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toms-cherry-trees · 3 months

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Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont.

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing.

He feels like a foreigner in this place.

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home.

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered.

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten.

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance.

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty.

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it.

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin.

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect.

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry.

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side.

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms.

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him.

Soon, too soon, his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to.

And then he sees her.

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final.

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most.

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose.

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath.

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.

“All ready, My Prince.”

This time, he smiles.

#jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jace velaryon x reader #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jace targaryen x reader #jace velaryon #jacaerys velaryon x twin #jace velaryon x twin #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #prince jacaerys velaryon #prince jacaerys #prince jacaerys targaryen #marsie writes

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windfighter · 2 years

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Here's why I keep writing whump/hurt (apart from that it's the thing that interests me):

Most of the time nothing happens because what everyone wants is smut featuring koukou or takouji

But sometimes, whump/hurt is just what the doctor ordered for someone :3

#ao3 #windy rambles #digimon frontier #I absolutely refuse to write anything koukou because twincest is not my cup of tea #this fandom loves it though #someone found and read through so many of my whump-stories it's amazing!#thank you random internet citizen!#most of these are from the same person #I love you #you just made my day <3 #I also noticed that it was the whump-stories and not the fluff-stories I've written that interested you #a person of my own kind #I also don't write smut at all because sexrepulsed ace #but no hate to those who do write and read it :3 #as long as I'm not forced to read it we're gucci #admittedly the number one reason why I main whump/hurt #is because that's what makes me able to sleep in the evenings x3 #if no one else is providing me with scenarios I'll just write them myself #I wish I could write other things #I really truly do #but I write 4 sentences and then someone gets hurt again #it's a blessing and a curse #I added the frontier-tag because most of these are digimon frontier #there's one for nysm and one for adventure as well #(both of those also hurt/comfort)

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ervotica · 10 months

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the ones we love (will destroy us)

pairing; aegon ii targaryen x fem!targaryen!reader

tags; twincest (lol i'm sorry yk what the targaryens are like), aegon is so sad and babygirl and an idiot, hurt/comfort

note; heavily reworked repost of an old fic that i adored writing but needed a lot of editing! (i still lowkey hate it tho)

“Why is Aegon staring at you?” Aemond asks, a cruel smirk cracking his perpetually stoic facade; the's mocking in the way his gaze falls between you and Aegon, not entirely genuine as he takes amusement in his older brother’s miserable pining. Aegon watches your discussion with Aemond, sour faced from across the dining table. You’ve taken it upon yourself to sit as far away from him as you can manage; and where you’re usually attached at the hip - though he knows you’re arguing - he can’t deny the ache in his chest from your lack of acknowledgement. You're cold, unflinching as you stare right through him as though he's irrelevant, as though he's worth nothing to you.

“Because he’s a twat,” you answer bluntly. Aemond barks out a short laugh, coarse and harsh, that penetrates the quiet chatter of the room. Heads start to turn towards your avid conversing with your younger brother.

“What are you two bickering about now?”

“If he thinks it’s funny to to speak ill of me to everyone in the seven fucking kingdoms, I don't want anything to do with him.” Your lips purse as you cross your arms; Alicent eyes you, watching the tick of your jaw and flare of your nostrils - you’re upset, even if you’re excellent at masking it.

Aemond watches on amusedly as your twin grows increasingly agitated the more you pointedly avoid his glances. Your mother frowns.

“Y/n, don’t you feel you’re perhaps being a little hard on Aegon?”

“No.”

“He's your twin brother!” she sighs, ever frustrated by your stubbornness and your twin’s lack of consideration for anybody’s feelings, even yours at times.

“He’s still a twat.”

Aegon huffs and rolls his eyes.

You continue to only speak about him indirectly. When you turn to Jace, he grins.

“Jace,” you start, clasping your hands where they lay on the dining table in front of you, “If someone said that you were ‘an ugly whore with no friends’ - as he so eloquently put it - would you be upset?”

“He said that?” Jace's jaw falls slack. “Wait, no. He honestly said that about you?”

The table clatters, cutlery bouncing, and Aegon stands abruptly, face screwed up in that way it does when he’s about to cry.

“It wasn’t like that!”

“How else could you possibly have meant it?” You’re incredulous, covering your misery with spiteful words. You want to make him hurt, make him feel your pain, but run to him for comfort all at once.

“Not-”

“Gods, just be quiet,” you mutter. Your face is hot as you turn away and you feel your eyes prickling with the threat of an onslaught of tears. Aegon cringes, drawn tight and tense as though you share one body, as though he can feel the pain he’s putting you through. Your upset has always caused him real physical distress, from when you were tiny children and still to this day. Your voice lowers to a whisper. “You’re so mean.”

“Y/n-“

You’ve never seen him quite this distressed; his cheeks flush pink and ruddy and his eyes start to water and gloss over, not dissimilar to your own expression - though you’re much better at concealing your emotions. His nostrils flare the way they only do when he cries: the way they did when he sobbed in your arms for hours after your mother rejected his pleas for affection once again, the way he cried when you were ten years old and your father interrupted him every time he tried to speak. Your bottom lip trembles.

“Please,” he croaks. Your brows knit and crease your forehead as your chest tightens; you bite the inside of your cheek with such force that you draw blood.

You stand and the solid wooden dining chair thumps against the floor. Aegon mirrors your movements, rushing towards the exit in your wake.

Once you’ve left the presence of your family, the tears come hard and fast and unrelenting. They’re hot against your cheeks, damp as your hands shake to scrub them away, leaving only a tender sting and blooming heat in your touch’s wake.

“Please talk to me.” The door creaks shut and then Aegon’s voice cuts through the sounds of your sniffles; you spin on your heel and he surges towards you in a bout of energy, clasping one of your hands in both of his larger ones. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about you, it was mean. And you should be angry with me. I miss you and I love you and I'll never, ever speak a cruel word against you again.”

“Did you mean it?” you ask; he lurches to latch himself to your body, anxious as though you’ll push him away at any given moment. His arms are tight and unmoving around your waist.

“No.” He shakes his head vehemently, “I don't know why I said it. I just wanted the others to respect me but shouldn’t have said such awful things. The only person I need is you.”

“What?”

“I don’t care about any of that now. None of it matters to me if you’re not by my side.”

His body shudders when your arms close and tighten around his body and a sob looses from his throat. Your voice is thick as you murmur in his ear.

“You hurt my feelings.”

His head falls to the dip of your shoulder and he clings to you with a strength that you’re not unfamiliar with; it cracks your heart all the same.

“Please forgive me, sweetling. Please.” The velvet of your dress darkens in splotches where his tears fall. “I love you.”

You know he really is remorseful; the guilt eats at him until he can’t feel anything else, not until you’ve reconciled. He's always been the same, ever since you were six and he hit you in the face; you didn’t speak to him for four days and he cried with such vigour that he made himself sick.

“I love you,” you can’t help but whisper back. “But if you ever do something like that again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

He laughs wetly, an odd sound that gets caught in his chest as he presses further into your embrace.

“Can I have a kiss?”

You hook a finger under his chin and tilt his damp face towards your own. His lips fill with air and push out into a pout.

His muscles go soft and relax the second your lips mesh with his; your fingers tangle in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He angles his head and deepens the kiss, licks into your mouth and murmurs something imperceptible. When you pull yourself away, he chases you, desperate to be close.

“Love you,” he mumbles, plying you with damp, open mouthed kisses across your cheeks and neck. They leave glistening half moons in his wake. “I‘m so sorry.”

“I know,” you say, tucking your head in the hollow of his throat. “I forgive you, alright?”

A laboured breath forces its way out of his lungs when your arm wraps around his neck for a hug.

“I didn't like you sitting next to Aemond,” he sighs. You shush him, rubbing thumbs over his eyebrows and down his cheeks in unbridled affection. “I want you to sit next to me.”

“I always sit next to you,” you murmur. “I was upset, remember?”

“I know,” he whines. “but you’re mine.”

“Don’t be a baby,” you giggle. “I spend all of my time with you.”

He squeezes you tight then and buries his face in your hair. You grunt with the force of his weight.

“I missed you.”

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not-neverland06 · 7 months

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Bad Day

pt. two

part one

Bo Sinclair x fem!reader, Vincent Sinclair x fem!reader (not together, I don’t do that twincest shite) warnings: reader embracing the dark side, graphic descriptions of violence Summary: Another set of tourists, but this one’s different. You actually have to meet this group. They’re particularly difficult, too, causing more damage than any of you expected. Can you survive the night, again?

You focused on the way the knife glinted as it spread mayonnaise over the bread. You watched it glide through the thick substance and brought it back down, flipping the blade and smoothing and spreading it-

Your fingers tightened around the handle and you winced as you slammed your eyes shut. You couldn’t be around blades, even ones as dull as this, without thinking of that night.

You’d fought, more than anyone else ever had, Bo told you. You’d also killed one of your friends in cold blood, no one had ever done that either.

