howdy, friend. now what do you think about this idea for hurt/no comfort?
reader, a raven psychic, is in an established relationship with larissa. wondering about a bruise larissa has on her body, reader touches it and has a vision of larissa cheating on them with morticia, seeing the part where morticia leaves that "bruise" (perhaps a hickey) on larissa. bonus points if readers nose starts bleeding. mega bonus points if reader thought they were a normie, and this was their first vision.
love, kisses and hugs!
🐈⬛
Marked
Larissa Weems x Fem!Reader
A/N: “What do you think about this idea for hurt“ IMMEDIATELY YES. I left the ending fairly open, so you guys can imagine what happens next…Good or bad. I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your idea, thank you for the request!! <3
You don’t notice it first. What you notice is the way Larissa fills a room. How she makes the doorway into a stage and herself into the necessary scene. You notice the velvet of her voice when she says hello, the low snow-bright hush of Nevermore settling around the windows. You notice that you missed her in the ordinary ways, the ways that aren’t dramatic, the shape your day makes when it leans toward her.
Only when she shrugs off her coat does silk shift and a red bruise rises on her neck, small as a coin and just as undeniable.
You stop with the grocery bag halfway to the counter. Apples thunk and bump like clumsy hearts.
“What happened?” Your voice aims for light and lands a shade too careful.
“Door,” Larissa says quickly. “I walked into it.”
You smile because that is what the script asks. “The door won?”
“It was very persuasive.” She’s already coming to you, already soft and smiling and threaded with warmth you have trained your days around. She kisses the corner of your mouth, then your mouth, and the week empties out of you like you accidentally set it down.
But the bruise sits there, ripe and wrong, and every time you remember to not look at it your whole face tries to look anyway.
“Big day?” you ask against her shoulder. Perfume and silk and the small contained power of her.
“Endless. Budget, board, parents.” Her fingers find the back of your neck like kindness that’s memorized the route. “I thought about you when someone misquoted Shakespeare.”
“Which play?”
“All of them,” she says, and you laugh into her collar, but the bruise is a third presence. It waits.
In the bedroom the lamplight is generous and the curtains are a rumor of storm. Larissa starts on her buttons with that priestess efficiency you love her for. It has always felt like being let into something sacred, the ritual of it. You step in, reach for the last pearl because helping is how you say devotion. As you push the fabric from her shoulders, your thumb grazes the edge of red.
The world undoes its laces and spills.
No up, no down, just the sensation of being pulled through warm gold. The air tastes like a match right after it dies. A room resolves around you that is not the bedroom. You are not standing anywhere so much as existing inside the hinge of a moment that isn’t yours.
Larissa is there. Laughing, lit from the throat. The earrings you picked in Verona catching the light. Her head tips back because someone’s words are close enough to touch her.
Morticia Addams steps into the frame like she’s been summoned by the idea of a shadow. Tall. Dark. A practiced ease that looks like history preserved under glass. She leans in. Her mouth is red in the ritual sense of the word. She says something you don’t hear because you feel it instead, an ache under your breastbone. Larissa’s mouth parts on a small sound you haven’t heard from her, and Morticia’s lips close over the soft hollow at the base of Larissa’s throat. The press holds. The color rises. The bruise is made while you are there to witness the making.
Your body returns as if dropped. Knees on carpet. Hands catching ground. The lamp’s gold crashes back like an insult, and your face goes hot, then wet. Your nose is bleeding, fast, an alarming ribbon.
“Darling?” Larissa is on her knees, her command shortened into care. “Hey—look at me. Breathe.”
You look. Her hands are steady, her eyes are not. She tips your head, packs a tissue against your nose with a practiced, ridiculous gentleness, and you think: I touched the bruise and it opened a door.
You try not to say anything. For one long, dragging minute, you try to be the person you thought you were—sensible, ordinary, the kind of lover who would joke about doors and clumsiness and help tuck the blouse away. But the truth in your chest is an animal that will not be domesticated by kindness.
“I saw something,” you say, voice raw. “When I touched you.”
Larissa stills. Not theatrically, but in the tiny, decisive way a whole sea stills when the wind drops. “You fainted,” she says, and she is trying to be kind.
“I saw Morticia.” The name is fire in your mouth. You swallow anyway. “I saw her mouth. Here.” You point, shaky, to the place the bruise blooms. “I saw her leave that.”
The tissue goes redder in her hand. She doesn’t let go of your face. She doesn’t reach for a lie fast enough to save either of you.
“Larissa,” you say, and it’s almost a plea, and also a verdict.
Her lips part. A hundred versions of her—principal, survivor, queen—sort themselves behind her eyes and step aside for the one that can do this without shattering the furniture. “Yes,” she says, plain. “Morticia was here. This afternoon.”
The room narrows. Your blood is too loud. You nod because your body needs to do something that resembles an answer.
“She was here,” you echo, “and she—”
“She kissed me.” Larissa’s voice doesn’t beg. It doesn’t explain yet, either. It just says the thing. “I let her.”
Everything in you that can tear does.
You pull back, tissue limp in your hand. The lamp is suddenly too polite, the bed intrusive, your own name a poor fit. “I touched you and saw it,” you say, as if that’s the strangest part, and maybe it is. “I think—Larissa, I think I’m a raven.”
Something like awe, grief, and recognition passes over her, quick as an eclipse. “Of course you are,” she says softly, like she’s placing a crown you didn’t know you’d earned. “That explains so much.”
“Don’t.” Your laugh is brittle. “Don’t make it pretty.”
“I’m not.” She folds her hands together to keep from reaching. “You deserve truth, not dressing.”
“Then give it.”
