Revi

The first thing you learn about the Garden is that it is loud. Not because of the wind or the rustle of the leaves, but because of him.

Flowery is always talking. He talks in loops, he talks in puns, he talks in grand, sweeping gestures that make his bright yellow hair catch whatever artificial light filters down into this section of the Dark World. He struts across the soil like a stage actor who refused to leave after the curtains fell, adjusting his green and orange vest with a sharp, exaggerated flick of his wrist.

"Sorry to keep you waiting!" he had shouted the very first day you tripped over a stray root and landed squarely in his domain. He hadn’t attacked. He hadn’t even pulled up his stats—not yet, anyway. Instead, he had knelt down, dust swirling around his trousers, and stared with a grin that felt entirely too wide to be real.

You were small. To him, you were something fragile, a little Lightner thing that shouldn't have fallen into the dark to begin with. And from that exact moment, Flowery decided you belonged to him.

------------------------------

It starts with the boundary lines.

He draws them in the dirt with the toe of his boot, leaving deep, deliberate grooves in the dark earth around the central patch of golden blossoms.

"Just a little game, kiddo!" Flowery chimes, his voice dropping into that rhythmic, slightly glitchy cadence that always makes the hairs on your arms stand up. He claps his hands together, a sharp smack that echoes through the trees. "Let’s play make-believe! You stay inside the lines, and I make sure nothing—and I mean nothing—gets a chance to touch a single hair on your head. Sounds fair, right? Get a chance!"

You don't want to play make-believe. You want to go home. You look past his shoulder, toward the path where the purple-and-blue shadows of the forest stretch out, leading back toward the town you vague remember.

The moment your eyes drift, a thick, thorny vine snaps out from the undergrowth. It doesn't hit you. It misses by an inch, embedding itself deep into the bark of a nearby tree with a sickening thud. The wood groans under the sudden pressure.

"Whoops!" Flowery laughs, shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head with an innocent, theatrical blink. He taps his cheek. "My hand slipped! Silly me. But seriously, kid. The woods out there? Terrible. Awful. Full of nasty, mean things that don't know how to treat a guest. Not like your best friend Flowery! I’ve got everything you need right here."

He moves closer, his bright yellow form completely blocking out the rest of the horizon. He kneels, his hands resting on his knees as he peers down at you. His eyes are dark, fixed entirely on your small face. There's no malice in them—not the kind that wants to hurt you—but there is an intense, crushing weight to his gaze. It’s the look of someone who has found a rare, delicate glass toy and has already decided to lock it in a velvet box so it never gets dusty.

"You like stories, right?" he asks, his tone softening into something almost sweet, though it hits your ears with a strange, forced friction. "I can tell you all about the outside world. I can tell you about Asgore. Old 'Gorey' and I, we're like this." He crosses his fingers. "He takes care of me, and I take care of his secrets. And now, I take care of you. We're a family now. A perfect little bouquet."

You take a step back. Your heel touches the edge of the line he drew in the dirt.

Flowery’s smile doesn't drop, but the corners of his mouth twitch. The green and orange of his vest seem to deepen in color, swallowing the ambient light.

"Don't do that," he says. The voice clip sounds a bit more distorted this time, a low, mechanical hum vibrating underneath the words. "It’s dangerous near the edges, kiddo. Very, very dangerous."

------------------------------

The problem with the other flowers is that they notice you.

Orange comes by first. She’s small, trailing behind Flowery like a quiet echo, her petals catching the light. She looks at you with wide, curious eyes, reaching out a tiny, leafy hand as if she wants to offer you a piece of fruit or maybe just touch your sleeve to see if Lightners feel different.

Before her hand can even get close, Flowery is there.

He doesn't slide into place; he simply is there, his boots striking the ground with a heavy force that kicks up dry peat. He doesn't look at Orange. His hand goes straight to the collar of your shirt, gently but firmly pulling you back three paces, tucking you entirely behind his long coat.

"Now, now, little sister," Flowery says, his voice smooth, dripping with a sugary, performance-ready authority. He adjusts his tie with one hand while the other remains firmly planted on your shoulder, his fingers digging in just enough to let you know you shouldn't try to squirm away. "Let’s not crowd the talent. The kid’s on a strict schedule. Lots of resting to do. Lots of staying put."

