Synopsis: A mistake leaves you under the eye of a mad prince who believes you to be something you are not. If you want to live, you'd play his game, whisper whatever pretty things he needs to hear into his ear, and survive.
Warnings: dark content, forced relationship, rape/noncon (not in this chapter), yandereish, Aerion is a pos, murder, mentions of slavery)
word count: 5.5k
Chapter One: Dragons Desire Dreams
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Master Rearyn passed away on a sweltering summer where the lilies bloomed, and the songbirds tweeted oh so sweetly.
It was a pleasant day. To him, it may have been a pleasant death. He was peaceful when you came across him that morning. His eyes were closed with a soft smile on his face as sunlight trickled on his aged skin, as he lay in his bed, unmoving.
He lived a life many would find tragic. No sons. No daughters. No family to speak of. Sparse friends–with only a few people to remember his name. And yet, his death was surely a peaceful one. You thanked the Heart of Fire for granting your master this mercy.
The days coming were just as pleasant as the day your master died. You carefully balanced the jug you held as you looked up at the wide, expansive sky. The leaves lightly rustled through the air as the bright city of Lys greeted you.
Being called by your name wakes you from your dream. You glance back, tilting your head to greet the boy who hurries to you.
“Slow down.” You tell Ja’ha with a smile. “I fear one day your legs will carry off without you.”
“Better than dawdling all day, as my Master says,” Ja’ha brightly responds. “He tells me my quickness is a strength and I should use it well.”
You nod, thinking about the swordmaster Ja’ha served. It sounds like a thing a swordsman would say, not that you knew anything of weapons. Your life was filled with books and scriptures and tending to your own Master’s ramblings.
“Tell me then,” you prod. “What did you use your quickness for? To catch me?”
He brightens at that. He’s a bit younger than you, barely in his teenage years, while you are well into adulthood. Yet, you don’t mind the boy’s jovial expressions. He has his youth, and you wish he would keep it.
“Will you be coming to watch the Joust?”
“Joust?” You repeat.
“An event the prince has set up!” Ja’ha proclaims in excitement. “The match is often done in his homeland. He wishes to do one here, also.”
Prince Aerion of House Targeryen. Seldom in Lys would not recognize his name. The dragon. The prince. He went by many monickers. You’ve never seen the prince, but you know he was exiled from his Westerosi home. If you remember correctly, this is the third year he has stayed.
Ja’ha still waits for an answer.
You shake your head, frowning at his clear disappointment.
“Unfortunately, I can not,” you say. “I still have matters related to my late Master to attend to.”
Ja’ha deflates and glances at the jug still settled in your arms.
He hums, settling down. “I see. Again, I apologize for your loss.” He tells you, but it’s more apologetic than sympathetic.
You smile. Not many sympathized with the passing of Master Rearyn. You knew that truth well. Most found the old man strange and filled with dark power. You know, there were rumors he played with dark magic before his time in Lys. He was also quite cryptic. He rambled on and on about skies filled with fire and winds filled with salt and sea. The only time he settled was with a large pitcher of ale.
You could not deny he was a strange man with a strange set of behaviors. And yet, you didn’t care. He fed you when no one else was willing to. He clothed you when others refused to glance at your being. He protected you and educated you. You turned from an orphaned child to an adult with a possible future thanks to his interference.
Even after death, he took care of you. He left you all his possessions in his will. His offerings were no castle, but they were nice and tender things you wanted to keep close to your heart. He left behind his house, where you lived with him for many years. The books and treasures he had accumulated all throughout his life were yours to keep as well. You may not have been his kin, and yet he treated you as though you were of his blood.
You owed Master Rearyn your life. The least you could do was honor his last wishes, no matter how strange they are. The act of burning the dead was not a way the civilians of Lys honored their dead. It’s a custom only done by the Dothraki, the horsemasters of the grassy plains.
Still, you were determined to see this until the very end–just as your master intended.
You waved Ja’ha off as he excitedly disappeared through the grounds–most likely to attend this strange festival. You carried on your walk, passing by bustling taverns and loud markets. You walked over puddles and a dirt road, passing by horses whinnying in their stable. It was as though the city breathed and burned right underneath you. It carried so much life in the summer.
Eventually, the buildings grew increasingly sparse as you traveled further into the outskirts. More trees, grass, and foliage appeared as the people disappeared from your view. The life of the city lingered just behind you as the quietness of the wilderness greeted you.
The pyre had been set long ago. You hired a few men to set it up for you in the coming days. Sticks and wood were piled high into a circle, colored by red dye, yet another detail your Master was so insistent on. Your master lay right in the center. You were not able to see his body, but you knew he was there with his eyes closed in a slumber that would last forever.
“You always had such strange ideas and words.” You tell him as you gently pry open the lid of the jar.
“But I believe this to be the strangest.”
Wildfire is not permitted in the city, which is why Master Rearyn’s funeral could not take place within the city’s territory. You don’t think the master would have minded had he known this would be his final resting spot. You think you picked a good place for the old man. It was right at the top of a hill. Here, he’d be able to look over at sunsets and sunrises.
You poured the green liquid over the pyre, stepping back when the flames grew larger and larger, feasting on the wood. Bright green flames flickered over the wood, hissing and spitting until they eventually took over the entire pyre.
You felt as though you should say something valiant about Master Rearyn. You should make a speech that might make him so jovial he’d rise up from the dead. However, your words failed you today.
“Thank you,” you finally say as the flames grow in the sky, and all you could smell was smoke.
“Thank you for everything, Master Rearyn.”
Your words failed you today, but your soul did not. You stayed with the Master until the flames died down, and all that remained of the man was a pile of burned sticks and ash.
🜲
The master’s study is just as he left it.
You usually come in to clean his study room and gather his writings and scriptures. After his death, you couldn’t bring yourself to care for the room as you once had. You always put it off in favor of something else, something more urgent, more pressing. You saw his body. You saw the pyre. And yet, a part of you was still in denial.
As you stepped into the room, you still expected to see your master hunched over his desk, scrawling away as he always had over one thing or another. He was a learned man, and his knowledge may even rival that of those across the narrow sea in the citadel. He’d often sit there for hours and hours, not even taking a drop of water until you begged him to.
Your feet stepped over old wood that creaked and shivered underneath your weight. The room was little more than a box, tucked away in the back of the house.
Dust accumulated across the abandoned pages and books he left behind. You brushed them away before frowning at the finger marks you left behind in your haste. You’d need a feather brush to make a thorough clean. As gently as you could, you packed away his scrolls and loose papers.
Being here reminds you of your younger days, when you still thought of the old man as a crazed coot. You’d often watch as he scribbled away in his pages and journals–curious, but far too afraid to overstep and ask. In the beginning, you were nothing more than a fetching servant, given to your master to help him with tasks he could no longer do. You should be grateful he thought you were more capable than that, taking you under his wing and teaching you many things.
Something you remembered fondly was the arts Master Rearyn liked to indulge himself in. Even as his vision continued to deteriorate, he never stopped painting. Over time, you also followed in your master’s footsteps, picking up the brush in your efforts to replicate him.
Still, there was a practice you could never best Master Rearyn in: painting dragons.
Even as his motor skills failed him, Master Rearyn’s dragons never stopped being bold and lively, as though they could jump off the page and fly into the sunset. He drew dragons of all sizes and colors. There was a strange type of beauty he added underneath their scales and sharp teeth. No matter how hard you tried, you could never pour enough life into your own artwork.
He comforted you once when you cried to him about your failings. Even at that time, his eyes were crinkled with age and fine lines.
“You have never seen a dragon,” he said gently. “You have seen elk and elephants, and you draw them well. You must see a being breathe and live first before you can imprint its existence onto a page.”
You asked him if he saw a dragon. He said he saw many in his dreams.
Rearyn’s dreams were yet another point of contention for you. Towards the end of his life, he often shifted and groaned about them, waking up at odd hours of the night to yell in terror. Even as you stayed by his side to comfort him, your Master would not rest peacefully. He’d often ramble about odd things. He’d wail about a boy with ivory long hair in a half-asleep state. A storm of ice and sheet. Truly odd things.
It was perhaps odder than you remembered his ramblings, rather than forgetting it as an unknown night terror.
Everyone thought of your Master as bizarre. Insane. You did as well, once, before you formed a companionship with him. A fondness one has for a parent or a grandparent. Perhaps that’s why you took his words a bit more seriously than others, even when you yourself couldn’t understand their meanings.
And even underneath all that, there was a part of you that was wary of these dreams. Frightened of them, even. Perhaps it was due to how your Master looked the days after he had those dreams. His eyes were always a bit too wide. His age showed even more on his skin.
It looked like he lived through them and died through them.
Your hands brushed over yet another piece of your late Master’s scripture. An open journal with a letter binding. The ink was not as old, and the paper was not as crinkled. You recognized it as one of the last things he had written. It was startled and hurried, as though he had woken up from his slumber before pressing wet ink onto clean pages. As always, it was written in High Valaryian than the language of the Common Tongue.
Dragons Desire Dreams
You had to smile at his words. For a man like him, it was fitting.
You hoped the gods were smiling down at him on the day he passed. You hoped they would permit him to ride a dragon high in the heavens, just like he often dreamed about.
🜲
When you return from the marketplace, there’s a huge crowd gathered around the interior of the city.
You never liked visiting the interior city. It’s where many of the noblemen lived, along with their gallant castles and rich abundance of wealth that they rarely hid from the commonfolk. When you were younger, you’d often look up at these castles with a fury you could never act on. Even back then, you could see how unfair this place was. Lys the lovely. One of the nine free cities.
You knew children who were angrier than you. You knew children whose anger turned to violence, and they tried to inflict it on someone who wore silk on their skin and gold on their fingers. There is a reason you remain alive today while they rot in the ground.
Now, you ignore. You evade. Now, you know better than to go somewhere you will not survive in. Men who wear gold on their fingers and drink expensive, sweet wine imported from foreign lands are not ones to be messed with. You have shaped yourself to survive in a place like this. The shape that works best for you is complete and utter avoidance.
As you draw closer to the crowd, you feel something shift inside of you. Unease. It gnaws into your stomach, devouring your flesh and bone as you study them. Rather than a nobleman, you see clothes that resemble yours–old cotton and washed-out cloth. The commonfolk were staring into a large clearing.
You knew this clearing. It’s where the warrior fights were typically held. A place where fighters would don armor funded by wealthy men and fight to the death for pennies and scraps. Yet another practice you had no true interest in, but the faces of the ground continue to eat away at your innards.
Something was wrong.
Extremely wrong.
A part of you knows you will regret what you see, but you push past the ground anyway. You step past children with worried faces, and you brush over men who are still and stand like boulders and stone, cold to the touch.
Your fingers tremble when you hear a sharp crack and a jumble of armor. The crowd's silence makes it easy to hear a voice cry out in pain.
You knew that voice.
You push past men and women in a hurry until you’re at the forefront. The ground beneath you is muddy, and you nearly slip onto the floor in your haste. Someone curses behind you as your desperation shows in your actions. You didn’t care. You didn’t think as you ran out of the mumbling ground and onto grounds no commonor should set foot in.
Ja’ha had collapsed onto the ground. His hands and knees were already bloody. His clothes were torn. Red caked his skin, dripping down into the wet earth as he coughed and pleaded words you couldn’t understand. He was apologizing over and over again.
You didn’t know what he did. It didn’t matter. You knew what had happened. You’ve seen this scene play out over and over again in your time in Lys.
Ja’ha upset someone who wore gold on their fingers. And he wasn’t getting out of this alive.
A guard stops you before you can reach him. You’re held back by iron armor and chains that barely faltered at your resistance. He grabs your arms, keeping you from wiggling around and about.
Ja’ha weakly calls your name, his voice stunted and frail. He must have been choked before he was thrown onto the ground. Here, he looked even younger than he actually was. His eyes were red with tears, just as red as the blood tainted on his skin.
“Please.” You plead to the guard who still holds you. “He’s just a boy, Sir.” You insist, but your voice trembles.
“He meant no harm, whatever he did. Please, I beg you.”
The guard ignores you. Of course he did. You were wrong to beg from him. In this world of kings and queens, he is but a sword. He is a tool to be used, nothing more.
Your eyes travel to the real sword wielder.
Had you not been so frazzled, you may have noticed him first. You recognized him immediately, even though this was your first time seeing him. Everyone in the country knew who this man was. His entrance into Lys had everyone mumbling and simmering, and even years later, the whispers had not settled.
Silver ivory hair cascaded down his shoulders in gentle waves. Sharp cheekbones contrasted with eyes flashing with a dull violet. He wasn’t particularly tall, but the way he stood towered over you and the rest of the guards. His cloak was a sharp royal red, bearing the color of fire his family heralded. The sigil of a three-headed dragon, hissing and spitting, lay on his chest.
“What may we do, your Highness?” The guard who held you asked.
Prince Aerion Targeryen, Son of Maekar I, barely looked at you. He was more focused on his boot, as though it were more precious than the lives he held in his hand. Perhaps to a man like him, that was the truth.
“Kill the boy.” He spoke of the concept of death so plainly, so casually. Horror crawled into your stomach as you stared at him. He couldn’t be a man. No man could be this cruel.
“As for the other one.” He glances at you just then. There’s the subtle quirk of his lips, an attempt at a smile, but his eyes are so frighteningly hollow. Empty. Expressionless.
Bored.
“Maybe a missing hand will teach the lesson of not interrupting one's betters.”
You can barely understand his tongue. Your heart was pounding in your chest as a guard behind you brandished his sword. Another approached Ja’ha, who flailed around in the dirt, struggling to get up even though his arm remained bent in an unnatural direction.
You could only stare at the dragon sigil on his chest. The ivory hair that gleamed in the sunlight. It was such a pleasant day. It reminded you of the day your master died, the way he slept so peacefully, never to open his eyes again.
Dragons Desire Dreams.
“I–I dreamed of you.”
Everything stops. Everything stills. The guard tightens his grip on your arms, surely to break skin, but you could hardly care about any of that.
The prince was looking at you. His eyes were no longer so dull and narrow.
“I dreamed of you.” You babbled on, remembering what Master Rearyn rambled about all those years ago. “I dreamed that you fought a giant blue snake and cut off its head. It died next to a large black dire wolf, which devoured it.”
The Prince stares at you, and for a moment, you think it’s all over. You’ll be dead. You’ll be nothing more than a corpse to join your master in the lands of the unliving.
A guard moves closer to you. Something sharp glints in his hand. You squeeze your eyes.
“Stop.”
Your eyes flutter up, and you look up.
The prince takes another step closer. And then another until he is towering over your imprisoned figure. Long, lithe fingers lightly push up your chin so you can look him in the eyes.
He’s even more beautiful up close. His skin is pale with a flushing twinge of pink right on his lips. His violet eyes are outlined by long white eyelashes and soft eyebrows. How ironic that such a beauty could do such ugly things.
Out of the corner of your eye, the guard’s hold on Ja’ha slips. He takes the opportunity to run, dashing into the ground. The guard chases him, but you doubt he’d catch up. You wish you could feel relief when you watch him disappear into the crowd. At least one of you got out of this horrid situation in alive.
The Prince hardly seems to care about his escape. He’s more focused on you, ever so slightly tilting your face to observe more of you.
“How long ago did you have this dream?” The Prince asks.
You can’t look at anything else but his sharp violet eyes, tinged in fickle cruelty.
“Years ago. A few moons after my ninth nameday,” you tell him, thinking back to that night you woke up to Master Rearyn screaming about dire wolves and headless snakes. It was the first night terror he’d ever had in your presence. Perhaps that’s why you remembered his words so distinctly.
Or perhaps that was just your life flashing before your eyes. Death was certain. After years and years of lying low and mastering the art of avoidance, you decided to jump headfirst into the lion’s den, sealing your fate. You’d follow your master into death just a few days after his passing. It was a servant’s fitting death, some would say.
You didn't want a servant’s death. You wanted something more, but you’d never get that chance now.
There’s a short huff of laughter. You’re back trapped in the guard's stronghold, looking at your executioner.
Your executioner smiles down on you. It doesn’t suit his face. It’s warped and twisted in some way.
He pulls away so suddenly that you reel. For a moment, you think he’s walking away because a Prince doesn't have time to watch a peasant as you die on his command. But then he raises his single hand, an owner calling his faithful dog.
“Bring that one.” He orders the guard who holds you. “I wish to continue this conversation indoors.”
🜲
It’s not a dungeon.
You were expecting something more gloomy. Damp walls and floors. A darkness you could touch and taste in your tongue. Somewhere with far more chains and despair than this place.
Every part of this room was enamoured in luxuries. Rugs imported from faraway lands. Chairs and furniture chiseled by skilled hands and craftsmen.
You’ve never been inside a building this tall before. There’s no need for a candle, for the windows stream light directly inside. Past the glass, you can see the entire city of Lys. You could map out every street, every marketplace, every landmark. It’s truly breathtaking. You think you could stare at the city for hours.
The Prince does not give you such luxury.
“Of whom is your parentage?”
He busies himself with a plate of food you’ve never seen before. There’s sweet red wine spilling from a pretty gold goblet. Though he’s asked you a question, he’s far more interested in the meal itself, taking a hefty bite out of the meat. For an exiled Prince, he lives like a King.
“I do not know my parents, your Highness.” You answer truthfully. “They passed away when I was very young.”
Or they simply abandoned you, but you liked to think that they died. It was a far better story than being unloved.
“An orphan, then.” The prince nods, glancing up at you. “From what I’ve seen, there are two options for those with no parentage.”
He leans forward, eyes flicking up and down your body. You shift, feeling very uncomfortable in your clothes.
“So which one are you? Whore or slave?”
You flinch at his words, but you can’t deny his claim. Lys is not kind to those of low birth, especially if they have no one to guide them. Among these unfortunate souls, you are considered very lucky to follow a master who never sought your flesh, only your labor.
“I worked underneath a scribe, your Highness,” you say.
“A scribe.” The prince repeats, and you can’t place his tone.
You glance down at your feet. You don’t belong here. You can see it from just the way your feet meet the immaculate floor underneath you. Shiny, shaven stone that your clumsy, ragged boots rest on.
“You didn’t dream of me.”
Panic bolts through your veins. You had been so stupid. Why did you even blurt out such nonsense about dreams and wolves? Those dreams are what killed your master, and now they’ll kill you too.
Before you can plead for mercy, the Prince continues.
“You didn’t dream of me. You dreamed of my father.”
Your words die in your mouth. Prince Aerion chews on his meat thoughtfully, letting the wine clean his palate.
“The blue snake is the sigil of House Venear. More than ten winters ago, they foolishly rebelled against House Targaryen. My father, Meakar Targaryen, heir to the iron throne, slayed them, while their meager lands were overtaken by the Starks, whose sigil is the dire wolf.”