He had been tied up and vulnerable and you hadn’t even given him a fair shot at surviving you.

You didn’t feel guilty about it, and that’s the part that haunts you. You didn’t try to justify your actions and cry yourself to sleep over the guilt you felt for being alive while your friends lay scattered throughout town. You slept deeply, peacefully, in the arms of the men who murdered them.

You’d wake up after having a dream about that night and you would feel exhilarated because it had been the first time you’d ever truly stood up for yourself. You reveled in the power you’d felt when you’d swung that ax into his neck.

You didn’t even remember their names.

How fucked up was that?

You basked in the memories of their demise but their faces were lost to you. One blur that bled together the more you tried to picture them.

You didn’t mourn them or feel pity, you felt no guilt, and that’s what fucked with you. Were you a bad person?

You had to be.

But you’d never been one before Ambrose.

You distracted yourself from the thoughts. You’d spiral and never get back up if you let yourself go down the rabbit hole. You tore off a piece of turkey and threw it at Jonesy, she pounced on it the second it hit the floor.

You finished the sandwiches, one going into a brown paper bag the other a plate that you wrapped with plastic. You left the kitchen, winding around boxes and junk that they called sentimental. You’d gotten into a nasty fight with Bo a few months ago about cleaning the house up a little, but he had refused.

You hadn’t realized how many beers he’d had that night and chosen the wrong moment to suggest change. Something he was staunchly against. He hadn’t hit you, never had, but he’d thrown a bottle near your head, the glass shattering and bouncing off the wall. Some of it had hit you, scraping up the back of your arms and legs. It wasn’t too bad, but you hadn’t felt that terrified of him since the night you came here.

You’d been petty, stolen his keys and camped out in one of the houses in town. You hadn’t been able to get any sleep, not with the wax family watching you, but it had gotten the message across. Lester had told you Bo thought you’d left and lost his fucking shit. Vincent, apparently, had been even worse.

By the time you got back the house was in worse shape then when you’d left.

Bo had told you he’d think about cleaning some of the stuff out. That had been three months ago.

You grabbed the flashlight off their father’s desk and used the hatch in the office, dropping down into Vincent’s lair. Vincent, when he’d discovered just how much you hated the darkness that led into his workspace, had started leaving a flashlight out for you.

When Bo got pissed at you he’d hide it. You’d have to crawl to him and beg for it back.

You’re pretty sure he didn’t care what it was that he stole, he just wanted to exercise some control over you. Remind you of your place in this town, under him.

The flashlight was a nice thought from Vincent, but it didn’t really help you much. You used it anyway, wanting him to know you appreciated how much he cared. Because you’re pretty sure he’s the only real reason you’re alive.

When Bo had caught you down here, standing over Owen’s dead body, he told you he didn’t know if he was going to keep you alive or not. You knew he meant it, he wasn’t teasing you or playing around, he genuinely did not know what to do with you. You were an outlier in a long list of repetitive victims.

Vincent swept in behind him, glanced down at the ax, the injuries all over your body, and hesitantly stepped towards you. They looked at each other, a silent conversation laying in their gazes.

Vincent took a slow step towards you and you recognized his actions for what they were. A test.

Earlier, you’d seen Vincent try to help his brother, ease his pain and wrap up his wounds. Bo had reacted cruelly, the only thing he seemed to be capable of.

You watched with a blank stare as Vincent kneeled down in front of you, brushing his fingers over the scraped skin of your knee.

You jumped slightly at the burn of flesh against your wound, but otherwise didn’t react. Slowly, he stood back up, grabbing your arm with a gentleness that wasn’t present in your first meeting. He led you back to his desk, flipping over the drawing of your face and pulling out bandages.

Some of them he had to toss to the side because they were covered in wax, others he used on you.

Bo watched it all with a frown on his face and crossed arms. “What the hell are you doin’?”

Vincent’s head shot up and his arms tightened around you. Again, you forced yourself not to react, not to flinch away from his hold and grimace as you heard his muffled breath next to your ear. Vincent didn’t say anything, didn’t move his hands to communicate, he blocked you in like a guard dog and after a moment you heard Bo cussing and storming out.

He mentioned something about getting the restg of your group, but nothing after that. You could only relax once you heard the basement hatch slam shut. “Thank you,” you whispered to Vincent. He grunted, but offered nothing else.

His fingers were quick, precise in the way they cleaned and wrapped your wounds. They were also surprisingly gentle for someone who had just slammed a blade through your friend's skull.

Vincent kept you squirreled away down there, sleeping on a cot in the corner of his large and stuffy studio. You weren’t sure how many days or weeks had passed with him idly sketching you and sculpting different wax animals for you, the lack of windows made it hard to tell, but you do know you were much better off here than in Bo’s dungeon.

You’d learned bits of sign language from him, you were bored and he seemed eager to teach you. To finally have someone who would speak his language too.

He was kind in his own way, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t eager to get the fuck out of there.

Bo had stormed down one day, saw you, and lost his goddamn shit. Apparently, he’d thought Vincent was only keeping you around for a bit of fun and then killing you. The fact that you were still alive, and being taken care of, nearly gave him an aneurysm.

Again, Vincent hadn’t let Bo hurt you. He’d protected you from his brother’s wrath and forced Bo to accept that you were staying.

Sometimes you wished you weren’t kind to him. That you had yelled, kicked, and clawed at him. Called him a freak and told him to go to hell and find his precious momma. You would be dead, sure, but you wouldn’t be here.

Thoughts like that had disappeared a long time ago, left with the summer heat. You knew it wasn’t Stockholm syndrome, you’d been a psych student before your world was flipped on its axis. You knew what the signs were, but this wasn’t loving them to save yourself.

This was accepting that there was no place for you in society anymore, not after what you’d done. Not after you’d actually helped Vincent sculpt his wax around Allison’s pretty face.

You’d enjoyed it, a sick satisfaction from seeing the bitch dead, your survival a victory over her.

When she’d been alive she had a top. This really cute white, lacy number and no matter how many times you asked, she would never let you borrow it. She had no qualms stealing your clothes and never giving them back, but god forbid you ever even looked at that top.

It hung in your closet now, yours to do with whatever you pleased. You smiled every time you thought about it.

“Vince?” You knocked on the doorway and clicked the flashlight off as the door creaked open. The warm glow of candlelight leaked out into the dark abyss. You slipped inside, shuddering at the rush of heat that hit you. It wasn’t always hot in here, only when he was preparing a new batch of wax.

You frowned, he only did that when there were visitors coming. Lester must’ve called ahead, told them he spotted someone on the road. You closed the door behind you walking towards his desk and dropping the plate on top. Your fingers skimmed over the sketches, catching on another one of you.

You picked it up and smiled, it was a sketch of you curled up on the couch with Jonesy, your face pressed into her fur as you slept. You remember waking up from that nap, frowning when you heard wood creaking behind you but not seeing anything.

What a weird little stalker. He knew he could ask to sketch you and you didn’t mind, but he always ran away like you were gonna be mad at him. You shook your head, placing it back down, and walked further into his studio.

You found him sitting at his table, curled over something you couldn’t make out. You could see his wrist flicking, the carving tool in his hand, and figured he was making another animal for you. You already had a whole shelf full of different animals, practically your own wax zoo.

“Hey,” you whispered, hands creeping slowly along his shoulders. He tensed slightly before he leaned into you. “Brought you lunch.” His movements paused to sign, Thank you.

You glanced down at his hair, curling around him like a dark curtain and frowned. “Vince, you got wax in your hair again.” He shrugged and continued working. You sighed, walking back towards his desk and rustling through drawers until you found the brush you’d left down here for him.

Sometimes you think he does this on purpose because he likes how you take care of him. You ran the brush through his hair a few times trying to make sure you’d gotten all the wax out. He let out a low groan, his head tilting back and thudding against your chest as you stood behind him.

You chuckled, scratching your fingers along his scalp and he let out a long sigh, melting into you. You’d have to force him into the shower later, to wash everything out of his hair. It was astounding how stubborn both brothers were about just showering.

You weren’t sure why they resisted so much, maybe it was something that happened between them and their parents. Either way, it was a fight to get them near the water and even then you had to bribe them with your body, luring them in like a siren just so you could wash the grime off.

You braided Vincent’s hair away from his face and he stilled, temporarily becoming your doll while you did what you wanted to him. He was always a bit easier than his brother. He was eager to please, even more eager for your praise. For you to tell him you were proud of him.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss against the waxed cheek of his mask. “Eat your lunch, please.” He nodded but the second you backed off he was back to carving into the block of wax before him. You sighed and glanced around his space, collecting the dishes of other half-eaten meals you’ve brought down.

The bell rang above you and you let out a sigh or relief as you stepped into Bo’s shop. A cool breeze rustled the fabric of your top. Seems like he got the air conditioning up and running again, even in winter you could still wear a tank top and shorts and be sweating. “Bo?”