Orange blinks, her petals drooping slightly. She looks up at her big brother, then down at the dirt, before turning around and drifting back into the thicker parts of the garden without another word.

"Good girl," Flowery murmurs under his breath. Then, he turns around to face you, dropping down to his haunches so he’s at eye level again. He reaches out, his thumb catching a smudge of dirt on your cheek and wiping it away with a rough, repetitive motion. "See that? Everyone wants a piece of you. They don't understand how fragile you are. They think you're like them. But you're not, are you?"

You shake your head quickly, terrified that if you don't agree, the vines will start moving again.

"Exactly!" Flowery beams, clapping his hands. "You're my little buddy. My special guest. And a good host doesn't let his guests get ruined by the help. If anyone else tries to talk to you, you just tell 'em, 'Sorry, I'm waiting for Flowery!' Can you say that for me?"

You don't say it. Your throat feels dry, like it’s full of old pollen.

Flowery’s face leans in closer. His hair smells faintly of old perfume and stagnant water—the smell of a wedding bouquet that has been kept alive long past its natural expiration date through sheer, stubborn will.

"I didn't hear you, kiddo," he whispers. The smile remains, but his eyes are completely static. "Get a chance. Let me hear it."

"I'm... I'm waiting for Flowery," you pipe up, your voice small and cracked.

The tension leaves his shoulders instantly. He lets out a loud, dramatic sigh of relief, throwing his arms back as if he’s just won a massive prize at a festival. "Perfect! Beautiful! A natural! Oh, we're going to have so much fun here. Just wait until I show you the castle. It’s got walls this thick." He holds his hands wide apart. "Nothing gets in. Nothing gets out. It’s the safest place in the whole wide world."

------------------------------

The blue person—the one the others call Ralsei—comes looking for you on the third day. Or maybe it’s the fourth. Time doesn't work right in the Garden when you aren't allowed to see the sky.

You hear them before you see them. The sound of soft boots on grass, the low, anxious murmur of a voice that sounds like it’s used to correcting people who don't want to be corrected.

"Hello?" the voice calls out. "Is there anyone back here? The fountain's energy is... it’s shifting strangely in this sector."

You open your mouth to call out, but before a single sound can pass your lips, a cold, yellow hand clamps tightly over your lower face.

Flowery has materialized right behind you. His chest is pressed against your back, his green vest rough against your skin. His grip on your mouth isn't painful, but it is absolute. You can feel the sharp edge of his fingernails pressing into your jawline, keeping your head perfectly still.

"Shh," he whispers directly into your ear. His breath is warm, but it makes you shiver. "Don't ruin the surprise, kiddo. We're playing hide-and-seek now. If you make a peep, the game is over, and frankly? I hate losing."

Through the thick stalks of the golden flowers, you can see the shadow of the prince passing by. He looks small from here, his scarf trailing behind him like a pink ribbon. He stops near the boundary line Flowery drew days ago, looking at the deep groove in the dirt with a confused tilt of his head.

"This doesn't look right," Ralsei mutters to himself, taking a step toward your hiding spot.

Beneath his coat, Flowery’s other hand is already moving. You can hear the low, wet sound of vines shifting under the earth—dozens of them, hundreds of them, all coiling together like a nest of snakes right beneath the prince’s feet. Flowery’s stats aren't visible, but you can feel the sudden spike of heat in the air, the way the illusion of his human form seems to stretch and blur at the edges, revealing flashes of bright, blinding yellow underneath.

He wants to do it. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch against your mouth. He wants the prince to take one more step. He wants an excuse to clear the field.

Don't, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. Please don't.

As if reading your thoughts—or maybe just enjoying the absolute terror radiating from your small frame—Flowery lets out a tiny, silent chuckle against your hair. He leans his head down, his lips brushing against the top of your ear.