A beat. Two. Larissa inhales like she’s stepping into an auditorium. “It was—foolish,” she says. “Selfish. She came to discuss alumni donations. We had wine. We talked about old things that know how to sound like safety. I felt… lonely on a crowded day. I wanted to be wanted without instructions. She is very good at asking for what she wants.”
“And you are very good at saying yes.” Your mouth tastes like iron and the word disappointment.
Her flinch is an elegant, controlled thing—blink and you miss it. “Sometimes,” she admits. “I am good at many things I wish I wasn’t.”
The blood has slowed. The throbbing hasn’t. You sit up, wipe your lip with the back of your hand, and the sheer ordinariness of the gesture scrapes something raw. “How long would you have let me believe a door did that?”
“I hadn’t decided.” She’s honest. It makes it worse and better. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted not to ruin the one uncomplicated thing I have ever allowed myself.”
“Uncomplicated?” You let out a sound you don’t recognize as yours. “You let Morticia mark you and came home to me.”
“I came home to you,” she says, and it lands messy and true.
You stand because sitting feels too defenseless. “I can’t—” You hold your hands out, helpless in the space between fury and grief. “I can’t unknow it. It’s in me. I touched you and it lives in my head now.”
Her gaze glances towards your hands—as if she can feel the echo too—and she nods, small, as if taking notes in a language she hasn’t used in years. “I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s nothing ornamental on it. “For doing it. For letting you find out like that. For all of the above.”
You want to wound her with words, and you also want to lay down on her chest and listen to her heart and give this a different ending. Both wants are true, both wants are terrible.
“Do you love her?” you ask, low. You don’t know which answer would be worse.
“No.” No hesitation. “Not like I love you.” She steps once closer and stops, as if the carpet has a line painted on it. “But I love what she reminds me of. A girl who wasn’t always careful. A woman who believed wanting made her invulnerable.”
“And me?” Your own voice breaks into the question. “What do I remind you of?”
“Home.” The word lands so softly you almost miss the damage it does. “You remind me that I survived. That I don’t have to audition in my own life.”
You close your eyes because tears would be too much. The bruise lives behind your lids anyway. When you open them, your hands are steadier, which feels like betrayal to your hurt. “So what now? Do I pretend a door did it? Do I nod at parents meetings when she walks by and I know what her mouth did?”
“No.” Larissa’s answer is savage with certainty. “You owe nobody that.”
“Avoid her. Build a moat.” It comes out meaner than you mean.
“If a moat would save us, I’d build it in a night.” Her mouth twists. “But she’s the mother of a student. Soon two. A ghost with a seat at the table.”
“So am I.” You aim a small, rueful smile at the floor.
Larissa almost smiles back, then doesn’t, because today does not believe in mercy. “Tell me what you need,” she says instead, and there is a softness in the command that undoes you more efficiently than shouting could.
You let silence push against both of you until it hurts. You try out a dozen answers in your head and watch each one fail. Finally: “I need you to be done with her.”
Larissa exhales through her nose like she’s swallowing glass. “I can promise to not see her privately again,” she says, and the qualifiers in the sentence clings hard enough to bruise. “I can move meetings, insist on public spaces, refuse wine. I can make it so there’s no room for… this.”
“It already happened.” Your voice is small and, somehow, colder. “It will keep having happened.”
She closes her eyes. When she opens them, the blue is steady. “Then let me spend the rest of my days making sure it is the worst thing I do to you.”
You hate that your heart lurches towards that vow like a dog towards a familiar whistle. “I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said, and the most insufficient. “Not yet.”
“I will not ask you to hurry.” She lifts her hands and—slowly, like a tide negotiating with rocks—sets them back down at her sides. “I won’t touch you unless you ask. I won’t explain myself into your mercy. If you want me gone, I will go. If you want me to sleep on the sofa, I will fold myself obediently into repentance.”
The tenderness in her choosing obedience for you is so naked it makes anger feel like cruelty. You look at the bed, the lamp, the bruise. “I want the truth,” you say, hoarse. “All of it. No theatre. No editing for my comfort. If we try to patch the hole with pretty, it’ll just sink slower.”
“Truth,” she repeats, as if swearing in a church you built together. “You have it.”
“And I don’t know what we will be tomorrow.”
Something cracks at the edges of her composure. Not much. Enough that you see the woman under the principal. “We’ll be whatever you can bear,” she whispers. “If that is strangers, I will learn your face again from across a hallway. If that is… not yet, I will be not yet until my bones ache with it.”
Your nose twinges like a memory. You wipe it, your fingers come away clean. The bleeding stopped. The hurt didn’t.
“Okay,” you say finally, and it is not forgiveness, not even a reprieve. It is a boundary at the edge of a cliff. “One week. No Morticia. No wine. No pretending. We talk or we’re silent, but we don’t lie. I… need to see if I can breathe in here.”
Larissa nods once, again, as if counting off measures. “One week,” she says. “I’ll rearrange the earth if that buys us another day.”
“Don’t,” you say quickly, because you know her. “Don’t perform miracles at me. Just—be simple.”
She huffs a laugh that isn’t a laugh. “I don’t know if I remember how.”
“Learn,” you say, and it’s almost gentle.
She looks at you like a vow she plans to keep even if it kills her. “I will.”
You should leave. Or stay. You put the groceries away because it feels like something a person does when the ground gives under their feet—find a small surface and make order. Larissa stands at the counter with quiet hands, not touching, not instructing, not filling the silence with anything you didn’t invite. Every once in a while you feel her looking at you and it is a relief and a wound.
When you head for the door, she doesn’t follow. She has learned enough in one evening to let you be the one who moves or doesn’t. You stop. Your hand on the knob. The suite smells like tea, dust, and the first snow. The red coin on her neck is blazing.
