đđ˝đśđ đđđ đšđđđžđ đ¸đśđđđđš đđđđ Ëâ¡ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍâłâĽ wally darling
â tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence
⥠synopsis: youâd be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isnât exactly receptive to the word ânoâ.
⥠word count: 5,310
â§ďžâ§*ď˝Ľďž the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! シďž*â§ăâ§
a/n: hello!! âá˘.ËŹ.â
á˘â goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i havenât posted fanfic in a hot minute but iâm suuuper excited to get back into it!! đ i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ č¸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! シ*シ:âĄ(ăÎľ:)
Thereâs a rose on your vanity.
The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its placeâ and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!
Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea thatâs crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. Theyâre presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that youâve trashed them. Youâre certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you canât pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.
Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but youâve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.
âHowâs that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Orâ well, puppetsâ and humans! Hahaha!â
Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasnât enough. âYou wanna make money or not? Itâs part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!â is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, itâs not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottieâs recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since heâs the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.
A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that sheâs come near, but you donât bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.
âAnd they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to⌠celebrateâŚâ
Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though youâve done nothing wrong.
âIâll be alright, Lottie. Here,â You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. âYou take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.â
When she doesnât move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friendsâ your family when you had noneâ and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.
âAre ya sure?â
âPositive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?â
She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. âHe never gives us any troubleâ nâfact, I havenât heard âim say a single word!â
âGood. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!â
After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.
âPromise yaâll play nice?â
An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.
âI was planning on it,â you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.
âThanks. Honestly, Iâm kinda worried...â She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. âI see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabeâs goons lately. Do ya think heâs gettinâ antsy? Itâs been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.â
Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what youâve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organizationâ led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human manâ planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didnât receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.
âI canât be sure,â you admit. âHe doesnât tell me much about the goings-on of the âfamilyâ, not that I care to know. But I noticed heâs been more wound up lately⌠maybe theyâre going to retaliate?â
A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasnât an active turf battle.
âYouâre right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter âim up a little.â She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.
Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. Iâve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.
As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you canât help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldnât workâ and youâd have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least youâll make a gorgeous open casket.
You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, whoâs counting the register behind the bar.
âHey, Iâm heading out!â
âGeez, youâre in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?â
âSomething like that,â you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that youâre so close to the outside.
âAhh, I getcha.â His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but youâd rather die than clarify. âYou did a great job today, you deserve it!â
Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Geneâs nose; thus far heâs made no indication that heâs aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-upâ where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked awayâ and you decide that itâs probably for the best.
âThanks, Gene. Have a good one.â
âYou too!â
His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but itâs a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.
âHi Howdy.â
âEvening, Mx.â He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.
âI wish youâd stop calling me that. I do have a name.â Itâs true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like heâs won, and youâve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.
Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesnât grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times heâs escorted you to these duress-dates, as youâve taken to calling them, heâs remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screamingâ youâve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. Itâs hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.
When he hauls his many limbs onto the driverâs seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.
The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season theyâll all be covered. Dottieâs already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. Itâs one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottieâs timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottieâs alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.
Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal âReserved for Staffâ signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if youâre so physically inept you canât handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasnât beaten you yet despite defying him so often: bossâs orders.
With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once youâre both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.
âMx.â
Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.
âBoss doesnât know youâve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.â
The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, andâ of courseâ red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadnât just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.
Itâs something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, itâs a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because itâs the only way youâve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.
Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.
When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; youâve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.
And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the cityâ puppet or otherwise.
âGood evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.â
The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasnât once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.
âYes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,â you chirp, wielding a civil smile.
Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, youâre guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. Heâs feeling sentimental.
âWould you indulge me with a dance before dinner?â
Don't have much of a choice, do I?
âIâd love to.â
Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.
Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between themâ literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortableâ emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.
âDo you remember the night we met?â
The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.
âHow could I forget?â
The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone youâd only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.
And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friendâ no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.
As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.
âEvening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.â
Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.
âFellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"
He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.
"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"
The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.
"It's alright, Barnaby."
The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.
"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.
"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"
"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."
You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.
"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonableâ we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And whatâs our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."
Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because itâs typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.
"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didnât ask for protection."
Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.
"We can reach an agreement, Iâm sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."
Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was thisâ whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.
âI knew because of your eyes.â
The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wallyâs voice shaking you from your recollection.
âPardon?â
âThat night, you drew me in; I couldnât concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.â He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.
âThey shone like stars, even through the smog.â
Itâs only after heâs finished that you realize youâve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.
He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that youâd buy out if someone turned it into a candle.
âLetâs not delay any longer. You must be starving.â
True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You donât see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.
There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staffâs Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, youâre not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late motherâs library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.
It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wallyâs illustrious inner circle. Sheâs scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.
The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wallyâs moodâ if heâs happy, then heâll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friendsâ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If heâs unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so itâs exponentially worse when heâs out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.
Thankfully, heâs amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talkingâ youâre not exactly eager to share more than you have to. Itâs when the server presents dessert that things go awry.
âSay, how are those triplets you work with doing?â Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. âI havenât had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.â
The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.
âTheyâre well, overall. Sometimes itâs difficult for themâ their managerâs a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.â
âI seeâŚâ
He lets out a long âhmmmmâ, like heâs reflecting on this information.
âMy family has also come upon hard times. It can be⌠trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.â He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. âEvery family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?â
Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.
âA neck?â
At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?
âYes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so itâs only right I am cared for in return, wouldnât you say?â
Though the phrasing is puzzling, youâre fairly confident you can infer what heâs purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.
Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.
âWhat I mean to say is, I think that itâs time to settle down."
No.
âWhâ what? Settle down how?â
âTo get married, silly.â
Youâre unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!
âGet married? You meanâ to me?!â
âOf course. Iâve been courting you all this time, havenât I?â
You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.
âI know in the beginning you werenât receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.â
Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chucklesâ a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.
âYou thought I didnât know? Howdy may not have reported itâ which Iâll rectify in due timeâ but I have eyes everywhere, dear. Youâre quite the talented actor, though.â
That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if youâre the most precious thing heâs ever held.
âI love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesnât that sound wonderful?â
An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldnât that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? Itâs more tempting than youâd ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bearâ and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.
Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.
âBe reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Havenât you missed having a family?"
The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.
"My friends are my family. I donât want anyone else, especially not murderers!â You snarl. âYou kill peopleâ and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"
"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. Youâve experienced these firsthand.â With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. âAll we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in needâ somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.â
You abruptly stand up, feeling like youâre wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.
âBullshit! You donât have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it wonât work on me. The answer is no.â
All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, whoâs as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.
Oh shit.
The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for monthsâ stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous âdatesââ you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.
Youâre halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdyâs face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy heâd offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.
âHow about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldnât want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isnât around to protect them.â
Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small âmwah!â. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.
âAw, donât be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.â
With a snap, youâre hauled over Howdyâs back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever youâll be staying. Hopefully not Wallyâs quarters.
Itâs all too much; you feel like youâre trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? Youâre not sure. With all of the awful things heâs done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought youâd have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.
Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdyâs shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, youâve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.
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