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THE LOST ART OF KEEPING A SECRET. jade leech & floyd leech

The aquarium receives new additions perhaps once every two weeks; usually they are cute little things with rainbow fins and gem eyes. These two are not cute little things; they're huge and they have human faces. "Well I've got a secret, I cannot say" - Queens of the Stone Age, Track 2 on Rated R. a gift for @hallowed-father; based on their beautiful fanart 💕

tags: aquariums, late night conversations, captivity, situational humiliation, dehumanization, mutual pining, dubious ethics, kidnapping, vivisection, nursery rhyme references, eventual happy ending

word count: 12,668

The first two times you try seeing them, all you see is your reflection.

It makes sense unfortunately. With the lack of any light, you are going to have a hard time seeing them. Cloudy black settles over the skeleton and hair shaped vegetation. You can turn your head on a swivel (which you do on the second try) but there is no way to discern what swims through darkness. Instead, all you see in the aquarium tank’s water is your face.

Each uniquely human feature of yours squints in the nebulous, oscillating dark. To an observer, it would seem that you think if you flatten your eyes into pressed almonds something will reveal itself to you. Nose scrunching, you squint in a grandmother who lost her glasses way that is simply laughable.

There must be something inside the exhibit.

Nothing. Nothing but your desolate reflection.

On a small plaque, the words no use of flash photography wags a censure finger at you. Besides the cerulean halo on the corners where the wall meets ceiling, the room must remain dark at all times. Even during operating hours – or so you have heard from Deuce – they refuse to allow any other light in the secluded room.

Besides the ultramarine ouroboros, the oval-shaped room is dark beyond dark. An extreme that is on another level than what you are familiar with. As a nightguard, you are familiar with the dark. Quite familiar.

For example, there is one aquatic animal that you managed to see that other people cannot find nine times out of ten. In the shadows, spider crabs hide. They call their environment interestingly enough: the twilight zone, a part of the seafloor that gets little light and is very cold. With only three crabs in a sizable aquarium, it is understandably hard for others to find them. While the guests that linger after hours or closing staff puzzle over their location, you find them with ease. Behind the ship, by those bones, in the left corner no no higher in the left corner; your eyes have long since adjusted to the nocturnal proclivity of your job.

(One of the closing staff employees joked you were like a cute, little opossum. You think he meant it as a flirt; you found it insulting. Pressing your shades higher up on the bridge of your nose, you clocked in with your head down, vexed.)

However, in the tenebrous depths before you, you are like a disgruntled archaeologist standing in a desert of Swiss-cheese holes. Unable to locate anything. Tilting your head in a slightly different direction, your eyes squeeze into petite slices, searching.

The flashlight in your hand is a heavy temptation. If you just raise it, the absence of light will readily receive it. Melted pinks and greens of vegetation will pop, brown and amber of decorative rocks will shine, and whatever colors lie on these new fishes will certainly look like a gorgeous splendor under visible light. It would take the smallest wrist motion. Your reflection held in black water stares back at you, glaring daggers. ‘C’mon, do it,’ your reflection urges.

Light slugs over your sneakers, contemplative. ‘Perhaps not,’ you think with regards to the penlight. You know that you loathe having any type of light in your face; do unto others as you would have done onto you. The button of your tool clicks off. By now, you should already be down by the stingrays.

‘Third time might just have to be the charm,’ you think with a frown.

In the fishbowl glass, mummified with shadows, your reflection mimics that childhood disappointment.

‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’

Turning to leave, spine to the aquarium tank, you miss the first instance of light emerging out of dark.

It pulls upward like an ember blown skyward out of a campfire pit. The movements of it are languid. Flickers of yellow orbit in a whirlpool, lazy like they have just woken up. That clean circle becomes distorted, shrinking and growing like window-shades are being maneuvered over it. Then, a twin of yellow joins the first, a hair keener than the first. Both circles of light hang in the shadows, not brightening or shining beyond an intensity that is noticeable. Shrewd with their intentions.

When the door to the oval room clicks close, the window-shades pull down like a blink and the aquatic water changes from being speckled with playful yellow back to tenebrous black.

As it turns out, the phrase ‘third time's the charm’ holds an eternal merit. Because the next night, which is the third time you look into the aquarium tank, your wish is granted.

The unluckiest charm; the unluckiest wish.

The aquarium gets new deliveries once every two weeks. As the nightguard, you are not kept on the up-and-up unless Deuce Spade is working. And as an honor college student, Deuce is usually scheduled – during daylight hours of course – on the weekends when exam season is not keeping him occupied. So, you missed the news about this new delivery initially. All you knew about them was from the very insightful texts of Deuce Spade (two in total):

The new deliveries can’t be around light. Think it's anglerfish?

and

Apparently not anglerfish, those have to live under pressured water. Why do people act like that’s common knowledge to know??

Your available information is: they are not anglerfish. That is all.

You really are left with no hints to what hides in murk. After two weeks, no plaque detailing the species is nailed to the wall or statued on a slanted board. The room is void of identification. Perhaps that is the reason your body seems so magnetized towards deciphering this mystery. No identification by now is unusual. Plus, night shifts drag like limping feet; why not try to stall off boredom?

This time around, you power off your penlight before entering the room. Instead of letting the light stamp a circle of itself on the ground, you enter pure darkness. Blue vibrates above you. Not complete darkness, you correct, stepping on the path that limited blue illuminates.

The room and tank resemble an egg with a cut-off top. The room is oval shaped but missing a quarter of its full shape, the top half knifed off to make room for a tank full of about five hundred gallons of water. When you reach the wall, the length is forty feet, this sliced egg-top, you place determined hands in your slacks pocket.

And squint until the muscles in your eyes quiver with strain.

Penguins must be kept in cold waters. Vents are constantly blowing cold air into the exhibit to keep it under forty degrees. As your breath comes out in a puff of frosty air, you wonder deeply just what kind of species can be kept in such frigidness. Deep sea penguins? That would certainly be interesting.

Your reflection challenges you with a mimic of your squinting. Keep dreaming, it says. No matter which way you look over tenebrous shadows of vegetation and rocks, nothing is making itself clear to you. This time you risk inching closer. From this distance, you can count the vertebrae-esque leaves of a winding ludwiga. Ice seems to heartbeat off the glass, kissing your features.

What can you see?

Nothing. Nothing but your desolate reflection.

That is until a little organic lantern – small like a dragonfly– comes alive in the water. Despite your excitement, you keep yourself frozen and still. Your tiny gasp bleeds out your mouth and hits the glass gradually. The dragonfly powers on and off in two blinks. Morse code for ‘I’ but you doubt this animal knows that – you just happened to take a college elective for Morso code. You watch this single, pinprick lantern with great interest.

‘I think it really is an anglerfish. I mean, it makes complete sense. Deep sea water temperatures. The utter lack of light. Maybe, the researchers found some way to replicate the pressures, and the staff just doesn’t know yet. That would be revolutionary.’

Then, a second dragonfly joins the first. On a black-emerald and black-turquoise torrent, the ember dips down low. Glittering like a sun-rays on water, it slithers closer with curious intent. It was leagues keener than its twin, metaphorically hexagonal instead of circular. This dragonfly too powers off and on in quicker blinks. Four blinks which is ‘H’ in Morse code … useless knowledge.

Anglerfish cannot communicate. The entire ecosystem of a brain from fish to human is different, like trying to compare a tropical amazon to a winter wonderland. Just far too different to understand one another.

But, it is impressive that the aquarium was able to get such a deep sea creature to survive in a simulated habitat.

“Hi there.” You wave your fingers. Pressing yourself closer to the glass, you wait for your eyes to adjust and register the razor teeth and fat jowls of an anglerfish brown face. Cold air starts to swim under your jacket, your body’s tilt causing the material to slip. Then, you make eye contact.

