Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

¢σωαя∂.

тнαт'ѕ αℓℓ уσυ αяє.

ωαкє υρ. ι кησω уσυ ¢αη ∂σ ιт. ωαηηα кησω нσω ι кησω? вє¢αυѕє уσυ ¢нι¢кєηє∂ συт. ραтнєтι¢. ωну ∂σ уσυ ℓєт уσυяѕєℓƒ ѕυƒƒєя?

нαн...уσυ мαкє мє ѕι¢к. уσυ ¢ℓαιм уσυ'яє тιяє∂, тнαт уσυ'яє мιѕєяαвℓє, тнαт ℓιƒє ιѕ ѕσ υηƒαιя тσ уσυ. ℓιƒє ¢αη'т нυят уσυ ιƒ ιт єη∂ѕ. ℓιкє α ¢σℓ∂...¢αη'т нυят уσυ ιƒ ιт gσєѕ αωαу ƒσяєνєя.

вυт...ωнσ αм ι тєℓℓιηg? α ¢σωαя∂? нм. ιт'ѕ ησт тнαт нαя∂ тσ [ⱤɆĐ₳₵₮ɆĐ]. ι'ℓℓ єνєη gινє уσυ ѕтєρ-ву-ѕтєρ ιηѕтяυ¢тισηѕ. нσωєνєя, уσυ ¢нσσѕє тσ вє ∂郃ι¢υℓт. ѕσ ѕυƒƒєя. ωαкє υρ. ωαкє υρ. ωαкє. υρ. уσυ. υѕєℓєѕѕ. ƒυ¢кιηg. ¢σωαя∂.

…

Ｏｐｅｎ ｙｏｕｒ ｅｙｅｓ． Ｇｅｔ ｕｐ． Ｌｏｏｋ ａｔ ｙｏｕｒ ｂｒｏｋｅｎ uoıʇɔǝlɟǝɹｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ａｎ ｈｏｎｅｓｔ ɹoɹɹıɯ． Ｐｉｃｋ ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ ａｐａｒｔ． Ｋｅｅｐ ｃｏｍｉｎｇ ｕｐ ｗｉｔｈ ｅｘｃｕｓｅｓ．．．

…

Go on. 𝙄 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪…

・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・

[𝑻]

“I was wondering when you’d wake up, haha.”

A maniac is staring at her with manic eyes in a manic position. The asylum room is bright with gold-tinted death and terror; her little paper-thin girl body is trapped under weighted softness trying to suffocate her and a pillow filled with dead geese separated from their families.

She doesn’t remember coming here. She doesn’t remember allowing herself to come here.

…

Thumpthump…thumpthump…thumpthump…….

…that sound. That plump, juicy, incredibly tempting irritating sound. The sound that keeps pounding through her skull and infecting her pudding brain. Poundingpoundingpounding echoingechoingechoing infectinginfectinginfecting… tempingtemptingtempting.

Thumpthump…thumpthump…thumpthump….

PlumpPlumpPlump…TenderTenderTender…MeatMeatMeat……

...Feast. Feast. Feast. Like a good girl. A good and fat girl. Give in. Feed. Meat is best served fresh…

...does a pumping, bloody heart count as live meat?

“Hope you don’t mind—” The maniac snatches her doll away from feastable dreams with her stupid quiet voice, taking her stupid fat finger and moving a stray green doll-hair from the prettyskinnymiserable ragdoll sinking in the cesspool of soft. The window eyes to the outside world balance protection and exposure; one shows the sad ragdoll-less world and the other decides the second half isn’t worth observing. Velvet Ragdoll forgot what the wild was like. Maniac is at least considerate. “Figured you’d like an actual bed after all this time—this is mine, actually.”

The waytoolittle ragdolly’s glass eyes pick apart her new surroundings. Besides the eyes putting a square hole in the wall, the asylum walls have gone from cemetary-ready and crawling with million-legged scavengers to a soft deceptive shade ready to kiss its date at prom night—pretty unlike her, not overwhelming unlike her, cute with buttons and stickers and blue eyes she won’t dare to look at a pastel rectangle with pink hearts and pinker words doll eyes aren’t made to read. Ragdolls are useless sometimesnoallthetime.

Her useless ragdoll eyes point back to the Dollmaster/Maniac/Pleasehelpher. Dollmaster has glassier skin than her ragdolly, and livelier eyes. She's also hideously fatter, so there's that victory. No matter how torn or ripped apart or burned Velvet gets, she’ll still be thinnest=prettiest. That’s all that matters.

Dollmaster feels herself being taken apart and built again by Ragdolly’s scrutinizing glass eyes. Her limbs are being ripped from their sockets and twisted in bone-breaking knots; internal intentions get squeezed from her fat-girl brain and inspected via petri dish, though it doesn’t look like much is discovered. That’s alright—knowing she’s piqued her interest is endearing enough. When someone—whether it be ragdolly or dollmaster—feels endeared, they smile an innocent kind, the kind a girl gives to a boy who gave her his heart (and chocolates), knowing she’s about to have one hell of a thrill breaking it. Dollmaster’s casual existence was the bane of the ragdoll’s, though she seldom cared. Instead, she bent down, preparing appetizing words for the fatty course in her hands.

“...So, I’m aware you don’t know where you are or how you got here,” Orchid says, as if the girl holding her knees to her chest to avoid the heat didn’t know this. A pink crystalline tray is placed near her; it possesses a bowl of orange pond, two strangely cartoony fish that look way too happy to be here, and a stack of what she assumed was pancakes with identity dysphoria. A silver-rimmed cup is half-filled with soft, green tears. “Which I expect, but don’t be alarmed. Like I said a while ago, Miss Leah said it’s okay to bring you here—actually, it sounded like she wanted you here. Or at least out of there.”

[𝑨]

Dollmaster’s face is soft-looking, like freshly buttered rolls. Maybe she’s eaten them and fattened herself out. You are what you eat.

