Little Butterfly | Laito x Reader

17 ; тhє ρσιѕσи ιи тhє вєαυту

{✴︎}

✴︎ corrupt

"You make me sick," Your voice in monotone.

"Excuse me?"

It was the time you decided that you were completely done with being a slave, and your job was just a pretty definition of it.

You quickly snatched your [c] waitress dress out of your bag and whipped it into her face—the hem of the skirt slapping her face as you did. "I don't need these fucking rags!"

The women stood there in shock, but a surprised expression immediately dissolved into a steep frown. "Then go."

You raised a wrinkled eyebrow and giggled, "You're not even gonna' deny it?"

"Corrupted little girl."

It was that. Your only real friend was gone. She slammed the door in your face—the bell above the entrance doorway jingling a rough song as she did so. "Tch."

✴︎ was there ever beauty there?

"Fucking old women."

You slammed the door behind you as you stepped into your small—used to be loving—apartment.

The whole place was more silent than it was before. Maybe it wasn't the place; maybe you were more of an empty canister than usual.

You kicked off your shoes, the mud from your usual flats splattering on the wall they hit. Not bothering to put them in a neat spot or cleaning up like you always did before.

Then your feet met the spiky feel of the fabric under your toes.

'w e l c o m e h o m e'  centered into the flowery design. You kicked the mat as it slid to the other side of the room.

"Welcome home, my ass."

You aggressively wiggled out of your sweater that freely slid off of your arms, and onto the floor to be forgotten later. Your feet brought you to the wall that had been dirtied by your shoes.

A finger made itself known into one of the mud patches, smearing it more as you trailed your fingertip in circles. "Screw you, Wall." You said in deep monotone, followed by a cheeky snicker.

Another step took you to a painting that you had always adored. "Fuck you, painting," You latched onto some scissors that waited next to the painting if you ever wanted to do another arts and craft project.

You took them and stabbed the cutters into the illustration—and dragged them down, and down again until it was completely shredded.

The breaths you took only came out rough and heavy.

Did it only take a man to make you consider the lie you made yourself live?

The scissors still in hand, you stabbed them deeply into the cushions of the couch—tearing out the feathers and foam and threw them around your apartment. "Stupid—fucking—couch!" You said in between chucking the foam.