Akilikesaxolotls - Ur Good Ol' Friend

The Quite Ones

Pairing: Mona Wassermann/Reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: She said it was love when she asked you to move in. You didn’t notice the walls closing in until they felt like home. Now there’s another girl wearing your old fear—and you, draped in silk and power, wouldn’t have it any other

Warnings: Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Moral Corruption, Being Controlled But You Like It, Suicide (not reader), kidnapping

AO3

AN: This did a complete 180 from what I expected it to be, Oopsies. Enjoy Xx (Requested by: @luvpone)

The eggs are already plated when you wake.

Soft-scrambled, just the way Mona likes them—creamy, a hint of chive, barely touched by heat. The toast is dry, cut diagonally. The grapefruit has been halved, segmented, dusted with sugar.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, like you’re afraid to shift the balance of the morning. The sheets are still warm beside you, though she’s long gone. You smell her perfume before you see the tray. Sharp. Floral. Unmistakably hers.

A folded note rests beside your water glass.

Remember your pills. Wear the blue sweater today. I’ll be home at six. Don’t make me come looking.

– M

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment. Neat. Severe. Looped just slightly at the tail ends, like she wants to seem softer than she is.

You do exactly as she says. Not because you’re hungry, but because she’ll ask. And if she finds the plate cold and untouched when she gets home—no. Better not to find out.

You chew mechanically, gaze drifting across the apartment. Her apartment. All clean lines and pale marble, glass so spotless it reflects the sky, not the city. Everything in its place. Just like you.

There’s a faint hum of music playing through the built-in speakers—one of her old jazz records. Mona likes music in the mornings. She says silence makes you brood.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. You already know who it is.

Have you eaten? Send me a photo.

You don’t hesitate. You snap a picture of the empty plate and send it without comment. The read receipt pops up within seconds.

Good girl. Now the sweater.

You rise, dutiful, and make your way to the closet. Not yours—hers. Everything you own now fits into a curated space of her choosing. The blue sweater is already laid out on the ottoman. You didn’t put it there.

It still smells like her. You slip the sweater on. It’s soft, expensive. Cashmere, probably. Mona doesn’t buy anything that isn’t the best.

It still fits perfectly, even though you’re sure you’ve lost weight. She says that’s good. Says it makes you look “kept.” Like you’re being taken care of.

You sit on the edge of the bed, sweater clutched around yourself like armor, and let your thoughts drift—just for a moment—back to before.

Back to the beginning.

Mona had been kind, then. Overwhelming, yes—she swept into your life like a storm with perfect posture—but kind. She asked questions no one else thought to ask. Remembered the name of your cat, your mother, your favorite wine. She touched your arm when you were nervous and said things like: “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

And you believed her.

When she offered her guest suite, just for a while, just until things “settled”, you didn’t think twice. You were out of work. The lease was ending. She looked at you like she couldn’t bear the thought of you struggling.

You told yourself it was temporary. She told you, gently: “I want you safe. That’s all. Let me give you that.”

You never even noticed the moment your keys stopped working. Or when she started answering your phone. Or when your old clothes vanished, replaced with carefully chosen alternatives. Mona said they “didn’t suit you.” She said this with a smile, holding a silk blouse to your chest like a gift.

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s what’s so confusing.

She loves you. She tells you so every day. She holds your face in both hands like it’s precious. She kisses your temple when you’re quiet too long and murmurs things like: “You’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you?”

The worst part is—she might be right.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The lock clicks at exactly 5:58 PM. She never rings. Never knocks. This is her home. Her space. Her rules.

You’re already sitting on the couch, sweater smoothed over your lap, a book open but unread in your hands. You’ve been in that position for twenty minutes, heart fluttering with anticipation you’d never call fear.

She walks in without hesitation. A black coat draped over her shoulders. Lips painted like blood and wine. Hair perfectly set, not a strand out of place.

Mona Wassermann doesn’t rush. She arrives. “Darling.” Her voice is warm, velvet-thick. “You wore the sweater.” You nod, managing a smile. “You said to.”