"Look at him," Flowery whispers, his voice dropping into a cruel, mocking imitation of the prince’s tone. "So proper. So helpful. He thinks he knows what's best for everyone. He thinks he can just walk in here and take my things. But he doesn't know about us, does he? He doesn't know how much you love it here."

The prince stands there for another long, agonizing minute. He sighs, adjusts his glasses, and finally turns around, heading back toward the main path.

The moment the sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, Flowery releases his grip on your mouth. He doesn't step away, though. He keeps his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders, pulling you back against him until you're sitting in his lap in the dirt.

"See?" he chimes, his regular, theatrical voice returning instantly as if nothing had happened. He taps the tip of your nose. "Your old pal Flowery saved the day again! That guy’s a total drag. Always talking about 'prophecies' and 'balance.' Who cares about balance when you've got a perfect little setup right here?"

He reaches into his vest pocket and pulls out a small, slightly wilted golden flower. He places it carefully behind your ear, patting your hair down with an excess of care that feels more like an inspection than comfort.

"There," he says, stepping back just enough to admire his handiwork. "Now you look like one of us. My own little seedling. You’re never going to leave this garden, kid. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever."

He smiles, and for a split second, you think you see the outline of something massive and sharp hovering just behind him in the shadows—a shadow with too many eyes and too many teeth—before he blinks, shrugges his shoulders, and offers you a hand to help you up.

Arranged marriages are never popular — true love has been romanticised of late; and there’s the horrific scenario of marrying someone whom you hate.

It helps that there’s a war plaguing your nation, and everyone is eager for a distraction — the libraries are now packed with people engrossed in romance novels; who desire to plunge their head in some sort of whirlwind, fairytale romance that inevitably finishes off with peace and riches and perhaps a tender kiss.

But you can’t say that you mind it terribly — arranged marriage, that is — as even though your parents have married you off to a respectable general officer, who works at the frontlines of the war, and who is fairly well off. The first meeting you shared — his name is Dorian, you learn, aristocratic on your tongue, the two syllables weighted and heavy — had been cordial, unassuming. Both of you had been polite, and he had opened the door for you, had cut your steak into tiny pieces for you to eat easier — had overall been a dream.

I’ll treat you like royalty, he had promised, his tone silky, unhurried, filled with reverence, like a prince, Y/n.

It was a heavy promise — one that belonged to those romance books that condemned arranged marriages and left it all up to fate; to the mingling of souls — but you had taken it anyway, full of mirth and delight that you had gotten so lucky. Newlywed couples struggled to obtain new houses, but perhaps because Dorian had high social standing now due to the war — but he had swept you gaily along to a mansion sequestered within his land — land that sprawled along the expanse of a forest. Inaccessible to many places, but he had kissed you on the forehead, reassuring you that this place had everything you ever wanted, and you suspected that the everything he referred to was him.

It was a normal marriage at first; a surprisingly amiable, beautiful one given the fact that it had been arranged. Dorian returned home with blooming flowers that tickled your nose, he kissed you on the forehead with great tenderness and affection — and similarly you returned this love readily, grateful to your parents for obtaining such a wondrous match. You’ve heard horror stories of violence; of bloodshed within the walls of people’s homes; and you’ve shuddered, thanking the gods that you’re so lucky.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

That is, until the day he hit you.

**

Your first thought is that it is going to leave a scar; Dorian is powerful, first of all; owing to his military training, owing to how well built he is. And so when the blow connects to your face; when you feel the innocuous tendrils of pain bloom on your cheek, burning and searing through the veins of your body, you choke.

Blood drips from your mouth; you must have bitten too harshly on your tongue. All you can think is: it might leave a scar; it’s so painful and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts terribly.

You think of the events that transpired before that, of Dorian’s sallow expression, his anger slowly rising, irritation spilling over the boiling point; the nascent of his emotions that led to this. His inordinate anger.

“What’s this talk about you going to the library?” Dorian had said, when he had kissed your forehead and had set the groceries down. You hadn’t noticed then, the cracks in his demeanour already; the perforations that littered his attitude as his eyes glittered and watched you. Observed you. You had been blissfully none the wiser: unaware of how Dorian held you askance.

