#((I feel like this sums up their relationship

[delulustateofmind]

Haze

Sum: Epilogue to Hysteria

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

WC: 13k (I deeply apologize)

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.

You had won.

[brummiereader]

@mischievouslittlecreature yes Lucy 👏🏼!

Ahhhh, I loved this chapter! I could scream with happiness how Lucy said everything i've wanted her to say to Lizzie for so long now! You have no idea how satisfying it was to see Lucy laying it all brutally out, for Lizzie to see 😈.

Ruby...what a little sweetie. I love her relationship with Lucy. I like to think that maybe Lucy's kindness has rubbed off on her 🥰.

This line though....Lily 😭! “Noooo! I’m never gonna get old!” Ruby laughed. Wow the foreshadowing has given me chills. Poor little darling doesn't know how true these words will be 😞.

It did not take long for her to hear the sounds of Lizzie and Charlie singing Happy Birthday to Ruby in the other room. This was such an upsetting little part. Lizzie making Lucy feel secluded enough she was worried to join in, will never help the situation. If anything it just pushes Tommy further away to see his girl not sharing in any of these family moments.

“I didn’t have a nicer time.” 👈🏼 see. Tommy's a pouty mess when he's not with her.

Lucy stared at him, eyes wide, mouth half agape. Lizzie thought that Tommy was going to die. She thought that he was on the precipice of death, that he was suicidal, and all she cared about was fucking money!? And she told him that!? This!! This is absolutely not what someone who's in love with someone would think! This is the polar opposite to Lucy's reaction everytime she thinks about Tommy dying. This always ALWAYS rubbed me the wrong way when Lizzie said this. And you could see the hurt in Tommy's face after. I knew it would take a moment like this for Lucy to finally fly of the handle when it comes to Lizzie. Tommys life always comes first to her. The mere thought of him dying is enough for Lucy to lose it.

And the next scene only further proves this. With Tommy trying to calm the situation between Aberama and Johnny, Lucy had eyes on Tommy. Even more so when Lizzie comes out guns blazing 🙄. Lizzie is really getting on my last nerve, and the next part was so epic I was kicking my feet cheering Lucy on!

“Enough of this. Alright? Enough.” She was so angry she was nearly shaking, but thankfully no tremor found its way into her voice. “Enough with the crying. And complaining. And the fucking temper tantrums every other bloody week.” She shook her head back and forth. “What are you doing? Do you really think that being hateful to me and using your daughter to hurt him is going to endear him towards you? Really? That’s your great master plan to make him fall in love with you?” I would quote this entire part, but this passage in particular sums up all our frustrations with Lizzie.

I didn't think Lizzie would intentionally stoop that low. But using Ruby against Tommy was a step way, way too far. We've seen glimpses of her subtly using Charlie against Tommy, but this was point blank obvious. Saying she's scared of her own dad, is frankly, awful.

Lizzie at least had the decency to look a little guilty. “I’m sorry–” - “Oh please. No you’re not!” Lucy laughed humorlessly. “You always fucking do this, Lizzie. You throw some big, grand temper tantrum and then you act all apologetic after the fact. Yep! We've seen her immaturity countless times at this point. Nobody's gonna fool for it anymore.

Lizzie looked down at her hands, ringing them together. “I love him, Lucy,” she finally said helplessly. This pissed me off as much as it pissed Lucy off. She loves her version of him she's created in her head. Not the real Tommy, else she wouldn't have made the remark about taking over if he died, or the amount of money that would be left to her 😤.

Woah, what an intense scene. But where does this leave them? Lizzie may be scared of Lucy and the threat of getting hurt if she dares to overstep the line again, BUT...why is it I see a possibility of Lizzie having another major tantrum again 😬?

Excellent chapter, Lily! All this build up makes me think something about to snap though 😬. I'm on the edge of my seat!

Part 26: Do You Love Me

Summary: Celebrations for Ruby's birthday are interrupted when Aberama arrives with claims of betrayal and a desire for vengeance.

Word Count: 5,478

Warnings: Violence, suicidal thoughts, and references to minor character death.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 7: Endless Night

When they got home, Tommy touched her gently by the arm. Eyes lowering, his tongue darted out to wet his lips. 

“I need to go talk to Lizzie about her letter.”

She frowned, wondering if now, on his daughter’s birthday of all days, was a good time to pick a potential fight with her mother. But she supposed that there was no point really in trying to put it off. 

“Okay. I’ll make myself scarce.”

He frowned at the wording, entwining their fingers and raising her hand to press a kiss to the back of it. “I don’t expect we’ll be long.”

She gave him a peck on the lips. “Good luck.”

