I would LOVE to read anything by you, unfinished or not 🖤 if you’re still okay to share ofc!
lol Well, you’re very sweet, thank you. And okay! Not sure if this is one I’ll try to finish, but here’s one from my abandoned wips file:
It’s set just after the scene in 02x05 where they search for Ambrose at the Spellman house and can’t find him. On the car ride back to the academy, Zelda reflects on her wedding eve and all the events/emotions surrounding it. (tw: mentions of rape/attempted rape)
The silence is palpable as they head back to the academy, only the grit of the tires on the Spellman Mortuary driveway and the muted hum of the car motor. She’s had more to drink in the past hour than she normally does in a whole day’s time and her gaze is fixed on the retreating image of her childhood home. Faustus is idly tapping his fingers upon his cane next to her. Even though she’s set to be eternally bound in unholy matrimony to him tomorrow, and it should be one of the most exciting nights of her life, she finds herself turning closer to the window, her nose nearly touching the glass, glued to the last embers of light from the porch windows as the driver turns the corner and she loses sight of it completely.
The way Sabrina looked at her. The contempt, the disgust… the smallest bit of fear. She must hate her truly now, but the fact is Sabrina hasn’t known Ambrose as long as she and Hilda have. She knows little to nothing of what they went through with that boy. The amount of times she, Hilda, or Edward had to negotiate at great risk to themselves just to save his skin. It’s why Edward ordered his house arrest in the first place. For his own protection (and theirs).
While she’s certain that Ambrose wouldn’t kill his unholy eminence without reason, and that’d he’d justify it with some passion or virtue he’d swear was worth the risk - the fact of the matter would still be that he’d done it. Blowing up the Vatican, the palace of their enemy, was one thing; destroying the highest leader of their own religion was another.
Actually, she corrects herself, the true leader is the Dark Lord, and the encounter she nearly had tonight is an all too strong reminder of that. Her brows knit together as her eyes fall closed, recalling the flash of light that accompanied the opening of her chamber doors earlier and the dread that instantly dropped in her stomach. She’d spent her whole life devoted to the Dark Lord; enlightened by his word; humbled by his challenges. She was a Satan-fearing woman, through and through, and the menacing touch of his claws on her shoulder was an emphasis as to why.
She can’t help but wonder what he might’ve done with her. Surely, he wouldn’t have been gentle; she’d laid with far too many of his devout followers to think otherwise. Not that she was ever gentle herself; she had claws and teeth, too after all, but something tells her the rough play of the coven orgies and even more intense of her solo partners would have paled in comparison to the Dark Lord’s expression of lust.
Her younger self would chastise her for such reservations. For whatever the Dark Lord commanded was far more important than any individual suffering and she should be honored she was chosen. She remembers counting down the days to her dark baptism as a small child, fervently pledging her devotion to the Dark Lord, starving for the power that walking the path of night promised her.
But naïveté was never kind. There were phases of night, after all, and so there was within the church, as well. Sometimes she lived in the beauty of twilight; where she found warmth, community, and ideas that set the burning passion within her blaze. Then there were midnights - a constant battle for balance as the day bid farewell to its end in tandem with greeting its beginning again; it was equal parts power and danger. Last, there was deep night - the time where the cover of darkness emboldened the malevolent; where unwanted touches, painful possession, and invading hands - so much stronger and older than hers - always seemed to find her.
It served nothing to dwell on such things, but at times hiding the effects was like asking a poorly-built dam not to break, and it had only been an hour ago, perhaps two… Her head starts to feel fuzzy and she grips the door handle for support.
Her worries and uncertainty for Ambrose are easy to stave off; she knows he will be fine (she will make it so), but the Dark Lord is not so easy… The wretched sound of his husked breathing, his towering presence looming over her making her feel so small, and those rough, invading claws that had just gripped in tight and begun to turn her towards him… would he have touched her like the others did? Take his pleasure and then leave her in who knows what state? Tradition demanded that details of any witch’s visit remain between her and the Dark Lord, but did his chosen witches even survive to lay with their husbands the next night? Could he… could he still come to claim her before dawn? The thought of it mixed with the drink in her body causes her to let out a quiet, frightened gasp and she flinches hard enough for her fiancé to notice.
“… Zelda?” he asks curiously, steadying his cane over his lap.
She briefly closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns to him with a weak smile, “Yes, your Excellency?”
He gives her a pitying glance, one she’d find nauseating under the best of circumstances, and reaches over to gently grasp her hand into his. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be on you, darling.”
Oh, fuck off. Not only is he entirely unaware of what exactly has her distressed, but as if he has any care for her concerns in this matter with Ambrose... it’s laughable, really. He may think her a malleable little bride, but she’s no fool, and he should very much know that by now.
“There are far greater things at play,” she takes a deep breath followed by a placating smile, “Such a burden for you, your excellency, my sincerest apologies. But I’ve no doubt that justice will be swift with your leadership, and our wedding will hopefully be a balm for this unfortunate circumstance.”
Faustus considers her for a second - a surely noticeable flinch in her eyes as she attempts to remain convincing, but then he huffs out a pleased chuckle, reaching over to stroke her cheek, “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you at my side, my dear.”
She gives him another demure smile, leaning into his soft touch, and feigning the docile look of a submissive little bride that she knows strokes his ego and his cock in equal measures. She plays her part well by now and, as such, it’s no surprise that the crumb of admiration she’s fed him has him grinning ear-to-ear.
“Come here, my darling,” he whispers fondly, lifting his arm so that she can settle into his side.