She hums, low and pleased, and crosses the room in heels that echo like punctuation. “You listen so well,” she murmurs, and cups your jaw in one hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, her touch feather-light. “That’s what I love about you. You know how to be cared for.”

You swallow. “I made tea.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she says, still smiling, still touching. “But I’ll sit with you.” She takes the book from your lap and sets it aside—delicately, like it’s fragile. Like you’re fragile. Then she sits beside you and pulls you into her side, your body folding against hers out of habit more than choice.

Her arm curls around your shoulders. Her lips brush your temple. “There,” she whispers. “Isn’t that better?”

You nod again. Because it is. It’s easier than questioning. Safer than pushing back. And besides, Mona’s warmth is real. Her grip, firm but comforting. Her attention, intoxicating.

If this is what love looks like, you think, maybe you can learn to want it this way. You close your eyes and let her hold you. And you don’t ask why the door locks behind her with a soft mechanical click.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t notice when you stop checking the time.

Mona keeps the clocks set fast by exactly six minutes, she says it keeps you sharp, but you don’t need them. You know her rhythms better than your own now. You wake when she tells you. Eat when she expects you to. Breathe easier when she walks through the door.

You used to wonder if this was normal. If it was healthy. Now you just want to make her proud.

She’s sitting at the dining table with her glasses perched low on her nose, reading something dense and contractual. You curl up beside her on the floor, rest your head against her hip. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Her hand slips into your hair like it belongs there. “I could get used to this,” she says absently, still reading. You tilt your head up. “To what?”

“This. You. Obedient. Quiet. Sweet.” You beam like it’s praise. Because it is. “I just want to make you happy,” you say. She sets her papers down and looks at you fully, her expression unreadable.

“You do,” she says. Then softer, almost to herself, “You really do.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She still tells you you’re beautiful, but now it’s in the same tone she uses when approving a purchase order—decisive, possessive. Her hands roam absently when she walks past you: a hand at your waist, a gentle grip at your nape, a brush down your spine that makes you shiver in ways you pretend not to understand.

And when she kisses you, it’s with a kind of ownership that leaves no room for doubt.

One night, you whisper to her in the dark, just as sleep starts to take you both: “I love you.” You feel her go still behind you, just for a second.

Then her hand curls around your middle, pulling you closer. Her mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I love you too.”You smile, eyes fluttering closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You meet for coffee because Mona said you could.

She picked the café. Chose your outfit. Had the driver wait half a block away. “Let her feel free,” she’d said with a smirk, lips brushing your cheek. “It’ll make her easier to ignore.” You’d laughed. She kissed you again.

Now you sit at a small table by the window, sweater sleeves neatly pushed to your wrists, hands folded in your lap the way Mona likes. You’re early, of course. You always are.

When your friend arrives, she looks different. Or maybe you do. She hugs you too tightly, too long. She smells like a life you used to have—street food and secondhand bookstores, not rose oil and Mona’s Chanel.

“You look…” She hesitates. “Good.” You smile. “She takes care of me.”

“Yeah,” your friend says, pulling off her coat. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” It starts softly. Little questions. How have you been? Are you still painting? Do you see anyone else? Do you ever go anywhere alone?

You answer like you’ve been coached—because you have. “She just wants what’s best for me,” you say. “She’s protective.”

“Protective,” your friend echoes. “Or controlling?” You blink. “What’s the difference?” She stares at you. Her expression shifts—fear, maybe. Or pity. You hate it.

“She’s cut you off from everyone,” she says quietly. “You used to call me when you couldn’t sleep. You used to laugh more. You used to talk about leaving.” You stiffen. “I don’t want to leave.”

“She doesn’t love you,” your friend says, voice flat. “She owns you.” You flinch like she slapped you. “No,” you say. “No, she does. You don’t understand her.”

“I understand you,” she says, leaning forward. “And I know when you’re not okay.”

You push back your chair, carefully. Not angrily—Mona taught you better than that. You gather your coat, your phone, your bag. Everything Mona picked out for you.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice even. “I love her. And she loves me.” She grabs your wrist. “She’s conditioning you.” You yank free.