He gave her an agonized look that she was pretty sure was meant to be a smile, but came out as more of a grimace. Her fingers fiddled at her rings as she watched him head towards his office. Turning, she made her way towards the sitting room, hoping to seek out the kids or maybe one of the animals to keep her company. 

“Lucy!”

She started at the sound of Ruby’s voice, smiling when she spotted the little girl racing down the stairs towards her. 

“Hey, birthday girl!” She bent down to scoop her up, groaning overdramatically as she lifted her. “You’re getting so big, sweetheart! I won’t be able to carry you around for much longer.”

“Noooooo!” Ruby cried, but she was giggling toothily. Trailing behind her, Lizzie descended the stairs, heels clicking delicately against the floor.

“Tommy wants to see you in his office,” Lucy told her in a gentle voice. Lizzie just nodded, but her eyes darted to Ruby. “I got her.”

Lizzie reached out to stroke a lock of Ruby’s hair back. “You stay with Lucy, alright sweetheart? I’ll be just a few minutes.”

“And then we can have cake?”

Lizzie stifled a laugh. Lucy smiled. “Yes, sweet one.”

Ruby wriggled happily, watching with Lucy as her mother wandered away in the direction of Tommy’s office. Hitching her up higher on her hip, Lucy carried her from the stairway and into one of the nearby sitting rooms. Strategically far enough away from the office that, if any yelling started, Ruby hopefully wouldn’t be able to hear. With a huff, she collapsed back onto one of the couches, setting Ruby down on the cushion next to her.

“So. What did you get up to today, little miss? Hm?”

“Well…” Ruby giggled. “Mummy took me and Charlie to afternoon tea at the Midland.”

“Did she now? Did you have fun?”

Ruby nodded vigorously. 

“Did you get to open any of your presents yet?”

She pouted a little, dark doe eyes widening. “No. Mummy said not until after you and Daddy came home.”

“Ah. Well that was very thoughtful of her. I’m sure that your dad will want to see you open them.”

“Yeah,” Ruby shifted to snuggle into her side, picking at a loose thread on her dress. Lucy wrapped an arm around her, head cocking as she examined the little girl. Outwardly, she seemed her usual cheerful self. But there was something in the slight lowering of her eyes that made Lucy frown. 

“You okay, sweetie?”

“Uh huh. I just think that Mummy’s sad, is all.”

Your mummy is always sad, sweet one, Lucy thought, throat turning to sandpaper as she swallowed around the words. 

“It’s been…a bit of a difficult time at Daddy’s work lately, love. And it’s been affecting all of us. Including your mum.” She hoped that would be a good enough explanation about what was happening. Ruby frowned. “But hey,” she quickly moved to reassure the child, “your daddy will take care of it, eh? He always does.”

Ruby nodded. “Daddy takes care of everyone.”

“Yes, he does.”

A crease formed between her brows, those dark eyes darting to Lucy’s, wide with worry. “But who will take care of Daddy, Lucy?”

She felt her heart squeeze a little at the girl’s sweetness. Always a daddy’s girl. From the very moment she’d been born.

“I will, Ruby. That’s what I’m here for. You don’t need to worry.”

“You promise?” Ruby’s eyes were beseeching. Lucy smiled down at her. 

“Yes, honey, I promise.”

Seemingly satisfied, Ruby wrapped her little arms around her and nestled her head against her shoulder. Lucy stroked a hand over her hair.

“We can make it part of your birthday present, hm? What do you think?” she asked, hoping to lighten the mood. It seemed to work, Ruby grinning brightly. 

“Yeah! Okay!”

“Happy birthday, kiddo.” She kissed the top of her head. “Just you wait. Soon you’ll be old like me.”

“Noooo! I’m never gonna get old!” Ruby laughed. Lucy chuckled. “Can we play cards?” 

Lucy pressed her smiling lips together. Young as Ruby still may have been, it was her philosophy that you were never too young to start learning how to swindle at poker. She’d been teaching both the kids various card games since they were practically still in nappies. 

“Of course. I’m sure we can find a deck around here somewhere.”

It only took a little searching for them to find one, and they were just wrapping up their first game when Frances came in. 

“Miss. Winters, Mrs. Shelby asked that I take the children to the drawing room at seven for cake.”

At the mention of cake, Ruby bolted up from her seat and went racing for the door. Lucy smiled a little to herself, reaching across the table to gather up the cards and arrange them in a neat little stack. 

“Are you not coming, Miss?”

She looked up to find Frances still hovering in the doorway. She offered the housekeeper a weak smile. She had not been expressly invited to the celebrations going on in the next room. Nor did she feel bold enough to try to force her way into being included. Lizzie didn’t want her there, so she would respect her wishes. 

You are so fucking selfish.