You turn back. “I keep seeing it,” you admit, barely audible. “The room. The light. Her. You.”
“I know.” Larissa’s voice is soft enough you almost don’t hear it. “Then let me change the end, at least. Tonight, I am alone in this room. Tomorrow, I am alone. And the day after, and the day after, until the picture in your head grows bored and leaves.”
“That’s not how memories work,” you say.
“I’m stubborn,” she says, and something like a smile ghosts her mouth. “I might win.”
You shake your head. The ache doesn’t lighten, but it becomes bearable enough to walk with. “I’ll text,” you manage. “About… breakfast. Or not.”
“I’ll be here.” She stands straighter, as if bracing for weather. “Whatever you decide.”
You open the door and the corridor’s cold takes a small bite out of your cheek. You step through before you can change your mind. A minute later, you’re halfway down the hall and your face breaks without witnesses. You hold the banister, breathing like you’re learning a new set of lungs.
Somewhere outside, a raven drags a cry across the winter evening—complaint, omen, song. You don’t know which. Maybe all three. You whisper to the bird or to yourself, you can’t tell which: “I hear you.”
Behind you, in her lamplight, Larissa stands still and does not chase. It hurts in a way that feels like love trying hard enough to resemble penance.
One week, you think, and the thought is equal parts promise and threat.
sypnosis : opposing views on love collided, and neither side remained unscathed.
content : angst. no happy ending!
word count : 2,290
author’s words : so! this took longer than i expected… i hope u guys are doing well and living life happily <3
Diametrical concepts and notions arise over romance. Romance is a fleeting desire. Universally known yet universally perceived differently. To some, it’s an effortless magnetic pull. To others, it’s a catastrophe to evade. Feeling is one thing. Pursuing is another. If two individuals who are smitten with each other have opposing views on love—one pursues, the other flees—what would ever come of it?
Wooden boards creaked beneath your feet, adding to your nervousness. Regardless of your hesitance to break the silence between you and Lila first, you found yourself stepping onto her front porch. With sweaty palms, you raised your hand to knock on the door but paused with hesitance. The absence of gentle candlelight through the sheer curtains puzzled you.
"Strange," you thought.
Summoning ungraspable courage, you softly knocked on the door.
One.
Two.
Three.
You held your breath, half-expecting languid footsteps to shift behind the front door.
No sound came.
You sighed. It was within your foresight that this could happen.
"Lilia..." you trailed, testing the name you haven't said in weeks. "Um, it's me, Y/N."
You strained your ear to give the dense air a listen.
Nothing.
"Look, I know that it's awkward right now, and..." Your breath caught. "I don't blame you. But can we talk? Please?"
Listening harder to catch a hint of her presence, you pressed your body closer to the door, and it flew open, taking you with it. You tried to regain your footing by instinctively reaching for a wall, but by then, your loss of balance was the least of your concerns. The warmth of lit candles didn’t creep into your skin, nor did the aroma of baked goods hit your nose. Your heart fell first before your mind could catch up. Lifting your head to look around Lilia’s place, you found yourself to be greeted by darkness.
Cold, unnerving darkness.
Quickly flipping the light switch on with great familiarity, your eyes roamed to the living room in search of Lilia—frantically. Portraits she had hung up were stripped bare from the walls. Candles were a sea of snaste. Trinkets she had displayed were missing.
And for a moment, you wished you hadn't gone inside.
Your legs moved before your mind could object. You caught sight of the various changes in her house. What was once so lively and colorful was reduced to remnants of her touch: the kitchen no longer had her favorite teas shelved alphabetically. The dining room table was no longer dressed in a florid tablecloth. And the closer you approached her bedroom door, the more a sinking feeling gnawed at you. As if by instinct, you already knew what you would see. Even if you didn’t realize it.
You hesitantly pushed open the door, scanning the room. The mattress was exposed. The closet doors were fully opened to reveal few clothes inside it. The vanity had perfume bottles flipped to its side, almost to signify a hurried rifling.
A slow, heavyweight emotion tugged at your heart before it translated to the pit in your stomach. Then, your eyes landed on the picture frame on her bedside table. A picture where you both had your noses crinkled in laughter with frosting on both of your noses. The presence of it should have been comforting, but it wasn't. For it meant only one thing: she had left it behind.
Among the sea of treasures she loved oh-so-much, she had left it behind.
“What are you doing?” a groggy voice spoke from behind you.
You whipped your head in her direction, having just taken out a baked cake from the oven. Your eyes widened, immediately checking the clock hanging on the wall, which read 4:51 AM.
“Lilia!” you said, sounding upset, “You’re supposed to be sound asleep!”
She let out a small laugh, finding amusement in your blatant frustration. She started coming closer, lazily dragging her feet across the tiled floor before you held your hand up in defiance. She raised an eyebrow, and you furrowed yours.
“It’s your birthday! You shan’t pass,” you said, taking on a faux-authoritative tone.
Wearing a dopey smile, the kind that never failed to make your heart flutter, she stepped closer—an act of defiance. You pulled the baking pan to the far edge of the counter to tell Lilia you weren’t interested in her help—a gesture she didn’t miss.
“Oh, darling, must I remind you that you’re in my house using my kitchen?” Her tone was patronizing, and you squinted your eyes to come up with a comeback but failed to think of any, leaving your mouth hanging open. You huffed out in frustration, and she laughed in amusement.
“Stop laughing!”
The last of her laughter died down, and a smile replaced it. Though her hair was still untamed, having just woken up, you couldn’t help but admire just how… pretty she looked. For a moment, you stood there simply admiring her while she gazed at the freshly baked cake.
“Well, now the silence is a bit much,” you said awkwardly.
“It’s sweet.”
“What’s sweet?”
“This.”
