dolly

This trial was supposed to end with blood. You knew that.

You stood in the doorway of the Warden's office, watching the Warden himself struggle against the restraints holding him to the table. The metal of his headgear glinted in the low light as he shifted his head.

"Daddy…" he whimpered, voice muffled by the mask, "Coyle, please!"

His voice cracked. You stepped closer and watched as he strained to lift his head. You knew he couldn't see you. The burlap of the mask made sure of that, but he could still hear, and he froze as your shoe scuffed the carpet.

"Who's there?!" he thrashed, making the table creak, "Daddy? Is that you?"

You said nothing, letting him beg for a few minutes longer. It was pathetic, really. The way he arched his spine trying to present himself while his voice went high and desperate.

"I've been good. I did what you asked. Please come get me," the Warden keened.

You dropped the brick you were holding to the ground. The heavy thunk was enough to make the Warden flinch, rattling the table.

"Don't- don't hurt me, please," he whispered, "I listened. Please–"

"I'm not going to hurt you," you said calmly.

Your voice was soft. You hadn't meant to speak, but the words fell out anyway.

"You're not… Coyle."

"No," you walked around to the back side of the table, looking down at where the headgear was rubbing the skin over his collarbones raw, "I'm not."

You reached out. Your fingertips brushed his stomach first, just above the navel, careful to avoid the stitched incision. The Warden gasped, jumping under your touch.

"Please–"

"Shh, it's okay," you cut him off, shushing him, "I said I wasn't going to hurt you."

You kept your hand on his skin and lightly traced upward. Your fingers followed the ridge of his stomach, up to the valley of his sternum, all the way up to where the mask bit into his skin. You could feel the heat of fear and adrenaline oozing out of him.

When you touched the skin at his collarbones, he winced.

"No! That hurts," he cried.

"I know. I'm sorry."

You trailed back down slowly. Your palm flattened against his stomach, feeling the frantic rise and fall of his breathing, then drifted lower. Your hand skimmed the edge of his stomach down to his thigh, hesitating.

He was clearly half-hard. His lack of clothing left nothing to the imagination. You brushed your knuckles against the shaft, making his cock twitch.

When was the last time someone touched him so gently?

The question hung in your mind. You didn't ask because you didn't need an answer. You already knew. In this place, gentleness was unheard of.

You told him your name, and again, reassured him that you weren't going to hurt him.

The Warden stilled. His breathing slowed, still shuddering but steadying. Finally, he stopped thrashing against the cuffs. You could practically see the calculation happening under the mask; he was assessing the threat of you while holding on desperately to hope and ingrained obedience.

"Please," he pleaded softly, "Uncuff me. I need to get back to Daddy. He'll be angry if I'm gone too long."

You hummed, considering his request. Your fingers, still holding steady on his thigh, stroked idle patterns on his skin.

"I could do that. I'd like to do that for you," you sighed, "but first, I wanna talk to you for a bit."

"Talk?" he sounded confused.

"Mhm. Just talk."

He hesitated, then nodded, the motion constrained by the headgear, "Okay. Okay, but quickly, please. Before someone else comes."

Before you spoke, you wrapped your hand around his cock. He jolted like you had taken Coyle's cattle prod and stuck it to him. His hips snapped upward, a muffled groan tearing from his throat.

"Wait," he gasped, trying to squirm away, "Wait, wait, wait- Daddy says I'm not allowed to–"

"Hey, shhh," you squeezed, feeling him thicken in your palm. He was warm, heavy, and leaking already, "your Daddy isn't here."

You started to stroke him, slow and dry. The friction of skin on skin was only broken by the occasional bead of precum that would slick your palm for a moment. It wasn't perfect, but his head dropped back against the table and he huffed.

"It's not fair," you murmured, "Is it? He gets to use you. Gets to hurt you and make you beg."

He whimpered.

"And you? You get nothing, huh?"

"Ple-ease," he moaned. You couldn't tell anymore if he was begging you to stop or continue, even if he was rolling his hips to meet your hand, "We'll get caught. He'll catch us and he'll– oh–"

"Does Coyle touch you like this?" you asked, tightening your grip, "Does he ever make his little fuckpig feel good?"

The Warden shook his head frantically, "N-no. Never. He says I'm not– not for that. I'm for– oh God…"

"You're for his pleasure, right?"