The words had cut her deeper than she’d initially thought. Cycling in her head. Tormenting her. Leaving her to lie awake at night, staring up at the canopy, and wondering, for perhaps the thousandth time, if her presence truly was as massively damaging as Lizzie made it out to be. 

“They don’t want me there.”

“That’s not true, Miss.”

“Well, I’d rather not have to deal with Lizzie’s temper, today.” 

“Mrs. Shelby…she sometimes lets her jealousy get the best of her, but deep down, I don’t think she dislikes you nearly as much as you think.”

“Yeah,” Lucy whispered. She had thought that too, once. But as time went on it got harder and harder to believe. “Thank you, Frances.”

“Of course, Miss. I’ll leave you be.”

She nodded gratefully, curling her legs under her on the couch, plucking up a book sitting on the end table. The room was dimly lit, not the best for reading, but it fit the mood she was in. As she flipped through it idly, Trouble crept out from wherever it was she had been hiding, and curled into her lap. 

It did not take long for her to hear the sounds of Lizzie and Charlie singing Happy Birthday to Ruby in the other room. Her throat tightened, chest suddenly aching sharply with the feeling of exclusion and loneliness. Snapping the book shut, she stood, scooping Trouble up into her arms. With quick steps she headed for Tommy’s office, where she was unlikely to hear the sounds of the family singing and celebrating. 

Setting Trouble down on a nearby armchair, Lucy picked up a few stacks of papers on Tommy’s desk, sitting down and beginning to look them over. Trouble found her way into her lap again, meowing in complaint everytime Lucy ceased petting her even for a moment. She wondered if the cat could sense her distress. It would explain why she was suddenly insistent on remaining so close to her.  

The door opened perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later. Tommy’s heavy footfalls approached her slowly, coming to a stop right beside her. 

“I was looking for you.”

Lucy swallowed harshly, the action burning a little. She cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you come for cake?”

“Didn’t want to spoil things.”

“You could never spoil things.”

“Lizzie would disagree. I’m sure that she had a much nicer time without me there to pop her happy little bubble.”

“I didn’t have a nicer time.”

She finally looked up from the papers she had been pointedly keeping her gaze fixed on. He was standing over her, a plate containing a slice of chocolate cake with a silver fork balanced on the edge clutched in one hand. His eyes were tired and hurt.

Another sharp pang of guilt twisted like a knife in her heart. “I’m sorry.”

He examined her for a moment more, then looked away. “It’s alright.” It clearly wasn’t, but she didn’t really want to discuss it further. At least not right then. He held out the plate to her. “I brought you this.”

Setting aside her papers, she took it. “Thank you.” Watching him walk around the desk to sit behind it, she frowned at the continued look of open distress on his features. Trouble hopped off of her lap to follow him, brushing her little body against his ankles. “Did Ruby have a good time?”

“She loves her presents.” He shot her a knowing look which Lucy shied away from. They both were well aware that most of the gifts with his name on them had actually been purchased by her. 

“Good. That’s good.” Taking up her fork, she gathered up a small bite of the cake. It was dense and rich. Sweet on her tongue, with just the right edge of bitterness to keep the sweetness from being too overpowering. As she chewed, she eyed Tommy, worry growing by the minute. “Are you alright?”

He cleared his throat, looking away from her to some far off, distant point. “I got a call.” He didn’t need to specify from whom. “I asked them some questions about Michael, but they didn’t have anything of much use for us.”

“Okay…” That wasn’t really all that surprising, all things considered. Disappointing, maybe. But it didn’t seem like reason enough for him to appear so upset. “How did your talk with Lizzie go?”

He didn’t respond, still staring at a nondescript place on the far wall. Setting her fork down, she put the plate on the desk in front of her and leaned forward to try to get in his line of sight. 

“Tommy?”

He came to with a jerk, eyes snapping to hers. “Hm?”

“What did Lizzie say?”

The way that his face fell told her that she’d found the source of his sullen mood. Lucy tensed, preparing herself for whatever new venom Lizzie had chosen to throw at him. Tommy drew in a deep, painful breath. 

“She said that she took Ruby to Arthur’s because she’s scared of me.”

Lucy’s brows drew in. Already that made no sense. Ruby adored Tommy. Not once had she shown fear towards him. If anything it was the opposite. He was always the one that she wanted whenever she had nightmares or was frightened of the monster under her bed. 

But Tommy wasn’t done yet. “Lizzie says that when she knows I’m not coming home that she’s…different.”

Rage, hot and trembling, began to course through her. Her fingers balled into fists, little crescents digging into her skin as she fought to leash her temper.

How fucking dare Lizzie try to use that sweet girl to hurt him. She knew how much Tommy loved Ruby; how important she was; how cherished the relationship that they had was to his heart. 

One look at Tommy’s face, and she realized that was not all. There was something more. “What else?” she asked, working hard to keep most of the anger coursing through her out of her voice. 