Gesturing to her array with childlike pride, she further says, “—I get the sense you’re less interested in the specifics and more about getting used to being normal again, not to mention having actual meals.” …someone’s senses are off. By a wide margin. A margin as wide as Dollmaster’s healthy fat body. Nonetheless, she happily gestures to the deceptive fish, orange pond, and faux-pancakes. “Bungeoppang, hobakjuk, hotteok—fish pastries, pumpkin porridge, and Koreageon-style pancakes, if calling them that scares you less.”

Wrong, Dollmaster. Ragdolly couldn’t care less what these atrocities were called in hieroglyphics; it’s the true translations of delicious “diabetic”, sublime “thigh-fattening”, and everything she could ever want “scale destroyer” that were truly horrific. No lost translations around here. Not today.

Maybe that fact is what filled the silver-rimmed cup with such sad, dewy green tears. This psychopath introduced her poisons to a naïve—and gorgeously thin—goddess, but also spilled out the devastatingly fattening effects they’d have on her body just as she’d stupidly indulged in gluttonous temptation. The devastation hit her wicked hard, and Dollmaster stole her tears as a sadistic token. Now, her mental anguish is being passed on to the next vulnerable paper-thin girl. Well, she can’t really call it “anguish” anymore; that’s just not marketable.

Instead, she stitches on a subtle look of affection to hide the badness of the situation, not unlike a nosy counselor acknowledging that you at least aren’t dead, despite the fact you almost were a few days ago if you didn’t chicken out last minute. Sure, you almost cost your parents thousands of dollars in funeral expenses, but at least you’re here, right?

[𝑲]

“And green tea.” The stolen tears of that poor, heartbroken girl, never to be happy with herself again. “Not the fake kind, either…only the authentic kind fit for a queen.” She presses her fingertip on the rim, making it go around and around in slow, dizzying circles. The ragdoll focuses her buttons there, because in her mind it’s as entertaining as watching paint dry, but also as effective in keeping her from reversing her 17-year-progress as a knife in the heart is effective in making the pain stop. “I figured it’s good to start off with—the healthiest drink you could have.” What about good ol’ 0-calorie-0-fat-0-pounds-0-problems H2O? “...I’m hoping it’s a nice welcome for you, even if you don’t quite understand everything right now.”

Her fingers launched off the circling ride, laying atop the other five in a way that could only be described as showcasing absolute poise. Those cells left behind, the unlucky few that were ripped from their inorganic ions, burn alive on top of silver graves. This asylum patient’s come to the conclusion that Dollmaster destroys everything she touches.

With her distraction done, she’s forced to pick apart the situation. In front of her are 3 poisons and a cup of goddess tears. 3 crafted sculptures of artificial sweeteners to present. 3 ways to put her in a grave—or the ocean, or reduce her to dim embers, whichever the case may be. 3 ways that would’ve broken her heart 6 years ago, back when progress seemed a million miles away with the Dentists. 3 distinct possibilities—crispy pastrified fish to bring her under the sea and whisper their bubbly secrets, a pumpkin pond for her drown in nutty autumn bliss, a tower of sweet, gooey indulgence just waiting for her to climb and touch the sky. 3 ways for her to betray herself and all she’s worked for, 3 ways to bring her ꙅꙅɘᴎiqqɒʜ pounds, 3 ways to the grave—

…

…huh.

Would that really be so bad?

If she were to entertain—hypothetically—pleasing Dollmaster and biting the brains of these poor fish, or feeling the cinnamon tickle of pumpkin spice down her torn esophagus, or stuffing these fluffy contraptions in her mouth all at once, soaked by the desperation of her saliva, and washed it allllll down with the formerly-skinny goddess’s tears—which, in turn, would inflate the emptiness of her guts and rip through her paper belly, eventually ripping her stitches open one by one and pouring her gluttony onto the floor because she’s a fat gorging failure, leading to a bittersweet death of a girl blanketed in her intestines…

Well, would that truly be the worst thing?

Her dolly hands build up the courage to touch the tray. It’s not burning her skin off, not peeling her away. Her traitor fingers want to dip into the pumpkin pond, coming back up to share the droplets with whatever’s left of her tongue. Her mouth bones want to tear through pastry-fish liver, separating head and body. The neglected ghost of her stomach wants soft little pancakes to float along its lining like sugar-filled duckies. She can dissolve into a sugar blur for once. It’ll kill her, but she can do it. She can…

. . .
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

“Sweet JESUS—”

That’s the thing, reader. People can do a lot of things. They can ask out the pretty girl in biology. They can help the brittle-boned woman cross the street and avoid getting tangled in an engine. They can make the executive decision to brew some Earl Grey, sit down by a fire, and finish Dracula instead of the other hypothetical option of taking their favorite knife, burying it through their unfaithful lover’s chest cavity—ignoring the ichor spurting in a crimson fountain—and wrapping the thrumming, pulsing heart in old love letters, storing it in their favorite drawer for nostalgic value.

People can do things. That doesn’t mean they will.

Like ragdolls. They can be good girls and stuff themselves with blubber to please nosy little dollmasters, which, realistically, they just don’t do. Now, giving the soft asylum walls a makeover—pretty oranges, splattered fish guts for a little razzle-dazzle, sticky maple to hold decorative pieces, and a touch of nature green to really make it pop? That, they’ll do. Very well, if you ask around. The cherry on top? The giant pink crystal broke down into girl-sized pieces, creating a truly ethereal sight. She’s a fat gluttonous brat, but she knows how to decorate, hands down.

Of course, every masterpiece has its critics. Appreciators would put a hand on their flabby chest, gasp in awe, and give the artist a glowing look of approval. Dollmaster does that, giving ƚɘv|ɘV a glowing look of what the hell did you just do?

Her system reboots, redownloading the software that programmed her to affectionate demurity. She looks unpleasantly scarred, like Ragdoll decorated with her blood instead of artificial sweeteners.