He nodded, "uh-huh."

Your voice dropped low, "Well, good thing this isn't about him. It's about you."

Fully hard now, you kept stroking his cock; whispering filth about how good he looked like this, how desperate he was, and how much you wanted to see him come apart for you.

And suddenly, you thought of something even better.

"Hold on," you said, removing your hand.

The Warden whimpered at the loss, hips raising to chase your touch. You climbed onto the desk, straddling his calves. One of your hands pressed against his stomach to hold it up, the other braced on his thigh. You leaned down and licked a wet stripe from the base of his cock to the tip.

"Mmph," he grunted from the other end of the desk.

You winced at the taste of him. Sour sweat danced across your tongue, but you didn't stop. You took his cock fully into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat, and you gagged.

"Oh," he sobbed, legs shaking against their restraints, "that feels so– uh– good."

Your throat convulsed around him, and he bucked upward as much as the cuffs around his ankles allowed. You pulled back, sucked in air, then went down again. And again. Finding a messy rhythm, the wetness of your mouth on him became the only sound in the room besides his desperate grunts and pants.

You could feel him getting close. His thigh tensed under your hand as his cock swelled and pulsed under your tongue. He sighed, whining like an animal in distress.

"Stop!" the Warden groaned, "Stop. I think– wait, please, I don't want to get in trouble.

Gently, you shook your head. The motion drew a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest at the shift in pressure while you hummed a denial around him, "uh-uh."

Then, you went all the way down again, gagging hard. Your throat squeezed his cock as tears pricked at your eyes.

That was all it took. His legs shook violently, heels digging into the desk. He came with a strangled moan, coating your tongue and the back of your throat with bitter cum. You swallowed as best you could. Your eyes were watering, but you didn't pull off until he was trembling and whimpering from oversensitivity.

Slowly, you began pulling off of him, when the office doors slammed open. Your eyes snapped over to the doorway.

Leland Coyle stood there, silhouetted by the hall lights with his cattle prod sparking in hand.

"What in THE HELL," he roared, "are you doin' to my Warden?"

Immediately, the Warden cried out, "Coyle… Daddy! Help me. They made me–"

You rolled your eyes, hand already flying to your stun rig. Coyle charged forward, prod raised, but you were faster. The stun hit him square in the chest.

You didn't wait around for it to wear off. Hopping off the desk, your adrenaline injector was already in your hand, needle sliding into your other arm.

Behind you, the Warden's voice echoed as you ran through the doors, but you didn't bother looking back.

Bo Sinclair (House of Wax '05)

He's super fucking annoyed at this new habit of yours. He wakes up one night to noises in the kitchen, and at first doesn't even notice you gone from the bed until he's sneaking up on the intruder--only, there isn't an intruder. It's just you, making a fuck ton of noise messing with the kitchen drawers absentmindedly.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" He doesn't even realize you're asleep until he grabs you and spins you around to face him, only to see your eyes glossed over as you don't react to him. This just pisses him off even more, because of course you'd be a fucking sleepwalker. He shakes you awake and starts bitching at you as he drags you back to bed. He has no time for this y/n, he needs to sleep.

Threatens to tie you to the bed if you don't stop. You argue that you can't control what you do in your sleep, but he doesn't care; you will stop or you will be tied down. There is no room for discussion with Bo as he has to have things his way. You can still try, of course, but it'll only get you so far. No one wins an argument with Bo Sinclair.

He makes true on his promise about tying you down. The next night, he wakes up again to sleep walking you, this time trying to open the (locked) front door. This sent him into a frenzy, screaming at you for trying to leave. Bo has terrible abandonment issues, so the fact that your subconscious tried to leave fucks him up deeply. He forces you back into bed, and ties you down despite your protests.

He's secretly heartbroken. He won't admit to it, of course, but there's no denying the ache in his chest. You wedged your way into his heart, and now you're trying to leave? There is nothing you can say to make him calm down, or convince him you don't want to leave. In the back of his mind for the next few months is the image of you trying to leave, and abandoning him forever.

He refuses to let you go. In the morning, you try to convince him that you weren't trying to leave, that you were just sleep walking, but he doesn't care. He'll be an asshole and lock you in y'all's room to sulk, only coming in ever so often to give you bits of food. He doesn't let you out of the room for weeks until he finally feels secure enough to start letting you roam the house again.