“It’s been a while since I went there.” You had answered casually, studying the groceries he had brought home. Always of the highest quality, which reminded you how privileged you were, cooped up within his embrace with nothing but the finest. Dorian had made good of his promises. “I miss everyone; Joy, Malcolm — I haven’t stepped out of here in a while.”

“We have a library here,” Dorian had said, spitting the words out with surprising vitriol, and you had jumped: “I built one for you, did I not, darling? Because you said you loved reading.”

“Well, yes, but I do miss the social aspect of it.” You blinked your eyes, surprised at his tone, redolent of anger and not the gentleness you were always so accustomed to. “Meeting my friends.”

“You have me,” Dorian said quietly. The calm before the storm; equanimity before violence. If only you knew sooner, you could have ducked. You could have avoided his brutal, malicious blow.

“I do,” you said softly, “but I miss them, too —"

And then that’s when he had hit you; a swift, decisive blow — one that sent you crumpling to the floor, wheezing and holding your battered cheek, eyes tearing up. Your breaths came out ragged, your voice came out hoarse as you managed to stutter a what, and Dorian looked down at you, posture imposing, eyes sharp.

“You have me,” he repeated, and then smiling, seemingly taking pleasure in your perilous, pernicious state, “you have me, Y/n. Why miss other people?”

You stared at him, unable to believe just what you were seeing. A monster, a monster, a monster.

“Now, don’t overreact.” Dorian reached out towards you, clicking his tongue irascibly when you flinched away. His gloves caught your side of the face, and pain shot through your spine, lumbering, slow, as he brushed away your tears. “I married you. We are husband and husband, tied together. Your time is unalienable; it cannot be transferred to others, and I wish not for it to be. You are mine,” he said consolingly.

You had choked. A pained, grievous sound had escaped your lips. Perhaps the slap had been extra painful because the wedding ring he had on his finger, glittering, expensive, and proud had been the one to hit your cheek. Dorian always had his idiosyncratic moments; moments where his voice was too soft, insidious, dangerous — moments where you saw the promise of violence but it never came true. Moments that were lurid, shocking — but there would be a swift kiss in your cheek, a devoted sigh, an enamoured expression.

But now it did, you thought in despair, and the first bite of acrimony hit you then; the pure fear and rage and anger — and now it did.

Four months into a blissful, happy marriage, and everything had crumbled down.

**

You can’t remember how long it has been; this insidious, insipid cycle — or when it’s started. But everyone is a slave to something, and in this case you’re a slave to this very marriage, which has been tossed to the ground, upended on the streets. There is only bitterness that fills you. The nasty, unholy feeling you must purge.

Dorian never apologised. No; he truly saw it as part and parcel of your marriage. He was a paranoid man, steeped in fear that one day you would leave him for another, terrified that you would one day be desecrated by someone else. But ironically, it was this paranoia that made you want to run; to fill your incredibly lonely self with human connection, because you missed your family and friends so dearly.

But each of your attempts to run had been stymied by him. Each time your cold, clammy hands reached for the extra key in his jacket that hung loosely by the side — he would appear, imperious, chuckling, amused at your temerity, at your sheer courage. He would say, in a sonorous tone, you just never learn, do you, Y/n, and then the cycle would repeat again: the violence, your shudders, the comfort that followed afterward that made you feel debauched. His personality was a rupture of the otherwise sublime, angelic beauty he had.

You are foolish, Y/n, he tells you when you two are in bed, and he is holding you, and there is a brief moment of respite that betrays your mind — you are foolish. I am in control.

**

The thing about humans is that they are tenacious beings. You do not give up, because general or not, violence or not: you must stop this. You must end this now, before you douse a bottle of gasoline on yourself and self immolate. At least then you will die of your own terms, not by nursing your forever open wounds and groaning and not by his hands.

It’s the advent of the war party — this marriage has lasted through the whole war, and now Dorian is receiving a prize for contributing as one of the heroes — that makes you plan. It’s custom that a spouse would follow the other to the party, but Dorian, of course, would rather leave you here than bring you outside, to the wandering eyes that would look at you, to the gazes that would tear you down. He calls this an altruistic act for you, but you beg to differ. But you nod your head. Look adoringly at him, despite the pernicious ache that tears you apart inside.