He leans back in thought. “I have been told I resemble my father in his youth.”
You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. All this time, you thought you were listening to your master yelling and wailing about such nonsense when they were…when all those dreams were—
“There are many dreamers spread throughout Targaryen history. My older brother is one of the fortunate. Though I expected to find blood of Old Valyria hidden within Lys, this is a truly remarkable find. A dreamer hidden among rubble.”
He…believes you? The ramblings you managed to spit out in your time of desperation were somehow comprehensible?
You stare at him, and you realize you couldn’t be further from the truth.
It didn’t matter to him if you were telling the truth or not. He was simply bored.
To him, you weren’t a discovery waiting to be uncovered by any lingering eyes. You were just a piece of entertainment–much like the beauties lords liked to keep on their arms in exchange for pretty coin. He just found you interesting enough not to slay.
You may be from the same species, but in his eyes, you were not of the same breed. To princes and nobles and those with gold on their fingers, you were nothing but a mere toy.
“What other dreams did you have?” He asks, but he’s not paying attention to you. Not really. His eyes are more focused on his food. His hands play with gold spoons and knives. A servant woman refills his cup before hurrying away, leaving you two alone once again. You wish she had stayed; at least someone would be able to say if something happened to you, no matter how small her voice may be. If you were in her place, you’d hurry away too.
You think back to the months you spent by Master Rearyn’s side. His bed was too stiff, no matter how many times you fluffed it to aid his slumber. Nothing worked. The ale barely helped in the coming days of his passing.
“A recurring one, your Highness.” You speak, but you don’t think it’s you speaking. “One that’s been had over many months.”
You think back to those words your master spoke over and over, in his deliriums. They meant nothing, just the dying words of an old man. They should mean nothing. And yet…
Somehow, you know these words will get you out of certain death.
“I dreamed of a dragon.” You start.
He pauses at your words, shifting his gaze up to look at you. His piercing eyes make your skin crawl.
“It lay on top of a tall tower with bright gold railings and red and green windows underneath a full Moon soaked in blood.” You repeated your master’s words, forever etched in your memory. “It watched a giant kraken rise from the water and destroyed the city.”
You can still remember the fear in your Master’s eyes as he clutched onto your shoulders, repeating ‘a giant monster will bring the city to ruin’ over and over again. By then, he had lost most of his strength, but the way he held you that day still left marks on your skin.
The Prince still stared. You glanced down at your feet in a meager show of submission.
“That is what I dreamed of, your Highness.”
He says nothing to that. You inspect your shoes again and compare them to the rest of the rug. Your pair of shoes has gladly outlived its youth. They are both shabby and barely kept together by crude stitches. The rug you stand on was anything but that. Hand-threaded, each thread stiffly tied together with a craftsmanship that properly traveled with him across the narrow sea. The disparity between you two was clear even from the floor.
You were playing a dangerous game, one that you never wanted to play in the first place, but you had to. If you wanted to live, you would play, and lie, and you would survive.
“A servant of a scribe.” He echoes your past words.
You look up at him. The Prince stands to his full height and walks towards you. Your hands clasp together tightly in front of you as the man circles you once, then twice, like he’s inspecting a good he purchased.
“I’ll keep you here.” He finally decides. “You’ll pour my wine, and fetch my cloaks. I’m sure this scribe you cherished so dearly managed to teach you basic reading and writing? You’ll do some for me as well.”
You look up at him questionably. For a moment, you believe his words at face value. He was giving you a job. Then, you realize that wasn’t the case at all. He couldn’t care less about your labor or your pay. He was keeping you around to test you.
This was all a game to him.
You bow, tucking your chin into your chest.
“Thank you, your highness.” You say, hoping the tightness in your tone doesn’t come off as offensive.
Prince Aerion continues to study you. After a few agonizing seconds, he looks away with a half-hearted hum–dismissal. You stumble out of that room with shaky legs and trembling hands. It was as though your body itself couldn’t believe you were still alive.
When the sun drops just below the horizon, you find yourself back in your home as you always had in the days prior. Today, however, an imperial guard stands right in front of your door, the same one who ‘escorted’ you all the way back. The intention was hinted at, though you never needed the additional incentive. You would never dare run, even though you desperately wanted to.
You would never return for quite a while–perhaps forever. You touch the worn-down furniture and the dents in the walls, scripting each flaw into memory. The setting sun casts a golden glow through the window, illuminating your tiny home in a warm swath of light.
Currently, you are supposed to pack and prepare yourself for your new ‘home’ and your new tasks. And yet, you still linger around, taking your time. You were never expecting to leave, so everything was in disarray. Even after you left, barely a dent in the work would be covered. You would have to hire other laborers to complete them.
Perhaps you should consider selling your master’s home altogether. The possibility of you living in peace in the aftermath felt low.
There’s not much to keep. You tuck away your clothes and other meager belongings. Apart from the house itself, Master Rearyn didn’t keep many luxuries. You pack away the few books written in High Valyrian. They would fetch fine copper if you were to sell them, but you would not dare.
All that’s left is the master’s old study. You’ve already put away much of his jumbled papers and unfinished projects a short while ago. It’s mostly clean and bare by the time you make your way to that portion of the house. Your hands brush over his desk, roaming around his cabinets.
You find it in a few seconds, pulling out the tattered journal and splaying it out. You flip over page after page. Writings that you once thought to be nonsense slowly made more and more sense. Your fingers stopped when you reached the final page–reading the same words that haunted your mind for hours.
Dragons Desire Dreams.
You stared at them until they turned into murky shapes rather than letters.
Who was your master? You knew of him. You knew he was a drunkard who was obsessed with his scripts. He’d write obsessively for hours and hours. You knew him as kind and generous, taking care of you and teaching you, though he had no blood obligation.
His dreams were supposed to be just that: dreams. And yet, those strange ramblings of his may have saved your life.
You do not know what your master’s words meant. You memorized their shape rather than anything else. Yet, as you spoke his words into the Prince’s ears, something happened within the Prince’s demeanor. They were less than meaningless shapes to him. He knew something you would never know.
These strange ramblings of your master’s may save your life.
Or they may be your downfall.
Delicately, you tuck your master’s notebook into your bag, hugging it close to your body.
You were going somewhere dangerous, and you wanted your master by your side.
Anonymous said: “Could you do #15 “If you leave me, I’ll die!” with Ferdinand please :)” Okay full disclosure the mirror scene was the first thing I wrote, everything else is just me trying to justify the existence of my kink. I’m not sorry. (I am a little sorry)
//
“Getting married? You and Ferdinand?” Dorothea asked. You didn’t respond at first, caught off guard by her unexpectedly harsh reaction. Your eyes nervously flicked around the table the two of you shared to ensure nobody else was listening in on the private conversation. Oblivious to her minor outburst, the restaurant-going elite continued on chattering and eating and drinking. With all the grace of a seasoned actress, Dorothea composed her shock a moment later, adopting a more measured voice. “Isn’t it a bit… soon for that kind of thing?”
You bristled at the question. It wasn’t at all the response you had hoped for from her. Although she was the owner of your opera company, Dorothea was more of a friend and mentor than anything else. She had been the one to introduce you to your soon-to-be husband in the first place. “Yes,” you said, just a touch too defensively. “Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, of course not!” she responded quickly, waving her hands in a motion as if to soothe you. “I’m just… surprised. You and Ferdie haven’t known each other very long.”
“It’s been long enough,” you said, self consciously messing with your engagement ring. Since you and Ferdinand hadn’t announced your engagement to the wider public as of yet, you weren’t quite in the habit of wearing it all the time, but the night out in Enbarr seemed to be an intimate enough event to slip it on. Ferdinand himself had suggested it. “We love each other. That’s more than enough of a reason for me, why should we wait?”
Dorothea’s green eyes were piercing. “He’s the one who said that, isn’t he?” she asked, but there was a finality to the question that made it sound far more like a statement. She was right, more or less. You squirmed, unable to meet her gaze.
“I love him,” you said. “And I can’t stay with Mittelfrank forever, I have to think about the future, too. You taught me that.”
“Yes, of course. I understand that. I’m happy for you,” Dorothea told you, her voice utterly sincere. “I’m happy for Ferdie, too. He’ll never find a girl as wonderful as you.” The words lapsed into silence, unfinished.
“But…?” you finally prompted.
“You should take some time to think about this,” Dorothea recommended. “Alone. Getting married is a big decision, one that you can’t take back. If you love each other, there’s no rush, right?”
“What are you really trying to say?” you asked, the question coming out more snappy than you meant it. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help but think she was right. At the very least, you had already questioned why he was so eager to get married, only to be shut down with Ferdinand’s reassurance. It was all right. He kept telling you that it was. It was.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Dorothea said carefully. “Please, take it from someone who knows and loves you both, okay?” She hesitated, folding her hands before continuing. “If Ferdinand were any other guy, I’d tell you to get away from him as soon as possible.”
“What?” you asked, your stomach twisting at the grim threat of that sentiment. Guilt squeezed your heart, urging you to look around the restaurant. The men had gone off for drinks or to play cards or some other thing just to get them away from the table, you had asked Ferdinand to be the one to tell Dorothea the good news. It was meant to be good, at least.
“Since it is Ferdie, I have hope that it’ll work out in the end.” Dorothea sighed. “Still, you need to think about this rationally. There’s a lot more on the line than just your heart. Ferdie… Ferdinand is intense. Not only that, he’s very passionate. Those things are good in a relationship! But too much intensity and passion is only romantic in opera, not in real life. In real life, you could get hurt.”
“You think he’ll hurt me?” you asked bluntly, hoping to find some humor in the question. Ferdinand would never hurt you, that was unthinkable. Laughable. Dorothea didn’t so much as smile.
“Not on purpose, no,” she conceded. “Don’t you think something about it all seems a bit off? I’m no expert when it comes to romance—believe me, I know that—but I have known Ferdie for the better part of a decade. I have never seen him like this. Sometimes love can bring out the best in us, but sometimes it does the opposite. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m not so sure that this is healthy… for either of you.”
“You’re wrong,” you said, but the words felt hollow and cold in your mouth because as badly as you wanted to be mad at Dorothea, there was no malice in her eyes. Only concern. You shook your head, unable to look at that expression anymore. Could she somehow see the doubt that had slowly been infecting your heart? The doubt you ignored because you loved Ferdinand, which was the only thing you didn’t doubt. You adored him, and he adored you. But, like Dorothea pointed out, you and Ferdinand hadn’t known each other all that long. Most of the time you spent together had been spent under his guidance trying to learn the proper way to sit or eat or dress or move or speak, teaching you to exist in his world as a lady. Changing you from a soloist to a socialite. And you loved him for that too, felt eternally grateful and honored for the chance. But that was offset by this terrible, creeping concern about what Ferdinand saw when he looked at you, what he felt that stirred such a desperate excitement in those honey colored eyes of his. What it was about your relationship that kept him so utterly preoccupied with what you did or where you went or who you spoke to or how you dressed, evidence of the vice-like grip he’d formed around your life.
But he said it was all right. You fiddled with your engagement ring again, knowing that it was a bad habit he disapproved of, and told yourself that it was all right.
“I really appreciate you trying to look out for me, Dorothea,” you told her, your disquiet calmed into something mostly sincere. “But I think this is the best thing for me. We’re going to announce it officially tomorrow night. After that, I’m going to go with him to Castle Aurboda so he can tend to his territory.”
She said nothing, searching your face for a long moment, but she finally nodded. “As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters,” Dorothea told you. “Please think about what I’ve said, though. And if you need anybody to talk to-”
“You’ll be the first to know,” you finished for her, managing a weak smile.
As is on some unseen cue from on high, the men chose that exact moment to return. Dorothea’s expression switched instantly, her smile radiant. “I was wondering if maybe you boys had gotten lost somewhere,” she said. “We were about to organize a search party.”
“I challenged the esteemed Duke Aegir to a hand of cards,” Dorothea’s date said. Then he winced. “I almost feel bad for how easy it was to win.”
Ferdinand smiled good-naturedly, not at all ruffled by the comment. “Unfortunately, playing cards is not one of my many talents. Nonetheless, I feel as if I learned many important things tonight. For example, I should not carelessly accept a challenge from you,” he said as he sat down, getting a light laugh from the other two. Ferdinand looked at you, kissing your cheek in a way that probably pushed social boundaries. “I hope you were not too lonely in my absence.”
You blinked away the glaze from your eyes, trying very hard to smile as Dorothea had done. Unfortunately, you found it hard to get back into things the rest of the night, your thoughts utterly preoccupied with the conversation and nerves no matter how Dorothea or Ferdinand tried to pull you back in.
By the time you returned to the boarding house you’d lived in over the past two years, your nerves were completely shot. You prepared yourself for bed in a half-hearted way, unfocused and stiff. It was late, you thought, although the moon wasn’t out so you had no way to be sure. Clothes laid out in a mess across your room, things you were packing up so you could leave with Ferdinand to return to Aegir territory the next night. The fancy ball gown he’d gifted you for the party before then was hung up in the closet, a splash of color that your gaze inevitably found itself drawn to. You should have finished packing, but the idea kind of made you feel sick inside. Instead, you sat at your desk with your journal, trying to figure out a coherent way to organize your thoughts in words.
Knock knock.
Hearing the sharp little taps against your door was a surprise. You doubted your ears for a moment before the sound repeated, a bit louder. Some part of your mind warned of danger, the part that had grown up on the streets. The other part knew those concerns were silly. You were no longer in a place with ruffians and cutthroats around every corner. The boarding house for singers and dancers was about as secure as any armored keep in the Empire. Still, anxiety teased your heart to a steadily rushing beat as you crossed your small quarters to open the door. Whoever it was knocked again, urging you to twist the doorknob and peek through the small crack, keeping your body hidden behind the door.
A sharp line of light streamed from your room and illuminated a slice of Ferdinand standing in the hall. A flipped strand of strawberry blond hair over his forehead to one eye to the corner of his mouth to a strip of his white shirt, trousers, and boots. He smiled and you felt your shoulders relax, allowing the door to open a bit more.
“Hello,” you greeted him uncertainly, confused and more than a little curious. Cautious, too, now that the surprise had abated. He most certainly did not belong here.
More spooky smut! Next on the monster bf list is Dimitri, Yuri, and Hubert so we’ll see if I get them (and maybe more) done before the month is out. Who’s to say, really? Not me.
Siren! Sylvain Jose Gautier x Reader
Warnings: Noncon, graphic smut, a bit of kink, and monster dick.
(Read at your own risk, this is pretty… eh… Well, what did you expect?)
//
Burning, breathing, bursting panic —you woke yourself up with a violent fit of uncontrollable coughing, wrenching yourself to your side while trying to expel water from your aching lungs through a throat rough with the tangy bite of salt.
“Hey! Hey, you’re okay! Just breathe!”
The words barely registered, although they didn’t invite a feeling of anger towards the speaker. If you could breathe, you would! But you couldn’t! You were choking, drowning, terrified, your lungs seizing in your chest.
Someone rubbed your back as the episode worked through you, your breathing eventually slowing into a shallow gasp as you gagged and managed a few more weak coughs. Dizzy, you rolled onto your back. A cruel headache thumped in your temple, your chest burning, and stomach heaving. It occurred to you that the coughing hadn’t been necessary, as you hadn’t actually wretched up any water. You’d been responding to the sensation of water, a memory.
Blinking bleary eyes, you tried to get your bearings as you stared upwards. A full moon in a cloudless sky, a million tiny stars twinkling in the endless dark. Around you, the sound of water. Beneath you, an uncomfortable surface. You were wet. An oceanic breeze played across your damn skin, calling chills to crawl over the expanse of exposed flesh. Someone hovered above you, his expression drawn with worry.
Someone.
Someone you didn’t know. A stranger.
You shot upright, paying for it a moment later as your head spun with a violent heave of nauseous vertigo. Panic rose up again, another wave of terror and confusion.
“Hey,” he said again. A strong arm supported you before you could fall prone, almost cradling you against a decidedly bare chest. “Don’t get all worked up and pass out on me again, okay? Here, breathe with me. In-” The man-made the sound of an exaggerated inhale as he pulled in a theatrical breath. “And out.” His chest collapsed with the equally exaggerated exhale, the air puffing away a few drying strands of hair. Recognizing the exercise and unable to do much else, you followed his guide and tried to clear your head with steady breaths.
Even when your breathing was steady, your recollection was vague and confused, your thoughts blurry. He was holding you closely, this man. A part of you felt as if you recognized him, but another was certain you’d never seen him before in your life.
But you were barely clothed and he was far too close. Even dizzy and uncertain, you knew how improper it was.
“Are you okay?” he asked when you got your arms beneath yourself for support, squirming out of his hold.
“Who are you?” you asked, your voice scratching up and out of your throat. Ouch. Wincing, you swallowed, trying again. “Where am I? What… What happened?” You looked around, finally, taking in the scenery. A beach, bleached by the singular illumination of the moon. Down the stretch of pale sand, you saw a smear of red. A bonfire? Beside you was a trickling stream of water. The dark outline of trees formed an uneven dark line slightly inland. You laid in a nook of sorts, sprawled out on a woven mat beside a rocky shore, waves lapping at the sand a dozen or so feet away.
“You don’t remember me?” he asked, calling your attention back to your only companion. He was young with red hair, tousled in a way that was at once messy and attractive. Dark brows and eyes, a sharp nose and jaw. If it weren’t for the stark white of the moon illuminating the world below, you’d never believe there was anything more perfectly white than his skin. There was so much of it, too, his torso completely bare. Despite yourself, his nudity made you flush, reminding you of your own state of undress. Wet and clinging to your skin, your silky white shift was the only thing between your skin and his eyes.
“No, I don’t,” you finally responded, trying to cover yourself up somewhat. Embarrassment felt like it should have been a bizarre reaction to everything, but there was a sense of unreality haloing the entire scene. You couldn’t quite tell if you were truly awake, the sluggish haze of sleep still infecting your mind.
“Figures,” he said, sounding only a little disappointed. “I’m Sylvain. And before you ask, yes, I did take off your clothes. But don’t be mad! I only did it so you wouldn’t be all sticky with the saltwater. That stuff is no good for delicate and beautiful skin such as yours. It would dull the gorgeous shine of your hair, too, and I couldn’t bear the thought of that.”
After getting thrown into jail for a crime you refuse to talk about, one of the wardens takes a keen interest in your past.
Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, blood, violence, mentions of child abuse, lowkey kind of sweet, 10k words
Being in jail is no fun. Being in a maximum security prison after being found guilty of homicide? Somehow even less fun.