“She saved me,” you say, quieter now. “When no one else did. I’m not going to apologize for being loved.”

Your phone buzzes. A single text: Time’s up. Car is waiting. You don’t look back. You leave with your head high, pride stiff in your spine.

That night, you curl against Mona in bed. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. “She’s worried about you,” she murmurs.

You nod against her chest. “She doesn’t know what we have.” Mona hums. “No,” she agrees, stroking your back. “She doesn’t.” She holds you closer. You don’t see the way her eyes stay open long after yours have closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend doesn’t stop.

She starts texting. Calling. Leaving voicemails that pile up unheard in your phone’s hidden folder—Mona showed you how to mute her without blocking. “Cruelty,” she’d said, “is giving them hope.”

At first, you ignore it. Then, you listen. She sounds tired. Worried. Pleading.

This isn’t you. You used to fight. You used to have your own mind. I’m not going away.

You play the last message twice. It ends with silence, then a quiet, broken whisper: Please come back. You delete it.

Later, you tell Mona. She’s in her study, barefoot, swirling a glass of red wine. You sit on the arm of her chair, your hand resting gently on her shoulder. “She won’t stop.” Mona doesn’t look up from her book. “Then block her.”

“She was my friend.” Mona hums. “And I’m your future.” You hesitate. Then: “She said I’m not myself anymore.” That gets her attention. She closes the book. Turns to face you fully.

“And what self would you rather be, hm?” Her voice is soft, slow. Seductive in its certainty. “The one who cried herself to sleep in an empty apartment? The one who begged for scraps of affection from people who couldn’t give a damn?”

You’re quiet. She leans closer, brushing her lips over your jaw. “Or this version? The one who’s loved. Protected. Chosen.” You nod. But something cold settles in your chest anyway. It starts to show.

At lunch with Mona’s acquaintances—never your friends—you speak less. But when you do, it’s with precision. You echo Mona’s cadence, her sharpness, her subtle threats wrapped in silk.

Someone makes a joke at your expense. You smile, cool and unbothered, and say: “Careful. Mona doesn’t like people touching her things.”

Their laugh falters. You finish your drink. Mona beams.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You dream about locking the doors behind her. You dream about telling someone they’re not allowed to leave. You wake with a sick flush of guilt—and something else. Something hotter. Thicker.

You bury your face in Mona’s shoulder. She strokes your hair and doesn’t ask what the dream was. She knows.

Your friend corners you outside the florist’s. You don’t know how she found you. “You’re scaring me,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

You look at her—really look—and realize she’s smaller than you remember. Not physically. Just… less. You tilt your head. “She’s not hurting me,” you say calmly. “She’s making me better.”

“She’s changing you.” You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says it all.

That night, Mona kisses your neck and murmurs, “My sweet girl. You’re learning.” And you are. You just don’t know if you’re becoming what she wants—or something even she should be afraid of.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend comes back. She looks worse now—drawn, desperate, tired of begging but still clinging to the idea that somewhere beneath all this, you’re still you.

You open the door without hesitation. “Come in,” you say smoothly. She hesitates, but steps over the threshold. The lock clicks behind her.

You lead her to the sitting room, where the lights are low and the air smells faintly of Mona’s perfume, amber, spice, smoke.

She doesn’t sit. “I just want to talk.” You nod. “We will. But not yet.” You cross the room and pour a glass of wine, watching her in the reflection of the cabinet mirror. She’s uneasy already. Good.

You hand her the glass. She doesn’t take it.

“Mona will be home soon,” you say softly, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. “You should stay. Since you want me so badly.” Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You keep saying you want the real me back.” You smile, all teeth. “She’ll want to see that.” She takes a step back. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I’m not joking.” You move closer. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present. “You chased me down. You barged into my life. You said you weren’t leaving until I came back.”

You lower your voice. “So stay.” You motion toward the couch. She doesn’t move. You don’t force her. You just watch. “Let’s see what Mona thinks of your loyalty.”