But this is your chance. You have been waiting for this day forever, have been counting down the days, looking at the calendar — because you’ve made a copy of the key out of clay; and you plan to use it. Clay made from the soil of potted plants; water taken from the taps — all melded and left outside to harden and to become a perfect replica. All done in the areas that cannot be caught by the cameras that litter every expanse and inch of the room. You’ve memorised where they are by now; some hidden slyly between couch cushions, some in plants.

Your heart is beating fast. This is it; this is it; this is it. The words are a mantra, dancing in your head. You feel sick, beyond anxious, but you hide all of those feelings when you kiss Dorian goodbye, congratulating him and even coyly patting the front of his uniform — an act he so dearly loves. You can see what he’s thinking; that you’ve finally become docile. That you’ve finally become good.

Be good, he says before he leaves, like it is a reminder.

You nod your head again.

**

Your plan nearly works; oh god, it does. You’re already out of the house by then — fleeing, running, not allowing to get your hopes up but shit, it’s so close; the exit — and you’re running fast and your heart is burning and your lungs are choking — and —

So close

So close

So close

“Now I am the foolish one,” this utterly furious, ravaged voice is what tears you from your thoughts, throws you into the deepest despair and solidifies your descent into this perennial cycle of violence once more — “to leave you alone. You’ve gotten smart, have you? If I was a second later, you would have left.”

It’s raining, cold and bitter, and you’re shivering, hair damp, clothes drenched. Your thoughts are turning delirious, bereft of reason, bereft of hope.

Doom awaits you.

Dorian

Dorian

Dorian

“You will regret,” Dorian says, and his voice is so soft, so quiet. But in it lies terrible, terrible anger that you will not be able to coax out of him, that you will not be able to negate. The anger he had at the past escape attempts cannot be compared to this; it is disparate — because for this one he had trusted you. “Oh, Y/n, you will regret.”

So far

So far

So far

**

This time round he makes sure the punishments stick to you.

This time round the agony is so painful that you feel yourself shrink, turn timorous, turn into a coward.

This time round the anger is so sharp, like it’s been sharpened to a needlepoint — that you accept it, let it corrupt you.

This time round you give in to him. To his veneration, appetence. To his hunger, that scoops you hollow, that makes you anew. To his control.

This time round you become fully his.

**

“Do you wish to go out?” Dorian hums, “it’s a sunny day, isn’t it, Y/n? Don’t you want to go to the library?”

Your thoughts are a soft murky spot in your head, swimming between broken fragments and torn memories. The bruises lay on your skin; scars littered across every orifice. Dorian holds you sweetly, kissing your forehead.

“I have you,” you tell him, “why would I ever need that for? And we have a library.”

He laughs; and oh god, you love that sound. So melodic, so assuring, so comforting. (Surely the shiver down your spine is because it makes you giddy with happiness. There are some things the body cannot unlearn.)

“I was prepared to get you the wheelchair.” Dorian says gently, “but we can stay here, if you’d like.”

Of course you’ll love to stay here. Your legs don’t really work the same anymore — all broken, battered, crushed to bits — and it’s Dorian who attends so well to you, despite the fact that you can’t move around the same anymore. You don’t remember what caused that, but it doesn’t matter: you are still loved by your husband. The vows are still there; til death do us part.

This, in the end, is still a fairytale romance.

—

I think the tendencies are gradual. I love to headcanon that it starts out as your friend johan being a bit too doting at times. you even joke about it, groaning and calling him "mom" when he's being a bit too overbearing. Over time he becomes your boyfriend, one that coddles you a lot to an almost concerning degree (that's... normal right? people always fuss over their loved ones...). Next thing you know he's lulling you to sleep, conditioning you to to associate your sleepy time with his lullaby.

I don't think he's being fully delusional about it? He knows damn well that he's a grown man and you're a grown adult as well, unrelated with each other, and you guys are nowhere near any semblance of a mother-daughter. But that doesn't mean he won't impose the dynamic on you anyway. Thinks it's beneficial enough for both of you: he gets to care for you and you get to be taken care of. It works so well that it might as well be your permanent dynamic. (Or so he says. You crying and feeling yourself slowly lose a major part of yourself tied with your autonomy is just a natural part of sudden "changes".).