You've tried to make the best of it. Got some posters to put up in your cell, started a book club, took up macramé. But you can't really paint a veneer of normalcy over incarceration.
It's violent, it's dirty, and most inmates tend to avoid you. And the thought of at least thirty more years of the same routine, day in and day out? Well, that's plain depressing.
Still, some days are worse than others. Today seemed like it was going to be a good day. The cafeteria food was actually hot, an acquaintance shared some gum with you, you managed to get a new book from the library. Things were, if not great, at least bearable.
Until the tour.
The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.
Slammer.
He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.
Like right now.
The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.
The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.
You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.
You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).
You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.
You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.
"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.
"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."
You could feel their eyes on you again.
"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."
You didn't bother to answer him.
"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."
You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.
It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.
"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."
"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."
You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.
Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."
You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.
They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.
"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.
You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.
His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.
You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.
"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."
You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."
Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."
You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."
"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."
"Just as the good Lord intended."
Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.
"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."
You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.
"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."
Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.
You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.
The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.
You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.
You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?
He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.
"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"
You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.
"I like to think of it as aspirational."
"And why's that?"
"The wardens aren't all assholes."
That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.
You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.
It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.
That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.
(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).
You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.
"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.
He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.
"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."
Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.
You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."
Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.
Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.
You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.
You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.
"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."
You sat, more confused than anything else.
"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."
He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.
"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."
You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"
He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.
And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.
You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.
"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."
He raised a brow.
"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"
"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."
"It can't be that bad."
"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."
"You've been in here five years already?"
You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.
"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."
"Why?"
That got an unexpected laugh from you.
"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."
"Did you do it?"
"Allegedly."
What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?
"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."
You saw that little flicker of a smile again.
"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."
He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.
"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"
"You think it's such a bad job?"
"I'd never do it and I live here."
He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.
"It's a boring story."
"I've got nothing but time."
That earned you another raised brow.
"As we've established."
What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.
"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."
Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.
"I didn't like his face."
He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."
You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.
He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.
"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”
You raised you head. "What?"
"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"
How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?
"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."
He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"
You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.
"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."
"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.
"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."
You swallowed. "Please."
He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.
"Explain."
Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?
"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."
He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."
"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."
His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."
"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."
"Is that what happened today?"
You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.
"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."
You closed your eyes.
What else were you supposed to do?
He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.
The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.
Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.
You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.
You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.
But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.
"I see."
You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.
You shrugged and tried to smile.
"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."
"How exciting," he deadpanned.
"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."
He snorted and started for the door again.
"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.
"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."
It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.
When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.
The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.
Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.
And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.
It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.
You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.
You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.
Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"
He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.
It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.
You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.
There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.
Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.
The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.
The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?
A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.
You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.
These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.
The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.
You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.
You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.
You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.
I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.
There. That would get rid of them.
You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.
When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.
The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.
You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.
I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.
You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.
What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.
You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?
The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.
I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.
The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.
Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.
Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.
You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.
You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.
They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.
When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.
You gave him your most charming grin.
"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.
He scoffed and moved on.
When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.
B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.
I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -
Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?
For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.
Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.
But then she arrived.
You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.
Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.
She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.
"Oops... Didn't see you there."
If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.
"Watch where you're going next time."
That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.
You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.
There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.
She had a way with people.
Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.
She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.
She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?
A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.
Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.
Not a good move.
Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.
You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.
When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.
"Yes?"
Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.
You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.
"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."
Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.
You cleared your throat, tried to smile.
"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."
He narrowed his eyes.
"There's going to be a riot,” he said.
"Seems like it."
"When?"
"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."
He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.
"Can it be stopped?"
You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.
He must have seen the answer in your face.
He shook his head, stubborn to the last.
"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."
You sighed and pulled away from the bars.
"Your funeral Blondie."
You really hoped it wouldn't be.
The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.
A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.
You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.
She punched the CO in the throat.
He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.
Other prisoners were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.
The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.
The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.
The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.
You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew, you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.
A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.
You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.
You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.
She dropped like a rock.
You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.
That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.
You could feel your neck prickling.
There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.
You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.
Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.
You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.
If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.
That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.
You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.
The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.
She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.
"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.
Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.
She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.
Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.
Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.
Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.
You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.
You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.
"Having some fun without inviting me?"
Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."
You tilted your head, still smiling.
"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."
Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.
"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.
"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."
You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.
You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.
It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.
"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."
The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.
The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.
"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"
"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."
She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.
She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.
Then she charged.
Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.
You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.
You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.
She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.
She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.
She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.
She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.
You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.
She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.
You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.
She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.
Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.
You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.
"Had enough?"
She spat blood at your feet.
You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.
Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.
She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.
You sighed and jerked your head at her.
"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."
The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.
You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.
That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.
She left a trail of bright red behind.
When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.
"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.
He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.
"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."
You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.
Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"
"I didn't like his face."
"I don't believe you."
"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."
He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.
"Give me the knife."
"It's called a shiv. You should know that."
You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.
You handed it to him without looking at his face.
He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.
You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.
"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."
"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."
"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."
"I've never been very good at that."
"Maybe try being less sarcastic."
He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.
"Why did you really save me?"
You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.
"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."
He started towards the door and you followed.
There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.
"Solitary. Protective custody."
"Why?"
Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."
Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.
You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.
When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.
Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.
"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."
You sighed.
"Drop it Blondie."
"No."
Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.
"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."
"You had a reason for killing him."
"Yes."
"What?"
"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”
“You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"
"You'd be surprised."
It was his turn to sigh.
"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."
"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."
He sighed and walked away.
You didn't see him again for half a year.
They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.
When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.
Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.
You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.
The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.
Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.
When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.
You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.
You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.
He didn't even give you time to say hello.
"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."
You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.
"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."
He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."
"...Why am I going to court next month?"
"To challenge the original ruling."
"Okay. Why?"
"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."
You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.
"Who?"
"The victim's daughter."
"No."
"Yes."
Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.
"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."
You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.
The lawyer finally interjected.
"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."
"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."
Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."
"No. I'm. Not."
"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."
"You spoke to her?!"
Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.
"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."
"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"
He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.
"Yes."
You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.
You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.
"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."
"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.
You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.
"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"
Your voice was awfully soft.
"I'm returning a favour."
Your eyes slid to the lawyer.
"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."
He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."
The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?
You grinned at her.
"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."
"I bet."
She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.
"How's life with your aunt?"
"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."
That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.
She broke in before you could keep asking questions.
"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."
You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.
He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.
You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.
"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."
She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."
When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.
The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.
You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.
You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.
How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.
How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes. How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.
How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.
How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.
How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving.
How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.
The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.
It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.
The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.
"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."
You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.
"Granted."
You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?
The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."
The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.
"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."
Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.
"Thank you, your honour."
The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.
You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.
The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.
When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.
He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.
"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."
He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.
His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.
You let out a low whistle.
"She’s a beauty."
When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.
The car started up with a thrumming purr.
It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.
"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."
You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.
"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."
What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.
"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."
"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"
"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."
He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.
"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."
He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.
"Why are you doing it then?"
He didn't answer.
When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.
You let out another low whistle.
"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"
"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."
"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."
He grinned. "What gave it away?"
"The muscles."
He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.
You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.
The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.
Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.
Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.
It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.
Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.
Home.
He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.
You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.
He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.
It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.
You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.
When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.
Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.
You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.
The backdoor was locked.
You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.
But that one was locked too.
So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.
You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?
It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.
Nothing.
You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?
No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.
You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.
You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.
It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.
Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.
Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.
Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.
The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)
I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.
You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.
-your favourite felon.
B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.
You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.
I love you.
-B
You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.
Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.
And he was in love with you.
You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.
No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.
There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.
He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.
"So. You found them."
You couldn't answer.
He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?
"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"
He continued towards you, as calm as ever.
"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"
"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."
He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.
"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."
"Why?"
He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.
"You know why."
"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."
"I've got a dishwasher."
"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."
He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."
"I snore all night."
"You don't. I've watched you sleep."
"Really?"
"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."
He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.
"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."
"Do I have a choice?"
He smiled that secret smile again.
"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."
It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.
You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.
But, you never were very good at following the rules, were you?
Summary: What if the Love and deepspace characters turned into toddlers ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
a/n: i was inspired by the anime gakuen babysitters :3
Zayne – The Moody Nap Refuser
Zayne was the grumpiest little prince you had ever babysat. His two moods were dramatic sulking and pretending he wasn’t tired.
Hated nap time with a passion. The moment you mentioned it, he’d frown, cross his arms, and glare at you like you just betrayed him. “I don’t need naps. I’m big.”
If he got even a little sleepy, he’d start yawning, then immediately deny it. “I’m NOT tired. I’m just… thinking.” Thinking while rubbing his eyes and swaying on his feet.
You tried to read him a bedtime story to lull him to sleep, but he just kept dramatically groaning, “Ugh, this is boring,” while fighting to keep his eyes open.
He had a habit of curling up in random places when he finally gave in—on the couch, under the table, or even inside a laundry basket. But the moment you tucked him into bed? Instant protest. “I wasn’t sleeping! I was just—just resting my eyes!”
If you tried to leave after he finally dozed off, he’d grumble in his sleep, “Stay.” You were now trapped.
Zayne was a little ball of stubbornness who had one sworn enemy: nap time. The moment you mentioned the word, he crossed his arms, furrowed his brows, and glared at you as if you had just betrayed him. “I don’t need naps,” he huffed, yawning almost immediately after. When you pointed it out, he scowled. “That wasn’t a real yawn.”
For the next hour, he dramatically threw himself on the couch, claiming he was just resting, while his eyelids drooped lower and lower. You tried reading him a bedtime story, but every few pages, he groaned, “This is so boring.” The irony? He was asleep before you even reached the end. You sighed in relief—only for him to grumble in his sleep, “Don’t go…” Congratulations. You were now trapped beneath a grumpy, napping Zayne.
Caleb – The Overly Curious Chaos Machine
Caleb was a walking question mark. If he wasn’t asking why, he was pressing buttons, poking things, or running at full speed toward potential disaster.
Everything was a mystery to be solved. “Why is the sky blue?” “Why do I have to eat vegetables?” “Why do you look so tired?” (Because of you, Caleb.)
He was obsessed with gadgets. If there was a button, he would press it. At one point, he almost turned off the Wi-Fi, which was arguably a worse disaster than spilling juice all over the couch.
His favorite pastime? Taking things apart. If you lost sight of him for five minutes, he was either dismantling a remote or trying to “fix” the toaster (which wasn’t broken in the first place).
The scariest moment was catching him trying to poke an electrical socket with a spoon. When you yanked him away in a panic, he just tilted his head and asked, “But what happens if I put it back?”
The only way to keep him still was handing him a puzzle or something mechanical to tinker with—but that only worked for ten minutes before he was off causing trouble again.
Caleb was a whirlwind of curiosity and boundless energy, a tiny scientist with no regard for safety or limits. The questions never stopped—“What’s that?” “Why?” “How does it work?”—and for every answer you gave, he immediately had three more. His fascination with technology meant that if he saw a button, he had to press it. You once caught him with the TV remote, clicking every button at once. “What happens if I press all of them?” he asked, eyes shining with anticipation. (No, Caleb. Please don’t.)
Danger? He had no concept of it. If there was something to climb, he was already halfway up before you could stop him. “I’m testing gravity!” he declared moments before nearly toppling off a chair. He had a habit of getting into things he absolutely shouldn’t—like the time you found him unscrewing the batteries from a clock. When you asked what he was doing, he simply blinked at you and said, “I was fixing it.” The clock, of course, wasn’t even broken.
Despite his chaotic nature, he had a love for building things—Legos, block towers, even pillow forts—but five minutes later, he’d knock them down just to see how they collapsed. And his love for words was just as intense.
The moment he learned a new one, he had to use it. He overheard someone say “catastrophe” once and, for the rest of the day, everything became one. “Oh no, my juice spilled! This is a catastrophe!” he gasped dramatically. You sighed, rubbing your temples, wondering how you were going to survive babysitting him for the rest of the day.
Xavier – The Shy Clingy One
Tiny Xavier was the definition of a koala. He refused to let go of you, always staying within a two-foot radius.
Super shy. The first time you showed up to babysit, he hid behind the couch and peeked out every few minutes, deciding whether or not he trusted you.
Once he warmed up to you, he latched onto your leg and refused to let go. If you moved, he shuffled along with you like a tiny shadow.
Didn’t like loud noises—if someone dropped something, he’d flinch and look up at you with big, watery eyes like the world was ending.
If he was nervous, he’d grip onto the hem of your shirt and hide his face in it. When you asked what was wrong, he’d just mumble, “Too scary…”
But once he felt safe? Total sweetheart. He’d bring you random objects like little toys or stickers and say, “For you.” (Even if it was just a rock he found outside.)
If he fell asleep on your lap, congratulations. You were now permanently stuck because any slight movement would make him whimper in protest.
If Caleb was a walking hurricane, Xavier was your little shadow, never straying more than two feet away from you at any given time. The moment you arrived, he peered at you from behind the couch like a shy kitten, big eyes watching you with quiet caution. You knelt and waved, offering a soft greeting, but he only stared. After a full minute of silence, he finally mumbled, “…Hi,” his voice barely above a whisper.
Once he warmed up to you, though, there was no escape. He clung to you like a second skin, gripping the hem of your shirt whenever you moved. If you sat down, he immediately climbed onto your lap, tucking himself against your chest as if that was where he belonged. Loud noises startled him, and if someone knocked too hard on the door, he buried his face in your sleeve, his small voice trembling. “Too scary…” he whispered, his little fingers curling into your shirt for comfort.
At some point, the warmth and safety of being near you lulled him to sleep, his tiny body curled up against you mid-cuddle. It was absolutely adorable—but also an unexpected problem. The moment you even thought about shifting, he let out the softest, most pitiful whimper, making your heart clench. You sighed in defeat, leaning back into the couch, resigned to being his pillow for the foreseeable future.
Sylus – The Mini Rebel
Sylus was trouble with a capital T. If he was quiet, it meant he was up to something.
Had a mischievous streak a mile long. The second you turned your back, he was either climbing on something, hiding in a cabinet, or sneaking a snack he wasn’t supposed to have.
If you caught him doing something bad and asked, “Did you do this?” he’d just blink up at you with wide, innocent eyes and go, “…Nope.” (Even though his hands were covered in marker ink.)
He LIVED for hide-and-seek, but only when he was the one hiding. One time, you couldn’t find him for a solid twenty minutes—turns out, he had curled up inside a laundry basket and fallen asleep.
If you tried to scold him, he’d give you a cheeky grin and say, “But you love me, right?” How were you supposed to argue with that?!
The only way to bribe him into behaving was snacks. The kid had a bottomless stomach, and as soon as you offered food, he’d (temporarily) behave like a tiny angel.
Sylus was trouble—the kind with a mischievous grin and the speed of a ninja. If he was quiet, it was never a good sign. The first time you turned your back, you caught him halfway up the counter, smirking like he had just pulled off the greatest heist. “Sylus,” you warned, narrowing your eyes. He flashed you an innocent smile. “I’m not doing anything.” Then, before you could stop him, he leapt off like a tiny daredevil, landing with a victorious laugh.
To him, everything was a game. If you told him not to touch something, it instantly became his life’s mission to do exactly that. When you caught him stuffing cookies into his mouth, he gave you the most innocent wide-eyed look, even as crumbs rained from his lips. “What cookies?” he mumbled, feigning confusion. Bath time was another battle entirely. He fought tooth and nail to avoid getting in, but the second he was in the water? He refused to get out. “Five more minutes,” he insisted, splashing playfully.
Five minutes turned into twenty, and by the time you finally dragged him out, he was already planning his next great escape.
The worst, though, was when he disappeared for a full twenty minutes, making you panic. You searched every room, every corner, dreading what kind of trouble he had gotten into—only to find him curled up in the closet, giggling to himself. “I wanted to see how long it’d take for you to find me,” he admitted proudly, as if this was some grand experiment. If he wasn’t so ridiculously cute, you might have throttled him.
Rafayel – The Mini Prince
Even as a toddler, Rafayel acted like he was born royalty. If something wasn’t to his liking, he’d sigh dramatically like he was carrying the weight of the world.
Picky about everything. He refused to eat anything green. If his juice wasn’t in the right cup, he’d just stare at it and say, “This is… unacceptable.”
If you gave him a snack that wasn’t his favorite, he’d politely push it back to you and say, “You can have it.” (Sir, just eat the crackers.)
Didn’t like getting dirty. If he got even a little bit of mud on his hands, he’d hold them out like he was personally offended. “Fix this.”
The drama. If he tripped and scraped his knee? “I fear this is the end for me.” If you brushed his hair wrong? “You’re ruining me.” (Raf, it’s just hair.)
Despite all his complaints, if you gave him a hug or ruffled his hair, he’d get all pouty and pretend he didn’t like it—but his ears would turn red, giving him away.
And then, there was Rafayel. Even as a toddler, he carried himself like a prince—dramatic sighs, picky eating, and a general air of someone who believed he was destined for greater things. While the others ran around causing chaos, he sat elegantly on the couch, watching it all unfold with a quiet, unimpressed expression, as if he were above such childish antics. When you handed him a cup of juice, he barely spared it a glance before sniffing, “This is… unacceptable.” You blinked at him. Sir, it’s literally apple juice. His standards extended to food as well; anything remotely “green” was immediately pushed aside with a solemn shake of his head. “I don’t like green things,” he declared, as though it were a deep-rooted personal tragedy.
Getting him to play was its own battle. He didn’t do “messy” things, and the second his hands got even slightly dirty, he held them out to you with a look of pure distress. “Fix this,” he demanded, eyes pleading yet expectant, as if you were his personal attendant. But despite all his prim and proper habits, he wasn’t entirely immune to affection. When you ruffled his soft hair, he let out a quiet huff, scowling at you—but his ears turned the slightest shade of red, betraying the fact that, maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind it as much as he pretended to.
You deserved an award for surviving a day with these five chaotic toddlers. Between Zayne’s nap-time stubbornness, Caleb’s endless curiosity, Xavier’s clinginess, Sylus’s mischief, and Rafayel’s royal demands, you were EXHAUSTED.
…But when they all eventually fell asleep, curled up in little blankets, you had to admit—maybe they weren’t that bad. (Even if you weren’t signing up for babysitting duty again anytime soon.)
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, descriptions of anxiety and emotional/mental manipulation.
Word count: 4.1k.
Prev
You met Chrollo at an old hole-in-the-wall bookstore that housed archaic texts.
There was little information on your condition, but what material did exist hid itself beneath allegory and ciphers. The best leads came from high strangeness circles. They expanded on Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious, drawing parallels between historical records across cultures and periods that all implied some system that transcended physical limitations. Whether it came from alchemists like Paracelsus, mystics like Crowley, or authors like William Blake, hints of this system can be found sprinkled throughout history.