“Back here!”

You walked towards the garage, brown bag clutched tightly in your hands and poked your head in. He was bent over, head under the hood of a car and oil smeared all over his coveralls. Your eyes traveled over the car he was working on, wincing when you realized it was yours.

You hadn’t used it since you��d gotten here. You’d seen Bo towing it in, along with Owen’s but you’d always avoided paying too much attention to it. You weren’t sure why he bothered working on it, maybe it was a taunt towards you or he was just bored. You never really knew with him.

“Brought lunch,” you offered, walking towards his work table and jumping on top, the bag going next to your thighs. He lifted himself up, looking towards you and smiling.

“Thanks, hun,” you hummed in response, sticking your neck out as he approached. He chuckled, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

He reached for the bag, pulling out his lunch and taking too big of a bite. “‘M gonna have to go up to the house,” he mumbled through a mouth full of sandwich. “Need to change before our visitors get here.”

You nodded, staying quiet as he stared at you. You’d gotten used to this look and even more used to what was about to happen after. He’d tell you to follow him and would help you off the desk, deceptively sweet as he tugged you down to the room below the garage.

Then he would tape you up, muttering to himself about not letting you leave. You’d submit easily, letting him do what he wanted. It was easier than trying to tell him you were staying.

But his gaze shifted back to the car and you frowned at the side of his face. He should’ve told you to move by now. Instead he leaned back against the desk, his hand skimming your own. He didn’t look at you while he spoke.

“Want you to work on your car.”

You blanched, eyes going wide as you stared at him. That wasn’t even close to what you were expecting. You had gotten so used to sitting under that grate, listening to the screams of his victims as he hunted them down. Now, he wanted you up here, wanted you to see it.

What was he doing?

“What?”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “fucked somethin’ up, want you to fix it.” He crumpled the bag into a ball, tossing it into the trash can and turned back towards you. You didn’t see anything on his face that would give away why he was keeping you up here on the surface and it set you on edge.

This had to be some sort of test. Maybe he was seeing if you would try and use the new victims to escape or warn them off. Or he wanted to see if you could pretend like you belonged, go along with his act and keep the victims feeling safe and compliant while he killed them off.

What the fuck?

You were used to how things worked in Ambrose. There was a system set in place, one you had learned to follow. This went against what you’d come to know and it was setting you on edge as you watched him walk off, heading up the hill and towards his house.

You stayed glued to the desk for a while, you weren’t sure how long, but it was enough time for Bo to have cleaned up. He popped his head inside the garage, suit on, and frowned. “What’re you doing? Move your ass.”

You jumped, leaping off the work table and rushing towards the car. He laughed at your panicked movements, staying a moment to admire your ass as you bent over the hood before you heard his boots on the gravel, heading towards the church.

You didn’t appreciate this switch up with him, how erratic his moods and behaviors were. He made it impossible to track and read him, to fully understand why he worked the way he did.

You were grateful that, at the very least, he had given you a distraction from trying to figure out what this test was and if you were in trouble or not.

You inspected the car, forcing yourself to remember everything he’s taught you while you’ve lingered in his shop.

“Oh, they're right here.”

You jumped, rolling out from underneath the car and glancing towards the doorway that connected the garage to the auto shop. Two unfamiliar voices echoed within Bo’s shop.

“Fan belts?”

“Yeah,” a guy and a girl. You poked your head over the top of the car and saw the guy was a lot taller than you and broader. Shit, you really hoped you didn’t run into him once they figured out what was going on up here. “But he doesn’t have the right size.”

“Just pick one, Wade, I don’t want to be in here much longer.”

“Alright, just hold on Carly.” You grabbed a rag, wiping your hands off and stepping towards them.

“You plannin’ on stealin’ that?”

They both jumped, whipping around towards where you leaned in the doorway arms crossed over your chest. “No,” the guy rushed to defend himself, his girlfriend shaking her head frantically. “We left some money on the counter, we just needed to get out of here, that’s all.”

“There you are,” you all turned towards Bo. His posture matched your own, leaned against the entrance to the shop, hands tucked in his pockets. God, he looked good. Now that you weren’t fighting for your life you could fully appreciate how handsome he looked all cleaned up. Bo glanced at you then back to the other two, “She botherin’ you?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, glaring at him over their shoulders. He winked when they faced you and you figured he was putting on another show. Huffing out an irritated breath you rolled your eyes and turned back towards your car. You frowned at the oil streaked along your skin and clothes, you’d never be able to get the stains out.

“Oh,” Carly started, shaking her head and glancing back at you again. “No, of course not, we just didn’t know that there was anyone in the shop.”

“She’s new, don’t like lettin’ her around customers, too much attitude.” You could practically see his smirk from under the car. He was probably so proud of himself, being able to tease you without you snapping back for once.

“She’s fine, um, I left some money on the counter, but you don’t have any fifteens.” You watched as Bo’s feet moved towards the register, most likely pocketing the money. “Is that enough?”

Bo’s tone was easy going, the perfect southern gentleman as he helped a poor lost couple. “Close enough. You know, I’ve got the right size up at the house. Only a couple blocks from here…”

You forced yourself deaf, trying to block out the rest of their conversation. These people weren’t exactly assholes and they didn’t seem particularly deserving of what was about to happen. Your friends were bad people, you didn’t feel guilty about them, but there was something about this couple that had your stomach burning in anxiety.

Maybe this was why Bo had you outside, playing mechanic with him. He wanted you to see the harsh reality of what it was they did here. you couldn’t always cover your ears and pretend it wasn’t happening. Was this what the test was? See how committed you were to him and Vincent, to Ambrose.

You used the car as a cover, dropping the wrench beside you and covering your face as you tried to decide whether you were going to cry or throw up. It was fine, the idea of all this, when you were hidden under the grate. The straps were a reminder that it could be you up there being hunted again.

Being face to face with the victims was entirely different.

A hand slammed down on the roof of the car, the metal reverberating around you, “Hey!”

You screamed, jumping up and nearly hitting your head on the underbelly of the car. You rolled out, glaring at Bo while he stood smiling down at you. He kneeled down, laying a hand around your thigh and squeezing.

“You’re gonna stay here, keep an eye out for any more of their friends, and behave. Okay?”

You nodded and he dug his nails in, “Yes, Bo.”

“Good girl,” he stood up and walked towards the garage door. You watched him, afraid to take your eyes off his back. He turned back around, one last lingering look that had you feeling cold, “Don’t fuck up.” You flinched as the garage door slammed down behind him.

“Help! Help me, please!” You jumped up and ran to the front of the auto shop. Carly ran face first into you, her fingernails digging painfully into your skin as she looked behind her.

“Shit,” you grabbed her biceps and pulled her away. “What’s going on?”

She backed up, wiping her eyes and gulping as she tried to catch her breath. “That- that guy, Bo, I think he did something to my boyfriend.”

“Alright, calm down, it’s okay.” God, you were just as freaked out as her. What the fuck were you supposed to do? “Let me get the phone, we’ll call someone.”

She nodded, running to the door and locking it. She pressed her face against the glass and peered outside, keeping an eye out for him. You knew you didn’t have long before she started to get suspicious. The station had a working phone, but there was no way in hell you were actually about to call the cops on Bo.

You paced back and forth, running your hands through your hair as you looked around, trying to find a solution. Your eyes snagged on the wrench by the car. You whipped your head over your shoulder, Carly was still stuck to the window. You ran for it, grabbing it and turning back towards her.

You raised your hand up, wincing as she caught your eye in the reflection of the glass. “What’re-”

She crumpled to the ground with a thud, crimson pooling around her arms.

You saw in the reflection Bo approaching you from behind, back in his coveralls. “Atta girl!” You didn’t react when he slung his arms over your shoulders, squeezing you and planting a sloppy kiss on your cheek. “Did good, baby.” He released you, huffing out a big sigh and walking over to the girl, “Alright, grab her ankles.” His tone was no longer adoring going right back to business.

You looked at him like he was crazy, ”Bo, what?”

You dropped the wrench to the ground and he frowned from where he was picking up her wrists. “You got a problem?”

”Yeah! What the fuck are you doing? Why am I doing this?” He dropped her arms unceremoniously and you winced at the crack they made against the cement. He stepped over her, stalking towards you and you stumbled back, heart beating faster in fear.

His hand snapped out, grabbing you before you could make it far. You whined as he dug his nails into your cheeks, puckering your lips and gripping your jaw hard enough for it to creak. “You’re doing this ‘cause I said to. Do we have a problem?”

He was so good at making you feel small. You wonder how Vincent’s put up with it all these years. “No, Bo,” your words were muffled by his grip, but he got the message. He released you, but you didn’t go far, his arm wrapping around waist and pulling you into his chest. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, his hand coming up to push some of your hair back. “It’s alright, darlin.’ We all make mistakes, right?” His tone was condescending, his smirk even more so, but you played along like he wanted you to. Nodding and accepting when he pressed a violent kiss to your mouth, your teeth clashing together and lip splitting from the force of it.