If you continue to sleep walk, he will continue to tie you down. Be prepared to have sore wrists for the rest of your life.

Vincent Sinclair (House of Wax '05)

Terrified of you leaving him. One night, Vincent wakes up to find you gone from the bed, nowhere to be found. He's frantic, and he practically tears Ambrose to the ground trying to find you. You're one of the only good things left in his life, and losing you would break him apart. He's sick with grief at the thought. He's angry that you would try to leave. But mostly, he's scared.

He finds you in the museum, staring at one of the 'sculptures' absentmindedly. He realizes pretty quickly, however, that you aren't in the right of mind when he tries to frantically sign at you and you don't respond. He slightly sighs in relief when he realizes that you aren't actually trying to leave, just sleepwalking. Still, there's a knot in his stomach as he gently carries you back to bed that won't go away.

Ties you to the floor at night. You wake up one morning to the familiar feeling of a cold chain around your ankle, and you realize you've been tied down to a metal cuff sticking out from the ground. You call for Vincent immediately, and he tries his best to calm you down and comfort you. You beg and beg to be let out, that you would never leave him and that you love him-! But in the end, no amount of pleading can convince him to unchain you. He just can't let you go, y/n. And if chaining you down in the basement is the only way he can keep you, well...

Tries to take you on "walks". It's humiliating. You want to scream at him after he signs to you his suggestion. You aren't a dog. You beg for him to let you free, just for an hour or so, but he won't budge (even though he really wants to). If you want to walk around Ambrose, he'll insist on you wearing your ankle chain, with him holding the other end. If you do end up agreeing to this, expect to be heavily humiliated by Bo, who laughs his ass off the first time he sees you and Vincent walking together, chain and all.

Stays up at night more often to watch you. He has nightmares about you leaving him. He can't sleep, not until he's for sure certain that you can't won't leave him during the night. He's so embarrassed to admit it, but he gets sick at the thought of you away from him. He adores you and if he lost you? He would probably kill himself. Maybe he'd take all of Ambrose with him. He doesn't want to think about it.

Adds padding to your ankle cuff. It ends up chaffing you in the night, so one day Vincent convinces Bo to go to the next town over and buy some ankle cuffing for you to wear so the chain doesn't bruise you anymore. He wanted to try to use wax as a padding first, but you didn't like the idea (for some reason).

Lester Sinclair (House of Wax '05)

Tries not to take it personally. He hopes knows you don't really want to leave him (anymore); yet one night when he finds you shambling down the road in a sleep-ridden trance, he can't help but feel a little...upset? Offended? He'll guide you back home but on the way he's thinking about how he can further drill into your subconscious that you need to be with him at all times. That means even in your sleep, y/n!

Lester puts furniture in front of the door. He smiles to himself as he builds a wall of chairs blocking the front door, effectively creating a barrier between you and the outside world. He thinks he's so smart. His heart breaks in half the next night when he hears the chairs tumbling down and your unconscious body pawing at the doorknob. He's also a little impressed that you managed to sleep through such commotion...!

He sleeps on top of you. It's a bit uncomfortable having a full grown man slumped over you every night, but it's the only thing he can think of after his previous attempts to keep you in bed. If you really have a problem with him sleeping on you, he'll (reluctantly) stop, but you'll still find an arm strewn across your body every night. He just really wants you to stay in bed, y/n.

Still ends up taking it personally. He doesn't say it out loud, but every time you're out in Ambrose, he gets nervous that you might just walk off into the forest, wanting freedom to leave him. And when you start sleepwalking more and more, it starts to confirms all his fears that you actually want to leave. He tries to ignore it, but really he gets a deep ache in his chest when he sees you up at night, absentmindedly swaying by the barricaded door. "You don't really wanna leave me, right darlin'?"

Asks every single visitor about sleepwalking tips. It's annoying to most, but he doesn't care (or doesn't notice). He needs to figure out a way to help you, so why not ask the future wax figures? Most of the visitors shrug off his questions or get too creeped out by his general person to give genuine answers, but ever so often he gets a legitimate tip that he's desperate to try on you the following night. Ever heard of sleep hypnosis, y/n?