Chrollo informed you that this system is commonly called ‘Nen.’
Before him, the nomenclature eluded you. You simply regarded it as a phenomenon best kept to yourself. The world’s a weird place, filled with inexplicable things that the human mind can’t always comprehend. This handheld device, which you nicknamed Instant Replay, is the foremost example.
You were always aware that you knew things you shouldn’t have. As a child, it perplexed you. Why do people sometimes sound weird? A few trips to the audiologist proved your hearing is perfectly fine. When this avenue didn’t provide answers, you ended up in counseling, where you reenacted the dilemma with dolls. For a while, you insisted that what you heard was real. It frustrated you to no end that the adults in your life either dismissed you or offered bromides.
As an adult yourself in the present, you can’t blame them for being at a loss.
You smartened up eventually. What you once blabbed about to anyone who would listen, you kept to yourself. This eased the tensions at home. Your parents seemed happy that the issue had ‘resolved’ itself and you maintained the illusion. Playing pretending could only do so much — the core problem remained. Your mind made the connection that when another was being dishonest, that’s when their voice would sound strange. After you realize that, there’s no going back. The epiphany changed how you interacted with others for better and for worse.
“You want to get rid of your ability?” he sounded surprised when he asked.
“How could I not?” you replied. “People lie… a lot. Friends, family, strangers. And, okay, that might not seem bad, but imagine always being aware of it. It— It eats away at you. Wears down your ability to trust. I have to act like I’m none the wiser, knowing full well someone just lied to my face. I don’t want to know! I’m tired of knowing!”
“You’re unable to control when it’s active?”
“Instant Replay lets me ‘review’ audio, both in real-time and after it’s been recorded. I have control over the latter, but that’s it.”
Your antagonistic relationship with Nen fascinated Chrollo. According to him, most people were intentional when it came to crafting their Hatsu. There are very few cases like yours where Hatsu is subconsciously given shape and form. You wish your subconscious had created something more useful, like a sword. That would’ve been cool.
“Could I learn a new ability to oust Instant Replay?” you wondered.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way,” Chrollo dismissed. “In theory, it is possible to learn different abilities, although your inexperience would make that difficult. There’s no way to erase an ability either. You can, however, lose access to it. For instance, there’s my predicament, or…”
He leaned in close and whispered:
“... Someone could steal it.”
-
Chrollo looks out of place in your apartment.
It’s a cozy, lived-in space, full of trinkets that he thoughtfully examines as if he were in the Louvre. Meanwhile, you prepare two cups of tea. Chamomile with honey for you and Earl Grey for him. After setting the timer for five minutes, you realize there’s not much else to do but wait. The silence is unusual and unnerving. Anticipation thrums through the air like an electric current. You feel it coursing through your blood; tingling along your skin.
The barstool you’ve chosen as your perch groans against the wooden floor as you pull it out.
Chrollo picks up a picture for closer inspection. You crane your neck, curious about which snapshot captured his attention. It’s from a night out with friends. Empty plates and drinks littered the table and each of you crowded in close to fit into frame. Since the restaurant was high-end, you were dolled up, adorned in an outfit that rarely saw the light of day.
“Swarovski?” He sounds amused.
“I’ve been known to splurge on the occasion,” you huff. “The necklace was on sale and the earrings were—”
You cut yourself off, although you’re unsure why. It shouldn’t be a taboo topic. Nonetheless, beneath the weight of his gaze, you couldn’t get the word out.
“—From an ex?” He offers.
You nod.
He returns the picture to its proper place, a cryptic smile on his lips. “So even you aren’t above materialistic impulses, hm?”
“There’s a difference between rampant consumerism and buying yourself something nice on occasion,” you retaliate, disliking the edge of mockery in his voice. “I don’t need to hear this from the dude wearing a silver Rolex watch.”
“It’s white gold.”
You roll your eyes. “A camel through the eye of a needle.”
“‘First cast out the beam out of thine own eye.’”
“Do you seriously have the entire King James version of the Bible memorized?”
“It was one of the most accessible texts in my youth,” he says, his smile softening into something pensive. “The missionaries were far more generous with those showing signs of ‘progress.’ I tried helping my companions memorize the more significant passages, but they weren’t what you’d call ideal pupils.”
Missionaries? You purse your lips and consider the implications. Had Chrollo grown up in destitution? Come to think of it, you know very little about him or his background. Unlike you, he never volunteered the information. He skillfully maneuvered around any inquiry into his past. The most you’ve gleaned is that he’s a traveling antiquarian who, in pursuit of valuables, made some enemies along the way.
The shrill shriek of the timer rips you from your thoughts.
Chrollo accepts his mug with a “thank you” and sits on the rightmost side of your coach. After plopping two ice cubes into your concoction, you join him, leaving ample room between you. The nerves from earlier return. He’s an easy man to converse with, but when his mind is preoccupied — as it most certainly is now — you’re at a loss. Do you try reinitiating banter? Opt for a completely different topic? Or should you let him initiative, squirming around until he breaks the thickening tension?
“Have I held you in suspense long enough?” Chrollo asks while holding his hand out. A book with a handprint on the cover appears, the pages flipping too fast for you to gauge their contents.
The quality of his aura temporarily stupefies you. This must be the difference between a novice like yourself and a genius. You can muster up enough aura to summon Instant Replay, but that takes considerable effort. To him, managing the flow of aura comes as easy as breathing. You scooch closer to study his technique. How long would it take you to match his expertise? Years? Decades?
“I’ll get bashful if you keep staring at me like that.”
“Liar,” you accuse without any real malice.
He chuckles.
“Give me your hand.”
Heat rushes to your face as you recall what happened when you last parted. “D-Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
Hesitantly, you do as he requests. He maneuvers your hand against the conjured book’s cover. You gnaw on your bottom lip, trepidation brewing inside your soul. You thought you’d feel relieved when this moment came. There’d be some butterflies, yes, but that would quickly give way to relief and exhilaration. The thorn that’s been in your side all these years is finally coming out. Your quid pro quo has reached its conclusion; this is your reward, your ticket to a normal life.
“I like you too.”
“I’ll be there whenever you need me.”
“It’s okay if you come.”
“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“We’ll always be together.”
Yes, people lie a lot. Sometimes, you’re unsure if they’re even aware of it themselves. They lie to you, the people they love, the people they hate, and themselves. Fate decided you’d be made witness to their folly, sewing your lips shut and eyes wide open. The wounds it left behind are intangible and incurable. How do you heal what you can’t explain knowing to others? How do you explain your hesitation, shift in demeanor, and inadequate coverup?
The sound of Instant Replay whirring reverberates throughout your skull.
Chrollo speaks your name softly. You startle, realizing that you’re blinking back tears.
“I—”
“It’s alright,” he reassures. The words sound crisp — genuine — soothing your budding concern that you’re inconveniencing him somehow. In an instant, the hardcover dissipates, leaving your hand flat against nothing. Chrollo takes the opportunity to come closer. When you don’t protest, he completely closes the distance, until you’re thigh to thigh.
He smells good. Intoxicatingly so.
“Show me the ability you despise so much, dear.”
Dear? You think to protest the emergence of this nickname, yet you can’t bring yourself to. Instead, you follow his order, mechanically lifting your arm and summoning your ability much like he had.
“Good. It’s almost over with,” he brushes the wetness away from your eyes with his knuckles. Your heart leaps at the contact. “Finally, I have to ask about your ability. There are so many possibilities… what to choose, what to choose… ah.”
With the same hand that wiped away your nascent tears, he cups your cheek.
“Do you trust a man like me with such a dangerous ability?”
“I have my reservations,” you respond. You don’t miss the amusement he derives from your candidness. “This sounds bad, but… at this point, I guess I just don’t care.”
For a moment, all is still. There’s no odor of sulfur, maniacal cackling, or declaration that the ritual is complete. You didn’t have to sign a contract in blood or swear an oath to an infernal being. Your overactive imagination ran numerous scenarios through your head. The lack of flair over this life-defining moment is almost underwhelming. You frown, fearing that there was an error somewhere along the way. If there was, he’s given no indication, yet you’ll remain restless until the results are confirmed.
“Chrollo?”
“Hm?”
“Did it work?”
“It did, love.”
“Could you, um,” you lick your lips, a motion that draws his attention. “Make something up so I can know for sure?”
This request amuses him.
“How will you know if I’m being honest to mess around with you or not?”
At this, you give him a light shove. Given his apparent playfulness, you expected him to move back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. It felt like trying to move a concrete building.
“Make it an obvious lie, then.”
“An obvious lie, hm?” He mulls over your suggestion. “Very well. How about this: I don’t want you beneath me.”
You gape at him, dumbstruck.
“I find it easy to control my urges around you.”
He keeps going.
“I’m unmoved by your beauty…”
He gently pushes your shoulders until you’re lying down.
“... Your wit…”
He hovers above you, tracing the outline of your lips with his pointer finger.
“... And boundless charm.”
Chrollo tilts your head up by your chin. “Well? Do you believe me now?”
Slowly, as if in a daze, you nod. Your heart lurches, the organ beating loud enough to hear in your ears. You feel uncomfortably warm, like your heater’s been cranked to the highest setting. Gradually, the violent joy you expected to accompany your liberation abounds, starting at your chest and overflowing outward. You’re smiling, breathless, your corporeal form barely able to contain the glee. You see your reflection in Chrollo’s eyes. There’s a manic quality to your countenance; you barely recognize yourself.
You’re free, you’re free, you’re free—
His lips find yours. Your cognition short circuits, leaving you in a reverie where you can barely understand what’s happening. He handles you so carefully that it’s easy to forget you’re physically trapped. He carries on, either failing to notice your apprehension or disregarding it.
On some level, you’ve always sensed this underlying attraction. You remained purposefully obtuse. There was too much at stake — jeopardizing your aims for a fling felt counterintuitive. On paper, he’d make for the ideal partner. He’s devilishly handsome, charismatic, and intelligent to a fault. Aside from some dubious morality, you couldn’t ask for a better suitor.
And still, hesitation prevailed.
Every now and then, there’d be glimpses of some great, existential threat, beneath the fissures of his porcelain mask. These glimpses gave you pause. You think he could’ve tried harder to hide these damning qualities, yet chose not to. Where’s the fun — the thrill — in always playing nice? You needed his help more than he needed yours. His connections spanned continents, whereas yours were shallow and easy to uproot.
How many of your convictions would you compromise?
How far would you let the poison spread to cure another affliction?
How can you look down on him if you’ve fallen to the same level?
When he pulls away, you avert your gaze, fearing what stares back.
“... So you are afraid of me, then.”
Chrollo lets you wriggle out from underneath him. When your eyes make brief contact, it feels like he’s inspecting you, as if you were a specimen in a petri dish. It isn’t the reaction you’d expect from a rejected man. Nonetheless, you’re on edge and longing for a menial task to occupy yourself with. Recalling the state of the kitchen, you decide that will suffice.
He remains seated as you wash and dry the implements used to make your tea.
This uncharacteristic silence unsettles you further. The only audible sound in your apartment is your faucet, the water running over silverware that’s plenty clean. You scrub at it harder, wondering what you should do next. Originally, you intended to thank him for his pivotal role in removing your burden. You never would have made it this far without his assistance. Even with this strange atmosphere, your gratitude remains unwavering.
You’ll be able to live life like anyone else now. It’s an accomplishment worthy of celebration, regardless of the twists and turns along the way. Maybe he misinterpreted your body language or acted on an impulse. These mistakes can happen when emotions run high.
Okay, you think, psyching yourself up. This doesn’t have to be weird. I can—
“Have you given much thought over last week’s unpleasantness?”
Your heart skips a beat and your shoulders droop.
“I assume you haven’t,” he says. “That’s fair. It must’ve been frightening… I wish I could have spared you such an experience.”
The appreciation he previously instilled in you desiccates, drop by drop.
“Will you please get to the point?”
Under different circumstances, you would’ve been more patient with his preamble, but this is a sore subject. A buried corpse like that shouldn’t be exhumed. His reasoning, though elusive to you now, doesn’t inspire warm sentiments.
“That incident won’t be the last of its kind.”
You turn around as he approaches, sipping his tea. He leans against the counter and eyes you over the cup’s rim.
“In truth, we should’ve left hours ago, but I was feeling sentimental.”
“‘We?’ Chrollo, what are you talking about?”
“Had it not been for your role in getting my Nen back, Hisoka would’ve killed you,” Chrollo says this so casually that you question if you’re hearing him right. “Now that you’ve done your part, he has a vested interest in doing so.”
You no longer have a way to verify if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s so stupid, so unfair, that you almost laugh. Instant Replay no longer heeds your call. You surrendered it to a new master, who, before taking it from your willing hands, all but told you he was the worst person you could’ve picked.
Chrollo continues, “He’s a peculiar case. All he cares about is fighting formidable opponents, and, with my Nen returned, I am one.”
You take a step back.
“That business is between you two. I fail to see how this involves me.”
“I have preparations to finish before I face him,” Chrollo explains. “He doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Harming you is an excellent way to speed things along. Even I don’t know what I’d do if you were fatally injured.”
You shake your head. “I— you’re not serious. There’s just no way. I’m moving past all of this bullshit. Nen, Hatsu, whatever; that has nothing to do with me anymore. I’m done.”
“I’m sorry, dear.”
“No, you aren’t!” Your voice raises in pitch, pulled as taut as a bowstring. “You knew, didn’t you? That this would be a problem? Oh, oh, you had to, why else would you have acted all weird when you saw him? Stop looking at me like you care, like you’re sorry, 'cause this is the best-case scenario for you!”
You pace back and forth, your mind racing. This was a mistake. Walking up to him because you recognized the book in his hands was a mistake. Is he bluffing? And if he is, does it matter? You can’t put up a fight. You don’t think you could even make it to the door. If he was a regular man, you’d have options. You could yell for help, call the cops, and inflict some damage, minor as it may be. All those tactics turn to ash before an oppressive, incomprehensible force like this.
You snap your head in his direction. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“I don’t see how that will help.”
You prepare to spew vitriol his way, when a dreadful thought shoots through you like a bullet.
“My family. What about them? Won’t they be in danger too?”
“They aren’t on his radar.”
“How do you know that?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” Chrollo sets the cup down. “The suffering of your loved ones wouldn’t elicit a reaction from me, so he won’t bother. Targeting you is the wisest option.”
Words fail you. Is this it? The depravity he kept subdued finally let loose, so dense in its quality that it threatens to suffocate you? All you wanted was a semblance of normalcy. Normal relationships, interactions, and problems. Has the path you’ve treaded brought you further away from this humble aspiration? Or is there still a way, some faint silver lining that you must find and latch onto?
“What about after?”
“Hm?”
“After Hisoka is dealt with,” you clarify, tapping your foot repeatedly. “You’re not going to let him live, are you?”
“That’s rather dark.”
“Chrollo,” you implore.
“No, I won’t,” he confirms. “As for what comes next — I intend to persuade you.”
You regard him with suspicion. His tone and the implications sink into you like a venomous bite. He exudes quiet confidence, indicating that nothing you’ve said will influence him in any meaningful way. Dread sticks to your stomach, making your body feel heavy. You hug yourself, clenching your upper arms with shaky fingers. Any lingering excitement from earlier has vaporized, leaving behind a profound hollowness.
“I suppose this can go a few ways,” you murmur. “I could cause as many headaches for you as possible, or, I could be decent enough.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’d like to have Instant Replay back,” you say. He quirks an eyebrow. “Just for a bit. What? I’m assuming if you can steal something, you can give it back, right?”
“You’d be correct. Still, that begs the question; what are you intending to accomplish with this little scheme?”
“Nothing that’ll inconvenience you in any major way.”
Chrollo falls silent. You dig your nails into your flesh as the seconds drag on, awaiting his verdict. If he had your ability activated, he should’ve been able to discern your honesty. Then again, he’s aware of the workarounds. To ensure your words wouldn’t register as untrue, you had to remain vague and subjective. What you consider an inconvenience could differ drastically from him.
“I’m sure I won’t regret this.”
Your eyes widen. That dissonant timbre is unmistakable, he returned your ability! Filled with newfound resolve, you stride toward him, your eyes blazing. This is your chance. You need to make the most of this opening before it’s gone forever. He could choose not to answer any of your questions, but something tells you he won’t, like it’d injure his pride. You issued him a challenge and he’s intent on meeting it.
“Did you have anything to do with what happened last week?”
“I didn’t.”
“Did Hisoka?”
“No, he just happened to be observing you from afar.”
“Why?”
“For his personal amusement, I’d wager.”
“He’d really kill me just to… agitate you?”
“It’s in line with his character.”
You swallow thickly and press on.
“And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’m wrong. Regardless, you’ll be alive and well.”
“Can you win against him in a fight?”
“Yes.”
“And if you somehow lose, what happens next?”
“My companions will hunt him down and kill him.”
Now that you’ve gotten your most pressing inquiries out of the way, you decide to wade through dangerous waters. Chrollo likely saw the benefit in assuaging your doubt, these next questions provide him nothing substantial. His willingness to humor you is undoubtedly finite. Keeping this in mind, you consider the possibilities. You may never have a chance like this again. Is there anything that can give you an advantage? You’ll take anything, no matter how small, even if all it offers is an illusion of control.
Chrollo glances at his watch in a not-so-subtle motion.
“Who sealed your Nen?”
“Now this is more what I expected,” he hums. His eyes take on a bright, unsettling shade. “An individual with a longstanding grudge. Your paths will not cross, I suggest adopting another plan of attack.”
He saw right through you. You knew it was a long shot, but collaborating with this mysterious figure would have proven advantageous. They must be powerful in their own right to have bested Chrollo. Should you try pressing for more information? Then again, Chrollo doesn’t seem keen on sharing more, much to your chagrin.
What does that leave you with…?
“How do you plan on ‘persuading’ me?”
“You’re better off not knowing until we get to that point.”
You frown. If that didn’t register as a lie, it must be what he genuinely believes. Curiosity plagues you, dredging up anxiety. You have but a few grains of sand left in the hourglass remaining. It’s suspended midair, poised to drop at the most ill-timed moment. The approach of the end is worse than its inevitable arrival. You now have the chance to hasten its onset, at the risk of being debilitated by the impact. What lows would he resort to? Are you actually better off remaining ignorant?
“Alright, let’s—”
“Does it hurt to know I’ll never love you?”
Up until this point, he’s fired back with a near instant response. This time, however, he hesitates, the invasive nature of the inquiry necessitating careful thought. You finally found an effective ‘attack.’ It’s too late to do you any lasting good, but you greedily devour it nonetheless. When dealing with a person of Chrollo’s caliber, it’s easy to forget he possesses the same human qualities you do. You might be unable to stop his heart from beating, but you can make the organ ache.