He backed away from you, chuckling loudly and going back to the unconscious girl on the floor. You grabbed her by the ankles like he’d told you to and helped him drag her down to the basement. He propped her head on your shoulder while he unlocked the door and you struggled under her dead weight.

“Why is she going down here, Bo?”

Your mind went to the Polaroids covering the walls, the things he’s had you do in that chair and you felt anger burning in your gut. Not worry or fear for her like you should feel, but white hot burning rage at him for trying to pull something like this.

He looked over his shoulder at your expression and grinned, “Nothin’ like that, baby. Little bitch put up a fight and wrecked my truck, I ain’t done with her yet.”

A good person would wince and whisper and apology to the unconscious girl, say they were sorry for the pain she was about to experience. Instead you felt sated, relieved, and completely fine with hauling her body up into the chair and taping her down.

You held her legs down as he taped them and she started to move around. Bo tossed you some superglue and you gripped her by the jaw, clamping her lips shut and pouring glue over the seam of her mouth. She whimpered and you ignored her, moving mechanically, distancing yourself from the fact that she was a real moving person. In her place was a wax statue, full of imperfections that you needed the glue to fix.

All three of you looked up through the grate at the sound of the boots stomping in the garage above you. Bo shared a look with you and nodded towards the door. You let the girl go, slipping out of the basement and closing the door behind you. You came up through the entrance behind the register, glancing outside to see a man in front of the garage.

You let out a breath of relief, closing the door to the shop as you stepped into the garage, he hadn’t got a chance to see the pool of blood. “Can I help you?”

He turned around, a particularly bitchy look on his face. “Looking for my sister, Carly, seen her?”

There was a loud yelp and you frowned. You walked towards the work table, reaching for the stereo and turning the volume to Bo’s music on. You covered the grate from his view as Deftones blasted through the small garage.

“Sorry, it’s my dog, she hates new people.”

He gave you an awkward smile and nodded. “Yeah, might’ve seen her. Pretty girl, blonde hair?”

He nodded his head, giving you an appraising look. You weren’t sure if he didn’t believe you or was checking you out. You really preferred that he didn’t believe you, you weren’t prepared to deal with Bo if he thought someone was moving in on you. ”My boss, Bo, took her and her boyfriend up to his house a few minutes ago. They were lookin’ for a fan belt.”

“His house?”

You shrugged, “He keeps extra shipments there. Wasn’t too long ago, you want me to take you?”

He sucked on his teeth, shaking his head and backing away. “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

You panicked, fists clenching as you watched him retreat. “It's really no problem.”

“I said I’m good,” he snapped.

You could see Bo creeping up behind him, the same wrench you used on the guy’s sister in his hand. If he turned around he would see Bo. Carly was easy to take out, she was small, trusting. This guy looked built and like he’d been in a few too many fights. “Wait!” You shouted, too scared to come up with a good distraction.

He glared at you and opened his mouth to say something just as Bo struck. The wrench came down on the guys head with a disturbing crack, but he didn’t fall like he should have. He stumbled forward and whirled around on Bo, his fist catching him in the jaw and tackling him to the ground.

You could clearly see blood pouring down the back of his head, but he remained unphased as he pounded into Bo. “Shit,” you cursed, darting to the side to pick up another weapon but you failed to notice how the man had stopped beating Bo. He must’ve seen you moving somehow because in a split second something was slamming into your side and the air was leaving you as you were slammed into the cement.

You groaned, feeling like your lungs had collapsed and curled up in an attempt to protect yourself as he directed his attacks towards you. “Nick!” A shrill voice screamed from the grate. “Nick!” He leapt off of you, heading back towards Bo and ripping the keys off his belt as he made a run for it.

Your vision was red, blood pouring down from a cut on your forehead. You took in a painful breath, your lungs wheezing, your ribs had apparently taken the majority of his punches. With your brain pounding against your eyes you rolled onto your knees and crawled towards Bo.

He wasn’t as badly injured as you had thought he would be, must’ve gotten in a few hits of his own. “Bo,” you grabbed his shoulders, gently shaking him. “Bo!” You tried again, shouting this time and slamming his head down on the cement.

He groaned and you let yourself fall back, head lolling on your shoulders as you tried to get your vision to stop swimming. “Shit, he got me.” Bo sat up, wiping the blood from under his nose, “Get home.” He ordered, tone not leaving any room for an argument. You nodded as he stormed off, but instead of going home like he told you to, you laid down on the cold cement and groaned.

Should lungs hurt?

You eventually managed your way to the house, once you’d got breath back, your injuries weren’t as bad as you’d thought they’d been. You stumbled into the doorway, glancing at a trail of blood leading into the office and trudging your way to the fridge. You grabbed a beer and threw yourself down on the couch.

It didn’t take long to hear footsteps creeping towards you. Your heart clenched when you saw how hesitant Vincent was to get near you. You loved Bo, but he could be a real fucking dick to his brother. You leaned your head against the cushion, rolling it to the right and smiling at Vincent.

It seemed to be enough for him to feel comfortable approaching you. He kneeled on the floor beside you and fussed over your scrapes. “I’m fine, really,” you reached up, taking his hand in yours and trying to give him a reassuring smile. “I think they got Bo pretty bad, though.”

He tugged his hands from yours, taking off his gloves and signing. How bad

”One of the guys, he’s pretty strong, busted his sister out from the basement after attacking me and Bo. Actually managed to knock Bo out for a minute.”

Stay here

“Wait-” you reached out, trying to grab the back of his sweater but he was already making a run for the front door. It slammed closed behind him, his truck starting up a minute later. You sighed and fell back against the couch, letting your eyes shut as you tried to relax.

You hadn’t realized just how relaxed you’d gotten until you heard the door slam. You jumped up, glancing out the living room window and realizing how dark it’d gotten. You moved off the couch, placing your beer on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen.

Bo was leaning on the counter, already a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He was completely soaked in blood, his nose leaking and a bandage wrapped around his arm. “Holy shit, Bo, what happened?”

You ran forward, hands instinctively going to the arrow buried in his arm. “Back off!” He snapped. You frowned and stepped back from him, trying not to upset him any further. You heard the rumble of a truck on the driveway and you glanced through the window.

Two bodies lay in the bed of Vincent’s yellow truck, a blonde girl and some guy you hadn’t seen before. Vincent jumped out, Jonesy following behind him, and made his way towards the door. You opened it before he could, grabbing him by the cardigan and making sure he wasn’t hurt like Bo.

He took your hands in his and shook his head, gently moving you back. “What have I told you about leaving without me?” Bo shouted. “You wait for me!”

Vincent nodded, not bothering to respond to Bo. There was a moment of tense silence before Bo offered a half-hearted smile to Vincent, “We’re almost done, Vinnie, momma would be proud of ya.”

It was the closest to an apology Vincent would ever get, you all knew it. Bo can’t apologize, his parents had permantly fucked with his psyche, and it started with his dad doing a risky surgery to seperate his boys. Vincent’s face would permanently be ruined but you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Bo had gotten the fucked mental end of the separation.

“How many are left?” You asked, reluctantly releasing Vincent’s hands.

“The girl and her brother,” Bo paced, taking a swig of his whiskey. He hissed and clutched his hurt arm. “Alright, help me out with this.”

You had to hold yourself back from snapping at him. Oh, can I help now? Dick. You grabbed hold of what was left of the arrow and yanked as hard as you could, Bo clenched his teeth and let out a loud pained groan. You winced at the amount of blood that started coming out, Vincent moved you to the side, already having a bandage ready and tying it tight around Bo’s arm.

“Where do you think they headed?”

Bo grunted, speaking through clenched teeth, “House of Wax.”

You nodded and stepped back from him once it seemed like Vincent wouldn’t need your help. “I’ll go with you both.”

”No,” Bo shouted and Vincent shook his head wildly.

“Don’t be a dumbass, you need my help. They’ve already kicked your ass, I’ll stay out of sight, promise. I just want to be there in case they get the upper hand.” Bo looked unsure and Vincent was still shaking his head. You placed a comforting hand on both of their arms and begged, “Please. Let me help.”

Bo shook his head and your stomach dropped, worried he would say no. Finally he let out a long sigh, “Stick with Vincent.”

You nodded, feeling Vincent’s hand grab onto yours as he led you outside. Bo grunted and slowly followed after you both, his left arm stiff beside him.

You followed Vincent into the bowels of the House of Wax, he moved slowly, keeping one hand behind him to make sure you didn’t bolt. You weren’t planning on it, but they didn’t seem to completely trust you for some reason.

You heard footsteps ahead, quck and frantic, rushing through his workshop. Vincent pulled out his bone handle daggers and ran down the rest of the steps. You stayed on the stairwell, keeping your head peaked around the corner.