“...Oh.” She accidentally lets her inner disappointment slip out, and that’s how her doll knows she’s messed up wicked bad, just like with everything else. She’s badbadbad now. She’s made a fatal mistake that’ll haunt her for the rest of her life, though with any luck it won’t be long. “...Right.” Flower Mαɳιαƈ nods, biting her lip and looking back at Velvet’s artwork, scrunching her sausage fingers into her lap. When she looks at the little girl hiding behind her knees—manifesting she’s not forced into another dreadful nap as punishment—she doesn’t take a big bad needle and pierce it through her sandpaper skin. She inhales goodness, exhales badness, lamenting, “내 잘못…”

Her hands uncurl from themselves and carefully take hold of the doll’s, prying them from her safe-space behind her knees. It feels invasive, but V҉e҉l҉v҉e҉t҉ doesn’t waste energy saying that. Her knuckles are sunk into marshmallow cheeks, feeling the vibrations of the owner’s affirmation. “I didn’t mean to scare you. 죄송합니다.”

[𝑬]

The last part is lost in translation, but there’s no needle involved, so that’s good. No needle = no naps = no dark abyss = still alive. She understands that much.

Dollmaster gently squeezes Ragdoll’s cotton hands, offering a false sense of security that dumb little dolls accept, no questions asked. Her standing lifts a million pounds from the blankets. “C’mon,” she asks/offers/commands, extending her fat-girl arm to connect their fingertips. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to; but, I wanna pamper you the way you deserve.”

Pamper. That’s not a word you hear in asylums every day.

Whatever possessed her—either trained obedience or the acknowledgment that whatever’s left of her brain had deleted “no” from its memory ages ago—instilled a temporary trust that lasted just long enough for her to accept the offer. In this moment she has another revelation—the asylum floor went from tombstone cold to ominously fluffy enough to eat the rest of her alive. It may be the only thing that thinks she’s worth digesting, but it’s the thought that counts.

She’s pulled onto her featherlight toes, light and airy to the touch—so fragile that she’d dissolve into confetti if Dollmaster wasn’t so insistent with her hold. It’s where she notices something different—she was no longer mummified. She was a corpse on full display, her diary entry scars and reminders of her self-destruction presented for the world to see. They can see where she tried ripping out the party-animal bugs chugging her blood like an ichor-margarita; they can see where she was torn apart by centipedes with fangs bigger than her pretty thin fingers; they can see where she’s a shell of who was she before, the fat failure no one liked, the daughter no one wanted, the sister dishonestlyingshemisseshim brothers left in a psychward to die. They can see she’s better now. Braindead, maybe. Drugged to an oblivion, sure. But gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, a shooting star—and that’s all she’s ever wanted to be.

This pretty braindead little feather felt a thrilling wave run down her wired bones. The asylum changed more than she thought. The cage is the color of the blood of a little girl, sweet and pink like cotton candy. Different glasses full of fruity chocolate poisons bubbled at her along the white shelves, the ones that matched the new kitchen furniture she knew Miss Houdini couldn’t afford in her wildest dreams. The one thing she recognized was a sign holding words foreign to her but one.

Wҽʅƈσɱҽ ƚσ Vҽʅʋҽƚʅαɳԃ.

Dolls aren’t famous for reading, but deja vu hits them just as hard.

“Nothing’s locked,” says Dollmaster in a careful kind of way. Ragdoll has to figure out what that means to her, because even if she tried to run, she’d just blow away in the wind as soon as she steps outside. She doesn’t even know what outside looks like now, if it still exists. It feels like a distant memory now. Something she almost remembers.

In case her loony patient thought she was lying—she kinda did, that’s all people do when it came to V̷e̷l̷v̷e̷t̷—she gently pushed an already slightly ajar door, consequently letting the scent of sugar cookies get tangled in V̷e̷l̷v̷e̷t̷’s hair. Sugar. Great, her hair’s gonna need a diet, too. Ugh.

Dollmaster flicks a lightswitch, providing additional lumination to the candy canesles burning saccharine secrets in the air. The room is filled with memories that tickle Vҽʅʋҽƚ’s brain. She’s seen these things before. She’s walked in here before. She’s rewired herself on the floor before. She’s brushed her enamel away to please annoying Dentists before. She’s scraped and burned off calories behind a curtain of steam before. She’s sculpted her dream body here before, and told the girl in the mirror about her ambitions because she’s more reliable than overbaked fetuses who couldn’t be confident in her to save his life.

She’s made dreams come true here. She walked in a nobody and walked out an ethereal dream. She knows here. Here knows she. Here always loved she when no one else did. Here wasn’t complete without her in it.

Ragdoll closes her eyelids, embracing the hug. She doesn’t trust Dollmaster, but even she knows her powers are useless here.

“Lemme know if the candles overwhelm you,” Powerless Dollmaster asks/commands/worries. The doll peeks from a lash—just one, two is too generous—and watches this witch take potions from the sink and sit on the edge of the cauldron. She turns on the faucet’s tears and tests the temperature with her fingers. Her skin doesn’t melt or freeze into grape-flavored popsicles. How unfortunate. “They’re just for theme, but I don’t want you to suffocate on my watch.”

Disappointing. It’s the perfect setting; suffocation is an effective method. It might suck for the first few minutes, but at least she can say she freed herself somewhere she liked.

Regardless, she shakes her head—not because she liked the smell, but the chance of suffocation wasn’t 0, so there was still the possibility of stopping the pain.

She gets an understood hum in response. In goes intestinal pink, braille bone white, and deoxygenated purple. Enchantress foam starts surfacing.

The potions are returned home. There’s no explosion, no guts splattered all over the place. Talk about backfire.

After gently stirring and disrupting natural order, Dollmaster flicks off the excess and lets her shirt soak the remaining dampness. When she connects her fingers with her corpse company’s, they feel like lavender marshmallows, soft and edible plump. Her smile is concerningly small and diabetic.

“Sit tight for me,” she presses a saccharine peck on her knuckles, offering too much fatih that they won’t be bitten off. The doll slightly tilts her cotton-filled head at an angle; a dim superiority complex came about her for a nanosecond. Something tells her that was meant to happen and needs to happen again. Her lips leave a lingering warmth along the doll’s permafrosted phalanges.“I gotta grab something real quick; I promise it won’t be long.”