“I can live with it, dear.”
You pinch your eyebrows together, thrown off by his voice’s clarity. Is the knowledge that inconsequential to him? Have you misjudged his attachment? While considering this, you flex your fingers, concentrating your aura there. You can’t repeat his words back since Instant Replay wasn’t recording, but you still decide to conjure it. You’ll record what remains of this conversation to ensure you don’t miss anything else.
The flow of your aura halts at your wrist, refusing to take form. Frowning, you try again, only to realize he must have reclaimed your ability.
When did that happen? Was it before or after his response?
Chrollo says your name, regaining your attention. “I fulfilled my end of the bargain. Will you do the same?”
After playing the role of the interrogator, you’re back to being an inmate. You meant what you said — when you said it, that is. This is yet another loophole to subvert Instant Replay. What’s true to you in one instant can change in the next. It’s frightening how fast he’s learned these nuances that took you years to test and discover. He’s already making the most of your ability, turning what was a thorn in your side into a full-fledged dagger.
“What choice do I have?”
“There’s always a choice,” Chrollo asserts. “You just have a habit of making the wrong ones.”
TW: Yandere Behaviors, Reader Dies, Suicide, Improper use of medication, Medical AU, Noncon, Infantalization, Miscarriage, Narcotics, Captivity, Forced Relationship, Reader is going through it, MDNI, ANGST. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
A/n: thank you @pink-cakes-and-treats for listening to me ramble about my thoughts about this so much, also for the rest of you that asked for a good ending...here it is.
The world felt too big. The lights, too bright. The bed beneath you, too vast, swallowing you whole. Falling down a well—like Alice tumbling into the unknown—yet instead of cold air slicing past, warmth enveloped every inch, layers of soft blankets cocooned you in a thick comfort that verged on suffocation. Yet, beneath it all, something in your mind felt irrevocably wrong.
As if your mind was drowning in an ocean of disorientated static.
The kind that crinkles and crackles like an old television screen, sizzling along the edges of your skull, humming against your bones in waves of distant white noise. Thoughts tried to rise, tried to form, but they slipped too easily through the curves of your mind - dripping down, vanishing into the untethered abyss of memories that refused to take shape.
Nothing was sticking. It hadn’t for the past few days. Nothing made sense. Blinking felt laborious, each movement sluggish, your lashes weighed down as sterile overhead lights glared harshly, searing your retinas with their artificial glow. You tried to focus, but the world refused to stay still—softening, sharpening, then blurring again—flickering in and out like the remnants of a half-forgotten dream.
Something was wrong.
Your limbs refused to obey, heavy and unresponsive, as if they no longer belonged to you. A dull, insistent pressure pressed into your temples, pulsing in time with the faint, rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a nearby monitor.
Where… are you?
Your mind scrambled, clawing through the fog, reaching for something—anything—solid. But all it found was emptiness. A hollow absence where something important should be.
A scream echoed in the distance.
No, not a sound. Not a noise.
A feeling.
A desperate, clawing, silent terror digging its fingers into your ribs, shaking you, demanding that you -
Wake up.
Nothing answered.
The panic, slow and insidious, seeped in, curling its fingers around your throat. Your pulse quickened, your breath hitched - your body recognized the fear before your mind could. You knew something was wrong. Something inside you knew.
You tried to shift, but your muscles refused to cooperate. A dull ripple of discomfort ran through you, a sluggish protest of aching limbs and numb skin - Fingers tightened around your hand.
The sensation shot through you like an electric shock, sharp and immediate. Heat pressed against your palm, the unmistakable warmth of lips brushing over your skin in something gentle - something aching.
You forced your head to turn, each movement sluggish, uncoordinated - like swimming through molasses. The world lagged behind, colors smearing at the edges of your vision until, finally, your gaze settled on— White hair. Snow-bright. Almost glowing beneath the sterile fluorescent lights, like some ethereal specter - an angel poised between salvation and sorrow.
Were you dead?
For a moment, the thought lingered. A part of you almost wished it were true. Anything to quiet the thing inside you - the thing that clawed at your ribs, wove its fingers through your veins, coiling tighter with every shallow breath. A restless, insatiable presence, scratching against your heartstrings, whispering in a voice you couldn’t quite decipher.
Anxious. Begging.
Something was trying to break free.
And then - blue. Eyes like a summer sky far too brilliant, too sharp, slicing through the haze searching your face for answers, longing.
Satoru.
Your best friend.
But something was wrong.
His eyes, why were they red? Had he been crying?
A flicker of confusion stirred in your chest, Satoru didn’t cry. Satoru would grin, laugh, and tease. Satoru was the playful, loveable one, yet he was watching you, unmoving, the grip on your hand tight. His long, pale fingers trembled. Soft pink lips moved, forming words too soft to reach you, soundless incantations spilling from his mouth - A prayer or perhaps even a curse. Just barely, like a breath stolen by the wind, a name fell from his lips.
"Suguru."
The name slipped through the air, familiar yet somehow distant.
Suguru?
Ah, your husband. Warmth unfurled in your chest, small and fragile, like the dying embers of a long-burning fire. Satoru and Suguru - best friends since forever. If Satoru was here, then Suguru must be too. Right?
Suguru. Your Suguru. Sweet, kindhearted, safe.
But something inside you—that thing, that restless, clawing monster curled deep beneath your ribs—shrieked. A wrongness slithered through your thoughts. A dissonance, like a note played off-key, as if looking at a picture you knew should be whole but seeing only fractures. Your mind reached for him, for the feeling of him, the strength in those steady hands of his. A memory struggled to surface, rising through the fog breaching the suffice as the drowning thing it was grasping for air.
Documents. A trembling hand. Ink smudged against paper. Fingers curled too tightly around a pen.
The monster inside you thrashed.
Then…softness.
A smile, small and instinctual, formed before you even understood why.
Oh. Right.
Your marriage license.
So why did something in you still scream?
You had been so nervous that day. Your hands had trembled so badly that Suguru had to cover them with his own, guiding your fingers across the paper. Helping you sign because you couldn’t stop shaking. So why did the memory feel like it was slipping through your grasp like something was missing or wrong?
"Hey, princess"
Satoru’s voice rang as it pulled you back to the present, light and teasing, laced with an unsteady waver in each trembling word. His grin—boyish, familiar—was wobbly at the edges as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead.
Why wouldn’t this feeling go away?
This dread. This creature inside you burning so brightly.
"Sa-toru," your voice rasped. The syllables felt wrong in your mouth, tongue sluggish as it rolled through the vowels, throat too dry choking on every sound. Words weren’t coming out the way they should.
Why weren’t things working?
Why did everything feel wrong?
Satoru clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rested his chin in his palm.
"Y’know, princess, you had me worried there. I was this close to calling it - figured you were done for, gonna leave me stuck with him for the rest of my life."
An exaggerated pout lined his lips that did little to mask the way his fingers twitched. You blinked at him, the words slow to process. The fog in your mind hadn’t lifted, not really, but something about his presence felt safe, reliable, a lighthouse in this haze.
"Sa-toru," you rasped again, the name tasting foreign in your mouth. His teasing grin twitched, faltered for just a second before he leaned in closer, his bright blue eyes flickering over your face like he was mapping out every change, every shift in your expression.
"That’s me, sweetheart," he said smoothly, flashing you a grin as if he wasn’t completely unraveling inside. "Figured you’d miss me first - ‘course you would, I’m your favorite, right?"
Something about that didn’t feel right. Not wrong, exactly, but something tugged at you, something missing, something empty.
Wake up. That voice, those claws continued deep inside you. Scratching, crawling to the surface just to plummet back down to the abyss. You frowned, trying to focus, the ache in your skull pulsed harder, pushing your thoughts back down before you could grasp them. Satoru exhaled, watching you struggle, and his smile softened just slightly.
"Okay, let’s run some tests, yeah?" he murmured, voice dropping into something more careful, more measured. But then, like a switch, his teasing lilt returned, masking that fear rescinding inside himself. "Don’t worry, princess, this is just to make sure your brain didn’t completely short-circuit. Wouldn’t want you drooling on yourself just yet."
You scowled, the reaction automatic, and Satoru’s grin widened like he’d just won something.
"Oh? Look at that! Someone’s still got some bite in ‘em," he mused, his thumb lazily stroking the back of your hand. "Maybe you didn’t fry up there after all."
Your scowl deepened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. His bedside manners truly needed some work.
"Alright, first test, nice and easy," he said, holding up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
You stared. It should’ve been simple. Easy.
But the answer didn’t come.
Your head throbbed, thoughts slipping like water through your fingers, the shape of numbers nothing but static in your mind. The more you tried to force the answer, the further it slipped, like trying to remember a dream the second you wake up.
Your breathing hitched. Your stomach turned.
"I—" The syllable barely escaped, weak, unsure.
Satoru didn’t move, didn’t rush you, just hummed under his breath, as if he had already expected this.
"No biggie, don’t stress it," he said, waving his fingers dismissively. "It’s not like I needed you to count anyway. I can do that all by myself."
The teasing should’ve been annoying. Instead, it kept the panic from swallowing you whole. Kept that beast inside you from crawling through your throat. Kept the tears at bay.
"Let’s try something else," he continued smoothly. He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to think, then pointed at you with a smirk. "What’s your name?"
A simple question. The simplest of all.
But nothing came.
The realization hit you like ice water, a slow, creeping horror climbing up your spine.
Your mouth parted, but no words formed.
You knew you had a name—you should know it—but it was like trying to grasp smoke. It slipped through your fingers and refused to stick. Your lips trembled, breath catching in your throat.
Satoru saw it.
And for the first time, his expression truly faltered.
The smirk faded.
The playful gleam in his eyes dulled, just slightly. His long, pale fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours before he clicked his tongue, releasing your hand, and leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as none of this bothered him in the slightest.
"Wow. You really did a number on yourself, huh? Forgetting your name? Tsk, tsk, princess." He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Guess I’ll have to give you a new one."
You stared at him, heart still hammering, but his words pulled you just enough from the sinking pit of panic.
"Ooooh, how about ‘Dumpling’? No, wait—Sunshine—nah, too generic." He tapped his chin in mock thought. "Oh! I know - ‘Satoru’s Favorite Person in the Whole Wide World.’ Bit of a mouthful, but you’ll get used to it."
Despite the terror twisting in your chest, something about his voice -ridiculous, insufferable voice - kept you from spiraling completely.
"What about Suguru?"
The question was quieter. Measured. Satoru’s teasing lilt softened, but his gaze didn’t leave your face. The name struck something inside you, something distant, something deep. Suguru. Your husband. Your sweet, kindhearted husband. And like a memory from another lifetime, you saw him—Suguru’s hands over yours. Suguru whispering against your temple. Suguru’s voice, warm and fond, calling you—
"Of course," you murmured, a small smile ghosting your lips. "Suguru… he’s my husband."
For a second, the room felt too still.
Satoru didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Then, with a slow exhale, he slumped forward, forehead pressing against the blankets beside your hand.
"Shit," he whispered, voice muffled.
You blinked at him, confused.
"What’s wrong?"
He shook his head against the various plush blankets, a groan escaping his lips as he burrowed his face deeper into the sheets.
"Nothing," he muttered. "You remembered Suguru. That’s… good."
His fingers curled into the sheets, gripping them tightly, his shoulders stiff. Then, just as quickly, he snapped back up, plastering a lopsided grin on his face like he wasn’t just falling apart a second ago.
"Well, that settles it. You’re half-broken, but we’ll work with what we’ve got." He reached over and flicked your forehead - lightly, but enough to make your brow furrow. "I’ll go get Suguru. Pretty sure he’ll be happy you didn’t wake up hating his guts."
Something about the way he said it felt wrong.
But you didn’t get the chance to ask, because Satoru was already standing, stretching dramatically before turning toward the door. Before he stepped out, his voice dropped to something almost too soft to hear.
"Suguru better be right about this."
And then he was gone. The room felt different without him. Too still, too empty. The kind of silence that settled under your skin, stretched itself thin over your ribs, pressing into your lungs. Satoru was gone for what felt like forever. Time moved strangely, warping at the edges as you lay there, staring at the IV in your arm, the slow drip of liquid pooling into your veins. The steady tick of the clock anchored you, but barely. Each second bled into the next, a sluggish, drawn-out eternity. You tried closing your eyes, hoping that would at least calm the unease curling in your chest. Instead, the moment your lids shut, scorches of bright light flashed behind them, too sharp, too sudden, forcing you to snap them open again.
A headache threatened to bloom, but something else lingered beneath it.
A feeling.
The faintest echo of something soft - a kiss pressed to your forehead, warm, familiar. Muscle memory, perhaps. A habit long-engrained, something your body recognized even when your mind couldn’t.
You turned your head slightly, catching sight of the mirror on the far side of the room.
That was… you.
Your reflection blinked back at you, dazed and uncertain. Recognition flickered, though it felt distant, like staring at a childhood home you hadn't visited in years.
At least you knew yourself. That had to mean something.
A soft exhale escaped your lips, burrowing deeper into the blankets, allowing the warmth to cocoon you. Suguru would be here soon. He would make everything better. He always did. And Satoru…
Satoru was a good friend.
You let your gaze drift to the ceiling, counting the tiny, glowing stars plastered there. Numbers didn’t come easily, slipping from your grasp the same way your name had earlier, but you kept looking anyway, following each little dot of light like it might steady the tremor beneath your ribs.
Outside, voices broke the stillness.
Muffled, tense.
The walls weren’t thick enough to block them out completely, though the words slipped in and out, only fragments reaching you.
"You said - "
"—not how it was supposed to go—"
"Things aren’t okay - "
Something about the tone sent a shiver crawling up your spine. That monster deep inside you sank into the abyss once more. As if the conversation, it recognized, recognized more things than you did.
The door creaked open, and there stood Suguru.
Another wave of warmth spread through your chest, comforting and safe, even as something deep inside you—a creature you couldn't name—trembled in fear. You could almost hear it, a faint, howling whisper buried beneath the haze of your thoughts, clawing at your ribs as if warning you of something you couldn’t remember.
But Suguru’s presence made you feel safe.
Suguru had always been your safe place.
Hadn’t he? Still, something was… off. Not because of the quiet, caged thing inside you, not because of some nameless fear pressing against the back of your mind.
No—Suguru.
He stood there, unmoving, his violet eyes flickering between something unreadable and something that looked dangerously close to relief. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, like he had been holding it in for years.
Like he hadn’t seen you in years.
But… you had seen him.
Hadn’t you?
When was the last time?
The question fluttered through your thoughts, weightless and empty, and yet, before you could grasp it, it was gone, slipping through your fingers like water.
After what felt like an eternity—though time had started to feel strange, stretched and warped—his shoulders dropped. The tension in his frame melted away, his entire body sagging, the rigid set of his jaw loosening just slightly.
And then he moved.
Slow steps carried him to your bedside, where you lay wrapped in layers of soft, warm blankets.
"Angel," he breathed.
His voice cracked.
Something in your chest lurched at the sound.
You shifted, instinctively trying to sit up, but the IV in your arm tugged, the discomfort sharp enough to make your breath stutter.
And suddenly—he was there.
Fast. Too fast. One hand curled around your arm, firm but careful, the other settling on your back, steadying you before you could even sway. His grip was secure, protective, possessive a cocktail of something you couldn’t place in that haze of your mind as the abyss swirled with his touch- his touch that sent something warm and sweet through you, like a childhood memory of being tucked into bed on a stormy night, soft whispers and gentle reassurances lulling you to sleep.
"Take it easy," he soothed, his voice dipped in honey, smooth and low. Suguru’s hands adjusted, shifting just slightly but never letting go, steadying you in a way that felt like he would never let you fall. He was close now, too close, his body angled toward yours in a way that blocked out the rest of the room. Like nothing beyond this—beyond you—mattered.
Had it ever? Your eyes flickered up, searching his face, your gaze tracing over the deep bags beneath his eyes, the tight line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he gripped the sheets.
How long had he been here?
"How are you feeling?" His voice— gentle, tender—but there was something in it, something that made your heart stumble. You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to sort through your scattered thoughts, sluggish and slow-moving.
"Weird."
Suguru let out a soft exhale—something dangerously close to a laugh—but it was shaky, unsteady, as if the sound was unraveling at the edges. Like he was barely keeping himself together. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow and rhythmic, back and forth, back and forth, as if memorizing the shape of it.
"That’s okay," he murmured, voice like silk, voice like love. His eyes, impossibly soft, and devoted, never once strayed from yours.
"You’re still waking up. Just take your time, angel. I’m right here."
His patience felt endless.
Hadn’t he always been like this?
Always patient, always yours?
Suguru's hand tightened around your wrist, his grip not bruising, but firm, like he needed the contact like he needed to feel you to believe you were still here. His voice was barely more than a whisper, trembling at the edges.
"I was so scared," he breathed.
You blinked up at him, caught in the sheer weight of his words.
"Scared?"
Suguru exhaled slowly, shakily. His fingers loosened just enough to lift your hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed there was soft, lingering, his breath ghosting over your skin like a prayer, like he was worshipping you like he was pleading.
"God, angel," he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut, "you don’t know how close I was to losing you."
Your heart stumbled.
"Losing me?" The words felt foreign on your tongue, heavy with confusion.
Suguru nodded, his grip tightening again as his violet eyes flickered open, searching yours, as if he was willing you to remember, to understand.
"You don’t remember, do you?"
Your breath caught in your throat. You did your best to remember - tried to grasp at the scattered pieces in your mind, but they slipped away, crumbling to dust before you could hold onto anything solid. There was something there, something lingering at the edges of your consciousness, but no matter how hard you reached, it refused to take shape.
Suguru saw it—the way you struggled, the way you faltered—and something in his face broke. His lips parted, his expression shattering into something raw and aching.
"You tried to leave me."
A chill slithered down your spine.
"W-what?"
Suguru swallowed hard. His hands trembled. "The pills," he whispered, voice thick, pained. Those thick large fingers of his curled around yours, holding tighter, like if he let go, you’d slip away again. "You, angel, you tried to overdose. We almost lost you."
Your body went still.
The words didn’t fit.
They didn’t belong.
Would you…?
Could you…?
Suguru let out another slow, shaky exhale, his forehead dipping forward until it rested against your temple. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him, his warmth engulfing you completely.
"Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting so much?" he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it.
He sounded wrecked.
Like you had broken him.
His breath was warm against your skin, his arms unmovable, his body curled around yours as if he could shield you from something neither of you could name. Your lips parted, but no words came.
Nothing.
Just blank spaces where memories should be. You felt empty, a hollow shell carved out by something you didn’t remember.