The brother was in there, rushing through the workshop and knocking shit over without a care in the world. He hadn’t noticed Vincent yet, too busy looking for something. You weren’t sure what he wanted, or what the plan was until you saw him grab a pile of sheets, getting ready to throw them in the fire that kept the wax warm.

Shit, he was going to set the whole damn place on fire.

Even if you did manage to kill these two, it wouldn’t matter, the police would come, they’d see the bodies. Bo and Vincent would be locked up and you…

Well, you didn’t really know what would happen to you.

You could always plead insanity, show the jury the scars from your bonds and they’d think you were just a victim forced to do the unimaginable.

You considered it for a moment, letting him get away with this, thought about the freedom that might await you. There was an empty feeling associated with that image, you’d miss Bo and Vince, miss the fucked up life you were living here.

There weren’t any worries here, just make sure the victims didn’t make it past the woods and you were fine. No taxes, or wondering how you’d afford to keep living in your overpriced apartment, no fucked politics. You were free to be whoever you wanted, do whatever you wanted.

You grabbed a lead pipe off the stairs and threw it at the wall. It provided enough of a distraction for him to drop the sheets, not yet making it to the fire, and for Vince to grab him. You watched long enough to see the knife go through his throat and then ran back up the stairs towards Bo.

You heard screaming before you made it through the door, Carly shouting something at him. What worried you was that you didn’t hear him respond. You turned the corner, feet sticking to the wax as you gripped onto the doorway for balance.

She was standing over him, baseball bat in her hands poised to bring it back down over his face. You could already see blood leaking down his face from where she’d hit him before. Without thinking you charged at her, wrapping your arms around her middle and taking her down to the floor.

She let out a surprised yelp but you didn’t let her get much else out before you were wailing on her. You don’t know what happened after you grabbed her. You only remember punching her the first time, remember your knuckles splitting and your blood mingling with hers as she wrestled with you.

All you could see was Bo laying on the floor, not moving, as this bitch stood over him with a bat. You were blinded by rage, a hot fury burning in your gut and keeping you moving as you pounded your fists into her. You felt satisfied by the sound of her bones crunching under you.

She screamed at you, words you couldn’t hear as your blood rushed through your ears, and threw her hand up into your chin. You groaned, jaw whipping to the side. She pounced on you, digging her fingers into your throat until you couldn’t breathe and flipping you both over.

You dragged your nails down her face, the skin digging under your nails like warm wax. You dragged your palms down until you could feel her throat, the movement it made as she took in a deep breath. You felt it bob up and down under your touch and you squeezed. She let out a strangled yelp and you could feel yourself slipping. You were becoming lost in a place of animalistic panic.

You were almost dead, the man you loved was most likely lying dead next to you as you fought for your own life. Your vision was cloudy until it went completely black and then you felt arms wrapping around your chest and pulling you back. You kicked and screamed, still in fighting for your life until you recognized the voice in your ear.

“Alright, it’s alright, it’s over.” You slumped back at the sound of Bo’s whispers. You ignored the feeling of his blood leaking into your shirt as he sat down with you, pulling you into his chest and squeezing until it hurt.

You didn’t mind the pain, though, embracing it because it meant you were both alive. Both of you were okay. You reached back, wrapping your arms around his neck and melting into him. Carly lay dead a few feet in front of you, her face mangled and you looked down to see her blood soaking into your clothes.

You had your own wounds from where she’d fought back, bleeding lacerations that you’d fix later. For now you sat with Bo, watching as Vincent stomped towards you both. In a minute you’d get up, help them clean up the house and the bodies. Then you’d all go home, you’d make dinner, pass out on the couch and wake up in one of their beds. Probably Bo, if his panicked grip was anything to go by.

Life would go on as it always had, except you’d never have to see that chair again. You’d never be looking up through a grate as blood pooled on the garage floor. You’d go with Bo when he went to the city for supplies, you’d be able to pick out clothes that weren’t plucked from the hands of the dead.

It wasn’t right.

You weren’t a good person.

You didn’t deserve salvation or heaven after all of this.

But you’d found it and you were perfectly happy.

#bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher fandom #house of wax 2005 #House of wax x reader #sinclair brothers x reader #bo sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x you #Slashers

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dollya-robinprotector · 1 year

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OUT FROM JAIL BUT HERE'S MY OTHER BLOG

Commission CLOSED

P/S: I don't really know how to make pinpost, but if you're here I assume you are in DoL fandom or interested in my art! So here are some tags to help you navigate around my blog:

Dollya art - My art, mostly DoL and specifically Robin with my PC

Dollya ask - My answer to all the love people poured into my ask box. I mostly draw to answer if I can and I HATE to admit this, but it had gotten quite overwhelming and I can not answer every ask sent to me.

DoL: Homestead AU - My AU for DoL revolves around Lya.

The commission is closed atm. You can find the pricelist here in My Little Corner. If you are interested, please DM. I'll arrange my schedule for you.

You can call me Dollya, Doll, or Lya, but I prefer Dollya to separate myself from my PCs.

My DoL PCs are Lya (female - she/her) and Lyah (male - he/him). They're both Robinsexual. (Updating two others, Kariya (Hermanphrodite - they/she) and Eburnean (he/him)) And Lya has 4 little couriers called the Chobies. If we become mutual, they might crawl into your ask box. Don't freak out if you see them, and don't squash them either especially the Horny Repressed one. Their remains will become nasty. You can learn more about them, and how to treat them with Chobiology tag.

One final warning: I'm into some fictional fetishes that may not be comfortable to everyone, such as Incest/Twincest and Sizegap. Do not linger around if you can not tolerate those things.

He's lazy. He's just lazy. He works the bare minimum and stays at home playing games while I work my azz off to provide for him and pay Bailey. He can't satisfy me in bed either...

I love him.

#dol robin #digital art #degree of lewdity #degrees of lewdity #dol pc #Lord help me #help me i want to drag him out of his bed and game console and do stuffs in public or in the prayer room #even if I have to force him to join the Temple #I swear one day I will drag Robin into the Prayer room #dollya art #old pin

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mypoisonedvine · 2 years

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idaña: high valyrian meaning twin

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞 || your twin never learned how to share, and he always hated when someone tried to take one of his toys.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙 || 6.2k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 || twincest, noncon, kinda reader insert kinda oc because she has white hair and is aemond's twin, aemond is horrible and possessive and very nasty and mean, loss of virginity, pain kink, breeding kink, forced voyeurism/exhibitionism, jealousy, hair pulling, choking, kinda yandere vibes, a slap, brief somnophilia (just mentioned), degradation, angst

this fic is by, for, and about adults. minors do not interact.

this is a dark fic with very triggering content, please keep scrolling if it would be upsetting for you. if you do choose to consume it and you enjoy it, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

Your fingers toyed with the hem of your dress’ draping sleeves, your thumb nail tracing the golden embroidery at the edges; your teeth bit down on your bottom lip slightly to try to keep your girlish smile at bay. It was the gaze of Ser Corwin that made you so bashful— he was a handsome and kind knight, and every time you watched the men in the courtyard, he noticed you and looked up at you with a gentle smile.

Yes, you’d begun to fancy him; there was just something so… exotic about him. Not in a foreign way, he was a native of your homeland, too— but he was different from everyone you normally spent your time with. The person you spent the most time with was certainly your twin brother, Aemond, and Corwin was nothing like him.

Where Aemond was pallid and sunken, Corwin was tanned and full-faced; Aemond, like nearly every Targaryen, had long silver hair, but Corwin had a mess of amber-brown curls that somehow looked perfect even when they were clearly misbehaving. Most of all, while Aemond tended to be aloof, calculating, and snide, Corwin was patient, sensitive, and passionate. He reminded you of the knights in your storybooks: dashing and fierce in battle, yet tender for the woman they loved.

When your twin turned his face towards you, you looked away quickly, hoping not to get caught looking at the knight in the courtyard below. “Sister,” he said to get your attention, and you looked at him as if you hadn’t even noticed he was looking at you. “Is something the matter? You look flushed.”

“I— no,” you shook your head. “Sorry, brother. My mind is elsewhere.”

He smirked slightly. “Anywhere interesting?”

In the tower, just two nights ago, where Ser Corwin kissed my cheek, and called me beautiful— and told me that he hoped to fight for my hand someday. Swallowing, you shook your head. It had never gone further than those chaste kisses, stolen moments in shadowy corners or secluded alcoves, but for a sheltered princess like yourself, it was an exceptional thrill.

“Ivestragon issa skoros ao issi otāpagon bē,” he pleaded in a whisper to you, leaning closer. Tell me what you are thinking about.

You looked at him more carefully: at the interrogating look in his eye, and the patch covering the other; at the small smirk on his lips. Sighing, you reached up and brushed your fingers over the black leather patch. “Ao gaomagon daor jorrāelagon naejot ruaragon aōha laehurlion,” you replied quietly. You do not need to cover your face.