Eye contact? Eye contact. Turns out those lantern-shaped dragonflies you are looking at are not the bait anglerfish have attached to their bodies. It is not a hunting evolution you openly leer at. Rather, you look them in the eye.

All the fire of your wonder extinguishes like a pinched match.

As if the vents are working overtime, a sudden chill falls over you. Goosebumps settle over your shoulders. You jump back and misty gray air (your gasping breath) explodes in front of you. It is not your desolate reflection that swims in front of you. Someone else’s face is in there.

There are creatures in there; that is undeniable. What fights to make itself conclusive in your reeling mind is the image of the creatures. Creatures – so completely alien when compared to the mixture of muscles that make up an anglerfish– with human faces. Human features. A nose. A pair of lips. A pair of squinting eyes, staring right back at you.

One of them throws their head back in laughter when you fall to your ass, reeling inward and outward. What the fuck is a human – two humans! – doing inside an aquarium tank at 2 A.M.!

You climb back up to your feet with all the grace of an injured crab. Your left arm feels longer than your right; you feel like the ground has morphed into quicksand and is suckling on your right boot; all of your world has become disoriented. In your jacket, your penlight weighs down your left side like a brick. Pulled by a mental riptide, you wrestle until you finally stand on two (trembling) legs like all bipedal humans should. Earth tilts as you watch the one who laughed move forward, blue blanketing him.

He taps the glass. Exact over the bullseye point of where you stand, reeling, in the glass from his point of view. In intelligent acknowledgment of you.

You two lock spheroid eyes, analyzing each other with hell-bent resolve. Mapping the features of each other in your brain’s fusiform face area so you can recognize each other at later times. His human features settle like all the others before him in your cerebrum. Packaged in the inferior temporal cortex, packaged in the fusiform gyrus. The human visual system that specializes in recognizing faces accepts him.

‘That is a face. I will recognize it later and recall it as one thing only: a face.’ Just like that, your brain, your fusiform gyrus mails you the annotation.

A part of you wants to cry and the other wants to puke. You do neither. You react with a different system of your body.

Muscles press your flashlight’s button on and muscles move it up quickly when the second one starts to move closer to the glass. You do it out of fear. And with strange, instant regret.

The one closest to the glass folds into himself, seething. A webbed, tooth-white-with-green-gradient hand covers his eyes in agony. His other hand slams the tank in a tight fist. It knocks the world back into orientation. You flee the scene with your flashlight swinging wildly back and forth with your sprint.

This time there is no laughter.

You rush out like they are chasing you, laughing over your shoulders. With a harsh crash to the ground, panting in disbelief, you pull trembling knees towards your stricken face. What the fuck – what the absolute fuck! A carapace cloak falls over your brain to ignore knocking thoughts and rationalization. Wordless beyond three words, they swirl in your head. What the fuck – what the fuck.

Your spine lies on another exhibit. Stingrays lie underneath the aquarium’s sand, sleeping and unaware of you. Part of you knows you will not be able to sleep in the morning.

“What the fuck.”

You unlock your phone with your face when you get home.

The lamp glows, allowing your phone to register the face identification. As quickly as the string is pulled on, it is tugged off. Dawn rests against your black-out curtains like zombies pounding on doors sheltering food. Brightness on the screen is kept down to the lowest possible setting. You type the name of where you work into your phone.

‘There has to be information on them. You can’t just have that’ – pale-green faces with matching gold eyes – ‘that living in an aquarium. And if it’s in an aquarium, shouldn't that aquarium be like inside Area 51 or the Oval Office. Anywhere but nowhere!’

You click on the website of your place of employment. The types links are highlighted in white bubbles: GET YOUR TICKETS, WAYS TO SAVE, and ANIMALS UP-CLOSE. Your finger follows the last tab and you come across a Let’s Get Started sheet, asking if you are a member and, if not, to start booking. A colorful curse parts your lips.

You return to the home page. Take in the organization again. Okay, there are some links above too: Visit, Animals & Exhibits, Learn, Research & Conversation, News & Events, Support Us, Shop.

Gravitating towards Animals & Exhibits, you watch as a list unfurls like a scroll. None of them are unusual animals. From beluga whales to steller sea lions, you are looking at a dead-end list of regular animals which you have passed multiple times on your nightguard route. Aquatic animals whose features do not turn your entire morning full of sleep into restless pacing.

This is nauseating. For piscine features to be manipulated like that. Sea creatures come in a variety of features that are unique to them; eyes that reveal the innate instinct to survive above compassion or companionship, dorsal fins that branch off their body like tiny mountains, or those puckering lips that circle to suction fish-feed from the surface of their tanks. Those features you can compartmentalize with the aquarium you work with well. They belong there with the other undersea creatures. Your heart pangs in disgust.

This is immoral. For human features to be manipulated like that. A face you might see walking out of a movie theater, hand in hand with his girlfriend. A face you could have the possibility of getting to know if you were not a college dropout; someone in your biology or english elective or calculus class that would ask for help with a certain question. Staring into that man’s left umber eye and right gold eye, you realized how all those features made him human. Your heart pangs in sympathy.

This is? You take a tranquil breath that soothes you like medicine from an inhaler, and the next thought sets your world back on the correct axis. This is out of your paygrade.

You return because, fucking, of course you do. A job is equivalent to a life. You experience less hardships when you have a good job – which you thankfully do. You have a good job that you must keep.

One: legally, graveyard shifts pay more than others in your state. Two: it was ideal for the degenerative disease you have. Three: “I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money –'' There have certainly been better mantras sung in your car; though, this melody keeps you sane. Most importantly, it keeps your foot steady on the accelerator. So with three very good reasons – really just two overlapping ones and a single unique one – you return to work the next day like nothing is wrong.

Thus, you are going to ignore it. Thus, “I’m going to ignore it,” you tell yourself. Thus, you are going to stand in front of the oval-shaped room’s door for the larger half of thirty minutes, studying the steel. Ah, this is far from ignoring it.

It is just … absent of sentimentality, you know that they are only fish. Fish that you see on guys’ dating profiles, fish that you eat with a medley of dipping sauces, fish that shit in the very water they swim in. You are no PETA advocate that will say fish are like the monkeys of the ocean, learning to use rudimentary tools and are sophisticatedly smart because they form social groups. However, despite this, there is a tiny pebble in the river that manages to disrupt the entire flow; the pebble wants you to apologize to them.

Which is outlandish and pure insanity!!

Which is really why you should not push the door open with your hand. And, which is why you glare at your traitorous fingers and listen to the creak of an opening door, bemoaning how utterly stupid you are to be opening this Pandora box of possibilities.

You let the flashlight sway once in an overarching cut across the room. Then, you point it at the ground and squint at the aquarium again. Besides a few layering shades of ebony speckled with blue, there is really not much for you to distinguish in the stomach of shadow. Putting yourself on an even playing field, you flick off your flashlight and step forward.

Feet shuffle inch by inch. Looking straight, your acuity of vision decreases bar by bar. Gravity shifts like a restless faultline has awoken under your feet. You want to run away while you walk forward.

When you touch a hand to the frigid glass, you finally feel steady again. Once more, your exhale makes itself physical in a small cloud on the tip of your nose. The temperature is graciously grounding.

“I’m okay,” you remind yourself. You blink to stabilize your vision.

Apologize to the fish then you can finally leave. Simple enough.

Yet, as you wait and squint, no glowing eyes emerge in the dark. You hold yourself there, waiting for just a flicker of motion in what seems like everlasting comatose.

This is pointless. Why am I even here? I doubt they remember my face, much less hold a grudge over it. Fuck, why did I let myself get sentimental over some eldritch homunculus that is an affront to biological evolution! Why aren’t they at Area 51 or the Oval Office – why did faith push them here?