"I—" You tried, but the words dissolved before they could form.
Suguru didn’t let go.
For what felt like an eternity, he just held you, his breath slow, measured, as if forcing himself to stay calm. As if keeping himself from falling apart completely. When he finally pulled back, his hands cradled your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones in slow, gentle motions. His violet eyes burned with something deep, something fierce, something terrifyingly devoted. "But it’s okay now," he whispered, "because I’m here. I’m always going to be here." His voice was steady, "You’re safe, angel. I won’t let anything happen to you ever again."
His gaze bore into you, worshipped you.
"You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything, just like I always have."
And hadn’t he?
Hadn’t Suguru always taken care of you?
Hadn’t he always put you first?
Hadn’t he always loved you more than anything?
an ache in your chest arose as your mind filled with a foggy, static mess, but Suguru’s hands were warm, his lips soft as he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.
"I love you so much," he whispered, the words breaking against your skin.
A few weeks passed before your release. There had been a lot of physical therapy, a lot of sessions where doctors asked you questions that felt like puzzles you couldn’t quite piece together. A lot of memories blurred at the edges, details slipping into the haze that seemed to return at odd moments, as if your mind was deliberately keeping things just out of reach.
But you weren’t worried.
Because you had Suguru.
And Suguru always took care of you.
It helped that the hospital belonged to him—or at least, that’s what you gathered. Suguru worked here, of course he did, and with Satoru’s family organization owning and operating the place, it meant you were given special treatment.
For being his favorite girl.
For being their favorite girl.
You spent most of your days with Satoru. He liked to keep you company in the common room, always finding ways to make you laugh, always draping himself over you as if the weight of his presence alone could keep you somewhat sane.
It was never crowded here.
In fact…
There weren’t any other patients. It was something you had noticed a while ago but had never questioned.
Maybe you should have.
But why would you?
Suguru said the quiet was good for your recovery - Suguru always knew best.
So, instead, you sat cross-legged at the small table in the sunlit common room, a coloring book open in front of you, half-finished pages of soft, delicate flowers filling the space. Satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the table as he lazily twirled a crayon between his fingers, the light from the window casting a golden hue over his white hair. You looked up at him, a bright smile tugging at your lips. The words came out soft, still feeling a little foreign on your tongue.
"I drew purple flowers. What color did you do?"
Satoru’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. It was quick, so quick you almost didn’t notice. A small inhale, barely audible, his fingers tightening slightly around the half-yellow crayon in his hand.
"Mmm," he hummed after a pause, looking down at his page, "I was gonna make you daisies." His voice was light, casual, that boyish grin sliding back into place, but something about it felt off.
His eyes - that same sparkling blue that had always been so bright, so mischievous, looked just a little duller than before. And then, before you could dwell on it, Satoru shifted, draping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close like he always did, like it was easy.
"I was thinking about making some stars or cranes for Suguru," you mused, flipping the crayon between your fingers. "He’s been asking for stuff! You know, when we were together, I used to handmake him things. Guess he misses it!"
You laughed, soft, cheerful, letting the warmth of nostalgia curl around your words like a fond memory.
Satoru didn’t laugh.
You caught the way his expression twitched. His bright eyes dimmed again, the usual teasing remark he would have had on his tongue never coming. Instead, his grip around you tightened just slightly, fingers curling where they rested on your arm.
That quiet thing inside you—the one that had been utterly still these past few weeks—shifted.
Like déjà vu.
Like something on the edge of remembrance.
Like something that wasn’t right.
Satoru was too quiet.
And deep inside you—somewhere distant, somewhere buried—the monster inside you howled.
At first, you had been confused.
You don’t remember falling asleep.
One moment, you were coloring—soft petals filling the page, Satoru’s voice teasing at your ear. Then, darkness. Not sleep, not quite, but a gap, a missing frame between memories. And now - movement. The slow, rolling sensation beneath you. The low hum of tires against pavement. The world around you felt wrong, stretched and distorted at the edges, like waking
You weren’t sure if you were moving or if the world itself was folding around you.
No, think.
You had to think - you can’t lose your marbles yet. Something felt off, but your thoughts were molasses-thick, sluggish, slipping away before you could catch them. You forced your eyes open. The brightness stung. The world blurred and wavered, swimming between sharpness and distortion, colors smearing together like wet paint. Everything felt slow, too slow, like time itself was stretched thin. Shapes surrounded you, unfamiliar, shifting. Your mind reached for something familiar, something solid, but the haze wrapped around you like a noose, muffling every sensation. Choking out every sensation.
Something pressed against your cheek—warmth. A body beside you.
It was familiar.
Reassuring, perhaps. A slow, curling unease rippled through you, too faint to grasp, too distant to matter. You blinked, the action feeling thick and heavy, like your eyelids had been weighted down. A figure hovered above you—dark hair, neatly tied. Lips moving, speaking, but the words were empty, soundless, lost in the static humming at the edges of your consciousness.
You could hear them.
But you couldn’t understand them.
The words dissolved before they could take shape, vanishing into the white noise fizzing along the surface of your thoughts.
Something was wrong.
The realization wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t a sudden spike of awareness, but a dull, sinking weight settling in your stomach, curling through your limbs. Like a shadow stretching across the floor, creeping slowly, methodically, until it swallowed everything. Your gaze drifted sideways, slow, disconnected. There was another presence beside you, a hand resting on your thigh. Your vision wavered, struggling to focus. White hair. A shape, a figure—Satoru?
That wasn’t right.
His touch felt off.
It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t familiar.
If it were Suguru’s, that would be familiar. Suguru is your—
Your what? The word was there, just for a second. Bright and fleeting, flickering at the edges of your mind, a puzzle piece slipping into place—and then it was gone. A void swallowed it whole. Your mind reached for it, frantic and desperate, but it was missing, ripped away, replaced with nothing but static.
The car rumbled on, steady, unwavering.
Right.
You were in a car.
Going… where?
You tried to part your lips, force the sound from your throat, but nothing came. Not silence—something worse—deep, dragging inability, like your voice had been stolen, like your body was no longer yours to command.
You felt wrong.
Heavy. Detached. Like your limbs weren’t really connected to you, as the space between thought and action had stretched too far. Every movement, even the simple act of breathing, felt slow, distant, and delayed. Something sharp flashed behind your eyes—white light, searing, electric. A crackling hum, a sharp sting like a wire had been pressed too deep beneath your skin. The darkness inside you curled inward, folding in on itself. It whimpered now, weak, small, drowning beneath the weight of something you didn’t understand.
Something was wrong.
You felt it pressing at the back of your skull, something deep and instinctive, something your body recognized even if your mind couldn’t. The fabric against your skin was soft. Loose. Suguru’s sweatpants. That much, at least, felt real. Your eyes dragged toward Satoru again. It took forever, like pushing through water, like forcing yourself to move through a world that didn’t want to stay still.
He was angled toward the window, head tilted white hair in his eyes, chin propped against his palm. The dim glow of passing streetlights flickered over his features, illuminating sharp edges, smooth planes. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. The slight downturn at the corners. The tension in his jaw.
A part of you recognized that expression.
Satoru didn’t look like that.
Satoru never looked like that.
You tried again—tried to speak, tried to force sound past the heavy, sluggish frog clogging your throat. But it was like pushing through a swamp, murky, like something thick and invisible was holding you down, keeping you tethered to this slow, sinking feeling.
A shallow breath. A shudder. Nothing else.
Satoru shifted beside you.
The warmth that had been resting on your thigh vanished, leaving behind a stark absence that made your skin prickle. Then, a new sensation—a whisper of contact against your wrist. Soft at first, an idle graze, barely there. Then firmer, more pressing, the measuring. Counting the beats beneath his fingertips.
Checking your pulse.
Your gaze dragged to his, sluggish but instinctual. Bright against the fog in your head, slicing through the murk with a clarity that made you recoil. Those eyes—striking, endless, impossibly blue—brought something with them, a pull deep in your brain, in your bones. Flashes of something disjointed. Overhead lighting, stark and sterile. A buzz—constant, droning, mechanical. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. A flicker in his gaze, a fraction of a second where his mask slipped—searching, analyzing, calculating. A slow inhale. A barely-there pause.
The realization sank, you weren’t supposed to be awake. Satoru exhaled, his fingers tapped against your wrist, a rhythm so light, so absentminded, it felt like an old habit. The soft tap, tap, tap sent a ripple through your thoughts, a whisper of familiarity threading through the fog. Then—static. A flare, sharp and electric, ripping through the void inside you. White light. A hum, low and droning. Something pressing into your skull, sinking too deep.
Your breath hitched.
Satoru’s lips parted. A breath of sound escaped, “…Shit.”
Suguru heard it. “Oh, angel.” a voice that had wrapped around you like silk, warm and syrup-sweet, sinking into your skin. A hand, cupped your cheek, his thumb gliding over your skin in slow, coaxing strokes. Guiding. Directing. You barely registered the way he tilted your face up, drawing your gaze away from Satoru, steering you toward him with gentle reverence. Like something fragile. Something breakable. Something his or perhaps theirs.
“You should be asleep,” he murmured, “We gave you some pain meds. You’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately.”
We. The word landed strangely in your mind. Heavy. Foreign. Wrong. Something about it didn’t fit. But your thoughts—sluggish, slippery—melted away before you could pin them down. Questions clawed at your throat, stacking one on top of the other, pressing against the hollowness where memories should be. But when you tried to speak, when you forced your lips to move—nothing.
No sound. No words.
Just a thin, reedy whisper of breath.
Your tongue felt thick, your mouth unfamiliar—like the very mechanics of speech had become foreign to you. You tried again—lips parting, searching for something solid, something tangible, something that made sense. You weren’t losing your mind. You weren’t insane.
You were just lost. It’s key to remind yourself of that.
“…House?” A whisper. Soft and unfamiliar, a voice that slipped past your lips, fragile and meek, and yet—not yours. You weren’t this. No, you weren’t small, you weren’t delicate, you weren’t some flower that needed to be tended.
So how dare this weak, trembling voice speak for you? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t you.
The abyss inside you shuddered—howled—and then, it shrunk.
You wished you understood it. Wished you could unravel the creature clawing inside you, tearing at your ribs, gnawing at your insides. What did it want? What did it fear?
And why—why did it shrink before the two most familiar men in your life? It curled in on itself, retreating like a wounded animal. Pulling away, pressing deep into the spaces between your ribs, folding into the fog thickening in your mind.
Suguru’s thumb swept over your cheek again. Pulling you away from the insanity that was unraveling in your mind, What happened to you? Yet his calloused thumb pulled you away from that question as it swept against your bottom lip, those adoring violet eyes of his gazed down on you with so much devotion. The motion melted into your skin, seeping through the haze in your head, sinking deep, spreading warmth like honey through your veins.
You knew these hands.
You trusted them.
You had always trusted them.
Had always belonged to them.
“There’s nothing to worry about, angel,” Suguru murmured, his voice velvet-lined and laced with something deeper—something patient, something final. It settled over you like a lullaby, thick and saccharine, wrapping around your ribs, lulling the resistance in your chest to stillness.
He sounded like home.
“Just relax.”
A pause.
“You’re safe now.”
His fingers curled just slightly against your cheek, “We’re almost home.” There it was again. That word.
We. His voice curled around it so easily, so naturally, as if it had always belonged. But it hadn’t, had it? Your thoughts tripped over themselves, scattered, slipping before they could form something solid. You felt like you had forgotten something crucial. Your head swayed slightly under his touch, too heavy, too slow. The warmth of his palm pressed into your cheek, spreading down your neck, keeping you there, still, held in place by nothing but gentle weight.
Suguru’s presence filled the space beside you. Even in the dim lighting of the car, even with the blur distorting your vision, you could still make out his dark, wavy hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck, some strands falling over his face. Sharp features softened in shadow. Long lashes, lowered as he looked at you, the faint crease between his brows, the slow parting of his lips, his violet eyes—not as sharp as Satoru’s, but deep, unreadable.
His gaze held you.
His touch kept you from drifting too far.
However your brain had other ideas, other ideas of unraveling your mind, from stopping the buzzing of nerves, a name filtered into your mind.
Satoru.
Satoru had his own apartment.
Didn’t he?
Yes. He did. He had his own space. He didn’t live with you. So why did the word we feel so wrong? Your breath came uneven, something shallow curling at the edges of your ribs.
A flicker of something.
Pills.
A hand.
Scattered.
The haze thickened. Your stomach twisted. A cold knowing pried its way through the murk.
You tried to kill yourself. Suguru’s voice echoed through the thick fog of your thoughts, from before. His words, his tone, the steady warmth of his arms around you. That conversation happened. You spoke fine before.
Why couldn’t you now?
Why did your voice feel different—smaller, softer? Why did you find yourself leaning into Suguru’s touch, chasing the warmth, seeking comfort in something you didn’t understand?
Because he was familiar.
Because in this fog, in this shapeless world where everything felt wrong, Suguru felt right.
No. Back on track.
Would you?
Could you?
Would you really—kill yourself?
That didn’t feel right.
That wasn’t you.
Was it?
Is that why Satoru…
You tried to speak. It took effort. A deep pull, like dredging words from the bottom of a thick, dark sea. Your lips trembled as they formed something weak, breathless.
“S-toru…”
Your mind lagged, struggling to find the words, the question tangling itself up inside you.
“…why?”
Suguru stilled for a moment. You felt the hesitation in him—the smallest shift in the way his thumb stopped moving, the subtle inhale, the pause in the space between you. His expression flickered—something uncertain ghosting across his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. Suguru was never uncertain. His violet eyes softened, the storm behind them calming, gentling, then, a slow, patient smile. His thumb resumed its path, tracing slow circles over your cheek, then down, grazing your bottom lip. A touch so tender it felt practiced.
“You gave him a fright,” Suguru murmured, his voice deep, warm, careful. A deliberate gentleness, like he was tending to a delicate flower—cultivating it, shaping it, waiting for the perfect moment to pluck it. To prepare it for the right occasion. Somehow, you knew that flower was you.
Except—you weren’t something sweet.
That wasn’t who you were.
Your voice, soft and honeyed, might have painted that illusion, but inside—inside, you were full of thorns. Sharp, unruly, aching to tear free, to dig into flesh, to remind the world that you were not meant to be handled.
Every slow stroke of his thumb against your skin unraveled them. One by one, the thorns dulled, softened, melted into something pliant. “He hasn’t been able to sleep in his apartment since you tried to…” A pause. His voice dipped lower, quieter as if saying the words aloud might wound him. You barely heard him anymore. Your thoughts had grown too loud.
Screaming.
Clawing against the buzz of burnt nerves—burnt? Why were they burnt?
Would you?
Would you kill yourself?
No.
That wasn’t you.
…Was it?
Suguru’s hand cradled your face, the pad of his thumb brushing over your temple.. His warmth sank into your skin, deeper than it should have—branding itself into you. Pressing. Holding. Binding. Safe.
Safe, safe, safe.
That’s what his touch said— what it promised.
And you let yourself sink.
You weren’t sure when you fell asleep.
Was it the warmth of Suguru’s hands, the soothing rhythm of his thumb against your cheek? Or was it the slight prick in your arm, so small, so fleeting, you barely noticed?
A needle.
That was… strange. What a weird thing to feel in a car. The thought barely had time to take shape before it melted away, lost to the pull of sleep—no, not sleep, something deeper, something heavier. Just before the darkness swallowed you whole, your gaze caught on a faint glimmer—a vial. The name surfaced immediately — a sedative. How would someone who could barely think straight know that?
But the thought was fleeting, slipping between your fingers as the world around you dissolved, your body weightless, your mind drifting— another memory.
Or perhaps a fraction of one.
A pink room. Soft pastels, warm light filtering through gauzy curtains. A large white box against the wall, waiting—empty. Something should be inside it, however the poor lonely white box was empty. On the floor, Suguru. A flashlight between his teeth, hands assembling something small, something delicate. Cubes of softwood, pastel-painted pieces are arranged in careful, meticulous stacks. His smile was easy, boyish, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked up at you.
Love. Devotion. Excitement.
"You think she’ll like it?" his voice was muffled around the flashlight, words laced with tender amusement. You stood in the doorway, watching him. Something inside you felt full, heavy.
You glanced at the mirror beside you—rounder. Softer.
Heavier.
Ah… what’s the word?
The thought came slow, sluggish, dragging its way up from the depths of your mind, a word, you were ████████. The word couldn't come. It slipped just as the memory was. The warmth of the memory curled around you, a bittersweet thing, familiar but distant as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
The image shattered.
Pale blue tiles, slick beneath your feet. The air was cold, curling against your bare skin like a whisper, like breath on the back of your neck, haunting. The bathroom felt vast and empty, yet suffocating all at once, a space that stretched and closed in at the same time. The walls pulsed, the floor swayed. Something dripped.
Red flowers.
They bloomed in the cracks, unfurling across the tile, soaking into the grout, staining your fingers, smeared against your thighs. A deep ache coiled in your stomach, right where the flowers grew, sharp and pulling and wrong. You pressed your hand there, fingers slick, warm- your heartbeat pounded against your ribs, a frantic, uneven staccato as if your body was trying to tell you something your mind refused to grasp.
Oh.
Not flowers.
Your breath hitched, sharp and jagged, the sound barely registering over the heavy buzzing in your skull. Your chest ached, pulled tight like something was being wound inside you, twisting until it was about to snap. Your hands trembled, grasping at fabric—your dress, the sink, the air itself—nothing felt solid. Nothing felt real.
Light flickered. A glow in the corner of your eye.
Your phone - the screen pulsed, humming with an unfamiliar urgency, illuminating the dark edges of the room. A name. Suguru. It pulsed with every ring, like a heartbeat, like something alive, something waiting.
You needed to answer it.
You tried—your fingers barely moved, sluggish and detached, like they weren’t yours, like your body had forgotten how to listen. The world shifted. The tiles rippled. The walls breathed.
You didn’t like this.
You didn’t like this at all.
But the dream had other plans.
It dragged you deeper, a hand at your back, pushing you forward, forcing you to see, forcing you to remember. The bathroom dissolved, bled into something else, colors warping, space stretching, folding, cracking apart.
The red flowers—gone.
In their place, stacks of paper.
Crisp, white sheets, stretching endlessly before you, swallowing the room whole, consuming every surface. The ink bled through, black lines shifting, warping as you tried to read them, twisting into something unreadable, something suffocating.
Not just any paper.
Divorce papers.
Your name.
Suguru’s name.
Your signature, ink smudged, edges curling, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like a vice. A pen—shaking between your fingers, clutched so tightly it might snap in half.
You wanted to—
Didn’t you?
You wanted to leave.
Didn’t you?