Her eyes took in the sight of her kitchen. What was once an organized haven was reduced to a chaotic mess. Cupboards and cabinets were flung wide open, dishes were piled up in the sink with signs of multiple failed batches of batter, and your apron—her apron, rather—was covered in streaks of icing. Her eyes trailed to the bowl of vibrant yellow icing standing between the two of you.
“Hey, hey, stop looking at the mess,” you warned, knowing how uptight she becomes with disorganization.
"Mmm..." she hummed, taking in the scene in front of her. You could make out the slight twitch of her eyebrows, as if estimating the amount of work needed to clean up the mess, but at the same time, a hint of fondness sparked underneath her pressing gaze.
The thumping of your ever-so-active heart added to your growing nervousness. You tried to still it, afraid she could hear the relentless beats amid the silence.
And so you spoke.
"You should go back to sleep. The birthday girl has to reap the benefits of a surprise, okay?" you joked, comically puffing your chest with pride.
She couldn't help but laugh.
"I'm afraid to tell you that it isn't much of a surprise anymore, baby," she teased.
"Pretend for the bit."
"What bit?" she asked, confused.
"This bit!" You quickly dipped your finger in the yellow frosting and smeared some on her nose, catching her off guard. You had to stifle your giggles; the sight of Lilia having a yellow-dotted nose with her mouth hanging wide open too amusing for you to handle. She stood there shocked for a second before regaining her composure.
"Oh, you...!"
You immediately dashed to the other side of the counter as Lilia dipped her finger into the frosting, a look of vengeance crossing her face.
"Lilia, don't!" you warned, though you were laughing.
"Oh, I will."
"Don't!" She circles over to your side of the counter as you dash to where you both were standing before. "Lilia, I'm telling you, don't!"
"Oh, c'mon, baby."
Both of you were at a standstill for a moment, as if waiting for the other to move. Suddenly, a light bulb goes on in her head—an innocent smile crossing her face. Too innocent that it could be deemed wicked. And suddenly, you felt a soft and subtle hold on your foot. You whipped your head to check what it was, but you could only make out a faint glow—color yellow.
You immediately looked at Lilia, who was making her way towards you, taking her sweet ol' time making that turn around the kitchen counter.
"Lilia, you crazy, crazy woman," you muttered. "This is unfair!" You tried to peel your foot off the floor, trying your best to defy the force of magic, but to no avail.
And she, finally, stood before you. With her icing-covered finger.
"Most things in life are unfair, baby." Slight pause, leaning forward just a tiny bit. In this angle, you can clearly see her icing-covered nose, and your initial faux annoyance was replaced by stifled giggles. "But I know when it comes to me, you love it."
Your heartbeat quickened.
"I love many things. Like, say, oatmeal, cake, chocolate. Sugar, mostly,” you said, pointing at your fingers to sell the funny act.
"Then I'm sure you'll love this."
Smudge.
Well, you've been icing'd.
The magic restraint on your foot dissipated, and you both just stood there silently staring into each other's eyes—looks of admiration meeting each other.
“Well, it’s time to actually put icing on the cake, don’t you think?” Lilia teased.
You bit back a laugh, which translated to a scoff, knowing your nose now has icing on it. “Yeah, yeah, sure, Lils. Whatever makes the birthday girl happy.”
And for the rest of the day, you both tried to cover the cake in icing. Though it wasn’t done without a share of clumsiness, you both managed. And when you were finally done, with noses crinkled in laughter, you snapped a photo to preserve the memory at Lilia’s insistence.
You had thought it could only ever be better from there.
How wrong you were.
A few months had passed after Lilia’s birthday, and you both delicately balanced between the shifts of platonic affections to that of something more. It was a dance you both didn’t quite understand. But it felt right—to an extent.
Though no one mentioned a word and though no one seemed to notice, everyone felt the difference. The touches lingering for far too long, the sweetened chuckles of inside jokes, and the constant handholding. And though you both felt it was right, one of you made the mistake of directly pursuing the other. To pursue love.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Come in,” a gentle voice spoke from the other side.
You gently opened the door, and you were immediately greeted by the deep aroma of florals emanating from the lit candles. Lilia was lazily flipping through pages of a book while being comfortably seated on her bed. Smiling, you approached her bedside, catching sight of the framed birthday photo.
“What brings you here, baby?” she asked, yawning midway.
“Just wanted to see you.” You smiled.
“Oh, isn’t that right?” she cheekily replied, glancing up at you.
“Affirmative.” You winked, laughing.
Silence fell between the both of you. The occasional page-flipping of hers filled the air while you traced the edges of her bedside table. And during this comfortable silence, you tried to find the courage to ask.
“Say, Lilia?”
“Hm?” she replied, still reading the book.
“Do you want to go out on Valentine’s Day together?”
Lilia’s fingers stiffened, pausing in the beat. Her face froze and her eyes widened. You bit your lip in nervousness. Your heart kept beating and beating and beating, and you wished nothing more than for it to calm down. She suddenly let out a laugh to ease the tension, but you sensed nervousness beneath it. And you couldn’t quite tell whether it be a good or bad thing.
“Careful, baby.” Again with that teasing tone of hers. “It sure sounds a lot like you’re asking me out.”
“What if I am?”
This time, her whole body tensed. Color left her face, and you knew you had said something wrong. You wanted to reach out to her, but you didn’t quite know if that felt right.
Heavy, immediate silence followed. But this time, it didn’t feel comfortable. It felt like the opposite. And you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.
Lilia took a deep breath then spoke firmly. “Please leave.”
“Huh?” you said rather clumsily.
“Leave.”
“What?” Your body grew cold. “Surely you don’t—“
“Don’t speak for me, Y/N.” She glared your way, her fingers digging into her book. “Leave.”
