Hey! Look at me with those gorgeous eyes,” He mummers, and of course, you comply. “There we go. You listen to me so well,” he whispers lovingly. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll both go back to my vault room. I have enough supplies for the both of us to survive outside for a while, okay?” He asks you, and you nod, agreeing to whatever he says.
“I need to hear you say it..”
“…yes, of course, whatever you think is best.” He smiles at you, thumb caressing your cheek. “Keep your eyes on me, okay?” He takes your hand and leads you through the halls. It's quiet… you don't like it. Your eyes are trained on his back, Charlie…he’s your lifebuoy in the angry sea, the only thing keeping you afloat; if it wasn’t for him…you might’ve met your end with the others. As if sensing your inner turmoil, he squeezes your hand, comforting you…and you squeeze back. Your world just fell apart, yet…it doesn’t seem entirely gone with Charlie by your side.
It's only a short time till you reach his vault. You’ve been here so many times it's basically your room by now. The tall blonde turns to look at you. “I’m going to let you go, just for a second, okay..? I just need to get the supplies.” He holds your one hand with both of his– you reply with a soft okay, and with your permission, he starts to move. He moves towards his small desk to grab a small, flat-headed screwdriver, walks to a particular spot, and pops the floor title beneath him, revealing a hidden compartment. It's filled with two modular military backpacks, filled to the bream with necessities for outside the vault.
He was prepared for all of this…
Then he starts talking about what he has in mind for the two of you, settling on the surface of living together and everything. Charles gets lost when talking to you; he can speak his mind about almost anything, and rambling is second nature with you. The hermit turned a social butterfly in your presence.
“You know that computer may have been our downfall, but god did bless me with more information than I could handle…good thing, huh, glad I went through all that code…Vault-tec tried to make it secure, but I found a way...We could go somewhere called New Vegas…” He keeps talking.
But you stand there, still, as a statue, looking down at him as he gathers everything…What did he just say?
You think back to the start when killing between the blocs started..he was right there, ready to protect you, when you and the other surviving tested out if the chamber would kill all of you…he almost seemed to be too assured nothing bad would happen to any of you, almost like…no…no. You’re overthinking, right? But the more you listen…
“You knew…” you shakingly exclaim out loud, cutting him off. “Hmm?” He looks up at you as he puts the tile back…” You knew we didn’t need sacrifices…you knew it would play out like this…” you say louder and more confidently. Those once-homey blue eyes become cold and distant… analyzing you.
You both stare at each other.
You turn and run.
But your efforts are in vain; you don’t even leave the room before two muscular arms wrap around behind you, overtaking you, holding your arms down around your waist, dragging you back. You scream and kick with no success. You end up with his arms around you while he sits down, his back against the wall, and you in front of him with his head in your neck while you let it all out. “When?” you croak out, “When we were fifteen, I didn’t want you to become overseer…I didn’t want you to die..so I wondered if it was the computer that sent signals to kill whoever was sent in that chamber and wondered if I could stop it from killing you specifically; that's when I found out .” He answers swiftly and truthfully, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” You question, “I didn’t care, honestly, the only thing that matters is you…If everyone died in the process, it would be less work for me…I wanted it to be just us from the beginning, anyway. I want you to need me as much as I need you…and now you finally do.”
You feel weak and sick to your stomach… All your peers would’ve ended up dead either way. “I want to leave.” he hums, not mocking you but in acknowledgment. “And do what? You don’t know how to defend yourself; you have no supplies prepared, barely any survival instincts, and you don’t even know any information on the surface above. You can leave, but you’ll die…I can’t let that happen, sorry.” Charles buries himself more into you.
“I hate you,” You whisper.
“That’s okay…all that matters is that you're here…with me and only me… I’ll keep you safe and sound.”
N: This was a long one, whew! I had to think about how I could make a Yandere fic with Fallout, and I had tons of concepts, but this one stood out the most. I hope my execution was good enough....Anyway, my next fic will most likely be a jealous fic about my Yandere lord, so stay tuned! Till then! see you soon my little guppies (´꒳`)♡
extra note: Throughout writing this, I thought "My Way of Life by Frank Sinatra" would fit Charli perfectly.
OMG THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!! I didn’t anticipate my post to get so much love! ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝ I was like expecting 8 people to enjoy it max! I’m thankful either way! I’m new to all of this bear with me…
"𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒽, 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓅𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒.”
CW: Fem reader (she/her), possessiveness, suggestive
Note: This is my first time writing something like this and posting it...go easy on me o(>< )o
The chandlers decorated the ceiling above the spacious ballroom, giving a gentle glow to the people filling said ballroom. The social season has just started to blossom, giving men and women room to court each other if one is blessed with the opportunity for such an experience. Catching the eye of a reliable suitor is quite troublesome– most of the men here do not fit any of your requirements, and if they did, they would suddenly be caught in a scandal of sorts, causing them to be an outcast. Not a good look on you or your family name.