…Promise.

[𝑹]

She’s doing that thing again, promising.

She’s also doing that thing again, tempted to give the benefit of the doubt.

вυт ѕσмєσηє єℓѕє ∂ι∂ тнαт, ρяσмιѕιηg—αη∂ ѕнє єη∂є∂ υρ ραуιηg тнє ρяι¢є. єνєяу. ѕιηgℓє. тιмє.

That’s the interesting part about paying the price. Keep doing that and you’ll eventually go broke, then bankrupt, then on the side of the road begging for sympathy no one in the world is willing to share, then on your knees in the church hoping God acknowledges you as His child. Then, if all else fails, and after many agonizing days of carrying consequences on your back and in the void of your head, you realize there’s a way out, to clear your debt. You realize you can pay the price one last time. No one has to know, although there’s probably not anyone around to notice anymore, anyway. There’s nowhere to go but up, and sometimes you need to be six feet in the ground to get there. Sometimes—

ѕнє'ѕ gσηє.

…Yes. Powerless Dollmaster is gone. It’s just her now—her, candles that failed Suffocology 101, a sugar-scented cauldron, and the realization that this is the first time she’s been here without him.

…Huh.

…

She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

¢нαη¢є тωσ.

Her head snaps to the ghost in the ɹoɹɹıɯ. She knows that voice. She can’t quite place why, but she does.

Her hand presses against the barrier to the other realm. A hauntingly comforting feeling buzzes through her when she does so, as if she were touching a part of herself she’d been avoiding forever—a part of her deep, starstruck soul that she never dared to acknowledge. It’s unexplored, unforgiven, utterly unnerving to those who never bothered to listen. It’s the perfect place for her, behind there.

Something compelled her heavy head to fall forward with unusual ease, connecting her forehead to the cold comfort of the glass. It happened in a way that felt right—she knows a surprising lot about that given all she’s experienced is things that felt completely and unforgivably wrong.

ιт'ѕ αℓℓ ℓαι∂ συт ƒσя уσυ.

Her fingertips are kissed tenderly by those of another on the other side—it’s a touch she knows, a touch she’s longed for millions of times. It’s a touch that promises her a life she’s always wanted.

уσυ ¢αη єѕ¢αρє.

She can; she wants to. She wants to escape so many things—magicians digging through her skull, corrupt officials that have weird obsessions with putting her to sleep, the reality that those who brought her into the world probably wouldn’t make the effort to see her leave, her brain shutting down but still forcing her to remember how close she was to living the life she assumed would be hers forever only to lose it to morals of all things.

But also that there’s no one to care anymore, not really. No one talks about how hard it is having a life when you know no one would notice if you vanished from theirs; they’re your entire life when you’re nothing but a fading ember of a memory to them. That’s a really sucky thing to deal with and gets exhausting after 17 years. Life is really a contest on what lives longer—you or the memories people have of you.

уσυ ¢αη мαкє ιт ѕтσρ.

Organ corrosives, AKA cleaning agents—effective, but probably painful if she’s not careful. 6.5/10.

уσυ ¢αη мαкє ѕυяє ησтнιηg вα∂ нαρρєηѕ тσ уσυ єνєя αgαιη.

She could also go out majestically—take the candles, let them burn her esophagus instead of the air. If she doesn’t melt, she’ll at least choke, but that also sounds like it sucks. 2/10.

…

…wow, she has limited options here. Good on the setting, but the methods are questionable.

…?

.
.
.
.
.
...have you tried crossing over?

…

Oh, that’s right. She has another option—one that’ll seal her fate with dignity.

Dollmaster kindly set it up for her. She knows that now.

Her blues abandon the uoıʇɔǝlɟǝɹ. It all makes sense now. Everything makes sense.

She has the chance to be a good girl—a real girl—one last time.

Courage enters whatever’s left of her lungs as she steps forward, right in front of the cauldron. It’s half-filled with enough sugary bubbles to make up for what she’s deprived herself of for years. Something about that thought makes the corner of her lips lift to the slightest degree.

The water’s flow stops. The little butterfly in her heart is flapping its wings furiously, the vibrations echoing throughout her skeletal corset. She’s doing it. She’s really doing it.

With more confidence than she’s had in ages, she daringly strips down until she’s a bare fleshy canvas. Now she’s in her freest form, the form that can say, behind are the days she wasted at a needle’s mercy. She’s so close to winning, and when she wins, the world loses. Shecandoitshecandoitshecan—

“...what happened to doing it together?”

The angel in her heart freezes.

[𝑬]

He’s not supposed to be here. Not with her. Not anywhere.

He abandoned her. It’s only fair she does it back.

Her hands go across her arms like braille. She can even feel his presence through her bones. He’s trying to guilt-trip her, like he always does, trying to ruin her twisted mission of self-care. He’s trying to ruin everything. He’s trying to commit an unnecessary evil, bringing up something she said in adolescence. Why bring it up now when she’s so close to winning. Why does he always do this. Whywhywhywhywhy—

He wraps around her torso, knocking a quivering gasp from her throat. Oh God, please no. Nonono she’s so close, she’s almost there, stopstopstopleaveheralone—

”You promised.”

…she did, didn’t she? The promising thing? Practically saying she couldn’t sink below the bubbles and call it a day there? Sealing her fate in his hands?

”What kind of sister are you?”

…

”What happened to the girl who I trusted with my life? What happened to the winner, the shooting star, the girl who built a tower of ambition and looked down on her disbelievers? Why did I trust you with my life when you’re here trying to end yours?”

…?

Now she can’t help but weigh her options: dive in and win, or protect a little girl’s name. Protect herself, or the girl she once was. Live guilt-free or die with it. Honesty or happiness. Win or lose. Lose or win.

…Huh.