Your hands reached out but only midway, afraid any sort of contact would anger Lilia. “I’m sorry, Lilia, I really am. I just—“
“Must I repeat myself?” Her voice cracked, and tears welled in her eyes.
And that made your heart fall. Because underneath her tense and avoidant behavior, you noticed fear written on her face. When she noticed hurt coloring your face, her hand instinctively reached out but stopped midway and looked to her side, biting her lip.
Your mind blanked out.
You shouldn't have said anything.
But how else to reach the human heart if not through words?
With color drained from your face, you found yourself walking out, going wherever your feet decided to take you. Time passed, and you figured you should wait until Lilia reaches out first. But a few days had turned to weeks.
And you found yourself seated atop what was once her bed.
You let out a hic. Only then did you realize that you had been crying. Streams of tears slid down your cheeks, and your shoulders moved upward involuntarily when you gasped for air. The shadow of Lilia echoed in this house. Memories resurfaced wherever you looked. Countless nights spent in this very place, exchanging jokes and laughs, and finding solace in each other. You let out a dry laugh, recalling once warm memories.
You reached for the framed photo, delicately tracing the corners. You looked at the happy photo once more—yellow icing on both noses, noses crinkled in laughter, and a cake that had seen better days. She had once treasured it so. But she left it. Just like that. And maybe it was just as easy to leave you behind. Because for Lilia, the crime of falling in love was a far graver crime than it was to simply flee from it. So maybe, for now, you’ll sit here waiting—waiting for when the grip of love completely drowns you out cold.
p.s. : please remember to sleep at least 8 hours a day! and drink 8 glasses of water a day! it’s the 88 rule!
About the recent Patti Lupone New Yorker (unnecessary in my opinion) controversy...
I need to go on social media without the fear of stumbling into another offensive post about how Patti is racist and how she deserves to die (yes I saw that too) or other things. Thank you.
We can all put this business to rest. She has apologised and taken accountability for her words and understood that things need to change. This is growth and this is why we love her and respect her.
This whole Patti LuPone situation has gotten way out of hand. Yes, calling Kecia Lewis a “bitch” was rude, no one’s denying that. But that’s how Patti has always spoken. She’s blunt and doesn’t hold back. She’s said similar things about people of all races, genders, and backgrounds. It wasn’t about race. She just doesn’t like certain people and says so, for better or worse. That doesn’t excuse her tone but it does make it clear this wasn’t some calculated, racial attack.
She was wrong about Kecia’s career, no question. Kecia is a veteran. But arguing over that shouldn’t be treated like some huge, unforgivable offense. It was a petty comment, not an act of deep harm.
The open letter that followed feels overblown. Comparing Patti’s outburst to the behavior of people like Scott Rudin, who was accused of long term abusive behavior is a huge leap. There’s a difference between being harsh or even offensive and being genuinely harmful or dangerous. If we treat those things the same we blur the line between rudeness and abuse and that’s not helpful for anyone.
Patti is 76. She’s had a long, bold, complicated career, and she’s always said exactly what she thinks. unapologetically. That’s why some people admire her and others can’t stand her. She’s not going to suddenly start playing nice now. Expecting her to change into a model of diplomacy at this point is just unrealistic. You don’t have to agree with her but turning this into a full blown scandal with people calling for her to be banned from the Tonys and public events feels like we’re missing the forest for the trees.
We can support Kecia and Audra and also say this situation didn’t need to become a moral panic. The real issues in theater (inequality, underrepresentation, abuse of power) deserve serious attention but turning every offhand comment into a cancellation campaign doesn’t help anyone. If anything it distracts from the bigger picture.
Summary: She said it was love when she asked you to move in. You didn’t notice the walls closing in until they felt like home. Now there’s another girl wearing your old fear—and you, draped in silk and power, wouldn’t have it any other
Warnings: Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Moral Corruption, Being Controlled But You Like It, Suicide (not reader), kidnapping
AO3
AN: This did a complete 180 from what I expected it to be, Oopsies. Enjoy Xx (Requested by: @luvpone)
The eggs are already plated when you wake.
Soft-scrambled, just the way Mona likes them—creamy, a hint of chive, barely touched by heat. The toast is dry, cut diagonally. The grapefruit has been halved, segmented, dusted with sugar.
You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, like you’re afraid to shift the balance of the morning. The sheets are still warm beside you, though she’s long gone. You smell her perfume before you see the tray. Sharp. Floral. Unmistakably hers.
A folded note rests beside your water glass.
Remember your pills. Wear the blue sweater today. I’ll be home at six. Don’t make me come looking.
– M
You stare at the handwriting for a long moment. Neat. Severe. Looped just slightly at the tail ends, like she wants to seem softer than she is.
You do exactly as she says. Not because you’re hungry, but because she’ll ask. And if she finds the plate cold and untouched when she gets home—no. Better not to find out.
You chew mechanically, gaze drifting across the apartment. Her apartment. All clean lines and pale marble, glass so spotless it reflects the sky, not the city. Everything in its place. Just like you.
There’s a faint hum of music playing through the built-in speakers—one of her old jazz records. Mona likes music in the mornings. She says silence makes you brood.
Your phone buzzes once. Then again. You already know who it is.
Have you eaten? Send me a photo.
You don’t hesitate. You snap a picture of the empty plate and send it without comment. The read receipt pops up within seconds.
Good girl. Now the sweater.
You rise, dutiful, and make your way to the closet. Not yours—hers. Everything you own now fits into a curated space of her choosing. The blue sweater is already laid out on the ottoman. You didn’t put it there.
It still smells like her. You slip the sweater on. It’s soft, expensive. Cashmere, probably. Mona doesn’t buy anything that isn’t the best.