You idly toy with the fan in your hand, your gaze sweeping over the sea of faces in the room. The task at hand feels insurmountable, and finding a suitable suitor in this town is daunting. Perhaps, you muse, debuting late was a misstep, a decision that now seems to mock you. You could always become a spinster…and ruin your reputation and lineage because you choose such an idiotic choice… regrettably it may be the easier option.
“Pray tell why you’re glued to this corner as if you’re some wallflower,” A witty baritone voice whispers in your ear, the hairs of your neck standing upright while a cold shiver runs down your spine.
The sense of familiarity washes over you, and the resentment still lingers from years ago makes its way forward. The Earl’s son, your childhood close friend, who left you without a word after he said he’d be there for you.
What a bastard
“Have you ever heard of personal space? Or have you forgotten the amount of lectures your mother ingrained into your head on etiquette when you were just a brat?” You bite back with venom coating every word you spit out. You place your fan on your left ear.
”Ah, I see.” He steps back and gives you space. “You’ve become cold-hearted towards me since my departure overseas. I was only gone for a mere moment.” He switches his position from behind you to in front of you. He takes up your whole vision, his maturity, more evident now since the last time you saw him as a juvenile boy. It's been a few years, hasn't it? Yet he still has his teasing nature; no boarding school or amount of lectures can take that away from him.
He bows a little lower than he should, his right hand to the opposite shoulder and his left arm behind his back. He looks up at you with those oh-so-regretful grey eyes. “I wholeheartedly apologize for departing overseas in such an impulsive matter without even notifying you in any way. I should’ve sent you letters and a hoard of messenger doves to accompany you”. “But I did not, and for that, my Lady, I've made a significant sin in your eyes– I do not deserve your forgiveness, but oh, if you could grant me such a pleasure.”
His voice is as quiet and soft as a starving mouse stealing food from a kitchen, careful for only your ears to pick up his pleas for forgiveness. Just as though you were a goddess punishing him, which he should be reprimanded tenfold in his eyes, who was he to abandon you without a trace? Though the situation before was entirely out of his hands, he didn’t want to go to that goddamned private school that was away from you; he fought tooth and nail not to go. Every house servant had to push and hold him down because he kept fighting; even his family members were victims of his wrath. His father, The Earl, still has fading scars from that night years ago.
He should’ve fought harder for you.
People around you start noticing; who wouldn’t? One of the most prestigious Earls of this country’s only son is bowing dishonourably low, borderline grovelling like a peasant caught stealing a measly loaf of bread. You feel eyes turning onto you, women whispering between their fans to one another, wondering in what predicament the next-in-line Earl would be for him to be embarrassingly bowing to a one-of-a-mill daughter of a viscount—a rank lower than him and a woman at that; your fan placement is not making it look better. Immediately change the position of your fan from your left ear to twirling it in your left hand, hoping he understands the situation he has put not only him but you in.
He only smiles in return. “Stand straight; You look like a fool.” You hiss, “Do I have your forgiveness, Darling?” a scoff escapes your mouth. “That is either here or there! Be proper. Others are watching.” That doesnt deter him, nor does he care about them. “So my apology wasn't sufficient? Since you are thinking about everyone else but me.”
More eyes make their way onto the pair of you, and whispers grow with the exchange of gossip. “You’re acting like a child-” He cuts you off. “Shall I go on my knees for you? I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but preferably, I would love to be in a more…secluded environment.” A smirk graces his lips at the thought. “Or shall I kiss your feet-”
“You are a soon-to-be- Earl! Has that school taught you nothing? God, you’ve become more insufferable, I swear.” Your face feels warmer now, and embarrassment takes over you from his childish yet sincere teasing.
The young lord’s eyes fixated on you, on your lips, how your dress accentuates your already perfect self, your hands, oh, how he wishes to feel them against his. The years it's been since he saw you, he could listen to you scold him for hours on end; it doesn’t matter what you are saying. Just hearing your voice is enough. God knows it's been too long since he’s been deprived of you. He thanks his past self for sabotaging whatever male decided to even think of courting you. Though he was far away, his social standing never changed.
The lord decided by the second month he was away from you to pay his old servants to send him as much information as possible on the vermins that would try to nestle their way into your life. He would…No, he has ruined anyone who wanted to get in between you two. And he’ll keep it that way. You’ve stolen his heart since meeting him as a lad.
“So you wish for me to kneel? As you wish.” He starts to kneel; gasps can be heard. But you stop him, holding his shoulders upright; his eyes widen as you touch him.
You’re so close
“I forgive you…I forgive you…”
“I forgive you, Ambrose…”
Oh…
His name on your tongue….
His mind blanks. Has he gone to heaven? Oh, you sweet angel, you have him wrapped around your finger. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.
His smile is blinding as he stands and looks down at you.
“Then now that's settled…May I have the honour of a dance with yours truly?”
.." Or shall I beg more?"
End Notes:
Fun fact (not really): I based most of this post on The Regency era, and that includes fan language! That is why I described the readers' actions with it.
Placing the fan on your left ear means "I wish to get rid of you."
Twirling the fan with your left hand means "We are watched."
Thought that would be something fun to add (^.^)