Tommy smacked his lips together. His thumb was moving back and forth anxiously, she could see, where it was resting on his thigh. 

“She’s concerned that if I get killed, or end up offing myself, that there won’t be anything left for her.” He choked out a humorless laugh. “She thinks that if I’m gone, she’d take my place in everything.”

Lucy stared at him, eyes wide, mouth half agape. Lizzie thought that Tommy was going to die. She thought that he was on the precipice of death, that he was suicidal, and all she cared about was fucking money!? And she told him that!?

She opened her mouth to speak. Or maybe to just let out a scream of rage before flying out of her chair to go find Lizzie and throttle her, when the growl of an engine quickly approaching the house sounded from outside. 

Her brows knit. Tommy frowned, standing and going to peek out the window. A bark sounded from near the front door. Shadow. 

“Tell Lizzie to get the kids upstairs,” Tommy said, springing into motion. Lucy nodded, rage momentarily forgotten as she hurried out of the office and to the drawing room. Lizzie was seated with Charlie and Ruby, playing with some of Ruby’s new toys. Lizzie looked up, saw her expression, heard the approaching engine, and shot out of her seat, taking both children by the hand and rushing them towards the stairs. Lucy gave her a quick nod in approval. At the very least, she could always depend on Lizzie to keep the kids safe.

Barreling from the drawing room, she met Tommy at the cupboard loaded with weapons. Her fingers flexed around the rifle he pressed into her hands, bringing the stock to rest against her shoulder. Together, they headed for the front entryway. 

Shadow was still barking and growling by the door. “Stay, boy,” Lucy ordered. He quieted and sat down on his haunches immediately, though his brown eyes followed them as they went outside. Tommy plastered himself against the wall of the archway that curled over the front door, a hand signaling for Lucy to take position behind him, her side also pressed to the cold wall that was serving as their cover.

They remained completely still, just listening with hands gripping tight to their weapons. The car engine jutted to a halt, then shut off entirely in the driveway. One of the car doors opened, followed by a thud, and sharp groans of pain. 

Lucy frowned when she recognized the voice that started calling out Tommy’s name. “Is that Johnny?”

With fluid movements that greatly resembled that of a big cat, Tommy sprang into motion. Lifting his gun to level with the car as he stepped out onto the drive, he began shouting orders to the person still inside behind the wheel. Lucy followed behind, rifle raised to cover him. Her eyes squinted at the driver’s seat, trying to make out in the shadows who was seated behind the wheel. Johnny Dogs had been dumped out onto the ground, writhing and clutching at his side. 

When Aberama stepped out of the car, Lucy felt her breathing hitch in horror. He was bloodied, tears shining in his eyes. There was something half mad in them that made her skin prickle with alarm. She kept her rifle raised, just in case. Despite Aberama not holding any weapons in his hands.  

Her blood chilled as Aberama started to speak in a voice laced with tears. Telling them of how Bonnie had been strung up on a cross and shot while they were camping out in the wilderness. At Tommy’s question as to who had attacked them, he reached into his pocket, and threw a crumpled ball of paper to them. Lucy kept her rifle trained on Aberama as Tommy stepped forward to pick it up and unfurled it. She glanced over Tommy’s shoulder at the words scrawled in black, the paper stained red with blood. 

BY ORDER OF THE BILLY BOYS.

Her eyes snapped back to Aberama as he explained that only Johnny Dogs had known where they were camped. Johnny immediately started to try to insist on his innocence. That sent Aberama into a rage, lunging at him where he was still curled on the ground.

 Tommy put down his weapon and jumped between them, trying to wrestle Aberama off of Johnny. Lucy kept a careful distance away from them, rifle still raised in case she needed to use it. She couldn’t fire as long as they were all tussling together like that, though. She wouldn’t risk hitting Tommy, and she didn’t want to outright kill Aberama or Johnny either. At least not before they had a clearer understanding of what had happened. She could always shoot Aberama in the leg to incapacitate him. She didn’t want to, but she would if she had to. 

Tommy managed to pull the two men apart, and Lucy took a cautious step closer to Johnny, lowering her rifle a little. Taking hold of Aberama, Tommy started to try to calm him down and talk sense into him. As Tommy continued to speak, Aberama suddenly went still, his gaze turning cold. 

“They crucified my son…for you,” his voice had lowered considerably into a malicious murmur. 

Lucy brought her finger to rest on the trigger of her rifle at the same moment that Aberama lunged for the gun Tommy had left lying on the ground. He had just coiled his fingers around it, half raising it to level with Tommy’s chest, when two gunshots rang out sharply. 

But the bullets came not from Lucy’s gun, nor from Aberama’s. 

They came from Lizzie’s.