When Mona arrives, the energy in the room shifts instantly. She closes the door, tosses her keys on the side table, and pauses when she sees the two of you.

Her eyes land on your friend. Then flick to you with a slow, dangerous smile. You stand and walk to her, all grace and control, and press a kiss to her cheek.

“She wants to save me,” you murmur, just loud enough for your friend to hear. “Tried again.” Mona’s eye glint. “How sweet.”

“She’s staying,” you add. “For now. Since she misses me so much.” Mona looks at your friend like one might look at something pitiful on the street.

“How generous,” she says, curling an arm around your waist. You lean into her easily, effortlessly. Your voice is silk. “She doesn’t understand yet. But she will.” Mona kisses your temple. “She won’t like what she sees.”

“She never does,” you reply. “But that’s not our problem, is it?” Your friend stands frozen, uncertain if she’s still here to help—or if she’s already become part of the performance.

You smile, slow and cruel. “Don’t worry,” you say gently. “You wanted to see the real me.” You lace your fingers with Mona’s, lift them to your lips. “Well. Here I am.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She stayed. Not by choice. But she stayed.

It was supposed to be a confrontation. A rescue. But one look at Mona, one long, bone-deep silence between the two of you, and your friend lost her footing. You saw it in her eyes—the moment her resolve cracked.

Now she sleeps in the servant’s room. You didn’t even know the house had one. Mona called it “practical.” She doesn’t call her by name anymore. Just “the girl.”

“She’s useful,” Mona says with a wave of her hand. “Good hands. Quiet. Mostly.” You don’t ask her to leave. You don’t apologize.

Instead, you hand her empty teacups. You set your shoes by the door and let her clean them. You watch her as she dusts the shelves you used to daydream beside, and you feel…

Nothing. No guilt. No ache. Only power.

Mona sees it in you. The way your shoulders don’t hunch anymore. The way you speak with weight. The way you look at her like you’ve finally earned her.

And when she fastens your necklace in the mirror, she speaks low against your ear: “I’m proud of you.” Your eyes flutter shut. You lean into her touch. You’re warm all over.

She still tells you when to sleep. What to wear. Where to sit. And you let her. You want to. Because every time she buttons your collar closed or brushes her thumb over your lip to wipe away a crumb, your body reacts before your mind does.

Heat. Obedience. Desire. You used to wonder if it was wrong. Now you just want more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One evening, you catch your reflection as you pass the mirror in the foyer. You pause. Step closer. Study yourself. The posture. The lipstick. The velvet around your throat.

You turn, slowly, admiring. Behind you, the girl—your friend—sets a tray on the table. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You watch her in the mirror, then shift your gaze back to yourself. “Mona,” you say casually as she enters the room, “do you think she’s in love with me?”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “She’s afraid of yoi.” You smile. “Same thing.”

Mona laughs, low and delighted, and crosses to you. She kisses you slowly, possessively, not caring that the girl can see.

And you melt into her, fingertips grazing the curve of her waist. Because fear isn’t love. But it keeps people close. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s raining the day the girl tries to leave.

You find her in the foyer with her old coat and a canvas bag that still smells like the life she used to have. She’s trembling, soaked from the open door. Eyes darting, frantic.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like she’s begging without words. You don’t say anything either. You just close the door. Quietly. Then you call for Mona.

The aftermath is silent. No shouting. No threats. Just the door locking. The coat taken. The bag burned.

Later, Mona wraps an arm around your waist as you sip wine by the fireplace. The girl kneels at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You handled that well,” Mona murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I knew you would.” You smile. You should feel triumphant. But what you feel is settled. Like the final piece of something has clicked into place.

That night, you lie in bed with Mona’s hand at your throat and her breath in your ear, and it hits you: You’re not afraid anymore. Not of her. Not of what you’ve become. Not even of what you’re capable of.

You want her power. You want to share it. And you know now—you were never her victim. You were her creation.

The rain has stopped. There’s a stillness in the house that’s almost sacred. No birds, no wind—just the faint hum of quiet obedience in every room.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen the next morning, Mona’s silk robe wrapped around you like armor. It still smells like her—amber, smoke, power. You don’t bother tying it.