The ink ran. The pages blurred, the edges curling inward, folding like wilting petals, like burning paper, like something being erased. Water dripped down the sheets, or was it blood? A soft rustle—pages turning on their own, shifting, morphing, dissolving into something else entirely.
The crib.
The bathroom.
The blood.
The papers.
Everything tangled together, warped, spliced, replaying in fragments, flickering like an old film reel skipping frames. The images overlapped, twisting and unraveling before you could grab hold, slipping through your fingers like silk soaked in something dark.
Your body burned. Boiled. Feverish heat rolled through your veins, spreading, thick and searing, like something was crawling beneath your skin, like you were being rewritten from the inside out.
You tried to wake up.
You needed to wake up.
Your mind screamed against the weight pressing down on it, against the lie suffocating it, against the warmth wrapped around you, the warmth you didn’t trust, the warmth you had once loved.
You gasped.
The darkness shattered—splintering into a million aching shards as your body jolted, wrenching itself toward consciousness.
A voice.
Soft, distant, pulling at the edges of wakefulness.
It wasn’t unusual for Suguru to curl up beside you at night, his arms, his body warm and familiar. That was normal. That made sense. But Satoru? Satoru had never slept beside you before, had he? At least, you didn’t think so.
Then again, you didn’t trust your memories these days.
The first night he slipped beneath the covers with you and Suguru, you blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brows together. "Satoru?" His name had left your lips softly, almost hesitant. You remembered Suguru pulling you closer before Satoru could even answer, his grip tightening as if the question itself was something you shouldn’t be asking.
"Mmm?" Satoru’s grin had been lazy, his eyes tired, but there was something about the way he spoke, something forced, light. He ruffled your hair like he always did, fingers lingering against your scalp before he sighed. "Just keeping an eye on you, princess. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—what if you run off on us again?"
Something in your chest twisted at his words, a faint unease curling around your ribs, but before you could ask what he meant, Suguru had hushed you with a slow, tender stroke of his fingers down your arm. His voice had been soft. "Shhh, angel. Just rest. You need sleep."
You hadn’t fought it, though you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was because Suguru’s voice had always been something that soothed you, something that made you feel safe even when you weren’t sure why you needed to feel safe. Or maybe it was because Satoru had sighed dramatically, pressed a lazy kiss to the top of your head, and settled himself on the other side of you, like it was all so casual.
"Guess I’ll have to hold you extra close, then," he had teased, slinging an arm over both you and Suguru, his grip loose. "Can’t have you slipping through my fingers again, huh?"
You had felt the slow, easy circles of his fingers tracing along your arm, the weight of Suguru’s breath against your hair, the warmth of their bodies on either side of you. Something had whispered in the back of your mind that this was wrong, that this wasn’t how things were supposed to be. But Suguru had kissed your temple, whispered a quiet "Sleep, angel," and Satoru had only chuckled, pressing his face into your shoulder with a sigh, and soon the heaviness had settled into your limbs, pulling you under before you could think too hard about it.
And that had been the routine, night after night, until it became something normal, something expected. Until it stopped feeling strange. Until you stopped questioning it altogether. Some nights however, when they had opposite shifts, when the nightmares of yours persisted, perhaps from all the medication you were taking much to your demise:
Satoru’s voice.
Faint, familiar, a low murmur in your ears, wrapping around your disoriented mind like a lulling tide. Sheets. Soft beneath you, cradling you in their embrace. The scent of home.
Something was wrong.
You forced your eyelids open, sluggish and heavy, the weight of sleep, drugs, memories dragging you back down. Satoru’s body against yours, too solid, too warm. He was pressed into you, caging you against him, his bare chest rising and falling, his breath heavy as he buried his face into your hair.
Fevered kisses—
One. Two. Three.
Tears. Your tears. You hadn’t realized you were crying or perhaps weren’t sure that was something you could do anymore. A lot of things left you uneasy these days, especially as Satoru’s lips trailed across your damp skin, pressing against your temple, your cheek, your eyelids. Something frantic in the way he held you.
What a desperate man he was, those soft pink lips seemed to continue on their conquest for the salt of your tears, as his arms curled tighter, embrace crushing, as if he was ensuring you could never slip away from him, not like you had the strength to do such a thing.
However you didn’t like the way his lips trailed to your pulse, causing a panic inside you to rise, to claw at your ribs, to force yourself to speak, to ask, to plead - nothing but a meek, broken whimper escaped. Your voice was gone, hidden away as Satoru’s hands traveled to your nightgown hitching the lace lining upwards. The only sound was the slow, shaky breath Satoru let out against your skin.
“Oh, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough, thick with something heavy, something raw. “You scared the hell out of me.”
You tried again, and again, and -
Because something inside you was screaming, clawing at the back of your mind, a voice—not yours, yet somehow still yours—wailing in recognition, shrieking a warning, weaving a song of something terrible, something unspeakable.
Oh, what did they do to you? The abyss curled around your thoughts, purring, seething.
That’s a new thought.
Not one you liked.
Not one you asked for.
But you couldn’t choose your thoughts, could you?
Satoru’s breath was warm against your cheek, his lips brushing against your damp skin, murmuring something—a confession, an apology, a plea. “I’m sorry.” The warmth of his bare chest pressed against you, the firm, steady weight of him sinking into you, grounding you, keeping you trapped.
Satoru wasn’t your husband.
So why was he acting like one?
“I’m so fucking sorry.” You heard a crack. The sound of something breaking. Not glass. Something inside him. Your thoughts moved sluggishly, bouncing like light trapped in mirrors, scattering, refracting, unable to land. Satoru wasn’t emotional. Satoru would laugh things off, he would tease, he would never cry.
Satoru would understand the word no.
Wouldn’t he?
Satoru—who teased you for being a crybaby, who ruffled your hair, who leaned too close just to watch you roll your eyes.
That Satoru.
But this one—
This one held you like you were something fragile, something broken, something that had already slipped through his fingers once before. Something beloved, something like a lover. This one pressed desperate kisses to your face, each one filled with words you couldn’t quite grasp.
"I love you."
A whisper.
"Suguru had to go back for his shift."
A ghost of sound against your skin. The sound of clothing being removed.
"I love you."
Again. Over and over and over.
"I’m sorry."
"I didn’t know—"
Didn’t know what?
Your body shuddered. Something coiled at the edges of your mind—the abyss, the thing inside you, the part of you that knew more than you did. It wrapped itself around your thoughts, dragging them down, down, down, pushing you beneath the water, forcing you to see—
A hospital.
The mental hospital.
Not white, not sterile, but painted in colors that didn’t belong.
Satoru.
He was there.
You could see him.
Why could you see him? Your vision flickered, disjointed, showing you glimpses of something you didn’t want to remember—
No, no, no—
A field of flowers.
Purple.
Vivid and endless, blooming in the quiet of your mind.
You focused on that.
You latched onto it. Ignoring the fingers that had trailed to your heat, the broke whimpers escaping your throat, the sound of I love yous being called out.
Purple was better. Purple was better than the flowers from your dream. Better than the ones that filled the bathroom. Better than the ones that bloomed too red, too much, too violently.
No.
No, you had to focus. You had to free yourself from this danger, from this man who claimed he loved you, yet he was claiming your body as if it were already his. Your nerves buzzed, crackled, burned inside you, bouncing like photons, shooting in all directions, searching for something solid, something real.
But nothing would land.
Nothing would stick.
Not the words slipping from Satoru’s lips, not the weight of his body pressing into yours, not the dull ache threading through your bones. Not the pressure building up inside your core, not the sickening sounds of wet flesh bouncing in the room. Not the defilement of your marriage bed.
Everything felt like it was happening somewhere else.
But Satoru was still holding you.
His voice wove into your skin, breath hot, shaky, frantic, lips moving over your cheeks, your forehead, your eyelids—kissing away your tears, swallowing them like they were his own.
He wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to tease you, laugh things off, flick your forehead when you pouted, ruffle your hair like you were something small and irritating yet adored.
But this wasn’t playful. This wasn’t harmless.
"I’m sorry," Satoru mumbled into your skin, voice breaking at the edges, dragging you closer, pulling you deeper into the heat of his bare chest, caging you in his arms. His heartbeat was uneven, erratic, pounding too hard beneath his ribs, pressed up against you like he needed you to feel it, like he needed to prove it to you.
"I’m so fucking sorry."
There was something wrong.
Something breaking.
Not just inside you.
Inside him.
His grip was too tight, too possessive, fingers digging into your hips, holding you still, locked against him.
Satoru doesn’t get emotional.
Satoru is loud, carefree, reckless.
Satoru is supposed to understand boundaries.
Satoru is supposed to stop.
Then why wasn’t he stopping?
Why was his breath coming in fevered gasps, why were his lips tracing the trembling curve of your jaw, pressing kisses along the pulse point at your throat, why was his voice pleading, broken, desperate?
Why did he sound like he was losing you?
"You don’t get it," he whispered between each kiss, mumbling, unraveling, his voice trembling against your skin. "You don’t—you don’t get it, princess. You almost left us. I—I didn’t want to hold you down that night."
The realization slithered through your mind, slow and suffocating. The abyss stirred, uncoiling inside you, thrashing against the haze, against the warmth of Satoru’s hands, against the way his fingers trailed against your soft skin, leaving marks in their wake, gripping the soft flesh of your thighs like he had every right to touch you.
His lips trembled against yours—fevered, insatiable.
"I love you," he whispered, the words dissolving into the heat of his mouth against yours. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
The words felt frantic, possessive, more an oath than a confession.
Your wrists—pinned above your head, trapped in his grasp.
His fingers curled around them, pressing them into the mattress, his body flush against yours, holding you in place.
The weight of him was suffocating.
This was Satoru.
This was your best friend.
You weren’t supposed to react.
Your body betrayed you. The sharp, shallow rise and fall of your chest, the heat prickling beneath your skin, the helpless, breathless little sounds slipping past your lips—all of it responding to his touch.
Even though you knew this wasn’t right.
Even though you knew this wasn’t love.
Ache.
His hips rolled against yours, slow, drawing a gasp from your throat—not a protest, not a plea, just a sound. That was all the permission he needed. His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your nightgown higher, exposing more of you to him, letting his fingers map out your skin, burning the shape of you into his memory.
"You were gonna leave us," he murmured against your lips, breathless, aching, his voice raw with something you couldn’t name. "You don’t get to do that. Not when we love you so much."
We?
The word barely registered, barely even formed in your head before his lips claimed yours again, hungry, desperate, overwhelming.
Satoru devoured you like you belonged to him.
Like this was his right.
Like he could love you enough to erase everything that came before this.
Like he could rewrite everything.
Like he could keep you.
The abyss inside you howled.
But Satoru didn’t stop. His weight pressed into you, his touch fevered, his lips brushing against your skin between each ragged breath, between each mumbled I love you.
You found it easier to look up.
Easier to focus on the ceiling than on the way his body moved against yours.
Easier to count the little glowing stars above you, the ones you begged Suguru for one night, one, two, three…Easier to slip into numbers than acknowledge the heat sinking deep inside you, curling through your veins, stealing what little control you had left.
Your lashes fluttered. Tears pooled, slipped down your temples, soaked into the pillow.
Satoru felt them.
His lips followed them, kissed them away, his voice breaking between each trembling press of his mouth against your cheek, against your jaw. "You don’t know," he whispered, a soft, pleading murmur. "You don’t know how much we love you."
We.
The word stung, but you didn’t know why. You felt it, somewhere in the thick, dizzying fog of your mind, a wrongness, a fracture.
Not just Satoru. Suguru.
A memory curled at the edges of your mind—not one you wanted, but one that came anyway. Another horror in this dreadful night, you wished for those purple flowers not the red flowers that haunted you. Blooming against the pale blue tile, staining your palms, seeping between your fingers. Their warmth, how they stick to your skin in the unforgiving wake. That warmth inside you twisted and pulled, it wasn’t Satoru’s hands anymore, wasn’t the heat of his body, the stretch and ache of him deep inside you as he whispered I love you against your skin like worship.
Instead, it was Suguru’s hands, hands that had touched you thousands of times before. Gentle hands, hands that treated you like you were meant for devotion, for you were his purity. A memory forced itself to the surface, unbidden. Suguru, standing behind you, his arms circling your waist, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as you got ready for bed. A whisper, low, warm, laced with something soft, "You’re beautiful, angel." A gentle careful kiss but you had uttered the words, pushing him away once more, pushing away those red flowers that haunted you.
"Not tonight, Suguru."
The way his breath caught.
The way his hands stilled for just a second — his lips lingered against your shoulder before he exhaled, slow, measured, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"Okay," he had murmured. Like any devoted husband. Like any man who respected the word no.
But no devoted husband uses electric shock treatment to keep his wife.
The ceiling blurred. The glowing stars bled into one another, bright spots against the dark haze swallowing your thoughts. Satoru’s touch dragged you back to the present, his lips pressing against your cheek, his body molding into yours, his voice muffled against your skin.
You continued to count the stars, this would all be over soon, wouldn’t it?
One.
Two.
Three.
And let them swallow you whole
Weeks bled into months. Months of learning to exist beneath them. Months of waking in tangled sheets, caged between their bodies, pressed into the heat of their skin, the weight of them a presence. Months of breathing them in, their scent embedding itself into your very cells, threading through your ribs, settling deep inside you like an infection.
Months of becoming—
Becoming the perfect little thing they wanted.
Because that’s what this was all for, wasn’t it?
A family.
One big, happy family. Satoru whispered it against your skin, his lips trailing slow, lazy paths down your throat, his breath warm, saccharine, curling into your bones. He murmured it between kisses, between soft chuckles, between hands that never strayed far, hands that claimed, that took, that demanded. Suguru was gentler, slower, patient in the way a sculptor was patient when chiseling something out of stone. His voice was warm, his touch deliberate as he pressed you into his chest, his arms curling around you like a cage that pretended to be soft. He spoke of love, of devotion, of how hard it was sometimes, of how you had lost your way, how they had simply helped you find it again.
They loved you.
They loved you so much.
You were theirs.
They were yours.
A perfect trinity.
The family you were always meant to have.
Satoru would hum against your skin, tracing the curve of your hip with absentminded fingers, pressing smug, drowsy kisses to your temple as he whispered about how long they had waited for this, how long they had fought for you, how long they had planned for you to be here, with them, forever. Suguru would sigh against your hair, pressing his lips to your forehead, fingers threading through yours, telling you that love is difficult, that sometimes you break apart, that sometimes you lose yourself, but that they had found you again, that they had brought you home.
You wished you could tell them they were wrong.
You wished you could scream it, shatter the illusion they had so carefully wrapped around you, rip it open at the seams and show them—show them that you had never been theirs, that they had stolen you, reshaped you, carved you into something pliable, breakable, compliant.
Instead, you smiled.
Instead, you nodded.
Instead, you whispered soft thanks, spoke gentle words, let yourself melt into them like a perfect little doll. Because that was the role they had given you.
And if you played it long enough.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
You could be free.
But freedom was slow.
Freedom had conditions.
Gold stickers meant you were good, meant you let Suguru kiss you deeply without hesitation. Meant you didn’t flinch when his calloused, thick fingers gripped your chin, tilting your face up, when his lips claimed yours with slow, deliberate intent, when his tongue pushed past your parted lips, sweeping into your mouth, taking.
Because breathing was a freedom he granted you.
His kiss was slow, practiced, indulgent, meant to be savored, to be felt. His tongue tangled with yours, rolling, curling, teasing, until it became a battle you were never meant to win. Until all you could do was let him have it, let him claim the heat of your mouth, let him drown you in the wet, insistent slide of saliva and submission.
Gold stickers meant you pressed into Satoru’s touch when he pulled you into his lap, when he grabbed at you, hands too big, too possessive, sliding beneath your sweet frilly dresses like they belonged there. Meant you let his fingers explore, tease, stroke, meant you didn’t tense when they skimmed along your thighs, when they traced the soft curve of your waist, when they inched higher, higher, a slow ascent meant to make you tremble. Meant you didn’t fight when he leaned in, breath warm, voice sticky sweet, whispering how perfect you were.
How much he loved you.
How he wanted all of you, always.
Because Satoru loved you, didn’t he?
Suguru cherished you, didn’t he?
And good girls. Good girls got gold stickers. Gold stickers meant you let them have you.
Together.
Gold stickers meant you didn’t cry, didn’t tremble, didn’t fight when they showed you what it meant to be theirs.
They called it making love. When they claimed you, when they took turns molding you, reshaping you, guiding your body into what they wanted it to be. When Satoru would hum small tuts of don’t bite, don’t cry as you struggled to take him, as his grip tightened just enough to remind you that breath was a privilege he could take away, each time he shoved his length down your throat that refused to take the full length. When Suguru’s voice was patient, coaxing, as he filled you, his thick cock filling your entirety, as he waited for your body to surrender, to accept, to welcome. When they weren’t feeling so generous, when they both took you at once, you found comfort in counting the stars on the ceiling.
One, two, three, four.
A methodical ritual, a place to go when there was nowhere else to escape to, a set of bright constellations to disappear into until your body was no longer your own. Until the weight of them left you aching, until Suguru pressed a small, bitter pill to your lips. Not the soft, fuzzy ones. Not the ones that made everything feel distant, hazy, almost bearable.
No.
This one was different - ensured you would always be theirs.
Forever.
You didn’t call it making love. You refused to give it a name. Names have meaning because calling it something makes it real.
And you had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.
Suguru would sigh, take your chin in his hand, tilt your face up, his thumb smoothing over your lips as he murmured, “You’re not trying hard enough, angel.” Sinking himself further into you as you wailed that this was too much, however, words still refused to leave your lips when they gave you the fuzzy pill. Satoru would smile—too easy, too light—before pressing you down, before kissing you so deeply you couldn’t breathe, before whispering, “We love you, princess. Let us show you.”
Suguru’s hands would hold you still.
Satoru’s lips would silence your words.
And you would let them.
Because fighting meant nothing.
Because the times you fought were worse.
You had already learned that fighting back only earned red stickers.
And red stickers weren’t just reprimands.
They were punishments.
Punishments that stripped you down, peeled you apart layer by layer, until you no longer knew where the pain ended and where you began.
Because love is difficult, isn’t it?
That’s what Suguru always told you. Love took patience, love took sacrifice, love took understanding. You had lost yourself for a little while, but they found you again.
And love was about keeping what belonged to you.
Red stickers meant the dark.
Suguru never yelled. He never needed to. He didn’t believe in harsh words, didn’t believe in cruelty, only correction.
"You just need time to think, angel," he would say, voice so warm, so understanding, as he shut the door. And you would sit in the darkness, alone, the air around you thick, pressing, suffocating, your own heartbeat the only sound in the void. You would listen to it, the heavy thump, thump, thump of it against your ribs, a reminder that you were here, that time still moved, even if you couldn’t see it.