They all jerked with surprise, the thundering echoes of the gunshots reverberating all around them. Lucy felt her muscles lock with the preparation for a fight before she realized what was happening. Aberama drew back, hunching over himself as if expecting to be shot. Johnny cringed. Tommy’s eyes snapped to where the shots had come from, wide with shock and fury.  

Lizzie came barreling down the steps leading to the front door. The gun she’d just fired into the sky waved wildly at all of them. Her eyes were bulging and she was screaming, demanding that they all get away. 

“This is my house! And I don’t want you back. I don’t want you back!” She looked half out of her mind, the gun aimed squarely at Tommy’s chest. Lucy stared at her in shock. Fear locked around her throat when for one terrible moment, she actually thought that Lizzie might pull the trigger. 

Tommy recovered first from the silence and stillness that the outburst had stunned them all into. With quick footsteps, he walked his way over to Lizzie. Lucy tensed, half rising her rifle towards Lizzie when she didn’t lower the gun, panicking that Tommy’s approach would trigger her to fire.

But she didn’t, and he ripped the gun from her hand with ease, opening the chamber and dumping all the remaining golden bullets out onto the drive. Lizzie smiled spitefully, rabidness still gleaming in her eyes. 

Tommy stuffed the emptied gun into the front of his trousers, then stalked over to Aberama to snatch away the rifle still held limply in his hand. It seemed that the shock of Lizzie’s intervention had drained all his remaining will and strength, leaving him swaying dangerously on his feet. His face was pale, left arm limp at his side.

“You wanna take on the Billy Boys? You need me alive,” Tommy said to him, then turned to fix his gaze pointedly at Lizzie, voice raising. “Everyone fucking needs me,” he said, no small amount of bitterness enveloping the words. Lizzie sneered at him, hate shining bright in her eyes. Lucy wondered if she actually would have had it in her to shoot him. If maybe she even had wanted to. 

But her interruption had allowed Tommy to seize back control over the situation. Aberama slumped against a nearby stone bench with a soft groan, while Tommy ordered Lizzie back inside to call an ambulance for him. She gave each of them individually a look of deep contempt, but did as she was told, turning to stalk back into the house. 

“Stay with him,” Tommy said to Lucy while he moved to haul Johnny inside. She nodded, shouldering her rifle and going to sit beside Aberama. They sat in silence, watching as Tommy helped a sobbing Johnny through the front door. Aberama’s breathing was wheezing and labored. 

It was quiet inside the house for a while, likely as Tommy got Johnny settled in one of the rooms. But then there was muffled shouting, both Tommy and Lizzie’s voices distinctive in their raised volumes. 

“Do they always argue like that?” Aberama asked softly after a few minutes passed and the yelling didn’t cease.

“Yes,” Lucy mumbled, staring down at her hands. Tommy finally came outside at the sound of the ambulance approaching, speaking to the driver in a low voice before helping them to load Aberama into the back. 

“What about Johnny?” she asked, standing beside Tommy and watching as the ambulance pulled away.

“Maisie, Clara, and Sandra are taking care of him.”

She nodded. Their maids were no stranger to setting bones and sewing up wounds.

“That letter the Billy Boys left that Aberama threw at me,” Tommy began, “it was written in the same style and handwriting as the one that was on the scarecrow in the field with the landmines.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. In her mind, she could see Bonnie, strung up on a cross not unlike the scarecrow out in the field. “Oh…” she swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “At least we know who left us them, then.”

Tommy hummed. She looked over at him worriedly and reached out to rub his shoulder. “Johnny’s not a traitor.” There was a list–albeit a very short one–of the few people whom she knew in her bones would never betray them. Johnny Dogs was on that list. 

“Agreed.”

“So how did the Billy Boys find them?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head. Lucy looked out across the grounds, towards where the thick smattering of trees began on the property. Her lip caught between her teeth.

“Maybe it was just bad luck.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“No,” she sighed, reaching up a hand to run over her hair. “Not really.”

“Come on,” he brushed a hand across her shoulder. “Let’s get inside.”

She followed him back into the house. While he went to go check up on Johnny, she returned her rifle to the armory. Just as she was closing it up, she heard heels clicking against the floor. Protectiveness flared fiercely inside her at the memory of Lizzie brandishing the revolver in Tommy’s face.

She told him she doesn’t care if he dies.

The wrath that had briefly been extinguished by Aberama’s arrival returned in full force.

Slamming the cupboard closed, she turned sharply, walking with rapid steps towards where Lizzie was standing in the doorway. Grabbing her firmly by one wrist, she started to half drag her into one of the adjoining sitting rooms. 

“Lucy!? Ow! What the fuck!?” Lizzie cried, and Lucy yanked her through the door, closing it behind them hard enough to nearly rattle the frame. The moment that she let Lizzie go, Lizzie took a step back from her, rubbing at the wrist she’d been gripping. 