So he won't infantilize you to the point of actually getting baby stuff for you lol. he just wants to be your mother <3 and mothering also includes maybe discussing some topics over tea to see what your beloved daughter has learned today and seeing what you made today; a new painting? a new crochet project? making another science diorama? tell him. tell mom what you're proud of these days <3

WOULLDDDD wear the blonde wig maybe at times. Not that he associates long hair with motherhood. but it's just a thing he tries from time to time. maybe he's trying to emulate his mom to get more in-tuned with motherhood? Norman bates style? hot.

has a set schedule for you. reading time, feeding time, daylight time, etc. Though he can be flexible, your bedtime and eating time is a non-negotiable. you need your sleep and your food. Though I think he'd love it if you can't think for yourself and depend on him for everything, I think he'd still try to enrich your brain. So there's a time of day for mind exercise and studying: Reading together, watching documentaries, little games and puzzles to bond over like a good mother-daughter <3

speaking of food: endless spoiling duh. I think he'll even love it when you gain a few pounds from how well he's feeding you. it's another sign that he's taking care of you well. From takeout, to cooking for you, to filling he pantry full and giving you a snack every hour or so; he is stuffing you until you're full and sleepy. Will never let you go hungry. ever.

nsfw:

maybe.... maybe makes u latch onto his nips. breastfeeding and all that. hehe. will train you to start sucking on his nipples as a habit for you to calm down. Lets you suckle on his tongue as well if it'll help you go calm down <33 it's his substitute to a baby bottle. it's mortifying to you when you're sad and upset then you suddenly get the tingling on your tongue to just... orally fixate on something. it means it's working.

WOULD absolutely research how to induce lactation in men lol <3

loves loves loves using making you cum over and over again to leave you dazed, soft, and unable to be feisty. I think sex will definitely become a means to fix you whenever you become a bit too... "fussy" for his liking. Makes you cum over and over again until you're crying and pleading for no more, until you're passing out and unable to move your legs. He decides how many orgasms is enough already or if you need another round. And from what he sees? baby needs another leg-shaking orgasm from how cranky they were this morning.

overstimulation his beloved <3 thoroughly believes that sex is a form of taking care of you and making you feel good. and why wouldn't he want his baby to feel anything but good?

WILL fuck to sleep every night. sees it as the best way to get you to have the best sleep over (aka: you passing out to the point you might even wake up in the late afternoon). Vibrators are his best friend.

cockwarming. cockwarming. cockwarming. aaaaaaand- cockwarming. all while he's cradling you into his neck. will playfully rock his hips into you from time to time to enjoy the feeling of you squeezing around him for more. further proving you're always craving for his care.

Being born into the royal family wasn’t an easy task, you were not gifted, and from that. Ozai made sure to put you to use. Having you train nonstop or help out around the castle with the maids. Ozai was harsh father, but he would make time to teach you himself, but each time you despised it, he would always lecture you, humiliate you, degrade you into thinking you had no purpose, making you feel, alone.

Ursa wasn’t. In your life much, as she died when you were unable to think still… so the maids helped to raise you, as well as Ozai.

Ozai was the worst father possible, he was strict and destructive, but to you, he was a normal father, kind, but had that strict nature, you made Zuko and Azula jealous at times, since you had no bending Ozai forced you to learn combat, which you didn’t need since you were forced to stay in the castle all the time.

Zuko loved you, more than he loved Azula, he tried to sneak you out with him onto his ship when he was banished, but he was caught, once he became the fire lord you were constantly by his side, unable to leave, he kept you close as you were the only family he had that actually cared for him. He didn’t want you to reproduce, he didn’t want you to find anyone, he wanted you to rely on him and him alone.

Azula is a bitch to say the least. She constantly degrades you into thinking your nothing without her, that you need her to survive since your so weak and useless. She keeps you on a tight leash to make sure you don’t regain your self esteem.