It still fits perfectly, even though you’re sure you’ve lost weight. She says that’s good. Says it makes you look “kept.” Like you’re being taken care of.
You sit on the edge of the bed, sweater clutched around yourself like armor, and let your thoughts drift—just for a moment—back to before.
Back to the beginning.
Mona had been kind, then. Overwhelming, yes—she swept into your life like a storm with perfect posture—but kind. She asked questions no one else thought to ask. Remembered the name of your cat, your mother, your favorite wine. She touched your arm when you were nervous and said things like: “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”
And you believed her.
When she offered her guest suite, just for a while, just until things “settled”, you didn’t think twice. You were out of work. The lease was ending. She looked at you like she couldn’t bear the thought of you struggling.
You told yourself it was temporary. She told you, gently: “I want you safe. That’s all. Let me give you that.”
You never even noticed the moment your keys stopped working. Or when she started answering your phone. Or when your old clothes vanished, replaced with carefully chosen alternatives. Mona said they “didn’t suit you.” She said this with a smile, holding a silk blouse to your chest like a gift.
And maybe it was. Maybe that’s what’s so confusing.
She loves you. She tells you so every day. She holds your face in both hands like it’s precious. She kisses your temple when you’re quiet too long and murmurs things like: “You’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you?”
The worst part is—she might be right.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The lock clicks at exactly 5:58 PM. She never rings. Never knocks. This is her home. Her space. Her rules.
You’re already sitting on the couch, sweater smoothed over your lap, a book open but unread in your hands. You’ve been in that position for twenty minutes, heart fluttering with anticipation you’d never call fear.
She walks in without hesitation. A black coat draped over her shoulders. Lips painted like blood and wine. Hair perfectly set, not a strand out of place.
Mona Wassermann doesn’t rush. She arrives. “Darling.” Her voice is warm, velvet-thick. “You wore the sweater.” You nod, managing a smile. “You said to.”
She hums, low and pleased, and crosses the room in heels that echo like punctuation. “You listen so well,” she murmurs, and cups your jaw in one hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, her touch feather-light. “That’s what I love about you. You know how to be cared for.”
You swallow. “I made tea.”
“I’m not thirsty,” she says, still smiling, still touching. “But I’ll sit with you.” She takes the book from your lap and sets it aside—delicately, like it’s fragile. Like you’re fragile. Then she sits beside you and pulls you into her side, your body folding against hers out of habit more than choice.
Her arm curls around your shoulders. Her lips brush your temple. “There,” she whispers. “Isn’t that better?”
You nod again. Because it is. It’s easier than questioning. Safer than pushing back. And besides, Mona’s warmth is real. Her grip, firm but comforting. Her attention, intoxicating.
If this is what love looks like, you think, maybe you can learn to want it this way. You close your eyes and let her hold you. And you don’t ask why the door locks behind her with a soft mechanical click.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You don’t notice when you stop checking the time.
Mona keeps the clocks set fast by exactly six minutes, she says it keeps you sharp, but you don’t need them. You know her rhythms better than your own now. You wake when she tells you. Eat when she expects you to. Breathe easier when she walks through the door.
You used to wonder if this was normal. If it was healthy. Now you just want to make her proud.
She’s sitting at the dining table with her glasses perched low on her nose, reading something dense and contractual. You curl up beside her on the floor, rest your head against her hip. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.
Her hand slips into your hair like it belongs there. “I could get used to this,” she says absently, still reading. You tilt your head up. “To what?”
“This. You. Obedient. Quiet. Sweet.” You beam like it’s praise. Because it is. “I just want to make you happy,” you say. She sets her papers down and looks at you fully, her expression unreadable.
“You do,” she says. Then softer, almost to herself, “You really do.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
She still tells you you’re beautiful, but now it’s in the same tone she uses when approving a purchase order—decisive, possessive. Her hands roam absently when she walks past you: a hand at your waist, a gentle grip at your nape, a brush down your spine that makes you shiver in ways you pretend not to understand.
And when she kisses you, it’s with a kind of ownership that leaves no room for doubt.
One night, you whisper to her in the dark, just as sleep starts to take you both: “I love you.” You feel her go still behind you, just for a second.
Then her hand curls around your middle, pulling you closer. Her mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I love you too.”You smile, eyes fluttering closed.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You meet for coffee because Mona said you could.
She picked the café. Chose your outfit. Had the driver wait half a block away. “Let her feel free,” she’d said with a smirk, lips brushing your cheek. “It’ll make her easier to ignore.” You’d laughed. She kissed you again.
Now you sit at a small table by the window, sweater sleeves neatly pushed to your wrists, hands folded in your lap the way Mona likes. You’re early, of course. You always are.
When your friend arrives, she looks different. Or maybe you do. She hugs you too tightly, too long. She smells like a life you used to have—street food and secondhand bookstores, not rose oil and Mona’s Chanel.
“You look…” She hesitates. “Good.” You smile. “She takes care of me.”
“Yeah,” your friend says, pulling off her coat. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” It starts softly. Little questions. How have you been? Are you still painting? Do you see anyone else? Do you ever go anywhere alone?
You answer like you’ve been coached—because you have. “She just wants what’s best for me,” you say. “She’s protective.”
“Protective,” your friend echoes. “Or controlling?” You blink. “What’s the difference?” She stares at you. Her expression shifts—fear, maybe. Or pity. You hate it.
“She’s cut you off from everyone,” she says quietly. “You used to call me when you couldn’t sleep. You used to laugh more. You used to talk about leaving.” You stiffen. “I don’t want to leave.”
“She doesn’t love you,” your friend says, voice flat. “She owns you.” You flinch like she slapped you. “No,” you say. “No, she does. You don’t understand her.”