“You and I need to talk,” Lucy said, eyes blazing.

Lizzie’s throat worked, drawing herself up to her full, towering height. But there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

Lucy took a step forward, and when she spoke, her voice was icy calm. “You will never point a gun at him like that again. Ever. Do you understand me?”

Lizzie’s jaw worked, but she didn’t reply, instead just fixing Lucy with a defiant, stubborn expression. Lucy scoffed. 

“Enough of this. Alright? Enough.” She was so angry she was nearly shaking, but thankfully no tremor found its way into her voice. “Enough with the crying. And complaining. And the fucking temper tantrums every other bloody week.” She shook her head back and forth. “What are you doing? Do you really think that being hateful to me and using your daughter to hurt him is going to endear him towards you? Really? That’s your great master plan to make him fall in love with you?”

Lizzie let out a hiss and turned away, cheeks reddening.

“You fucking idiot.” Now that the words were pouring out, she couldn’t stop them. “If you’re going to leave, fine. Fucking leave. But don’t just sit around here, crying and complaining and dragging the rest of us down with you.”

“I do not–”

“Yes, you fucking do, Lizzie! God! It’s like living with a fucking see-saw! Do you understand? Do you realize how exhausting it is? And now on top of every other fucking thing I have to do, I have to worry about you pointing fucking guns at him, and telling him that your daughter’s scared of him.”

Lizzie shrank in on herself a little.  

“You know, I see two possibilities here: either you’re a terrible mother, who has willingly brought your child back into an environment where you know she’s uncomfortable and frightened. Or, you were just saying that because you wanted to hurt him as deeply as you know how.”

Lizzie’s eyes met hers sheepishly, and she had the answer that she already knew. 

“Despite everything, I know you’re not a terrible mother. You’d never have brought her back here if you genuinely thought she was scared of him.”

Lizzie still said nothing, eyes staring back into Lucy’s, defiance slowly ebbing from them at being caught in her lie. 

“You know how much he loves her,” Lucy shook her head. “You know that he would do anything for her. How could you do that to him?”

Lizzie at least had the decency to look a little guilty. “I’m sorry–”

“Oh please. No you’re not!” Lucy laughed humorlessly. “You always fucking do this, Lizzie. You throw some big, grand temper tantrum and then you act all apologetic after the fact. As if that immediately absolves you of everything. It doesn’t. My guilt can’t absolve me of the crime of fucking your husband, and your apologies cannot erase the hurt that you’ve caused. Especially when you keep doing it over and over again.”

She drew in a deep, harsh breath at the end of her rant, taking a step away from Lizzie. Stalking to the windows, she looked out at the dark grounds, fingers toying with each other. In the reflection in the glass, she could see Lizzie still standing motionless in the same spot she’d been in while Lucy yelled at her. Staring at the wall as she processed her words. Lucy wrapped her arms around herself, returning her gaze to outside. Even as she felt Lizzie finally look over at her. 

“You’re scaring me, Lucy,” she said finally in a quiet voice. 

Lucy took no pleasure in the statement, tongue darting out to wet her lips. Looking down, she nodded once to herself. 

“Good.” She turned to face Lizzie. “I think that you’ve forgotten who exactly it is you’re dealing with, here.”

Lizzie stared at her with wide, wounded eyes, and Lucy felt a stab of guilt for how harsh she’d been. But she shoved it away. Because when it came to protecting Tommy, nothing else mattered. 

“Pull yourself together,” she commanded, raising her chin. “Or I will put an end to the entire fucking thing. You know I can. All I have to do is ask him to leave you, and he will. Like that,” she snapped her fingers. The crack seemed to echo throughout the room. “I’m almost fucking there, Lizzie. Because you can hurt me and take jabs at me and say as much hateful shit about me behind my back as you want. But you’re hurting him now. And I won’t allow that.”

The look Lizzie fixed her with was wounded and angry, but also contemplating. Lucy wondered if, just maybe, she had gotten through to her a little.

“We’re friends, Lucy,” Lizzie said, after another moment of silence. For some reason, Lucy found the idea hilarious, bursting into a round of helpless, quiet giggles and shaking her head. 

“No. No; we’re not. That was just a pipe dream.”

Lizzie shuffled a step closer to her. “That’s not true.”

“You’re just saying that to manipulate me. Like you always have. You’ve never actually given a shit about me. It’s all just been about trying to get closer to him.”

“No…it hasn’t…”

“Do you really not see how I may have started to think that every time you’re nice to me, it’s only because you want something?”

Lizzie looked down at her hands, ringing them together. “I love him, Lucy,” she finally said helplessly. 