Smiling softly, he let you reach behind his head and untie the strings, taking the patch off, letting the scars and sparkling gem show in the sunlight of the afternoon. “Iksos bona sȳrkta?” he asked you with a grin. Is that better?

“Olvie,” you agreed; Much. Leaning forward, holding his face softly in your hands, you placed a gentle kiss to the place just under his false eye along the line of the scar; he shut his eyes, though the scarred one still never shut all the way, his lashes resting on the height of his cheeks.

When you broke away, the way he was looking at you had changed just a bit. Giving him one last smile, you rested back in your seat, and he in his own beside you. You both carried on silently, watching the tourney of knights below.

The events of yesterday’s tournament were still fresh in your mind: of Ser Corwin’s victory, after he received your favour; of Aemond’s interrogation about your inner thoughts and your kiss on his eye. None of those events were particularly unique in of themselves. After all, Corwin was a strong and talented knight, and Aemond was always trying to get in your head (and usually succeeding). Of course, giving your brother a kiss was nothing strange, either, as close as you two were. But something about yesterday felt different. It felt worse and worse each day to hide your affections for the handsome knight, most of all because you weren’t exactly sure why you had to hide it— you just knew that it needed to be a secret. And yesterday, you feared more than ever that Aemond would find out soon and how he would respond.

Pulling the blankets up higher over your chest, you turned your head over on the pillow to look over at your twin. He usually woke up before you, so it was rare to see him fast asleep in the early morning like this.

Your mother had tried to get you and Aemond to stop sharing a bed over a decade ago, saying you were ‘no longer of the age where that’s appropriate’. But that had never made sense to you; why shouldn’t you sleep with your twin, your other half, your best friend? He kept you warm at night and let you whisper about your dreams to him when you woke up. And so, every evening, your room was left empty and you cuddled up with Aemond instead.

Reaching up, you tenderly pet your brother’s hair, brushing through the fine silver strands with your fingertips. He hummed as he awoke, turning to smile at you as he blinked his eyes a few times. “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” you whispered.

“Sȳz ñāqes,” he greeted with a rough, low voice; Good morning.

“Did you sleep well?” you asked gently, humming as he pulled you closer and rubbed his cheek on the top of your head. He cleared his throat to get the sleepy gravel out of his voice, holding your face in one hand with his thumb petting your cheek.

“Like a babe,” he replied.

“You woke up to cry and shit every two hours?” you joked, making him laugh and hug you a little tighter, your face pressing to his bare chest.

“I never expected you to be so funny, sister,” he admitted. “You never liked my jokes when we were little.”

“Because your idea of a joke was pulling my hair or spilling my dinner on me,” you rolled your eyes. You paused as you really considered what he’d said, leaning back to look up at his face. “What did you expect me to be?”

His gaze ran over your face carefully, his thumb slowing down a bit as it gently stroked the highest point of your cheekbone, beside your eye. “I always knew you’d be beautiful,” he answered in a soft voice, “and fierce. I thought you might get wiser, but you’ve stayed just as naïve as you were as a little girl.”

Offended, yet flustered, you blinked quickly and looked away from his face, down to his chest and collarbones. “You’re wiser, brother, but still so rarely kind,” you whispered in return.

He sighed as he kissed your temple lightly. “I try to only speak the truth, sister— especially to you,” he explained. “You should tell me the truth, too: you should tell me what’s been on your mind these past weeks.” For emphasis, he toyed with the hair right by the crown of your head. “Something’s been keeping you from me… I miss you.”

You smiled a little, exhaling a ghost of a laugh. “How can you miss me? I am right before you now.”

He said nothing, because he knew you were feigning ignorance— even if he just called you naïve a few seconds ago, he couldn’t believe that you really didn’t understand what he meant.

“Avy jorrāelan, lēkia,” you spoke to him quietly. I love you, brother.

He hummed a bit as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, embracing him and shutting your eyes. He seemed to relax, then, petting your head soothingly. “Nyke gīmigon,” he replied; I know.

It was that same day that you saw the knight again, though you hadn’t realised you would. The afternoon was falling into evening, the sky turning orange above the garden as you wandered it; you loved this time of day, because the sky reminded you of fire. You were looking up at it, probably seeming just as dreamy and careless as Aemond and the rest of your family often accused you of being, when a hand on your shoulder startled you. Turning, it was Corwin behind you, under the shadow of a tall tree.

“Ser Corwin,” you blurted out, “I didn’t expect to encounter you here.”

“I apologise, my princess,” he sighed, “but I couldn’t wait any longer— I had to feel your touch again.”

He suddenly pulled you into him, and part of you wanted to simply swoon and accept it, but just enough of your logical mind remained. “W-we might be seen here,” you noticed.

“Must we always keep our love secret?” he lamented, gripping your arms tighter and smiling down at you— that warm, comforting smile, it melted you.

“Love?” you repeated excitedly.

“Of course,” he breathed, reaching up to caress your cheek. “My princess, my darling… tell me that you could someday be my wife. Even if I am not a noble lord or a political ally— tell me you could forget your duty and we could be wed.”

You swallowed, hoping you could answer him honestly. As far as you knew, you had little duty in marriage as the youngest child of the King— it might displease your parents slightly if you asked to marry a knight, but it wasn’t any kind of treason or even that much of a disruption, especially considering a loyal and just knight like Ser Corwin. “Yes,” you decided, beaming widely, “I hope so— I dream so.”

Smiling back at you, he grabbed your face and kissed you: it was hard and sudden, but lovely. You realised you’d never been kissed this way, with so much passion and joy, and it made your heart sing as your hands reached up to tangle in his curly hair. At that same moment, his hands found your waist and held you close; you felt small in his touch, in a way you enjoyed more than you expected.

Just as you broke away, opening your eyes, you thought you saw something in the corner of your eye— up on one of the nearby balconies, a flurry of white. You turned your head in an instant, looking for it.

“Is everything all right?” Corwin asked.

“Yes— was someone there, on the balcony?” you wondered.

“I didn’t see anyone,” he replied, “but I only see you anyhow.”

The flattery was less effective as an anxious feeling flooded your chest. “W-what if someone’s seen us, Corwin…”

“Then they’ll know how mad I am for you,” he decided proudly, pulling your face back towards him, “and that you’re mad for me as well.”

You blinked up at him, staring into the dark brown abyss of his eyes, letting it wash away your fears.

“Would it be so horrible?” he pressed. “If they knew… are you ashamed of me?”

“No, my love, no,” you promised, petting his cheek quickly, “anything but.”

You couldn’t answer his first question, though; you didn’t know if it would be horrible, if anyone knew. With him holding you like this, you almost didn’t care.

He tried to pull you closer again, but you pulled away. “I should go,” you decided.

“Not so soon,” Corwin pleaded.

“I’m sure I can see you in the morning,” you promised, but he reached for you again.

“I can’t wait that long,” he pouted. “I’ll miss you too greatly— one more kiss, please?”

Though you hesitated, you leaned forward to peck his cheek. He turned his face to catch your lips, just for a moment; you pulled back again, face warming.

“I’ll be thinking of you,” he promised.

You nodded and stepped away, biting your nail as you walked back towards the castle; as much as you wanted to promise the same, for some reason, all you could think of was your brother.

Seeking him straight away, navigating the stone halls, you went to Aemond’s (and, functionally, your own) chambers. Already you feared he wouldn’t be there, and then your worries would grow even more about where he was— where he had been, more specifically.

In retrospect, you shouldn’t have been so eager, swinging open the door so dramatically: it made you look sort of foolish when he was sitting back in a chair, reading a book. He was well into it, he must’ve been here for hours to get that far in; you sighed with relief, and he looked up at you, seeming confused.

“My apologies,” you nodded, “I hope I didn’t disturb your reading, Aemond.”

He shook his head, looking back at the book as his cheek rested on his fist. “No trouble. Come in.”

You tried to examine him as you shut the door behind you and moved further into the room; you hoped to notice if he seemed irritated or emotional in some way, in case it was him you saw in the corner of your eye in the garden. He was hard to read, just sitting there, but if anything he seemed… normal. It relieved you, partially, though you were still cautious as you broke the silence. “How is your evening?”

He nodded as he shut his book. “Painfully uneventful. Yours?”

Continuing to approach him, you hoped he couldn’t see everything on your face. “About the same.”

As he stood, he took your hand and lifted it to his lips for a kiss on your fingers. “I missed you, sister. I wondered where you’d gone— you know I prefer to read with you laying beside me.”

You nodded, remembering how many nights you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm around you as he read— aloud to you, sometimes, or silently to himself. “I was in the garden,” you explained. I thought I saw you there, you wanted to say, but you worried it would give away too much.

“Alone?”

You tensed up a bit. “Yes.”

He sighed slightly, but smiled; you relaxed again.

“What were you reading?” you asked, looking at the book— but he suddenly touched your face, getting your attention back.

