( he's standing in front of a tombstone that, if he's honest, sends a thrum of fear through his body. up until now, he'd been rather blase about this whole death thing because he's been able to separate himself from the whole ordeal. he remembers the pain and the blood, the faces of his auntie and the voices swirling around.
but, he remembers little else. and now, here he is staring at the evidence of his mortality. it's jarring. he doesn't like it. he wants a drink. )
Ambrose Spellman 1929-2019 Loved and Missed.
( he reads the inscription a few times and tries to be force himself into something lighter, less dour. he doesn't want to seem too affected when the truth is that he's very, very affected. )
Couldn't write me a little more about me, eh? The etcher must have been paying by the letter. ( he sighs, shoulder slumping. try as he might, he can't avoid thinking about what happened.
he remembers it vividly still, about his aunt sneaking him in the pieces of build a skeleton key. auntie hilda, so much smarter than people gave her credit for. he remembers using it to throw open the doors to the cell and he remembers running. the sound of his feet slapping against the floor is loud in his ears.
he remembers making it to the front door of the academy of unseen arts and throwing open the doors. and there they were. witch hunters. witch hunters with the faces of angels and all ambrose could do was scream. warn everyone else despite the fact that he'd spent the last several days locked and tortured.
warn them and hope that they escaped. he'd tried to use magic, to fight but they were much more powerful than typical witch hunters and they'd taken him apart. there was so much blood. his prison jumpsuit was splattered with it and he remembers making it to the chapel and falling. he remembers his aunt again, trying to save him.
he remembers it being futile. dying, he recalls, had been so, so painful. the blood pouring from his body, lodged in his throat, and pouring out in dangerous amounts.
he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. )
▶ 02. NOT TODAY, SATAN.
( he doesn't stay at the sight of the graves for long. he's never really thought himself afraid of death but that doesn't mean he wants to witness something so personal and private multiple times over.
instead, he retreats to the inn, to the bar and props himself up there, making quick work of the drinks the bartender put in front of him.
he wasn't drunk, not yet, but he planned on getting there. what else was there for a dead man to do in a place like this? it was drinking or sex to forget and he hadn't yet figured out if the latter was even plausible in the afterlife. )
▶ 03. WILDCARD.
( i'm down for almost anything so throw it at me. feel free to hmu at spoonishly. )
ambrose spellman ( chilling adventures of sabrina ) ota
Well, that's quite the sight.
( he's standing in front of a tombstone that, if he's honest, sends a thrum of fear through his body. up until now, he'd been rather blase about this whole death thing because he's been able to separate himself from the whole ordeal. he remembers the pain and the blood, the faces of his auntie and the voices swirling around.
but, he remembers little else. and now, here he is staring at the evidence of his mortality. it's jarring. he doesn't like it. he wants a drink. )
Ambrose Spellman
1929-2019
Loved and Missed.
( he reads the inscription a few times and tries to be force himself into something lighter, less dour. he doesn't want to seem too affected when the truth is that he's very, very affected. )
Couldn't write me a little more about me, eh? The etcher must have been paying by the letter. ( he sighs, shoulder slumping. try as he might, he can't avoid thinking about what happened.
he remembers it vividly still, about his aunt sneaking him in the pieces of build a skeleton key. auntie hilda, so much smarter than people gave her credit for. he remembers using it to throw open the doors to the cell and he remembers running. the sound of his feet slapping against the floor is loud in his ears.
he remembers making it to the front door of the academy of unseen arts and throwing open the doors. and there they were. witch hunters. witch hunters with the faces of angels and all ambrose could do was scream. warn everyone else despite the fact that he'd spent the last several days locked and tortured.
warn them and hope that they escaped. he'd tried to use magic, to fight but they were much more powerful than typical witch hunters and they'd taken him apart. there was so much blood. his prison jumpsuit was splattered with it and he remembers making it to the chapel and falling. he remembers his aunt again, trying to save him.
he remembers it being futile. dying, he recalls, had been so, so painful. the blood pouring from his body, lodged in his throat, and pouring out in dangerous amounts.
he hadn't even been able to say goodbye. )
▶ 02. NOT TODAY, SATAN.
( he doesn't stay at the sight of the graves for long. he's never really thought himself afraid of death but that doesn't mean he wants to witness something so personal and private multiple times over.
instead, he retreats to the inn, to the bar and props himself up there, making quick work of the drinks the bartender put in front of him.
he wasn't drunk, not yet, but he planned on getting there. what else was there for a dead man to do in a place like this? it was drinking or sex to forget and he hadn't yet figured out if the latter was even plausible in the afterlife. )
▶ 03. WILDCARD.
( i'm down for almost anything so throw it at me. feel free to hmu at