“I understand you,” she says, leaning forward. “And I know when you’re not okay.”
You push back your chair, carefully. Not angrily—Mona taught you better than that. You gather your coat, your phone, your bag. Everything Mona picked out for you.
“I’m fine,” you say, voice even. “I love her. And she loves me.” She grabs your wrist. “She’s conditioning you.” You yank free.
“She saved me,” you say, quieter now. “When no one else did. I’m not going to apologize for being loved.”
Your phone buzzes. A single text: Time’s up. Car is waiting. You don’t look back. You leave with your head high, pride stiff in your spine.
That night, you curl against Mona in bed. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. “She’s worried about you,” she murmurs.
You nod against her chest. “She doesn’t know what we have.” Mona hums. “No,” she agrees, stroking your back. “She doesn’t.” She holds you closer. You don’t see the way her eyes stay open long after yours have closed.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The friend doesn’t stop.
She starts texting. Calling. Leaving voicemails that pile up unheard in your phone’s hidden folder—Mona showed you how to mute her without blocking. “Cruelty,” she’d said, “is giving them hope.”
At first, you ignore it. Then, you listen. She sounds tired. Worried. Pleading.
This isn’t you. You used to fight. You used to have your own mind. I’m not going away.
You play the last message twice. It ends with silence, then a quiet, broken whisper: Please come back. You delete it.
Later, you tell Mona. She’s in her study, barefoot, swirling a glass of red wine. You sit on the arm of her chair, your hand resting gently on her shoulder. “She won’t stop.” Mona doesn’t look up from her book. “Then block her.”
“She was my friend.” Mona hums. “And I’m your future.” You hesitate. Then: “She said I’m not myself anymore.” That gets her attention. She closes the book. Turns to face you fully.
“And what self would you rather be, hm?” Her voice is soft, slow. Seductive in its certainty. “The one who cried herself to sleep in an empty apartment? The one who begged for scraps of affection from people who couldn’t give a damn?”
You’re quiet. She leans closer, brushing her lips over your jaw. “Or this version? The one who’s loved. Protected. Chosen.” You nod. But something cold settles in your chest anyway. It starts to show.
At lunch with Mona’s acquaintances—never your friends—you speak less. But when you do, it’s with precision. You echo Mona’s cadence, her sharpness, her subtle threats wrapped in silk.
Someone makes a joke at your expense. You smile, cool and unbothered, and say: “Careful. Mona doesn’t like people touching her things.”
Their laugh falters. You finish your drink. Mona beams.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
You dream about locking the doors behind her. You dream about telling someone they’re not allowed to leave. You wake with a sick flush of guilt—and something else. Something hotter. Thicker.
You bury your face in Mona’s shoulder. She strokes your hair and doesn’t ask what the dream was. She knows.
Your friend corners you outside the florist’s. You don’t know how she found you. “You’re scaring me,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like her.”
You look at her—really look—and realize she’s smaller than you remember. Not physically. Just… less. You tilt your head. “She’s not hurting me,” you say calmly. “She’s making me better.”
“She’s changing you.” You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says it all.
That night, Mona kisses your neck and murmurs, “My sweet girl. You’re learning.” And you are. You just don’t know if you’re becoming what she wants—or something even she should be afraid of.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
The friend comes back. She looks worse now—drawn, desperate, tired of begging but still clinging to the idea that somewhere beneath all this, you’re still you.
You open the door without hesitation. “Come in,” you say smoothly. She hesitates, but steps over the threshold. The lock clicks behind her.
You lead her to the sitting room, where the lights are low and the air smells faintly of Mona’s perfume, amber, spice, smoke.
She doesn’t sit. “I just want to talk.” You nod. “We will. But not yet.” You cross the room and pour a glass of wine, watching her in the reflection of the cabinet mirror. She’s uneasy already. Good.
You hand her the glass. She doesn’t take it.
“Mona will be home soon,” you say softly, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. “You should stay. Since you want me so badly.” Her brow furrows. “What?”
“You keep saying you want the real me back.” You smile, all teeth. “She’ll want to see that.” She takes a step back. “This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, I’m not joking.” You move closer. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present. “You chased me down. You barged into my life. You said you weren’t leaving until I came back.”
You lower your voice. “So stay.” You motion toward the couch. She doesn’t move. You don’t force her. You just watch. “Let’s see what Mona thinks of your loyalty.”
When Mona arrives, the energy in the room shifts instantly. She closes the door, tosses her keys on the side table, and pauses when she sees the two of you.
Her eyes land on your friend. Then flick to you with a slow, dangerous smile. You stand and walk to her, all grace and control, and press a kiss to her cheek.
“She wants to save me,” you murmur, just loud enough for your friend to hear. “Tried again.” Mona’s eye glint. “How sweet.”
“She’s staying,” you add. “For now. Since she misses me so much.” Mona looks at your friend like one might look at something pitiful on the street.
“How generous,” she says, curling an arm around your waist. You lean into her easily, effortlessly. Your voice is silk. “She doesn’t understand yet. But she will.” Mona kisses your temple. “She won’t like what she sees.”
“She never does,” you reply. “But that’s not our problem, is it?” Your friend stands frozen, uncertain if she’s still here to help—or if she’s already become part of the performance.
You smile, slow and cruel. “Don’t worry,” you say gently. “You wanted to see the real me.” You lace your fingers with Mona’s, lift them to your lips. “Well. Here I am.”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
She stayed. Not by choice. But she stayed.
It was supposed to be a confrontation. A rescue. But one look at Mona, one long, bone-deep silence between the two of you, and your friend lost her footing. You saw it in her eyes—the moment her resolve cracked.
Now she sleeps in the servant’s room. You didn’t even know the house had one. Mona called it “practical.” She doesn’t call her by name anymore. Just “the girl.”