Thumpthump…thumpthump…

…Wait-

Thumpthumpthump…thumpthumpthump…

Wait wait no no waitwaitwait notyetnotyetnotyetnot—

Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-THU—

“나 돌아왔어!” Intervenes fate, rudely cutting off her thought process. As annoyed as she wants to be, she knows she can’t; Dollmaster, with her bowl of chopped strawberry livers, delayed her moral dilemma for a while. Plus that means he had to leave. There’s that, at least. She closes her eyes, sighing with relief-laced exasperation.

Dollmaster—naïve, dilemmaless Dollmaster—doesn’t see anything. No moral dilemma, no ghosts, no little girls having internal battles with themselves. She sees her perfect, responsible doll who’d never consider taking her final nap in the cauldron. She sees goodness.

“It wasn’t too long for you, no?” The concern sounds fake, but there’s a headshake answer regardless. It satisfies her, and the bowl lands on the tub’s edge with a soft clink. The ripe redness of the fruit looks visually soothing. “Good, good…” She glances at the water, smiling gently and tossing ƚɘv|ɘV a look of praise. “Thanks for turning it off for me—got so busy with the strawberries, it slipped my mind for a while.”

She’d probably freak if the place flooded.

“Now,” her arms loop around the doll’s waist just like his did, not detecting the curling insides at the second invasion. She gets a gold star for not creeping her out as much as he did, though. You could feel her smile based on how her cheek feels on her shoulder. “I want you to immerse yourself—close your eyes, soak it all in…” Close your eyes, disappear. “...relax with me, okay?” Obey. But do a little nuzzle, too, as a distraction. “We can be here as long as you want. You’re in control—you, only you, not me.”

..Well, that’s a lie if she’s ever heard one. She’s never in control. Last time she thought that, she got arrested.

There’s no opposition, though. No complaints, no ghosts, no flying to heaven (yet). Just acceptance…for now. Obedience takes you places. She knows that now.

…Besides, she was already on her journey to be “Good” to some extent. Ought as well start now.

So that’s what she did, this littlegirlturneddollturnednutcase. She emptied her lungs. She didn’t attack. She didn’t open her mouth. She was good. The goodest. She got over herself. She pried Dollmaster away as a show of independence. Then she looked down, examined her failed attempt again, and did what all good girls did. She lifted her femur, ignoring how heavy it felt.

Then she did it. She got out of her head, she obeyed Dollmaster, she—

[𝑺]

・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・

—absolutely welcomed the sublime sizzle of the aquafied comfort below.

Well, what else is one to do after a hard night of indulgence—of reckless enjoyment, of inebriated laughter, of heart-slanting dancing and breaking all rules of society, of doing everything that those below you could only dream of doing without major repercussions? Playing with your future while fueled entirely by spite and margaritas is exhausting, after all…even the wealthy need reinvigorating every once in a while.

Veneer knows all about that type of suffering, and it exhausts him just thinking about it. Here he was after hours upon hours of grueling activity—especially being beckoned by his envious fans to feed into their obsessions on the stage of Dionysus—and carrying the weight of everyone’s adoration on his pretty little glitter-powdered shoulders.

I mean, poor thing…he had wannabes on their knees begging to be even considered for collaborations on his left, then tipsy scandal-seekers on his right, and a margarita in one hand with an entertainingly adorable singer’s in the other—well, when he felt particularly bold last night. Ugh, let’s not even get into the energy he sacrificed when push came to shove, when shove came to the blush-tinted Backrooms, and when blush-tinted Backrooms came to Veneer experiencing the most tantalizingly orgasmic high he’s ever felt rushing through the heat of his drunken ichor in his life—

Yes. He’s exhausted. Terribly.

“...Psh.”

…And yet, it brings a satisfied simper to his flushed face. As a matter of fact, the smile helps you ignore the unhealthy colorless environment it’s surrounded by—well, in terms of natural hue. Whatever makeup survived the night was far from its purest form; honestly though, what part of him was? Certainly not his inebriated heart, or margarita-flavored blood, or even that dumb little brain that everyone commented on. Well…are you happy now, Dentists?

Regardless, he’s here now—standing on tiles with a higher chance of making it to heaven than him, letting the steam from his bath hit his face while his fingers tease the coat covering his sins. Alone. He thinks. He could say he’s devastated he isn’t sharing a nice, hot bath with that dreamcrusher…but oh dear, that’d be a lie. And Veneer is done lying. The boiling of skin, mixing of exotic scents, and forgetting life sucks—the pleasure is his.

And he’s tired of waiting—so is his steaming bubbly contraption, it’s practically calling his name!—and his smile shows his anticipation. His nails—bits of paint chipped off during his heated rendezvous—pick at the buttons, though it makes him wish his fingers sobered up before anything. The drunk butterfly in his chest rocks against his heart with glee; he’s about to have a nice…evening/morning/whateverthehell. Alone. So alone. So happy and—

”Veneer!”

…

The door. It spoke to him. And God did it sound fucking annoying…

Veneer’s entire being freezes in an emotion too strong to be fear; it was too furious, took too much effort to restrain. His fingers nearly dented the button. Red Veneer juice comes from the inside of his cheek from where his teeth latched onto it for containment.

“Veneer—” There the fuck it is again, Jesus Christ. “Veneer I know you’re in here somewhere—my car’s all fucked up now!”

’I know you’re in there. Let me in before I have to do it myself. I’m not gonna—’

“Veneer—”

’—I’m not gonna hurt you!’

…

[𝑷]

Wait, no.

Wait…?

…why’s it so hot in here now? Like hellfire…?

Why’s he suddenly on alert…like he’s done this before. He knows he has. There’s no other reason his initial annoyance would shift into genuine petrification in the matter of seconds. He’s felt this type of fear before. He’s been in danger before. But…

…Bang. Bang. Bang.

A line of red joins the smeared purple on the corner of his mouth. It runs down the side of his chin, plopping onto the once uncorrupted tiles in thick droplets, like paint.

He knows that sound. It’s haunted him before.