The girl is already there.

Kneeling by the oven, scrubbing the tile. Her movements are too fast, too frantic, like if she works hard enough she might disappear.

You stand in the doorway for a moment and just watch her. The tremble in her spine. The quick glance over her shoulder. The way she immediately ducks her head again.

You love it. Not in the way you used to love. Not the soft, giving kind. This is something deeper. Sharper. Almost holy.

You walk to the counter and sit. She stiffens when she hears the stool scrape the floor. You let the silence stretch. Then: “Coffee.” Your voice is low. Even. Calm. But it cuts through her like a blade.

She stumbles to her feet and obeys. Hands shaking. You don’t help. You don’t thank her. You just watch.

When she sets the cup in front of you, you reach out—slowly, deliberately—and take her wrist. She freezes. You don’t squeeze. You don’t threaten. You just hold her there. Make her look at you.

And when she does—when her eyes meet yours, wide and frightened, pleading—you smile. “I could’ve been you,” you say softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You release her. Take a sip. It’s perfect. Behind you, you hear the soft click of Mona’s heels approaching.

She enters without a word and leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. You meet her eyes. She’s beaming.

There’s something almost tender in the way she looks at you now. Something reverent. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’ve found your footing.”

You glance back at the girl, who has quietly returned to her corner. Head down. Knees bruised. “Fear,” you say, swirling your coffee, “is a kind of worship.”

Mona crosses the room and kisses your forehead. “I knew you’d understand,” she whispers. You rest your head against her shoulder, looking out at your kingdom. The kitchen, the house, the girl. All of it. Yours. Hers. Forever.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It happens on a Tuesday.

You find her slumped in the servant’s room—wrist pale and open, sheets stained a dull brown. She must’ve done it hours ago. No note. No drama. Just quiet defiance. Or maybe desperation.

You stand in the doorway and look at her for a long time. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sigh.

“She couldn’t even finish the floors,” you say that evening, curled in Mona’s lap, her fingers idly combing through your hair.

Mona hums in mild irritation, swirling a spoon through her espresso. “I told you she wasn’t built for longevity. All that conviction—useless without structure.”

You stretch, slow and catlike, lips brushing the underside of her jaw. “We’ll have to place an ad.” Mona groans dramatically. “Ugh. Interviews.” You laugh softly. “Can we get one that doesn’t cry?”

“Or pray.”

“Or try to save me?” Mona tightens her grip around your waist. “You’re not in need of saving,” she murmurs. “You’re perfect.” You smile into her throat.

Later that week, a new girl arrives. Young. Eager. Nervous. She calls you “Miss.” You offer her a drink. Something calming. She takes it with both hands.

And from the top of the stairs, Mona watches you with pride gleaming in her eyes. You’ve learned to play her game. No—your game now.

And the house? The house remains hungry. Always hungry.

74 notes View Post

akilikesaxolotls

4 weeks ago

Literally insane that I saw they’d elected a new pope and the first person I thought of was Joan fucking Ramsey

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akilikesaxolotls

1 month ago

How it feels to find a fanfic where your favorite character is going through literally the worst horrors you can imagine

23K notes View Post

akilikesaxolotls

3 weeks ago

I absolutely love @yourbasicqueerie’s writing. She tells us everything without saying nothing, it’s so free and full of allegories. I feel like I’m on an inside secret I shouldn’t be, it’s so velvet and smoke and noir in the best way possible.

Every time I read something of hers it tastes like she was the one writing. It has personality and style and it’s so funny, I always laugh for the most stupid jokes she makes. Just brightens my day when I read one of her works.

21 notes View Post

akilikesaxolotls

6 months ago

Me and my friends were doing the trend where you put pictures of things or ppl you simp for on a cake, and I just realized.. Anjelica Huston's role on The Witches (1990) was my bi awakening 😭😭😭😭 I MEAN I GET IT THO

Akilikesaxolotls - Ur Good Ol' Friend

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The Quite Ones