“No,” Lucy whispered, shaking her head furiously. “Tell me, how exactly did you phrase it, Lizzie? When you were talking about your concerns regarding his potential death? How did you say it?” Her voice had dropped so low it was a miracle Lizzie could hear her. When Lizzie didn’t immediately respond, she raised an eyebrow. “Tell me,” she coaxed. Lizzie shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. 

“I said, I’ll need to know there will be something left.”

Lucy blinked slowly, letting the words sink in and digest. “I need to know there will be something left,” she repeated back at her. Lizzie let out a shaky breath. Lucy shook her head. Her voice remained soft. “No. I don’t know what the fuck this is, but it isn’t love. Someone who loves someone wouldn’t be so focused on making sure that there will be things left for them when faced with the idea of their love’s death.”

Lizzie looked down at her hands. Lucy examined her face, watching the way that her expression fell to one of confliction and exhaustion. She raised a hand to wipe at her eyes, breaths turning shaky.

Lucy inhaled sharply, pulling away before she could allow herself to feel too terrible for making her cry, heading for the door without another word. 

She found Tommy in one of the upstairs bedrooms with Johnny, standing by the window and smoking as the maids finished bandaging Johnny’s ribs. 

“You alright?” she asked Johnny, coming to stand by the bed. He gave her a weak smile. 

“Hurts like a bitch to breathe, but I’ll live.” He looked at the maids tending to him. “Especially with these lovely beauties to look after me, eh?”

Sandra blushed and looked down at her hands. Maisie and Clara–both more seasoned and familiar with Johnny’s antics–chuckled and fondly rolled their eyes. 

“Good,” Lucy gave him a light pat on the shoulder before going over to Tommy. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders with a heavy sigh, reaching over to stub his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. 

“Right, Johnny. If you’re alright, we’re going to go to bed.”

Johnny nodded, waving them away. Tommy took her hand, and they began the walk to their room. 

“He have anything significant to say?” Lucy asked.

“Nothing useful.”

“Mm.” That wasn’t that surprising. “I don’t like the connection to the Billy Boys. Especially after that whole business between them and Michael. It reeks of…something.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I talked with Lizzie.”

“Oh?”

“Yelled at her, is probably the more appropriate description,” she paused as he opened the door to their room, holding it wide for her to duck inside first. Trouble was curled up on the bed, asleep, though she stirred and meowed at them after Lucy flicked on the lights. Tommy closed the door behind them. “I feel a little bad about it, now.” 

“Don’t be. She’s needed a good talking to for awhile, now.”

“You don’t even know what I said to her.” She moved to sit at her vanity to take off her earrings. They settled in the little dish she kept them in with a clink. 

Tommy kissed her on top of the head, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. “I trust you.”

Lucy smiled, grabbing a cloth to start wiping away her makeup. The smile faded quickly. “Things between you and her are getting worse.”

“Now what gave you that idea?” He flashed her a humorless smile that came out as more of a grimace, then sighed. “I’ll deal with it.”

“She pointed a gun at you.”

“She did.” 

She parted her lips to speak, then paused, considering her words before finally deciding to utter them. “If she had shot you, I would have killed her.”

Tommy glanced over at her, and smiled sadly. He reached out, resting a hand at the base of her neck, drawing her close so he could press a kiss to her lips. “I know, love.”

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[marsh-snail]

~trauma buddies~

based on this meme

[sam-reid]

Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but a shadow of this. And it seemed in a murmured pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so.

Assad Zaman and Sam Reid as Armand and Lestat INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE SEASON 2 (2024).

[i-dreamed-i-had-a-son]

Broke (2016): BBC Sherlock is a phenomenal piece of media and anything that seems like a flaw just hasn't been fully explored yet

Woke (2020): BBC Sherlock is an incredibly flawed series run by an egotistical writer, it never deserved the hype and is actively bad on so many fronts (especially representation)

Bespoke (2024): BBC Sherlock is flawed and bogged down by increasingly poor writing, which many fans refused to see while it was airing, leading to hugely misplaced expectations (particularly for the final series), AND it has the seeds of some compelling characterizations and portrayals, some genuinely solid performances, and touches--albeit imperfectly--on complexities that are still being discussed today (particularly as it relates to the relationship between Sherlock and John). The huge cultural impact of the show has created a massive pendulum effect in its public perception, leading to most people today remembering a caricature of the show (whether positive or negative) rather than appreciating its nuanced merits and failings...that being said Season 4 sucked

[sparklingchim]

[rose-in-blue]

Was rewatching S5 E1 and paused it at the exact right time

[whoophoney]

[sinnettini]

are you catholic? i wouldn't have said so

anon 😭😭 i'm not trying to make fun of you and i'm taking this as a compliment actually but i don't know how to tell you this... i'm literally italian 😭

but seriously, i've grown up catholic yeah, but i don't believe in god and haven't taken part in anything religious in many years. i would say i'm like culturally catholic tho. and technically still catholic to the eyes of the church bc baptism and all that

[iamthemaestro]

if I had a nickel for every time either I or my brother-in-arms was in only 18th century underclothes while fixing our breeches in the passenger seat on the way to a reenactment I would have two nickels which is not a lot but it's weird that it's happened twice

[kiruamon]

Cursed Princes AU - Sleep Spell

Moon has enough of your nagging.