Inner seething concluded, you turn your flashlight on and the room brightens. For a split second, your face lies its reflection on glass with a resentful aura. You maneuver light towards the door with determination. Your body follows, making a hasty turn towards your exit. There are rounds around the aquarium to be made, iced frappuccinos in the breakroom you want to drink, and momental, life-altering plots to be ignored forever.

Until the glass behind you thuds in tension-raising noise like when a bird hits window-panes with little to no warning.

Breath caught in your throat, you whirl around to make eye contact with him. He wears such a handsome face, one that could belong to a heartthrob actor if not marred by the fins replacing his ears and the mossy green hue of his skin. His playful inquisitive eyes are entirely human in shape and structure; the black pupil and then the color ring of an iris. Too bad they too are disfigured by rare and nauseating colors, olive-umber and gold.

That right eye reminds you of lighthouses on the coast. Captains are not supposed to stir towards lighthouses; they avoid the light, even if it carries a certain warmth. Why is he looking at you so warmly?

Somehow, you just manage to catch out of the corner of your eye the motion of his hand. An acute nail points down at your beaming flashlight which imprints a halo of light on the carpet floor. Then, he raises his hand up to around his shoulder. His fingers move in the starting shape of someone about to play thumb-war before he starts to move his thumb up and down. Clicking an imaginary button, signaling for you to turn off your flashlight.

Stunned, you numbly do. Light is pulled and magnetized back into the pen’s surface, like an object beamed up into a spacecraft, at a speed unseeable to the human eye. The eye contact between you two is almost an intense lip-lock that both of you cannot part with.

This is one you shined the flashlight at. Right into those encapsulating eyes. The right one is yellow like liquid spilling out of a pineapple. Bright and playful.

“I- I uh,” you fumble with your apology. He probably won’t understand a word. You purse your lips nervously. Are there any words in the English language that can package up your sympathies from homo sapien to fish; is opening your mouth even worth it? “I wuh-wanted to –.”

Your apology withers when the eel-mer starts to tap on the glass.

Intentionally, you listen. Yet irrationally, you expect to see or hear more Morse Code. Perhaps it is his anthropoid features that misled you to the conclusion that he might know the coded language. With a needle-hook nail, he taps a rhythm.

It’s nothing though? The letters are gibberish, with even the number 5 sitting pretty between an O and a C. Of course it is not a code. Coming to your senses, you doubt he could even understand your apology if you gave it to him. There is a fine line drawn in the aquarium’s sand: fish and humans are not equal, one is more intelligent.

With some infinite patience, the fish taps the glass again. You listen and recognize it as the exact same taps and pauses from before.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath. You hold eye contact, scrutinizing him. So used to having zero company, you surmise aloud, “I must be so sleep-deprived and loopy that I dreamed you up … A piece of undigested beef like Scrooge said.” As if to solidify his independent self and independent thinking in your solipsistic world, he taps the rhythm again.

This time – you think because of the repetition – you finally understand why he is tapping. It almost sends you flat on your ass once more.

Oh. You throw a hand up to your mouth, faintly covering up a disbelieving laugh of joint horror and amusement. Disbelief crystallizes itself in the air; a tiny cloud of your reeling mind dissolves in front of you as you drop your numb hand. “Hah.”

The fish taps a nursery rhyme. One you know from kindergarten. One you would clap the rhythm of with your hands. You remember vaguely the pattern you’d move your hands to play with another child. The vague lingering sense of being hushed and secretive while playing your little singing games, giggling in the back of the classroom, bites your goosebumped flesh.

How appropriate for a man trapped in an aquarium to know the nursery rhyme A Sailor Went to Sea. He does it again, the lyrics plucked from the cobwebs of your memory: A sailor went to sea, sea, sea; to see what she could see, see, see; but all that she could see, see, see; was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea.

You don’t know fully how well your sight would fare in the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea. Still, with a hesitant squirm, you approach the frigid glass. The man inside the aquarium waits this time rather than launching right back into tapping.

Raising your arm, you make certain to dig your nails into your palm. A little reality-checking pinch never hurt anyone. One of those pallid nails rises up and taps back. Feeling like you are the spinning ballerina, you listen to the melody of this Pandora box plays unchained and uncaged in the ice cold air:

A sailor went to sea, sea, sea

To see what she could see, see, see

But all that she could see, see, see

Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea

There is no way to get around it. The third shift is lonely. Here in this aquarium? They only require one person to clean all the tanks, turn off decorative filters, and supervise aquatic life. That sole person has been you. With an iced frappuccino and penlight as your pirate’s sword and hooked hand, you have managed the task of protecting this vessel well.

Just because of your longevity of working as a third shifter, it does not make it come easy. Two tabs in your eighteen open Safari tabs are on articles about coping with night work. Coping with solitude when the entire world works in the opposite of you. One article details trying to stay on top of social interactions. All these shifting hours have been mistakenly used up. As you move through hallways like a haunting shark, you roll in your mind all the lost opportunities and all the regrets of having people in your life that you could’ve formed relationships with but never did.

Your metaphorical ailment has been sleep apnea. Eye scorned. Unable to catch your breath. You've been awake for years with no company. Along with being alone, you have been so achingly tired. Circadian rhythms in a body never change.

Your friend plays well in rhythms. The instrument of his disposition is easy to read after a month of ‘knowing’ each other. He has the attitude of a drummer.

It is hard to get yourself used to his existence at first; he remains uncaring to your fretting. Lacking melodies or harmonies, he seems like the type that would rather keep things easy and simple than embellish.

You come to visit? He wants to play. You’re too exhausted to play? He can entertain himself. What you have is very plain sailing and hardly involves any talking unless you start it. Besides, he is still just a fish and thus cannot converse with you.

He really enjoys tapping on the glass. He plays a variety of rhythms; ones you do not know then, very strangely, some that you do know. As night by night moves along in time’s steady march, you grow comfortable enough to play back. He will play a rhythm only once, you copy it back with aid from your memory. You have even started to show him music on your phone, seeing how quickly he can pick up on certain beats and mimic them for himself.

Sometimes though, all he wants to do is simply listen. Which is activity the two of you share in tonight, absent of that third member who you are sure is hiding deeper among the burrows and the oscillating, five ribbed kelp. That distant drummer in your phone floods the cold room with music.

A small booklet covers your heart as you lie wistful. The floor is rough cement. There is no better place to lounge though. Underneath your head, a furry gray seal pup you borrowed from the toy store acts as your pillow. You try to think of yourself weightless like you are in water as you remain close-eyed and contemplative.

Like a siren call, music slithers out of the bottom of your phone’s speakers. Legs crossed over one another, you briefly tap your foot along to the rhythm that you are sure your friend is enjoying. “Look for reeeflections, in yo-our face; canine devotioo-ton, time can’t erase; Out on the cor-ner or locked in your room; I never buh-lieve them and I never assume-uh!”

Speaking of your friend, you have not bothered to check on him in a while. One of your diseased eyes peels open. Face held in a wink, you estimate if your friend is close enough to the glass that you should be able to see him clearly enough despite all the darkness.

You do not expect him to be lounging right there beside you. It gives you a little shock of surprise. A moment passes by and that feeling suddenly intensifies to a shock of the heart. Not in a romantic way but in the way of a death row prisoner being electrified to death.

You bolt upright, skull and hair flying off the seal pup plushie. Prescription sunglasses tilt down from their forehead perch, landing crookedly on your nose. The creature waves a sharp set of gradient-covered claws in your face. The only reason that your electric heart runs above its normal BPM is because that glowing lighthouse-esque eye is on the left side rather than the right.

“It’s you.” The creature, who you have not been becoming friendly with for an entire month, smiles at you and your shocked voice.