"Hm," he hummed sharply as he lifted your chin, contemplating you with his stare. "Pretty and sweet, but never very smart, were you, dear sister?"

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, the back of his hand collided with your cheek and spun your face to the side.

"A-Aemond!" you yelped, holding your stinging cheek, and he grabbed the front of your dress to roughly pull you into him.

"You should know better than to lie," he hissed at you, rage seeping through his teeth. "I never expected you to lie to me— or to be a whore either.”

“I-I’m not!” you denied.

“You let some pathetic knight kiss you! It made me sick,” he spat. “You've always been mine, sister— did they never tell you? You were betrothed to me since we were born."

You shook your head, eyes watering, and he held your chin with his other hand so you couldn’t move anymore— so you had to look at him. “It’s not— that’s not true…”

“It is,” he insisted, “I said I would always tell you the truth. I always have. But I guess I never told you, fully, what my purpose for you was— what we must do, to keep our family strong.”

He spun you around quickly, pulling your back to his chest, holding painfully tight onto your shoulders. “Aemond, please, I’m sorry—”

“No,” he interrupted, “you’re not. Not yet.”

He began to rip through your dress— fine silk splitting down the back like it was parchment. “What— Aemond, what are you—?!”

His hand snapped up to cover your mouth as he snarled, holding your head against his chest. The other hand kept tugging and ripping your dress until it fell to the floor in tatters; your tear ran over his fingertips. “Hmm,” you heard a deep sound vibrate in his chest as he looked down at you, rubbing his hand over your bare skin. Your stomach dropped as he touched you, his breath on the side of your face, his eyes boring into you. “Mandia,” he whispered to you, the Valyrian word for sister, “did that knight touch you like this?”

You cried harder, though the sound was silenced by his hand tight on your mouth, as you shook your head.

“Now, don’t lie,” Aemond warned you. “Did that filthy knight touch you this way?”

His hand explored everywhere it could reach: rubbing your thighs, squeezing your tits, even cupping your mound for a moment which made your insides clench. You shook your head again.

You could feel his smile, you could hear it somehow, just beside your ear. “Good,” he praised— somehow, it made you feel a little better. It made you less worried that he was angry with you. “Only I should be allowed to touch you. And I should never have waited so long…”

His breathing was heavy and careful as he touched you, and his fingers ghosted over your skin with that same lithe grace that he always carried. Even when you were looking away, and couldn’t see his face— even when he wasn’t speaking— it was impossible to forget that it was your twin’s hands on your body.

“I’ll admit, I did touch you while you slept sometimes,” he added, laughing slightly, “but it’s better like this. It’s better feeling you shake… and hearing you cry…”

You shut your eyes tightly, and felt his lips press to your temple.

“I wanted to wait, you know— preserve your purity until our wedding night. But I'm so tired of waiting…"

He seemed to lose track of his sentence as he focused more on feeling you, on watching his hands explore your shivering body. It caused his hand to drop from your mouth, allowing you to reply in a weak voice. "Please, brother, you can't…" you began, trailing off to whine as both his hands groped your chest, even teasing and pinching your tightened nipples.

"Can't?" he repeated. "What can't I do to you? Ao issi ñuhon." You are mine.

The slight hint of amusement in his voice was gone as he pushed you right up to the bed, making you cry loudly as you realised he was really going to go through with this— up until now, you thought he was just trying to scare you.

"You belong to me," he hissed, forcing you to bend over as he pushed your shoulders into the mattress.

"Aemond, please! Please, no," you sobbed weakly, though you didn't even try to resist him physically— you couldn't, even with only one hand he held you down easily and kept you pliant, as the other landed a harsh smack on your bottom.

"I never wanted it to be like this, sister," he sighed, petting the stinging skin he'd just assaulted. "I wanted to be kind and gentle to you. But I've no choice— you embarrassed us both, and forgot your place."

After another hit that made you yelp in pain, you heard the sound of him opening his trousers behind you, and you cried harder. Thinking that begging in Valyrian might sway him more, you found yourself repeating kostilus ("please") and lēkia ("brother") over and over, but you were ignored.

You only stopped when you felt something hot press up against the swollen lips of your cunt. "My, dripping already, sister?" Aemond noticed, sounding pleased, as he started to swipe the head of his cock through your folds, forcing your lips apart for the thickness of his tip.

You'd felt his cock a few times before, when he was aroused in the mornings and pressed it against you— or when you were younger, and in your curiosity played naughty games like children do. But you'd never felt it like this, pressed right up to your opening, bare skin on skin. You'd known already that it was thick, but with clothes in between it never felt intimidating like it did now: even just the very tip of it, sliding up and down over your slick cunt, made you terrified of how brutally it would deflower you. "Please— it's not going to fit," you warned.

He only laughed, making you feel even more stupid. "Silly girl… it never fits the first time," he explained, "that's why it's so important that you saved yourself for me, for this moment: I'll make you mine and only I will fit you after this. No other man can have you… you'll be only mine, forever."

He had to punch his hips forward sharply to be able to go inside; it made you wince, but you tried not to react too loudly as you knew this was only just the beginning.

You still couldn't have imagined how much of him there really was left.

He put the rest of his cock into you slowly— to remind you that even as angry as he was, he had never lost control. He carefully slid every centimetre into you, listening to every whimper as the stretch broke your maidenhead and opened your body for the first time. "Aemond," you cried softly, struggling to believe it was your own brother hurting you like this. "I'm sorry, Aemond, lēkia, I'm so sorry—"

"Shh, shh," he soothed, petting your back— but still pushing his hips steadily forward until all of him was sheathed in you. "Gods above, you have such a nice cunt… so warm…"

You felt actually nauseous, because he was so deep in you— like he would stir your stomach and make you sick when he moved. But no, when he moved again— slowly, deliberately— you didn't feel sick. You felt pain, and your legs began to shake, but that's it. "You're hurting me, brother, please—!"

"Shh," he interrupted firmly. "I think you'll like it, once you accept it. I know you were made to take my cock, darling, it fits in you so well."

It didn't feel like it fit well— it still hurt, it still made you ache deep inside. But he was certainly enjoying it: he kept moaning each time he filled you to the brim, examining closely the way your face tightened up and twisted in pain. He obviously liked hurting you, specifically he liked knowing he could hurt you and get away with it.

"So well— you're doing so well already," he whispered to you, a strain in his voice from his own pleasure. Each time he pulled back it seemed like he only went deeper in the next stroke; your toes curled against the floor, sometimes your legs even kicked up and your fists balled up the blankets under you. "Fuck, you know who you belong to now, don't you, sister?" he grunted, starting to move faster far sooner than you were ready for it. "You know that you're nothing but your brother's whore, yes?"

The next thrust into you was fast and sharp; it made your whole body jolt, and a cry jump from your lips. And he did it again, and again, and again.

You tried to get up on the bed, tried to crawl away to keep it from being so painfully deep inside you, but he grunted and pushed you down— he got up on the bed, too, and growled as he kept you pinned, fucking you harder as punishment for your disobedience. "Just stay still," he ordered, "just stay fucking still and take it!"

Holding you down more forcefully, fingers digging into your shoulder and side, he let go of any reservation he might have had and began to really fuck you— hard and rough and needy, more focused on his own frustration than anything. You sobbed your apologies over and over until they were just useless blabbering, pathetic cries as weak and broken as you felt. You weren't just his whore, you were his toy.

But something had changed in the way you cried; it wasn't just pain anymore, in fact, it was hardly that. You were crying most of all because of the way your body, betraying you, responded to him. It was beginning to almost feel pleasurable— there was still a sting in the stretch, and yet a fullness that made your back arch on its own. There was still an ache inside you, but it made you long for more, not less. Every forced push into you made his cock rub alongside something, a sensitive place on your walls that seemed to awake even more the longer it went on.

Now, when your toes curled, it wasn't in agony but ecstasy. And you hated yourself for it.

"You are a whore," he insisted again, though his voice was quiet and rough. "Do you see how much you enjoy it? Should I have not waited so long, darling? You longed for me, didn't you?"

There was really no point denying it now; he'd believe what he wanted anyway, and probably end up convincing you to believe it, too. You whimpered as his face appeared beside yours, kissing one of your tears away.

"Gevie," he praised; beautiful. "I know you wanted this so badly. That's why you teased me, isn't it? Let me catch you in the garden with that boy? Because you wanted me to stop waiting, and finally take you as my own."

He cooed at you, clicking his tongue; you groaned as he forced his cock as deep as he could possibly push it, holding your hips down with one hand and petting your head with the other.

"Shh, shh," he soothed, "I know— it'll all be right now, my darling. All is as it should be now. Do you know whose you are?"

Shakily, you nodded, and he sat up again so his face wasn't so oppressively close.

"Good," he decided. "Now let's make sure everyone else knows."

He whistled, loudly, the way he did when he wanted to summon the guards outside into the room. "N-no, I can't— they can't see me like—" you began to protest.