The tiles burn like lava, and suddenly breathing feels dangerous. It takes his all not to wince when the button succumbs to pressure and pops dead onto a drop of blood, splattering it.

“...I can see the steam. Quit being childish—we have shit to address and you fucking know it—”

’So open this STUPID DOOR, VEN—”

“...I…”

One, two, three, four…

‘VEN!’

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…exhale? No, no, it’s inhale. Right? But he shook on the exhale, so he has to make up for it, so he’s right. He'll double inhale next time to be fair. Yeah…fair.

“Open up, Ven!” she screams at him from the other side, ripping her throat with fury at his negligence. She’s gonna kill him. She’s gonna drive that knife across his back again. She’s gonna make sure he sees Hell before he understands what heaven is. She’s gonna hurthimkilhimmakehimsuffer without knowing he’s sososorryVelvethedidn’tmeantopleasenolethimlive—”

…He’s too hungover to die. At least let him die sober. Please God, let him have a dignified death, please—

BANG BANG BA—

…Huh.

It stopped. He thinks. He hopes.

…when did his eyes close? He doesn’t…

…

His throat relaxes against the steam; yet, his body refuses to comply. The intuition monster wraps his arms around himself in a weak-yet-expensive barrier—or hug, or whatever it was doing, he couldn’t tell. He knew one thing for sure—his intuition didn’t want anymore damage done to his beautiful body after last night. It endured teeth and glasses and nails. It couldn’t possibly handle the sharp, ruthless end of a bloodspotted—

click.

…
.
.
.
.
She’s here.

Close your eyes. She can’t see you, you can’t see the knife that’ll inevitably rip through your chest and exit through your back, and what you can’t see won’t hurt you. She won’t hurt you. She promised. Shepromisedshepromisedshepromisedshe—

“—I know you heard me out there.”

…?

Her voice changed. It’s gotten deeper, switching an X chromosome for a Y. It’s less threatening, but clearly agitated. This can’t be her. She doesn’t know how to sound anything but threatening. Plus, it’s been a few seconds too long, and he isn’t on the ground begging her to forgive him at least keep his face pretty for the mortician. Something’s not right here. He shouldn't be allowed to be alive right now.

“So you’re still ignoring me.”

Veneer can’t help the downturn of his brows—ugh, poor thing probably got a wrinkle—once the differences start registering, and the anxious shuddering of heart turns cold. His self-hug becomes self-containment, turning his erect posture into a glacial wall to make sure this intruder got the hint—do not enter, and if you stupidly ignored the previous warning, you have approximately <5 seconds before you’re lost at sea at the mercy of ferocious white winter beasts.

“...I’m not gonna say your name again.” This sentence came with less effort than its predecessors, almost worn out, but not in the delightful way Veneer and the other somebodies were—the sad, pitiful way kin to that of an orphan. Well, let’s be honest…what was this man to Veneer besides sad and pitiful? Yet, he found sympathy in himself for this poor creature, motivated by how entertaining the sullen curtain over his character would be.

Now fueled by a rare generosity, Veneer released his cheek and previously pent up fear, dabbing his thumb to the bloody corner of his smudged plum lips. The blood of Christ cleansed, so what did the blood of a washed up sugar baby do?

“Shame,” he laments with a pout, adoring his thumb’s new pigment. He’s even kind enough to peek back at him—Ritz, sad and pitiful Ritz with dark half-moons under his eyes and creases revealing he’d clearly been stressing about problems Veneer couldn’t care to ask about—with a mini eye-bat. He didn’t show him how he totalled his cheek, though. He’s hungover, not crazy. “It would’ve been a nice addition to my soak—” Frown. “...which you interrupted like a barbarian.”

[𝑶]

Now he gets a better look at the phantom staring at him, all pale and just as flushed—well well well… —but with more unflattering fatigue behind his eyes than a normal, well-rested and not potentially depressed-into-the-trenches Rageon would typically have. His lips—why don’t they look as kissable, Ritz, as that fateful wedding night?—part slightly now that his target responded, as if he didn’t expect it. Maybe being completely ignored was better than that response.

His silence bored Veneer to tears, and the brow highlighting his side-eye expressed it evenly. Whatever his Velvet stare said, Ritz took it to heart and will probably let it keep him from sleeping, which isn’t good. Poor thing might die of sleep deprivation and Veneer is gonna hafta figure out how to manage all of his estates. We don’t want that to happen, now do we well yes?

We also don’t want a news reporter being arrested for assault and battery, so Ritz keeps his hands to himself and attacks with the look of a disappointed husband instead. “...really. Looks like you’re just standing here like a damn rose—”

“Oh please, Ritz,” Veneer sighs with a pitying head shake. “A rose? You’ve reduced me to but a single bloom—when I’m clearly the entire garden? Oh Ritzy, you wound me…”

“I’m not here to play games with you.”

“Then find some other way to entertain me or get out.”

“You’ve been entertained enough, haven’t you?” Uh oh, razors out…the gall. There’s even a scoff and a step. Veneer glares at the tiles. “Or were you the entertainment—”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You may be hungover, but you’re not stupid—” Ritz says evenly, before committing the grave offense of putting his fingers on Your Majesty’s dainty little shoulder; the audacity echoes through Veneer’s bones so deeply that he whips around as if it hurt him. He flinched with a flash of horror—was it too hard? Did I hurt you?—that quickly morphed into concern now that he sees the ghost in front of him: consumptive paleness covered in leftover purple and red he knew for a fact wasn’t supposed to be there. The blistering loathe from Veneer’s glacial glare seldom helped. “...oh my God.”

Ritz genuinely frowns—a real sad one curtaining over his irritation just a bit. “Ven what the hell—” he attempts to hold his lover’s ghostly cheeks—cup them, feel them, see if he can find the older, livelier Veneer beneath this consumptive veil, anything to give him the benefit of the doubt—but is rejected with Veneer’s palm, as if saying stay over there. He looks a little devastated, at least to Veneer, but something is oddly satisfying about that.