Though you are certain he has been watching you – not just while you were resting your eyes on the ground for a much needed cat nap, but for the entirety of these thirty-one nights – his eyes still flutter around the space where you sit in observation. He takes in each individual item around you like trying to find certain objects in spot-the-difference puzzles. After a moment, you ask while pointing to your phone, “Do you not like the music?” His wandering eyes are magnetized to your face when you address him.

Hell, they are intense. Intenser than any eyes you have really looked in before, rivaling even the strictest teachers you had or the meanest secretaries you have known. The colors in his gold and umber iris swirl like tiny galaxies of brown dust and broken stars. Intelligent eyes like those are daunting and, thus, terrifying to level your gaze with.

Despite knowing you will not get an answer, you march on in your one-sided conversation, “I get it that music isn’t everybody’s thing. Does it disturb you?” You wait. The newcomer does not talk either. “Ah, not a fan. I get it.”

You may receive no verbal answer, however you sense he does not want to play patty-cake through a sheet of reinforced aquarium glass. “Whatever yooo-u dooo-oh, don’t tell anyone; whatever yooo-u dooo-oh, don’t tell –” The song cuts off as you press the pause button.

“I should have been more considerate,” you apologize, able to steadily carry on this solo because you have grown used to it. You do talk a lot to the other fish. Almost in the same way one can carry on an unbalanced conversation with a pet cat or dog. “You just swim over to let me know and I’ll turn it off. I would never want to disrupt anyone’s sleep.”

‘Just like I would never again want to shine a light in anyone’s eyes.’ You still regret that with each fiber of your being.

For a silent moment, you two observe each other. Though you are a hundred percent certain this is not his first time scrutinizing you. You realize his hair is a mirror-flip reflection of the other fish’s just as he raises one of his hands.

Maybe he is like the other fish. Despite not giving the impression of a drummer, he might still want to play that rudimentary game of patty cake where you two match and copy each other’s rhythm. Perhaps it is all their fish brains can comprehend. Even though his eyes might seem intelligent, he is nothing more than a piscine creature. However, that thought stalls when a single, black-dyed claw reaches up to his own throat, tapping it delicately.

“Hm?” You tilt your head curiously.

In response, he takes his index and middle finger and taps once more his own throat. Then, he takes those fingers and depresses them over the reinforced sheets of glass.

“Do you want me to,” you trail off, eyes stuttering over the items at your disposal. “I can’t sing if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m no singer.”

Eyes, one of them full of shattered stars and the other full of blown-up planets, stare on. Unchanging and showing you no inclination of what he wants you to do. The other fish will at least whine, squint, or show joy if he thinks whatever words your vocal cords stretch into will entertain him. “Though, I could,” you trail off again.

Trailing off is an awful habit of yours. You rarely can make full, complete conversation after almost half a decade of night shifts. However, those intense eyes encourage you to go on. “I could read to you?” Your fingers point towards the booklet that had fallen off your chest. “If you want?”

Once again, no answer. But, at least you are not staring alone at your desolate reflection. His figure behind the glass – the yellow eye on his left side watching each of your body’s movements – is so very real and alive. At least, you are not alone this time. Though, the company is unorthodox biologically.

“Reading … I can do that.” Only for a little while though. Eventually, your eyes will start to blur at the tiny scripture. However, as you pick up the book and place it in your lap, the first line is big enough that you can read it easily, “Once upon a time –”

As a wedding gift, Pandora received a box from Zeus. Though gifts by definition are simply something given from person to person, the word gift carries with it a subliminal, secondary definition. Gifts are to typically be opened.

Acting against that thought, Zeus warned Pandora to never open the box. You never understood that.

Why would one dangle temptation in front of another’s face? Why even plant an apple tree in the Garden of Eden? Why even craft a box if it should remain shut evermore? Temptation is a seductive thing. It slithers up into a body with shining honey eyes and lures like a hook. Because of this, it is best to keep it under lock and key.

If Zeus really did not want the box opened, he should have kept it as a hidden secret underneath thousands of layer crusts in the mountains.

As the story goes, curious Pandora opens her wedding gift. From it, the four horsemen of Judgement Day leap and gallop out, thick plumes of disease rattle out of the box in shaking coughs, and envy and greed claws their way out with black, knife fingernails, raping Pandora of her beautiful face and stealing her glittering necklace. Bleeding scratches upon her cheek and lungs filling with disease-ridden smoke, Pandora slams the box shut with a regretful hack.

Only one thing remains in Pandora’s box. Hope remains trapped inside the wedding gift. Alone, hope paces the perimeters of the box in their curiosity. Marveling at how much room and space they have to stretch out, hope takes a long, peaceful nap for all eternity.

You wish you could take a long, peaceful nap. You have a lot of trouble managing to fall asleep fully without waking up in intervals. When you work against your body’s natural circadian rhythm that is simply what happens.

Today, you have what Doctor Safari’s helpful tabs are telling you is a third shifter headache. To alleviate them you take no pills. Far too smart of an idea to take those. Instead, you take an iced frappuccino out of the break room’s fridge and turn off every single light in the aquarium, down to the blue LEDs that snake on the ceiling.

“Much better,” you sigh to yourself in relief. In nebulous black, your feet carry you to the place where company awaits and has been awaiting for about two months now.

It has been a slow trail of companionship. Progress is not fully linear. Part of you has forgotten how hard it is to socialize after years of isolation.

To be honest, you feel like a man who has lived up in the mountains alone for years, living and hunting by nomad methods, only to be shown a cellphone as soon as you reach the mountain's descent. However, they must feel the same way. They have lived down in the ocean for years, living and hunting in aquatic methods, only to be brought up and shown the eye of a penlight shining in their face. The three of you are all just struggling along in finding how to make companionship work.

But God, does it work. You hesitate with it, suddenly remembering the fins as placeholders for ears or the tails under their belly-buttons. Yet, human eyes and smiling lips will restore your content in the next moment. Something about them solves your loneliness.

They may never speak. However, you often have trouble navigating the maze of words. In the end, you consider them friends in an unease definition of the word.

By the time you make it to Pandora’s box, your coffee is drunk down to the last drop and you use the chilled glass container as an impromptu ice pack across your forehead. Where you come through is not the typical oval-shaped room. Instead, you venture up a tongue of metal steps to the top of their aquarium tank. It is a circle-shaped room. Designed largely like a pool, the only lighting is three spheres on each wall. The room consists of a gaping black hole of water and a slight drop in floor elevation so staff can stand ankle-deep while feeding or caring for them.

At least, you assume. Because the first time curiosity lured you to the top of their tank, your fingers had been nibbled at. Nothing extreme and more like dogs cobbing to show affection, but it still surprised you when the right-gold-eyed one took your hand in his.

Now, you carry along with a plastic bag of treats and tread into the water without hesitation. Walking in the familiar steps of your companionship as you have done night after night. They are eager to see you it seems.

Too bad the world tilts and you are suddenly no longer looking down on them but eye to eye. You realize what has happened with gritted teeth. A careless trip of unbalanced feet, now you sit on hands and knees in inch-deep water.

You also realize something with more horror than before. The prescription sunglasses that were perching on your forehead have been knocked off and are slowly slipping inside the tank’s depths.

“No, shit!” You cry out before, with one-track-mindlessness, you duck your head underwater like a hungry mallard.

Your eyes fly open as soon as you submerge yourself. You watch as languid sunglasses drift lower and lower. Ribs tight on the cement floor, you spear out your arm in a panic, missing the edge of the glasses by a finger’s width before they go down further and further.

No, no, no! Those glasses cost a fortune!

Stupidly, you consider the idea of diving right into the rest of the tank before you realize another thing. It paralyzes you, shocking and binding your heart. The entire sight of the tank is so easy to see. The bottom of the ocean floor is as clear as crystal, enough where you pick out each gradient of sand. It is comparable to being a person putting on their prescription contacts in the morning, everything clearing up with the right correction lens.