He ignored you as the guards entered, and his hips stilled as he spoke to them. Your head was hot and spinning as you heard him talking to them, knowing they were standing right there as you were laid on the bed, naked, being used by your own twin right in front of them.

"Bring that knight," Aemond requested of the guards. "The one my dolt of a sister kissed."

"No!" you screamed. "No, please, please—"

"Shh, he needs to see this," Aemond insisted, petting your silver hair as you sobbed into the blankets. You heard the door shut again, and prayed that somehow Corwin had known to run far away from this place and never come back. "Oh, don't be embarrassed," he soothed you coldly, playing with your hair as you kept hiding your face. "Those guards only saw you for a moment, sister. If you learn your lesson this time, I won't let them see you like that again."

He leaned in closer, his voice tickling your ear until you turned your head away.

"But if you don't keep your voice down, they'll probably hear you anyways," he reminded you with a little chuckle.

He started to move again, faster than before he'd stopped, and you shuddered; you should've enjoyed the moment of a break while you could.

His own sighs were getting louder and more frequent, and his thumb massaged up and down your spine while he fucked you: you couldn't tell if he was trying to soothe or savour you. "Mm, how lovely you are," he spoke, under his breath, as his hand reached down to get a handful of your bum. He pulled that handful to the side, so it wouldn't block his view of your cunt stretched out for his cock, and you felt terribly exposed. "I'm afraid you'll ruin the bed linens with your slick… you've already coated my cock quite nicely— and look, it's on your thighs too… what a mess."

He sighed and clicked his tongue like he was disappointed in you for it; your chest twisted. "I-I'm sorry," you said again.

"Hmm," was his only reply.

There was a knock at the doors just before they opened, and as footsteps approached the bed, you turned your face away so you wouldn't have to see it.

"Oh! That was quick," Aemond announced. "Come closer, knight, get a good look."

You tried to move your arms up to cover your face better, you tried to grab the blankets to hide your whole head under, but your brother wouldn't allow that.

"Don't hide your face, sister," he cooed, the gentleness of his voice in opposition with the way he roughly tugged on your hair to force you to arch your back and expose your face. You cried harder at the sight of your beloved Corwin, your sweet knight, standing in front of you; his face painted in betrayal and heartbreak at the sight before him. "Tell him who you are," Aemond ordered you.

"I…" you whispered shakily, getting louder when your twin tugged your hair again. "I am my brother's whore!"

"Mm," Aemond hummed approvingly. "Yes, you are, my love. Look at his face, darling— look how disgusted he is with you."

Blinking tears away, you did: you saw the way his eyes ran over your face, down to your weak and shaking body that Aemond was fucking into roughly. You could tell he'd never look at you again as he has before.

"He only wanted your purity," Aemond explain in a whisper, "he doesn't want you now that your brother has defiled and claimed you. He never loved you, sister… only I love you."

"You're lying," you sobbed, "you're lying to me, Aemond!"

"I'd never lie to you," he promised, speaking just beside your ear, turning your head so you had to look at the knight again, who watched the sick display with a grimace on his lips and tears on his cheeks. "I won't hurt you again, if you do not disrespect me any further. Do you know your place now, my sister?"

He got angry when you didn't respond, tugging your hair again until you whined. Against all logic, the dull pain made a chill of pleasure run down your back.

"It's a simple fucking question," he sneered. "Yes—" he forced your head to nod by pulling your hair up and down— "or no—" he forced you to shake your head by pulling your hair side to side. "Do you know your place now?"

"Yes," you whispered weakly. "Yes, my brother."

"Is it playing childish games, flirting with boys in the courtyard, taunting horny knights with your maidenhead?" he asked you, and you sniffled before you answered.

"N-no…"

"Good," he smiled. "Is it in our bed, pleasing me, serving me, and keeping the bloodline pure?"

You exhaled shakily, but finally nodded your head— you were crying too hard to speak properly. Worst of all, you were afraid if you spoke aloud, they'd both hear you moan; you hated this like nothing else, in your mind and in your heart, and yet your body was washed over and over with pleasure. You weren't sure you could take it, how good it felt, and you were fighting everything in you to keep the ecstasy at bay.

"Yes," he agreed as he whispered in your ear. "Yes, that's it. That's your place, princess."

"May I be dismissed, my lord?" you heard Corwin's voice ask your twin weakly. Aemond didn't even look away from you, didn't even slow down.

"Not until she comes," Aemond decided. "I'd like you to see how much she loves this."

He grabbed your wrists and pulled them behind your back, forcing you onto your knees and keeping your upper body suspended; it made the sounds of skin on skin even louder in the room, along with the moans you couldn't help but release.

Aemond himself moaned louder, too, his hands squeezing your wrists and his heavy balls hitting your cunt each time he thrusted forward. "I suppose I can't blame you for wanting to fuck her," he offered the knight, who didn't seem to find it all that comforting. "She's so pretty, isn't she? And a tight little cunt— fuck, it keeps squeezing me, it's how I know she's about to come for me. Aren't you, darling? About to come for your brother?"

You dropped your head in shame and defeat. You didn't even know what it felt like to come, you'd never done it before— no one ever told you it was possible, actually. So, you didn't realise what you were approaching as your moans grew louder and louder, as your legs started to shake and your cunt pulsed rhythmically. All you knew was that you needed it to keep going, you needed this feeling to get bigger and bigger until it consumed all of you.

He hissed praises in Valyrian at you— kessa ("yes") and sȳz ("good") and, of course, māzigon ("come", though it wasn't usually used to mean what he meant it as). The encouragement did little for you compared to the constant assault on your walls, faster and harder with each thrust until your defences broke and it hit you all at once: with a cry, the last of your energy causing your back to arch and your head to tilt back.

Sobs of his name broke out of your sore throat, tears running down your face and making a puddle in the sheets— well, a new puddle… you'd already made one with your arousal as he so keenly noticed.

"What ever will I do with you, sister?" Aemond scolded through his teeth. "Calling yourself a princess, acting like an innocent girl, when you're nothing but a whore. All you wanted was a good fuck, yes? You should've come to me first, only your brother can make you feel like this."

Grabbing your jaw, Aemond forced your limp head to turn up slightly, so you could look at the knight in front of you once more. He held your face and kissed it, before whispering his demand in your ear.

"Tell him that you don't love him," he instructed.

"I… I don't love you," you spoke weakly to Corwin, your voice breaking and your words slurred as you tried to think clearly in the afterglow of such a sensation.

"Tell him you only love me," he added.

"I… I only love my brother, Aemond," you repeated dutifully.

He planted a kiss on your cheek as a reward.

"Please," Corwin begged, barely keeping a straight face as tears welled in his eyes, "let me leave…"

"You may go," he decided, and Corwin bowed quickly before departing in a blur, the door slamming behind him. You and your brother were alone again, as you often were, but you'd never in all your life felt so lonely before. "I thought about having his cock cut off," Aemond admitted, "but I couldn't be that cruel. It's better this way— he'll go fuck some other dumb girl, probably by the end of the night. You never meant anything to him but a chance at something warm to put his prick in."

"S'not true," you sniffled.

"It is, my darling little sister— it is true," he insisted. "He never loved you, no one could ever love you the way that I do."

He let you collapse onto the bed, finally, and fell on top of you. His lips and teeth took turns with gentle kisses and harsh bites along your neck and shoulder, grunts from his throat turning into deep and hungry moans.

"My pretty sister," he mumbled roughly. "It's nearly time: I'm going to give you a sweet little babe, a pure Targaryen, doesn't that sound nice?"

"I… I don't…" you started and trailed off. You'd wanted children someday, but not so soon, not when you were unmarried— and not by your brother.

"Shh, shh," he silenced you again, "just tell me you love me. That's all you need to say, just tell me that you love me."

"Avy jorrāelan, lēkia," you whimpered, repeating it over and over until his movements stilled with a long, satisfied sigh— and then you were both laying there in a daze, his weight atop you, his lips just by your ear and heavy breaths falling from them.

"You'll be even more beautiful with our child inside," he decided with a happy, hazy sigh. "We can be wed before the month is through… that should make sure no more knights come sniffing around you, hm?"

You didn't respond, you only laid there, numb. He rolled off of you but pulled you with him, keeping his cock inside you and holding your back close to his chest. Gentle kisses trailed your shoulder as his fingers traced random shapes on your arm. Your eyes grew heavier and heavier, the exhaustion from your body seeming to infect your mind as well.

"You can sleep, my love," he whispered to you soothingly. "I'll hold you all night, just the way you like, all right?"

Sleepily, you nodded, letting a final tear roll down your face sideways as your eyes shut. "Yes, Aemond," you answered, already halfway drifted into darkness.

He gave one more kiss to your cheek and hugged you tightly. "Sȳz bantis, issa ābrazȳrys," he offered to you under his breath. Good night, my wife.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen dark fic #dark!aemond targaryen x reader

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