But hours could stretch into eternities in the dark.
Your mind would start playing tricks on you.
You would hear the floor creak even when no one was there.
You would see things—shadows shifting in the corners of your vision, shapes that moved just when you blinked. The wallsm breathing, growing, closing in. You would scratch at your arms just to feel something real, press your nails into your palms, try to hold onto yourself. But eventually, the dark would become your only companion. And when the door finally opened, spilling in the golden glow of the hallway, illuminating Suguru’s familiar, patient face, you would thank him. You would cry into his chest as he murmured soft reassurances, stroked your hair, shushed you like a parent soothing a child, whispering, “It’s okay, angel. You’re home now.”
Red stickers meant silence.
You were allowed to speak—until you weren’t, or at least the words you were able to speak despite all the speech therapy that Satoru engages in with you. Giving you a gold star for every time you mention the words I love you.
Suguru would take away your voice.
Satoru would take away your body.
And both of them, together, would take away your mind.
Suguru believed words had weight. And your words needed to be earned.
"You talk too much sometimes, angel," he would murmur, cupping your cheek, thumb smoothing over your lips in a way that almost felt loving. "I think it’s best if you take some time to listen instead."
And then, the silence would begin.
For hours.
For days.
No one would speak to you. Not when you greeted them in the morning, not when you reached for them in the kitchen, not when you curled into Satoru’s lap at night, searching for warmth, for comfort, for something. You would try to apologize, try to whisper, try to fix whatever you did wrong—but silence was the only thing that answered you.
The absence of their voices would drive you mad.
Because they were the only voices you had left.
And you wouldn’t even realize it until you were begging for them to speak to you. Until you were crying, pleading, promising you’d be better, that you’d be good, that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
Until Suguru finally sighed, finally smiled, finally opened his arms for you to crawl into.
"See? I knew you’d understand."
And you would nod.
And you would thank him.
Because you had learned.
Because love had to be felt.
Red stickers meant pain.
But not pain in the ways you expected. Not bruises or broken skin. No, that would be too easy. Suguru didn’t believe in hurting you. Satoru didn’t believe in making you suffer.
"We would never, ever hurt you, princess," Satoru would murmur, pressing feather-light kisses to your knuckles.
"We love you too much for that," Suguru would promise, smoothing your hair, lips against your temple.
Instead— they let you hurt yourself.
The isolation and silence. The punishments were made to be felt—so that you would be so grateful when they stopped.
So that when Suguru finally pulled you into his arms, when Satoru finally buried his fingers into your hair, when their voices finally filled the quiet, you would cling to them.
You would melt into them. You would thank them for loving you enough to teach you the right way to love them back.
Because red stickers weren’t punishments.
Not really. They were lessons. They were reconstruction.
They were breaking you down and putting you back together.
Until there was nothing left to fix. Until you weren’t just theirs.
Until you were nothing else— nothing but the howling abyss that had consumed you, devoured you, and made a home inside your ribs where love was supposed to be. You had been reshaped, rewritten, reduced to something that fit neatly into their hands. A perfect little thing. A cherished possession. A beloved doll. And yet—beneath it all, beneath the softness, the compliance, the pretty, painted-over ruin.
Something inside you still whispered.
Something inside you still knew.
You were not whole.
You were not safe.
You were not theirs.
But maybe that was the cruelest part. Maybe you had never been yours, either. Maybe you had always belonged to something else. Something lurking in the shadows of your mind.
Something clawing beneath your skin. Maybe it had always been waiting, for the right moment. Waiting for them to break you just enough that you no longer cared about surviving.
Because that’s how madness works, isn’t it?
It doesn’t come all at once.
It seeps in like a slow drip.
It whispers before it howls.
It curls around your ribs, waiting, waiting, waiting—until you went insane.
Or maybe you had always been insane.
Maybe it had never been a matter of breaking.
Maybe it had only been a matter of time.
It was poetic, really.
The game had always been theirs, Suguru with his patience, Satoru with his affection. Two halves of the same vice, pressing, tightening, shaping you into something that belonged to them.
And yet—they never expected you to playback. Never expected that after all these months, all this time, after all the gold stickers and red stickers and quiet, compliant submission—you would take something from them.
They thought they had won.
They thought you had finally learned to love them.
Because you had let them in.
Because you had stopped fighting.
Because you had smiled.
And maybe that was the cruelest part.
You had smiled.
You had whispered, I love you too.
You had given them everything, just long enough to make them believe it. Because love was trust, wasn’t it? And they trusted you. They trusted you enough to leave you alone. To step out into the world believing you would wait for them, believing you would always be right where they left you, believing that you had finally accepted what they had been trying to give you all along.
That you had accepted them.
Accepted their love.
Their home.
Their family.
But love had never been a choice for you.
And now, it wasn’t a choice for them either.
When the door creaked open, when Suguru stepped inside first, smiling, slipping off his coat, Satoru trailing behind him, laughing at some joke that no longer mattered, It took only seconds for them to see it. The pill cabinet was half-open. The empty bottles were carelessly discarded. And then - you. Sitting there, waiting, smiling. Like you always did. Like a perfect little doll. But your skin was too pale, your eyes, too bright, too fevered, too glassy.
The first stumble. Your body swayed, the room tilting on an unseen axis, the distant, detached feeling of your limbs no longer being yours, your stomach turning inside out, nausea curling in waves.
Suguru’s smile faltered.
Satoru’s laughter died.
And when Suguru’s sharp eyes narrowed, when he took one step forward—you laughed. High. Light. Almost musical.
Suguru froze.
Satoru stilled.
Like a moment caught in time, stretched too thin, seconds passing that felt like centuries. Then, realization. The widening of Suguru’s pupils, the way his breath hitched, the way his hand shot out to steady you, to touch you, as if that could stop what was happening.
As if he could still save you.
As if he had ever saved you.
And Satoru—well. Satoru looked like he had been shot. His lips parted, no breath, no sound, body locked into place, unblinking, unbreathing, his hands twitching, fingers flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. As if his mind was refusing to understand what his eyes were seeing, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.
You were theirs.
You were supposed to be safe.
"No," Suguru murmured, and for the first time in your life, his voice was something other than that calm vice.
And for the first time since you have been met with Suguru—you felt powerful. A tilt of your head, lips stretching wider into something not quite a smile, not quite anything at all.
"I hope in another timeline, I never meet either of you." The words tumbled out easy like they had been waiting to escape for months since they did this to you. Words you had to practice in a mirror. Words that shouldn't have taken so much effort but all the drugs and treatments they put you on...had ruined who you really are.
Suguru’s grip tightened around your arms, his nails digging in too hard as if he could keep you here, keep you alive, keep you his. Satoru still hadn’t moved. His breath was shallow, his eyes darting everywhere—the empty bottles, the pale of your skin, the sweat glistening along your forehead.
The first cough.
And with it, the first bloom of red, something your mind changed to flowers but you knew what this truly was. The way the petals splattered against your palm, hot and thick, dripping between your fingers, staining your lips. Satoru jerked forward, his hands shaking as he reached for you, so, so gently, like he was afraid to break you even more.
But you were already breaking.
You had already broken.
The second cough came harder.
Then the third.
And suddenly, the room was shaking, or maybe it was you that was shaking, or maybe it was them, or maybe it was everything falling apart all at once.
Suguru was begging now. "No, no, no, angel, look at me - don’t do this, don’t fucking do this." Those large warm hands you once loved were cradling your face, cupping your cheeks, trying to hold you together even as more red spilled from your lips, and dripped onto his fingers, onto his wrists.
And Satoru was fumbling through his phone for 911, an ambulance, two doctors who were beyond saving their beloved patient now. However, you had never seen him quite like this, never seen his chest rise and fall in uneven, erratic bursts, never seen his fingers tremble, never seen his lips shake around a choked, gasping “Princess, please.”
Please?
Like you owed him something.
Like you owed them anything.
"This isn’t love." The words gurgled up past the wet heat in your throat, burning, raw, torn from somewhere deep inside you that they had never been able to touch. "You never loved me."
Maybe that was what broke them.
Not the blood.
Not the pale blue of your skin.
Not the way your body sagged against Suguru’s chest as you slipped further, further away.
But that.
That you had never believed them.
That even in their twisted devotion, their patience, their desperate, all-consuming love—you had never truly been theirs.
Even after everything.
Even now.
Suguru let out a sound, something strangled, something inhuman, as he pressed his forehead against yours, as he rocked you, shook you, pleaded with you, his words breaking apart before they could even form.
Satoru just kept whispering your name as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Over and over and over. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would answer him. Like if he said it enough, maybe you would stay.
Like if he said it enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real. It was though, this was a fact. The same fact that they did this to you, drove you this far into the abyss letting that monster finally be released to pay them the dues they so much deserved. And as the darkness finally took you, as your body finally gave in, as the last shreds of yourself finally slipped through their fingers—you smiled. For the first time in this life, you had finally broken through the haze.
Title: A Snowy Interlude [Yandere Illumi x Reader]
Synopsis: You play in the snow--a rare treat.
Word count: 1418
notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of past abuse
“Are… you… sure this is… allowed?”
Even if it weren’t cold, your words would have come out slow and almost stuttered. But the cold air doesn’t do anything to help the eloquence of your speech, which comes out haltingly, words carefully chosen and accompanied by puffs of your whitened breath.
Illumi’s face remains, as almost always, impassive.
“What do you mean, allowed?” He asks, finally, watching as you take each piece of winter clothing from the standing butler and slip them on. Gloves, a scarf, a hat, all fitted perfectly to your form.
It would have been nicer to put them on before stepping out into the winter air, but you hadn’t been outside in months, and you weren’t going to complain about a thing. He did have you step into winter boots first, at least, and a winter coat.
“I just mean,” you reply, watching as the butler gestures for you to step into a pair of thick, puffy snow pants–the kind you used to wear as a kid, “I haven’t been outside in… a while.”
Your voice warbles as you hold onto the butler’s arm support and step into the puffy pants; butlers were the only other people you were allowed to touch, besides Illumi. Even then, they knew to never touch first; you could touch them like furniture, like a useful thing.
Illumi hums. “No, you haven’t. I felt it inappropriate for you to be outside.”
You don’t comment–you don’t want him to elaborate and change his mind. Or worse, decide that it is inappropriate for a newly-minted Zoldyck wife to step outside the mansion looking like an oversized marshmallow.
Once you’re dressed, the butler stands aside, and you let your gaze wander across the garden.
It had really been snowing. Illumi had let you sit at the window watching as the flakes fell, thin and almost rain-like at first, but then gradually getting thicker and fluffier as the day went on. It snowed for almost three days straight and now the entire estate looked like something out of a pretty winter story–the roofs all covered in white, the same pretty sparkling white that covered the ground and went up past your knees.
It was all waiting, just beyond the cobblestone path leading back inside the estate. It had been neatly shoveled out and you tried to picture the butlers shoveling it bit by bit, as your neighbors were no doubt doing back home. Well. What had been home, before all this.
Illumi doesn’t make to move, and you give him an awkward look.
“Um. So. Can I… go out there?” It’s a silly question, you realize. Why get you all dressed up for being outside if you were just going to stand on the shoveled path? Oh. Well. Actually. Maybe it's not so silly, and Illumi was just being irritatingly over-protective about the cold.
And perhaps you’re right to question it, because Illumi’s eyebrows furrow. Just a little. Just enough to notice.
“Oh,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered it. He pauses, and you wonder if this is it, your time outside will just be spent standing at staring. “... Yes. I suppose that’s all right.”
Something like happiness prickles your chest and you step away from the shoveled cobblestones, boots sinking into the deep snow. The sound of each step is so familiar, so nostalgic; the swish of your snow pants with every movement, the soft crunching of the snow, the way it yields underneath your boots.
Your smile grows without you realizing it as you make your way into the garden, arms out at your sides for balance. How long is it since you’ve been in the snow like this? Even before Illumi took you, it wasn’t like you had the time for it.
You were a kid, surely. Maybe 12 or 13, the last time it was still considered cool to dress in bulky outerwear and trudge your sled up to the neighborhood sledding hill.
A sense of wonder overtakes you, and it feels like the past few months are left behind you, standing alongside Illumi and the butler–the training, the pain, the burns, the bruises, the broken arm and fingers. The instructions and etiquette and rules, rules, rules.
How could they come with you, as you begin to trudge–happy then happier–through the snow?
It’s so thick you feel like if you fell down, you’d be lost in it. Maybe you’ll sink to the ground. Maybe you could make a snow angel–or a cave. The urge to fall overtakes you as it so often did in childhood and you simply plop backward in the snow. The thump hides the sound of Illumi rushing forward, though perhaps he would have known how to run through the snow silently anyway.
When you look up, you see Illumi, of course. But beyond that is what you’re interested in: the sky above you, all blue and lovely. There’s whiteness, too, the sparkling prettiness of the snow all around you. Some of the cold has seeped underneath your coat and scarf, burning your ears. But you don’t mind.
Of course, you’re eventually forced to acknowledge him, and you finally let your gaze focus on Illumi. He’s leaning down, his hair almost becoming a black curtain.
“Why did you fall?” He looks–almost concerned, you think. “Are you having a heart attack?” It’s funny, really, the way he phrases his so calmly. If you weren’t becoming somewhat decent at reading him, you might think he was joking.
He’s not. So–
You blink up at him.
Then you move your arms and legs up and down, up and down, making a snow angel underneath you.
Illumi blinks back.
“Perhaps you’ve had a stroke.”
You grin, then, and clutch a handful of snow underneath your gloves.
“I didn’t, to both. Haven’t you ever made a snow angel?” You ask, curling the snow together, beginning to form a ball and idly wondering if you’re brave enough to do it.
Illumi straightens his back, and looks at the impressions of snow you’ve left behind your arms and legs. He doesn’t seem impressed.
“No. I haven’t.”
Something pangs inside you, and a question floats up: what kind of childhood did Illumi have, anyway? Maybe he never played in the snow. Never made a snow angel, never spent hours digging out a snow cave with friends. Never slid down a hill and bashed into a tree and it hurt but it was fun all the same.
It must have been hard.
Your fingers curl around your newly made snowball and instead of chucking it as his face, you sit up, and start pulling in more snow to make it bigger.
“What are you doing?”
You don’t answer. Instead you keep going, scooping, gathering, and rolling until you’ve got the makings of a fantastic snowman butt.
“Are you going to answer me?” There’s enough of a sharp pin in his tone and you hoist yourself up, using the round snowman butt as leverage.
“I’m making a snowman,” you answer. “But all I’ve got is the butt.” You gesture to your creation, stalling for the time needed to create the words, to ask the question. Surprising, how hard it is to ask Illumi to do something like this.
“If you want, you could… get some gloves and join me?”
Illumi looks around you, at the disheveled mess you’ve made of the pristine fallen snow, at the clumps of snow clinging to your snow pants, your gloves, your hat. At the large round ball you’re proclaiming is a snowman butt.
At your face, beaming, carefree, in a way he’s never seen you look since before he took you.
“I don’t mind the cold,” is all he says, before he leans down and begins to mimic the way you scooped snow together.
It doesn’t hold. He’s awful at it. And you do something you’ve never done before, at least, not on your own initiative–you place your gloved hands over his and curl your fingers in the right way, so that the snow gets packed together properly.
Illumi goes still, and you pretend not to notice, because you think he’d rather you didn’t.
Instead, you keep on making your snowman, as Illumi slowly but surely gets the hang of it.
“I’m glad it snowed so much,” you say, quietly, cheerily, wondering if a butler could run inside to get carrots and something for the snowman to wear.
Beauty and power makes you attractive to other demons, so Lavi who had both right from birth was spoiled like no other his whole life
Due to his power and rank it's really hard to summon him so when you did it he assumed you went out of your way to do it and was targeting him specifically
His ideal partner is someone who does what he says and spoils him, if you don't fit that description he'll forcefully make you fit the mold
He likes to stay up late and laze around in bed until lunch time, he'll also force you to follow the same schedule as well
Out of all the boys he's the most likely to visibly get angry at you and take it out on you physically
A lot of stuff makes him angry but there are levels to it and each level brings out a different type of tantum
Low level ones are not including him in something you're doing, not watching the show he wanted to watch, complimenting animals and/or inanimate objects when he's right there, not kissing him as soon as you wake up etc. These don't cause big outbursts but will cause him to act extra needy
Mid level ones are going out without him, forcing him to wear something he doesn't like, not praising him properly, being in a room with other men, not having sex with him as soon as he shows signs of wanting it, not responding when he's talking to you etc. These ones will cause bigger outbursts, often public. He'll be crying, screaming and stomping his feet. He might pull your clothes or hair or physically attack someone near you
High level ones are actually sleeping with someone else, actively ignoring him to pay attention to someone else, badmouthing and/or insulting him, attempting or managing to summon another demon, attempting to exorcise him and/or physically hurting him with holy items etc. With these he'll be mad. It's pretty much over for everyone around. If the offense is tied to someone else like a man you were with or a demon you summoned he'll personally make their face unrecognizable, drag their bloodied body around in hell and hang it on a high spot to set an example. When it comes to you he won't be screaming like his normal tantrums, he'll just grab you by your hair and drag you to a bedroom. If you try to protest he'll pierce your skin with his nails deep and leave bleeding scratch marks to make sure you remember what he'll do to you forever. He might also dig his heels into your skin depending on how much you're fighting back.
He can burn others, charm them or suck out their life energy. He's small but does have inhumane strength and speed
His blood can work as a light aphrodisiac but is addictive
No matter what type of personality you have he'll force you to be on top of him during sex
He really likes it when you mark his skin and if it's for sex you're allowed to choke him too. The next day he'll run out half naked just to make the people around see the marks
Once you tried going to work/school while he was still asleep but he unfortunately raided the building as soon as he realized you were gone and threw the desks around until you let him sit on your lap as you worked
His wings and tail can be quite sensitive
He likes to wrap the tail around your leg while you two are having sex and squeeze it hard
He likes being manhandled if it's for foreplay
He wants you to spoil him and buy him all the clothes and accessories he wants and hasn't asked for yet, he doesn't really care if you end up in debt or something, he can always just drag your soul down to hell with him
But he lowkey enjoys watching you struggle to take care of him
He doesn't need to eat but he loves anything sweet, if a normal human tried eating the desserts he eats on a daily basis they'd die from sugar overdose
He loves to publicly shame anyone who shows interest in him while he's already with you and expects you to do the same
His skin is completely spotless, not a single scar which is something to proud of as a demon. It's one of the reasons why he exposes so much skin
He finally found me @lurvelybones - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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