Usually, your vision is always mildly blurry. Enough where you can navigate night to night without any serious medical aid. But that lingering, splitting-headache pain behind your irises dulls like a blanketed sound.

It allows you to watch clearly as delicate, black fingertips scoop up your ebony pair of sunglasses.

Relief fills you as the fish with upturned eyes gently brings them up to you. You surface from water just as both fish break the surface too. It dawns on you that you haven’t been this close, eyes parallel to one another with you on your knees.

No reinforced aquarium glass separates you this time and yet, calmly, you say, “Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough for retrieving those for me.”

A giant grin grows on the one with downturned eyes. Though you hold a hand out to the other, this one seems to think your gratitude is for him for he loops his arms around your neck, squeezing you. He starts to pepper kisses on your cheek, which you suppose resembles how dogs like to lick their owners.

Your outstretched hand never receives the glasses. Instead, the fish with upturned eyes takes to placing your sunglasses back on the perch of your head. The temple tops fit snugly behind your ears. You watch as the fish with shrewdness in his eyes starts to move the tendrils of wet hair out of your face.

As your hair is tucked and your cheek is kissed, you wonder just once more why faith has brought them to you.

“(Name)?”

You smile at Deuce’s surprised gap. Today, you wear Noir sunglasses. The lenses are as dark as vantablack, refusing to allow any light touch your retinas. Even the artificially colored lights of an aquarium during operating hours is too much for you.

Deuce is in charge of the photography printing booth today. Twenty or so different families, couples, groups of teens flicker in rows across the screen he stands in front of.

“You sound almost disappointed.”

“No, no, not at all,” he rushes to amend. “Just haven’t seen you out in –”

“The sun?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Even a vampire needs a change of pace.”

Like an examined showhorse, you show off your plain teeth. No fangs or shark teeth to be found.

“I’ll tell you though. Driving here? A complete nightmare.” And, it really was. Usually you drive one handed. Your right hand lies on your thigh, tapping along to the rhythm of the radio’s drums. Today, you had to grip the steering wheel with both hands.

“Well, it is a summer weekend after all. Sucks to get stuck in traffic. ” Deuce nods his head in sympathy.

“Ah,” you look to the side. “Actually it was kind of just weird driving with other people on the road.”

Deuce’s eyes brighten in particle understanding. He might not entirely comprehend it but he still goes, “Oooh. Because you’re so used to driving at night.”

It is not that entirely. “Yeah,” you give a small, lying smile. When you remember driving, you remember it like a dream. You drive in a single lane, all alone in your white truck. Bordering you, two lanes of heavy, steady traffic move in succession towards the opposite direction. Going somewhere you are not.

Your isolated Chevrolet Silverado was so high up on the ground that you felt a bird. The width of your truck was so wide that you felt you were shouldering your way through a crowd. That is only what felt like happened, not reality. “I just felt a little disjointed.”

The photographs on the monitor keep changing in flickers. Your eyes fall on them. Mother with daughter. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Father and mother and only son. Three girl best friends. Grandfather with two girls and one boy. Blank.

“Did you get your photo taken?” He asks. He must have noticed your gaze. Has to do his job after all.

“Ah no.”

You look at the empty block of spotlighted blue. Dark cobalt around the edges and white in the center. How many photos do you have of yourself? You feel in that moment … if you ran away somewhere, no one would notice; there’s no photographic evidence that you exist.

“Nah; had to fight to let them let me pass. Oh, it’s just mandatory. Completely free of charge. And then, they started thinking I was insecure or something so they started complimenting me. Had to explain,” you tap the side of your sunglasses in reference, “and then, finally they let me go. So much fuss for just a photo.”

“They’re really that insistent on it?”

You nod.

“So what brought you out into civilization anyways?”

“Wow, rude.”

Deuce laughs. You smile strained. Every time you speak, it feels wrong. You are being too mean or not engaging enough. God, why can’t you just talk to someone like a normal person and carry a conversation smoothly? There is no desolate reflection for you to spy on the laptop, just an empty space of spotlighted blue.

“Visiting some friends.” is your reply.

The publicity on them is quiet and hush. So much so that you feel the world has already known about them – two merman pulled from the bottom of the deep sea, sea, sea. It is entirely possible. With how disjointed you are compared to 99.9 % of the population, it is not so far-fetched to think that they have been in the public’s eyes for a long time and wonder over them has died down.

However, this exhibit is still listed as the first one. Out of how many? Well, you suppose you will find out later if more are to come, if this is going to be a big success. You only found out from working the night shift, seeing the date on the break-room calendar.

COME SEE, FOR THE FIRST TIME, CREATURES FROM THE BLACK LAGOON! That is the first message you spy on the aquarium walls, following along with the crowd. Must have been put up by the morning crew. In bright letters, strung underneath party streamers, a multitude of phrases bounce and shout. Instead of being in awe over the pictures of them, your mind focuses on each line detailing: unprecedentedly new; for the first time; never seen before!

Yet, no one shrieks in terror at the sight of them in the posters. Even when you and others are filed into the aquarium auditorium, the crowd murmurs to themselves softly instead of shouting. Under the hypnotic spell of voyeurism, everyone seems more anticipatory than agitated.

You fixate your glasses tighter to your face as you scale up metal stairs, looking over your shoulder at the water. This is where they do the sea lion or seals show. You have not seen a single one in an entire decade. Under the shadowed surface, you can spy two serpentine lengths flowing through currents.

“Bet this whole thing is a scam. We should go back to Disney in Florida next year; it’s warmer there. More stuff to do too.” You cast a glance at the daughter in her early twenties sitting next to her mother before moving further up.

You do not pick the top row but you do pick an isolated section. Sandwiching yourself next to a stone pillar, your butt lands on the rickety metal bench. Just as you are about to readjust your glasses, making sure that sides of the lenses are atom to atom on your skin, you are interrupted by a loud, consecutive ‘woah’ that you are not a part of, that swims through the crowd.

But, you manage to see a glimpse of it just in time.

You are not sure which one of the two it is. Yet, all the same, you watch entranced as one of them breaches that ink pool. Bioluminescence tints his body in glittering blue topazes. It is like watching a shooting star suddenly fly across the dark night skies.

The porcupine quills of black that make up his fins bend and the dragon tail of sapphire that makes up his lower body arches. Aerodynamic, he flies through the air and manages just in time to snag the large, squirming spider crab that hangs from a ceiling beam on a metal wire. He disappears with the same speed as his appearance, taking with him into the black hole of water his meal.

Yet, before anyone can close their hanging jaws or the water can stop rippling with the impact of the eel-mer diving back under, music blares from the speakers, moving spotlights suddenly slide over the water and crowd, and a man comes out of the backroom and onto the stage.

You are just done wincing from the bright flash of a spotlight surfing over the bench you sit on when the man suddenly exclaims, “How are we all doing?” You stay tight-lipped as the crowd cheers. “C’mon, you can do better than that! How are y’all doing today?” The crowd cheers, claps, and responds in a long Goooood!

Cringing with shut lips, you suddenly remember why it has been a decade since you watched an aquarium show. The script is always a bit childish.

“We have two very special guests for you today. The strong guy you saw just a few moments ago was Flotsam. His brother, Jetsam, is here too. Jetsam, why don’t you come out and say hi to everyone.”

You lean forward, enraptured with the sight. Serpentine coils cut through the water, water jetting up with the force of how quickly he swims. Onto the wayward platform that bobs in the black hole, Jetsam pushes his body up onto it. Instead of a pair of flippers, he waves his clawed fingers to the awestruck audience.

“Flotsam and Jetsam are both eel-mers. Found and rescued from the northern waters, they are the first of their kind and are very excited to show you all what they can do!” Thus, the spectacle begins.