Moon: *casting a sleep spell on you*

Later, when Moon finds out that you were just so exhausted that you kept sleeping even after the spell lost its effect:

He will lay you in his bed until you are waking up again.

_

Also I maybe doing some writing for this au. Okay not maybe. I'm doing it. But it's slow progress. (And when I'm done with the first chapter I still have to translate it into english. And also I'm working on the comic parts/sketches for the Grey World AU. Also, also there are the other stories I have in wait... So yeah.) Just wanted to let you guys know.

[4belphie]

feeling frustrated bc i love the house of mouse au but i kinda hate how shippy it is 😭

[moonfromearth]

what kind of love are you

Thank you so so much for the tag @honeyjars-sims I really enjoyed doing this it was such a fun way to work on characters! 😁

Corey Altman

Love as a Performance "Your love is a masquerade, a dance, a work of art. You love with a veil across your face, unable to allow anyone to see the real you. Can that be considered love, you wonder? As a performer, you have all your lines prepared, and you know exactly what to say and when to say it. You’re charismatic and bold, seductive and hypnotic. Your love is a snake’s melody, the siren song of the sea. Your love is enchanting. Your love is melodic. Your love is afraid and fearful and longing. You ache to tear the veil off, you ache to cast poetry aside for the sake of something real and gritty. You’re terrified of the very thought. Being loved by you is to be loved by an artist; it is to be a muse. It reflects others beautifully, but never, ever yourself. Not really. Not truly."

Lou Carrington

Love as a Threshold "Your love does not ask for much. Your love does not take. Your love is free, and unquestioned, and here for wherever needs it. When you fall in love, it is as gentle as a breath in the night. It is quiet, and it is effortless. It is tender. If your love was a house, it would readily welcome all who come through. If your love was a hearth, it would warm the hands of whoever stopped by, whether for a day, a month, a year, or forever. When you fall for someone, it is without strings, without conditions, without need. You love for the sake of loving, for the sake of caring for those who need it. You love with a giver’s heart and a giver’s hands and are made so much stronger for it. Being loved by you is to always feel at home. Your love may not always be well-received by those unprepared to linger, but it is unforgettable all the same."

Meghan Root

Love as the Dawn "Pastel, saccharine and hopeful, your love rises slow to greet the day. It tiptoes on doe feet and blossoms bit by bit, petal by petal. Love is new to you, isn’t it? A fresh discovery in a world you do not quite understand. Your love loves with bated breaths. Your love swoons and sighs and lingers under awnings. Your love romanticizes. Your love aches as tenderly as a bruise. You’re swollen with desire and idealizations. The perfect kiss, the perfect touch, the perfect partner in life. Your love is wide-eyed and innocent, naive and pristine and oh, so very easily breakable. Being loved by you is to be loved by a child, by a lamb, wooly-eyed and helpless. Oh. I really hope it lasts."

Not going to lie I'm actually sobbing over the results these are all so sweet and so them I can't even 😭 I feel like these could be viewed for platonic love as well as romantic too which makes it even cuter.

I think I'll tag @simmingonthelow @thebramblewood @deathbypufferfish and @windslar but feel free to ignore if you don't want to do it/already have (I saw a lot of people do this but I don't remember exactly who so... Sorry! 😅). If you haven't gotten a tag yet and want to do it though feel free as well!! 😁

[jonny-b-meowborn]

y'know I really wish that people would use animal language for me (paws instead of hands, fur instead of hair, stuff like that), in a weird way it feels similarly to having my gender affirmed, but at the same time I'd never have the balls to ask anyone to do it

[diluc33rpm]

the romance/relationship system in bg3 is genuinely some of the worst designed shit i've ever seen in any game with that feature but at least the memes we get out of it are funny. once saw someone comment something along the lines of 'patch note: waving at gale will no longer cause him to buy a house for the two of you to retire in' and i've never recovered since

[age-of-moonknight]

“Next Stop: Zombieville, Part 1,” Deadpool: Merc With A Mouth (Vol. 1/2009), #8.

Writer: Victor Gischler; Penciler: Bong Gazo; Inker: Jose Pimentel; Colorist: Matt Milla; Letterer: Jeff Eckleberry