“She’s useful,” Mona says with a wave of her hand. “Good hands. Quiet. Mostly.” You don’t ask her to leave. You don’t apologize.
Instead, you hand her empty teacups. You set your shoes by the door and let her clean them. You watch her as she dusts the shelves you used to daydream beside, and you feel…
Nothing. No guilt. No ache. Only power.
Mona sees it in you. The way your shoulders don’t hunch anymore. The way you speak with weight. The way you look at her like you’ve finally earned her.
And when she fastens your necklace in the mirror, she speaks low against your ear: “I’m proud of you.” Your eyes flutter shut. You lean into her touch. You’re warm all over.
She still tells you when to sleep. What to wear. Where to sit. And you let her. You want to. Because every time she buttons your collar closed or brushes her thumb over your lip to wipe away a crumb, your body reacts before your mind does.
Heat. Obedience. Desire. You used to wonder if it was wrong. Now you just want more.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
One evening, you catch your reflection as you pass the mirror in the foyer. You pause. Step closer. Study yourself. The posture. The lipstick. The velvet around your throat.
You turn, slowly, admiring. Behind you, the girl—your friend—sets a tray on the table. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t meet your eyes.
You watch her in the mirror, then shift your gaze back to yourself. “Mona,” you say casually as she enters the room, “do you think she’s in love with me?”
Mona raises an eyebrow. “She’s afraid of yoi.” You smile. “Same thing.”
Mona laughs, low and delighted, and crosses to you. She kisses you slowly, possessively, not caring that the girl can see.
And you melt into her, fingertips grazing the curve of her waist. Because fear isn’t love. But it keeps people close. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It’s raining the day the girl tries to leave.
You find her in the foyer with her old coat and a canvas bag that still smells like the life she used to have. She’s trembling, soaked from the open door. Eyes darting, frantic.
She doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like she’s begging without words. You don’t say anything either. You just close the door. Quietly. Then you call for Mona.
The aftermath is silent. No shouting. No threats. Just the door locking. The coat taken. The bag burned.
Later, Mona wraps an arm around your waist as you sip wine by the fireplace. The girl kneels at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap.
“You handled that well,” Mona murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I knew you would.” You smile. You should feel triumphant. But what you feel is settled. Like the final piece of something has clicked into place.
That night, you lie in bed with Mona’s hand at your throat and her breath in your ear, and it hits you: You’re not afraid anymore. Not of her. Not of what you’ve become. Not even of what you’re capable of.
You want her power. You want to share it. And you know now—you were never her victim. You were her creation.
The rain has stopped. There’s a stillness in the house that’s almost sacred. No birds, no wind—just the faint hum of quiet obedience in every room.
You pad barefoot into the kitchen the next morning, Mona’s silk robe wrapped around you like armor. It still smells like her—amber, smoke, power. You don’t bother tying it.
The girl is already there.
Kneeling by the oven, scrubbing the tile. Her movements are too fast, too frantic, like if she works hard enough she might disappear.
You stand in the doorway for a moment and just watch her. The tremble in her spine. The quick glance over her shoulder. The way she immediately ducks her head again.
You love it. Not in the way you used to love. Not the soft, giving kind. This is something deeper. Sharper. Almost holy.
You walk to the counter and sit. She stiffens when she hears the stool scrape the floor. You let the silence stretch. Then: “Coffee.” Your voice is low. Even. Calm. But it cuts through her like a blade.
She stumbles to her feet and obeys. Hands shaking. You don’t help. You don’t thank her. You just watch.
When she sets the cup in front of you, you reach out—slowly, deliberately—and take her wrist. She freezes. You don’t squeeze. You don’t threaten. You just hold her there. Make her look at you.
And when she does—when her eyes meet yours, wide and frightened, pleading—you smile. “I could’ve been you,” you say softly. “You know that, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You release her. Take a sip. It’s perfect. Behind you, you hear the soft click of Mona’s heels approaching.
She enters without a word and leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. You meet her eyes. She’s beaming.
There’s something almost tender in the way she looks at you now. Something reverent. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’ve found your footing.”
You glance back at the girl, who has quietly returned to her corner. Head down. Knees bruised. “Fear,” you say, swirling your coffee, “is a kind of worship.”
Mona crosses the room and kisses your forehead. “I knew you’d understand,” she whispers. You rest your head against her shoulder, looking out at your kingdom. The kitchen, the house, the girl. All of it. Yours. Hers. Forever.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
It happens on a Tuesday.
You find her slumped in the servant’s room—wrist pale and open, sheets stained a dull brown. She must’ve done it hours ago. No note. No drama. Just quiet defiance. Or maybe desperation.
You stand in the doorway and look at her for a long time. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sigh.
“She couldn’t even finish the floors,” you say that evening, curled in Mona’s lap, her fingers idly combing through your hair.
Mona hums in mild irritation, swirling a spoon through her espresso. “I told you she wasn’t built for longevity. All that conviction—useless without structure.”
You stretch, slow and catlike, lips brushing the underside of her jaw. “We’ll have to place an ad.” Mona groans dramatically. “Ugh. Interviews.” You laugh softly. “Can we get one that doesn’t cry?”
“Or pray.”
“Or try to save me?” Mona tightens her grip around your waist. “You’re not in need of saving,” she murmurs. “You’re perfect.” You smile into her throat.
Later that week, a new girl arrives. Young. Eager. Nervous. She calls you “Miss.” You offer her a drink. Something calming. She takes it with both hands.
And from the top of the stairs, Mona watches you with pride gleaming in her eyes. You’ve learned to play her game. No—your game now.
And the house? The house remains hungry. Always hungry.
dededos
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
blakekathryn