They go through a variety of tricks. From doing a few figure eights in the water, shooting balls into hoops, and even a freeze dance to the music blaring through the speaker, the mixture of tricks they do feels almost infinite. When the staff member rolls out a clownfish mailbox, announcing the birthdays of a few children in the audience, you wonder how long they must have been training. Days upon days of practice drilled into their memory.

Birthday children come up to the auditorium’s yellow line as the eel-mers hand out little high-fives to them. One child even proclaims, “Ew sticky!” before his dad tickles him under the arms and picks him up, returning to their bench. Even though it is their first show, Flotsam and Jetsam seem so well-versed in social etiquette.

However, you cannot help but find it a little demeaning. It seems so beneath them to have to perform like this to a leering audience. Sure, the rewards for each trick is generous, a stocky Japanese spider crab tossed and crushed in their razor sharp jaws, but it feels so ignominious.

Despite the horrified joy swimming through everyone’s gasps and aws, your heart is so sad.

Another round of tricks starts up. This time it involves a dual pair of bongos. As the staff member picks up a squirting spider crab from the cage onstage, he speaks into his echoing earpiece, “Now, our here, Flotsam is an exceptional drummer. We often find him playing something new every morning, completely of his own free experimentation.” Flotsam swims and props himself on stage as the staff member continues, “Today, we’re going to have him show off a skill to you fine folks!”

Your heart buries itself deeper and deeper into sadness. Perhaps, he never was intelligent. Perhaps, he is just another dumb fish. Canine obedience hammered in through reward and punishment, rhythms only learned because it is trained in him. As you two lock eyes, you cannot find anything that would dispute this theory.

You wait, as does everyone else, for Flotsam to start drumming away as promised. In addition, you wait for his eyes to flicker away from your unrecognizable face hidden by your sunglasses. Neither happens.

“A little indecisive today. I understand, there is just so much good music in the world,” the staff member stalls for time. He rips off a crab leg, holding out the reward by Flotsam’s suddenly demure face. “Why don’t we start off with something easy, buddy. A bit of the musical scale. Do-Re-Mi?”

‘You want to watch out for his teeth,’ you think, rubbing your fingers over the little scars you have from his nibbling. They really are such sharp instruments to break through the shell of a Japanese spider crab.

Thoroughly entrenched, the audience watches the repercussions of a box that was supposed to remain closed being opened.

Disbelief ripples through the crowd like one subtle wave. It is the only sound you participate in. Finally, in sync with the crowd of awake people. Someone to your left moans out of a low groan of phantom pain. The volume of interlocking disbelief grows when the staff member raises his hand up into the light. His trembling red hand hovers in front of his face to verify the view, his ring and pinkie finger bitten clean off.

Poor bastard’s wedding ring is probably sinking down to the bottom of the tank alongside the crab leg that Flotsam spat out.

Volume pitches and rises. A woman screams. Naturally, that rouses up the attendance like puppet strings. The staff member falls on his bottom then crawls backwards. Crawling away from Flotsam like one, big stumbling crab. Since the seatmate to your right is a stone pillar, there is no one to trip over your feet in their rush to leave but you watch hypnotized many individuals shove and trip their way through bodies blocking the stairs leading down to the exits. Then, calmly, you stand on your metal bench to overlook the crowd.

Flotsam’s eyes are wide as he stares at you. Reminds you of two tunnels branched off in a cave’s stomach. His fusiform gyrus lights up like newly plugged in Christmas lights, recognizing you. The little pea that makes up your fusiform face area– that clocks in every night to a job rarely done, cobwebs on the cubicle's laptop and dust as a seat covering – recognizes him too.

It already was recognizing him, seeing him as what he really is. Your lips crack open, “Flo -.” Then, you start barreling down the metal steps.

Weaving in and out of the disjointed crowd, you race down, sometimes landing on the cement floor and sometimes landing on the metal benches in your hopping steps.A shoulder jostles you so harshly that your sunglasses fall off your face. Between rows of benches, they dive to the floor. You trip, trying to make the leap onto a metal bench. The sound you make as you fall onto metal is so tiny in the cacophony.

The world goes white. It is like flash blindness from a nuclear explosion.

Tears pour out your eyes. You clap a hand over them in shame and to hide from the bright … too fucking bright … lights.

When you finally pick up your sunglasses, marks of shoe soles stamped like tattoos on your upper arms and hands, the auditorium is empty of a single soul. Not even they remain swimming in the tank. Someone must have sedated them and dragged them out. You are alone once more.

That night, you dream a dream that is more memory than a mystified fabrication of wonders or terrors.

Tender like a newborn, you lie on a wafer-thin sheet of paper that unrolls itself from a cylinder like one big, white wave. Perhaps an iceberg is more appropriate. Hospitals are as cold as the arctic. On the paper iceberg, on the fence of girlhood and the fated teenage years, on the tongue of a vivisection, you balance with broken ankles. Under your thin gown, flowing air and goosebump-freckled skin collide. Blue tints your bottom lip.

You are laid down, anticipating future pain.

“Lay down and I will be with you two shortly.” He had said this and nothing more.

The scent at the doctor’s office is ozone with a hint of vanilla. Near your toes, the long neck of a giraffe stretches skyward, painted on the bricks. Under bright, too fucking bright, light, metal tools glitter like slick seashells. You can feel the prescribed numbing droplets in your eyeballs slowly seep in.

You pinch your eyes shut, feeling like there is a cement block lodged and scraping between the bones of your temple. Why wouldn’t they give you something for the pain? When you open them, they are held open by a speculum and hooks like you are nothing past being an animal in a zoo doing your daily checkups.

Oh, and you are sitting upright on the paper iceberg now.

Must be the dream’s altercations. Time skipping forward in intervals.

Dreams are always like a pile of bones. The skeleton all jumbled up and disorganized that you move from femur to ulna. You are not graced with a lot of time to think on the analogy as a very big kitchen knife leans towards your pried open eye.

The muscles in your cheek twitch when it cuts. With the skills of a head-chef slicing an egg, your eye is cut perfectly down the imaginary midline. Both sides are even.

He scoops out one side of your eye like a person pulling back from a whole cake with a single slice. It is more inky black and sickly gray. The hues of your eye-cake that is. Far from the bright blue or pink frosting of a cake, it stays saturated in montone hues. You always thought an eye would look like the diagrams in school, colorful with reds and blues, but it is a sickly ebon and ashen gray.

The cornea is hard as a freshly cut nail and the half globe of retina slimes in his gloved hand like glue. Now looking at it, it appears the flesh inside an eye reminds you more of a bruised plum’s insides. A muted hue of purple-black rather than full ebon.

It is the lens of your eyes that really captures the doctor’s attention. He takes the half-cut marble in a pair of tweezers. Between those lobster claws of thin steel, your lens which makes up a pupil is rotated back and forth in observation.

An eye, though entirely soft and vulnerable, has only one hard bit inside like the tough seed of a peach. It can be cut but it will give resistance. With one good eye and half of your other, you watch the hard material between the lobster claws be pinched in and out to test the give and resistance of itself. Steadfast, it does not bend under the squeezes.

That half-cut pearl glitters.

Time skips again, moving bone to bone like switching channels. Instead of smells and sights, sound takes over the scene. The faint buzzing of the air conditioner as it breathes over the giraffe’s neck. Water oscillating back and forth over rubbing soapy hands cries loud in your ears. Though, faintly, you can hear the blood from your eye that slips down your chin hit the pad of the paper iceberg you sit on.

The tissue in your hand crinkles softly in sound as you wipe away blood tears. In a chair that might as well be across the globe of Earth, your guardian sobs in intervals with a trembling chin. “Guuuh … gah … hu-hu-hugaaah.” You keep soaking up blood, dabbing the tissue against your face as it whispers in light friction.

After he finishes washing his hands of your sanguine, the doctor intones two words like a priest giving the final prayer at the start of Armageddon, “cone dystrophy.” That is the last sound your ears can bear to hear before you jolt awake.