Veneer smears off the remaining blood with the back of his hand, though now he looked more like a victim than a hungover sugar baby. He steps back for good measure. “Look at that, Ritz. First smart thing you’ve said in a while.”

“...You shouldn’t have gone.”

“Now you lost me.”

“I thought I did,” Ritz laments, silently searching through the gaps uncovered by the coat for any signs of sin. “You didn’t answer me.”

“What?”

He moves angles, stepping around him. “I called and texted. Many times.”

“Oh,” Veneer hums, brows furrowed together as he follows Ritz’s movements, suddenly feeling small. “I wasn’t on my phone all night.”

“Because you were on Jay Bee.”

[𝑵]

“...!”

“Hm?”

”Excuse you?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You—” His face is now hotter than the bath—if it was hot at all at this point—and he certainly didn’t like the attempt to touch him again, even going so far as to slap Ritz’s scummy hand away from his collar. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Ritz went from stunned to cranky within seconds; the attack only encouraged another, slightly more successful (and difficult) attempt. “Now you’re concerned.”

Veneer depends on whatever’s left working in his brain to get his spaghetti legs to maneuver, but this stupidstupidstupid jerk—who’s at most slightly less hungover and wanting to die—takes advantage of his better-working body to grab him again. A disgusted hiss comes from Veneer, an internal panic ensuing when he feels his nails scrape his pale neck.

“Do you fucking see yourself?!”

“Been too busy trying to finance you to bother looking—” …Oh. Now Venny’s cranky. Not good. “ —but I’m really just helping you look pretty for Jay, no?”

“Holy insecure—”

“So you’re not denying it.”

“That you’re insane? Of course not—”

“That you let your pettiness sway you into straying!”

“What reason would I have to be petty, Ritzy?”

“Don’t play stupid.”

“No, really,” Veneer lets out an exasperated laugh, enjoying watching Ritz’s watchful gaze fall. “I’m a monster motivated by spite, right? Spite implies I’m mad at you for something, which implies you did something for me to be mad at.”

Oh Veneer, if only you realized how dry you made his throat, how much the pain in his chest agonizes him—

[𝑺]

…But you can’t. All you see is the crestfallen look in his eyes, the sadness trapped behind his gaze, and the tense knots overtaking his shoulders. You see a silent guilty admission he refused to voice or acknowledge. You see how your words kill him on the inside, how the accusation makes him rethink everything he thought he knew.

Ritz’s tongue feels like sandpaper, scraping his throat and hard pallet. His fists curl into themselves, tempted to just…

No. Bad Ritz. Let’s not do that, now…

“I didn’t call you a monster,” he says through a forced calmness, staring this blue-eyed queen in her unsober eyes. “Just petty, which is what you are. Over something so trivial.”

“Trivial.” Veneer repeats, as if it were a slur. “I wouldn’t call it trivial.”

“Let’s try fucking stupid then.”

“You know what—” Veneer laughs, tilting his head with a smile. “I’ve heard of crossing the line, but you’re using it as a goddamn jumprope, aren’t you?”

“The question is what you did with the line with Jay—”

“You mention Jay an awful lot.”

”Because you keep deflecting!” Ritz’s voice raises an octave on the pedestal of exasperation. “You won’t tell me anything and now I wonder if I’m working all of these hours for you to go revenge-fuck the first person to wave a diamond in your goddamn face like a—”

“Like a what?” Veneer hisses, matching his irritable energy. Now he’s willing to step forward. “Like what, Ritz? A whore? A slut? What is it? Say it with your chest. Say what you really think of me over a claim that isn’t even true—”

Ritz drags his hands along his face, feeling a slight burn. “What the hell am I supposed to think when you go to Dionysus of all places alone and refuse to elaborate?!“

“For God’s sake, Ritz, I didn’t do anything!”

“How do I—”

“Jesus fucking Christ— fine!” A single word bounces off the bathroom walls, bursting the chaotic energy that surrounded them as Veneer realizes he’s exhausted. He’s had enough of this stupid dance or game or whatever the hell this is. He’s tired—of arguing, of Ritz, of living. Even Ritz stills, rigid as the air around them as Veneer paces. “You wanna know what happened? Fine, whatever— yes, I went, yes, I drank, and yes I blacked out—” Before Ritz could protest, he whips around to make sure his glare went straight through him. “But I have the sense to remember who I was with—including your friends that you introduced me to—and that I got on stage with some of them. Y’know, performing, with my voice…remember the thing I did with Chardonnay that had you kissing me like a fool? Yeah, imagine that except with literally anyone else.”

Ritz doesn’t like this. He knows he asked for it, it’s all he ever wanted, an explanation to rest the anxious voice in his head. But somehow Veneer’s venom-tainted words don't calm him.

He doesn’t verbally respond to this, but the desolate expression on his face spoke wonders.

Veneer’s Velvet stare doesn’t falter. “And since you’re up my ass about it, yes, Jay Bee was there, and yes, I was with him most of the night.” Oh Ritz, don’t look so crestfallen yet…”I’m pretty sure we did something with his lyrics—and yeah, Ritz, he kept a margarita in my hand and a smile on my face because he enjoys my company. Hell, he was my biggest fan—talked to me like Veneer and not a child.”

…okay, shots fired, straight through Kid Ritz—bold, happy, socially magnificent Kid Ritz that everyone loved and wanted to be—and boy did it leave a few wounds in his tired little soul. Poor thing. Ignorance is bliss, love.

“Contrary to your delusion, I didn’t sleep with him.” Veneer puts emphasis on the denial so it could get through this idiot’s thick skull, hands on hips and all. “Because, believe it or not, I’m not a whore, and I’d imagine you of all people would know that—though you’ve been in the habit of disappointing me lately, I shouldn’t’ve put that past you.” He opens his arms in a grand gesture. “Hey, did you notice you found me here and not on top of him? That must mean he brought me back so I could pass out in peace. Funny how that works, hm?”

“...”

“For me to waste my energy to spite you as you claim, I’d have to really care about you, Ritz,” He deadpans evenly. “And I want it to be clear I don’t give too much of a damn about this new version of you. The old one? Maybe. But this new, uppity—”

“...Ven.”