Your current doctor has given you exactly twenty-one little sheets. Ishihara tests; multiple circles with a number made of circles in the center. They are tests for color blindness.

That morning, the colors red and orange permanently fuse into one shade.

You took three nights off work. A little mini-vacation. The first was so you could spend the daylight hours watching the show with Flotsam and Jetsam; the second was so you could attend your doctor’s appointment; the third was so you could clean up what has been neglected in your apartment. Vacations are supposed to relieve the average worker of stress. You find yourself an outlier, once again.

“Blind by thirty? Blind by fucking thirty?” You bundle up the graphic shirt you were trying to fold into a circle and punch your mattress. The pile of already folded shirts tilts and falls in an arch to your right. “That fucking asshole,” you sneer.

Unraveling the graphic-tee-ball, you straighten your hunched posture with a deep sigh. No use taking your frustration out on innocent clothes. The wrinkled shirt joins the tower once you rebuild it. You reach out and grab a pair of socks. Foolishly, you thought organizing your apartment up for a very overdue spring cleaning would help to organize the disorder running rampant in your head.

Forlorn and desolate, you look at the laundry mountain. Too bad that is far from happening.

It is just … A person takes a guess at jars full of jelly-beans or what they’re significant other might have made for dinner, those are the true purpose of guessing games. The audacity of a person to guess when someone else is going to blind. You almost tear the sleeve off your cardigan when you pull in from the mountain’s maw. How dare your doctor estimate your finite health with such casualness.

You suppose it makes sense. The Salvador Dali-esque dream you had the night before, coupled with losing the ability to differentiate between red and orange; all of these were just the bad omens setting up the stage for your doctor’s appointment.

Mostly a homebody and not a frequent traveler, there aren’t many sights you are dying to see. However, the idea of losing your sight causes you to grieve it prematurely. Mourning the death of yourself. To just wither up inside this box-shaped apartment as a tomb, the thought of that is odious. You shudder and fold a towel.

Across the mattress, you look at your CRT television cloaked in a thin, see-through blanket to dim the lighting. On the square, a blue pick-up truck punches through metal and wooden gating. Even though the movie wrongly uses the sound effect of glass breaking, it is still impactful as you watch the pick-up truck reverse into an open boating harbor connected to the ocean. The whale and little boy harnessed to the back slowly sink in.

Freeform is playing Free Willy. To be honest, you are just biding time until the Harry Potter marathon starts up. Thank God, this movie is nearing its end because it is putting dangerous thoughts in your head. You just want to see little Daniel Radcliffe under the staircase and be interrupted by commercials every twenty-five minutes.

The orphaned boy pushes the orca whale out to sea. You fold another article of clothing, unsure if it is orange or red. The hope that Pandora kept in her box begs for freedom.

It is an open secret now. That is a little contradictory, if you do say so yourself.

However, it is the truth. The public now knows them without embellishment. With the shining gandour and seductive metaphorical-lingerie, it comes to their attention that predators are still predators. No matter how human they may look.

The thought saddens you. Slowly and unsurely, you have been starting to humanize them in your mind. When you wrestle with the locked doorknob of the oval-shaped room, you grow sadder.

It makes sense though. Flotsam and Jetsam? They should have been kept in the Oval Office or Area 51; instead they were brought to an aquarium in the middle of nowhere, used for publicity. The crux of humanity rears its ugly head. Sharing each fetish and body part to the audience is the sin of being a curious human. Everyone is a voyeur for something. No one can keep their mouth shut nowadays, always needing to post about their lives. So, they brought Flotsam and Jetsam here to do the exact same thing.

To think there was a time when you were disguised by their humanity. And now, it's all you hope to preserve and keep safe. Ascending the stairs to the circular-shaped room, you contemplate if there could ever be an inch of humanity in an animal. As a set of honey eyes peer at you from across the black hole water, you wonder if it is only canine obedience in their faces.

Two against one, you all take a moment accessing each other. There are no plastic bags of yummy treats hanging from your arms. No thumping rhythms of songs echo on the walls. Instead of familiar friendliness and comfortable companionship, you all seem incredibly wary of each other.

“Ya can come closer … We wouldn’t hurt ya, Shrimpy.”

Who the fuck said that?

Frozen in disbelief, you can do little besides watch the black hole ripple in violent sprays. A harsh slap echoes off the wall as a clawed hand breaches water only to grab the face with a right gold eye. Both drop under the water as your mind reels, spinning around options like a broken, juiced-up carnival ride.

You are tired! You are so tired that you must have hallucinated that! Being awake for so long on the night shift … Why, it must be entirely possible to hallucinate every once and a while! An evolved headache of sorts!

Yes. You grab onto that thought. Those words were hallucinations. Too bad your grip on the thought grows flimsy when Flotsam breaches the water, snarling, “I wanna talk to Shrimpy! Jade, lemme go! Get off!” A clawed hand grips the back of his hair and pulls him right back under.

A vivid hallucination you are having. Yes! A paragon of hallucinations and headaches after so many night shifts!

Despite the fear, you stay rooted in your spot. Not close enough to where the spilling water of the tank touches your shoes but close enough where you can watch the water steadily. Every once in a while, the sound of rocketing water echoes in the room. Dragon tails of green-blue fracture the surface. A clawed hand will rise up like a zombie breaking dirt only to disappear in seconds. Water flies in turrets and towers.

Maybe because of the fear, you stay in your exact same spot and watch. Things start to calm down eventually. Bubbles pop on the surface like they are conversing under there. But, that is impossible because fish cannot speak.

‘Don’t backtrack (Name),’ you think to yourself. ‘Their entire existence is impossible. It’s been impossible since the beginning. This is just another step into that twilight zone. Another unorthodox secret brought to the surface.’ The thought makes you feel disjointed like a pile of bones.

It had hurt. The day of the show. You do not why but it had hurt to know they weren’t yours alone. That the secret had been open for some time and it was not just you and them. Thus, you stay and wait for them to breach the surface one more time.

They both do simultaneously. Water cutting the visage of the rest of their body from the shoulders down. Red returns to the scene, staining both Flotsam and Jetsam’s faces in thick scratches. You barely get a second to analyze the wounds before Flotsam shouts, “It was haaard, ‘kay? I wanted to tell them the pretty nickname I made for them! And tell them I liked the new rocks they put in our tank!” He pouts childishly. “It’s so borin’ not being able to talk. I got so bored! You’re boring.”

Even when Flotsam snaps his sharp teeth at Jetsam, he remains unpulsed. “Forgive me for trying to look out for your well-being, but both of us agreed in junction that we would under no circumstances talk to humans.”

“But Shrimpy’s different from the rest!”

“Under no circumstances, Floyd.”

“I knooow,” Flotsam? Floyd? whines. Then, his downwards angled eyes slide over your comatose form. An excited grin comes up to his face. “Doesn’t matter now though. Shrimpy!!”

You are barely given a second to gather your thoughts before Floyd barrels towards you. Spindly arms wrap around your neck and suddenly you are down on your knees in an inch of water. The kiss on your cheek this time feels much less like a dog licking to show affection; it resembles more a human kissing you on the cheek which causes you to fluster.

“Truly, you make things so difficult at times,” Jetsam? Jade? tuts. The sound of him swimming through the water draws closer. His deep timbre sends a cardiogenic shock through your ribcage as he addresses, “I do apologize for my brother. He was a bit desolate without you here the past two nights.”

For some reason, you wonder how Jade felt in your absence too. Hands holding onto Floyd’s upper arms for a semblance of balance, you reply, “Uh, I took — I took a vacation.” The words feel like marshmallows rolling off your tongue. Gluttonous, fluffy, unreal with their texture. This really is happening, and you have to come to terms with it.

“Told ya it wasn’t because they were scared of us.”

“I never made such a connection. Merely hypothesizing.”