“ —insecure version you’ve got? Over nothing?”

“Ven.”

“And stressing me out on top of that?” Veneer’s voice shatters along with the dam behind his blues, his distress materializing into margarita-flavored pools in his lower-lids. At least he doesn’t look as casket-ready now. Good for him. “You know what, Ritz? If it’s this easy for you to switch up on me after one argument, maybe I need to rethink what I gave up for the life we planned together—”

”Ven.”

“She showed me more love in that cop car than you’re doing right now—”

[𝑰]

The rest of his rage couldn’t materialize into words as the first parts did; Ritz refused to let that happen.

He shuts Veneer up the only effective way he knew—neglecting all previously shouted boundaries, using one hand to possess Veneer’s face and the other to lace his left hand. Ritz brings him forwards, silencing Veneer’s lips with his own. As bold and infuriating as this was, it proved 100% effective; the whining stopped and all potential yelling bounced back down Veneer’s throat.

The bold move is a jumpscare on its own, nearly giving the poor thing a heart attack. The combination felt viscious—gripping his phalanges as if they were the universe and claiming a treasure he hadn’t touched in ages? Veneer couldn’t for the life of him react. He didn’t hit him or yell or beat him into oblivion for his audacity. The leftover tears he forced naturally formed still slid down anyway, adding a special touch to his already obvious surprise.

…maybe there’s a reason for his acquiesce. A reason buried under superficiality and spite and mental disorders stacked on top of each other—but they’re covered in glitter and diamonds, so it's fine—and speaking up about the sudden déjà vu…a reason that made him realize he’d forgotten what Ritz’s kisses felt like

And his left hand—when was the last time it’s been gripped, so? Had it forgotten Ritz’s feel so quickly?

Veneer realizes Ritz’s entire being is unfamiliar to him now. He can’t tell if that’s a victory or just sad on his Ritz’s part.

Ritz’s thumb glazes over Veneer’s ring finger—searching on an uninterrupted path. As trivial as the touch was, it made Veneer feel a certain way. It made him short-circuit. It let him remember. For one, the coffee-bourbon ratio was way off. He couldn’t taste the sugar, the creamer, the expensive brew. He tasted poor coping, which is arguably less tasty than coffee. that made him pity the lad, for a brief second

Nonetheless, against his better judgment, he didn't react in opposition, nor was he fully accepting; rather, he’d been completely taken over by shock. But not an entirely bad one. He thinks. He hopes not. He…

…

Then Ritz’s lips are no more, and everything he felt in the moment reverted back to a distant memory.

The separation is slow and calculated. Veneer could only blink just as slowly. Whatever experience he had, Ritz clearly didn’t share. The neutral, surrendering look said so.

Yet, Ritz refused to separate his hand from Veneer’s—the left one, the cherished one, leaving his purple thumb on white emptiness.

His thumb said more than he did.

Veneer’s stuck searching for an explanation from him, but gets his tears wiped instead, as if they were minor inconveniences. His hand is squeezed, though not enough for his dumbfoundment to drip away. He’d rather have his soul wringed from his body than feel this. where’d your fight go, Venny?

The sudden switch of Ritz going from gullible and irritable to silent and neutral was a strange, unnerving thing. However, he was anything but surrendering. Maybe that’s why Veneer felt threatened. He’s discovered something in his blizzard of thoughts while Veneer froze on the outskirts. He knows. They both knew.

Neither of them speak, but the script hangs in the air.

ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ / ɪ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ / ɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ

His thumb rests, lingering there, feeling at the empty space.

Then it departs. When his thumb left, it took the rest of Ritz’s familiarity with it, and like a final decision, no less. Veneer hides his hands in an arm-cross before something bad could happen.

[𝑩]

Alright. That’s it. The conversation is over. All is said and all is done…at least that’s what needs to be said to save themselves the effort of attempted murder.

Ritz offers a nod that Veneer understands as ”until tonight” for their next inevitable meeting. Afterwards, he’s left Ritzless in a joyless bathroom in a loveless home. The bath must be cold now. Veneer’s gonna have to start over to get some sort of warmth now that he knows a hug from a sympathetic lover—or anyone—is off the table. That’s fine. He’s endured worse. He won in the end. He’s not about to feel guilty for something that was entirely Ritz’s fault.

He repeated that to himself. He braved it up like a big boy, washed that icky conversation from his head, being okay just long enough to survive until—

・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・

[𝑰]

𝘛𝘸𝘢𝘴’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦

𝘐𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘯𝘶𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘥

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘤𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭, 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥

𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥!

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘭

“𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶,” 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦

“𝘈 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳

𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦”

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘴𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥

𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴

𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴, 𝘵𝘪𝘱-𝘵𝘰𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰

𝘈𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰

𝘈 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴

𝘚𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦

𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦

“𝘍𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘺

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯!”

[𝑳]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦

𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘳

𝘉𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘬

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘻𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥

𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘥𝘦

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳

“𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘝𝘦𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦…

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵

𝘚𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘬-𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵.”

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘵𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩

𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥-𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘩𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘪𝘯

𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯

𝘙𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦—

[𝑰]

"Velvet?"

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘻𝘦𝘯, 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘈𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

𝘈𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥

𝘉𝘭𝘶𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘸𝘬𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦

"..what's wrong, love?"

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘺, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘻𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘛𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

"..."

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺

𝘈𝘯𝘥, 𝘣𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺

𝘋𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭

𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘱, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦

"I won't stop you. If that's what you truly want."

𝘛𝘸𝘢𝘴’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘹𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦

𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦—𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵!

…𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨

𝘐𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵?

𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵?

"..."

𝘈 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵

𝘐𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵

𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥

𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 <𝘣>𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘥

𝘋𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥

𝘚𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘥

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭’𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵

𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵

[𝑻]

“You can listen to mine if it soothes you; remember, though, you have one, too, and it’s just as beautiful, if not more.”

𝘛𝘸𝘢𝘴’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘺

𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘥

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

[𝘠]