“Mmh, hypothesizin’ my ass,” Floyd grins as he turns to … sniff your hair?

Pushing him away to gain a bit of distance, you address the one you find the least distracted of the two. “You — You can talk? Why — Why didn’t you say anything to me before?” The companionship you had? Was it truly so fragile that you two had to keep secrets from one another?

“Well, you see, (Name),” — your name is so tantalizing coming from his voice that you feel like you are being resurrected from a heart-attack, defibrillator pounding away on your chest — “it was a matter of safety for my brother and I. If we were to say anything —.”

Floyd interrupts, “Everyone’s kind of a bigmouth buffalo fishy here so we keep ours shut.”

“The day to day conversations of the staff, the chatter from the people who visited us in the daylight hours, the unending gossip. We figured it was best to keep our lips sealed for the time being. Who knows how they would have reacted.”

“Nothing’s better than having a few tricks up your sleeve, Shrimpy.” Finally, you are done being squeezed as Floyd falls back into his tank. He rests his hands behind his head and floats buoyant.

“It is an epidemic, I fear. Fufu. Secrecy is such a rare trait to find nowadays.” Jade crosses his arms on top of the cement incline that you kneel in, looking at you sweetly. “Almost a lost art of sorts, eroded away after centuries of geological and evolutionary advances.”

Then, ping-ponging back and forth, they start to slip each secret (that others would probably want under lock and key) they’ve heard.

“Your manager’s wife is infertile thus he avoids conversations about children or preschool.”

“Lucas hit a guy with his car two years ago in a hit-and-run. Didn’t kill him but still.”

“Martha’s daughter just had an abortion. She gripes to Tatiana about how to possibly be supportive about this.”

“Ashley doesn’t like her boyfriend and they’re breakin’ up soon.”

“Deuce is going to fail his statistics class if he scores lower than a 95 on his next test.”

“Patrick is proposin’ to his girlfriend on December 1st.”

“We could keep going,” Jade says with a sly grin. “However, I think the point has gotten across.” He trails one fingernail across your thigh and smiles when you do not flinch. “All that useless prattle makes for some divine entertainment. Besides, matching up with more animalistic expectations can mean others are wildly underestimating us. Having the upper hand is better, always.”

Scrutinizing over his wandering fingernail, you ask quietly, “Is that why you attacked that man?” The question is meant for Floyd. Jade pulls his keen nail back all the same.

“Nah,” Floyd does not look at you as he answers, fixated on the ceiling. “It was humiliatin’. Being looked at that way by ya, Shrimpy.”

You blink in surprise. Shame is such a human trait. Born of social circles and social behaviors that are just uniquely tied to the bipedal species you are. The look on Jade’s face seems to agree with the consensus. You watch green-blue muscles glide through the water, simply drifting to a tame current. You watch black fingernails tap on cement in a tiny rhythm.

Floyd continues, noticing your silence, “Shrimpy’s the only one that talks to us like people. Everyone else just treats us like a spectacle.”

The heart in your ribcage knocks. You cannot Free Willy the entire aquarium. But, your Chevrolet Silverado has enough room in the bed for a kiddie pool or two.

Faintly, you recall a distant memory, when you read to Jade so many weeks ago, just as you open the oval-shaped room with the stolen key:

“The creatures stung Pandora over and over again and she slammed the lid shut. Epimetheus ran into the room to see why she was crying in pain. Pandora could still hear a voice calling to her from the box, pleading with her to be let out. Epimetheus agreed that nothing inside the box could be worse than the horrors that had already been released, so they opened the lid once more.

“All that remained in the box was Hope. It fluttered from the box like a beautiful dragonfly, touching the wounds created by the evil creatures, and healing them. Even though Pandora had released pain and suffering upon the world, she had also allowed Hope to follow them.”

For the past decade, photographic evidence of your existence has been nonexistent. You have found yourself to be an outlier; the world operates to a different rhythm that you have not been able to copy, relicate, or even play along to. Living in perpetual sleep apnea of the soul, you have only found true connection with two other people.

The blue ceiling lights are off as is now the new normal. Without the aid of your penlight, you make your way into the space with confident steps. Sunglasses perched on your head, you find that what has been slowly developing has reached the summit of itself. An impromptu, unorthodox Free Willy plagiarism.

The dark is easier than ever to see through tonight. You smile back when they smile at you.

Floyd is curled up close to the glass, calling for your undivided attention with his placement. Subdued yet stealthy as ever, Jade lingers behind yet close enough to be seen. Floyd crosses his body across the glass-canvas up and to your right. Jade crosses his body to your left, floating demurely lower.

The glass-canvas is painted with a few smudges of handprints. Some are from yourself and others from the only and only drummer. He depresses his dominant hand on the glass, leaning in close. His right hand waves up in dark waters in a fervent, warm greeting. His excitement to see you is palpable. You raise your own.

Both of their eyes shine like spotlights. The only light that you have looked into and found it does not hurt. Jade’s anticipatory smile slithers onto your face in a perfect mimic. You are going to rob the aquarium of those glittering gold dragonfly eyes. Tomorrow, there will be nothing for the staff or customers to find in nebulous darkness.

Nothing. Nothing but their desolate reflection.

#twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #twisted wonderland #jade leech x reader #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #twst floyd #twst jade #more floyd centric than jade centric

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grimmtells · 1 month

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✦ Son of Magus Merline, the galaxy's most renowned mage, Ozwald serves wizardkind as their current archmage ever since the passing of his mother. Weilding her staff to carry on her legacy, it is his duty to preserve the Mastery of Magic and Alchemy.

When the terrible Nightmare threatened the peace of the galaxy, the wizards joined the GSA alongside the ninjas in their quest to stop this great crisis. They fought together for years, but that was until the sudden treachery of the ninjas. The warriors of the shadows defected to the side of Nightmare, which dwindled the GSA's numbers considerably. Still, as low as morale was, they carried on.

However, the war took a definitive turning point when Yamikage, the one responsible for the treason of the ninjas, snatched Ozwald away from the battlefield on the back of a fearsome dragon demon beast. Before the archmage disappeared, he called out to his kin and ordered them all to flee and never return. At this moment, none of them looked back, they listened to the orders of their archmage and deserted the battlefield, leaving the GSA behind. It was weeks later when Ozwald was seen again, but it was too late then ; he had fallen victim to Nightmare's influence.

Many years after the Great War, on a faraway planet called Popstar, King Dedede noticed that Kirby seemed very confused about the magic tricks Tuff was performing. Without skipping a beat, he used his downloading system bought from Holy Nightmare Enterprise and demanded their best magic user. Ozwald was sent through, and gave chase to Kirby. After a tough fight, the young Star Warrior managed to break Ozwald's trance, letting him finally return to his senses.

Ever since, the archmage has been residing in Castle Dedede, occupying the vacant top of a tower.

✦ Voice Claim | Regular Voice / Spellcasting voice

✦ Likes | Reading, Cooking & Baking, Moonlit strolls, Stargazing

✦ Dislikes | Hypocrisy, Disrespect/ Disdain against magic, Egotism

✦ Facts |

Ozwald is very adept at Offensive magic and Defensive magic, but also Supportive magic. During the Great War against Nightmare, him and most wizards were back-line fighters using their gift to protect and enhance the other warriors.

Ozwald and wizards as a whole do not really have mana, but using magic, especially strong spells, for long periods of time can tire and wear them out.

Ozwald can perform non-verbal and staffless magic.

He only has one eye ; he lost his other eye during the war after a certain treacherous ninja threw a kunai at him. He tends to hide it from people who aren't used to "gore", not to mention that he feels it to be a tad unsightly. He generally doesn't care to hide it in front of people like Meta Knight, Sword Knight or Blade Knight. if he feels comfortable enough with someone though, he will simply take his hat off.

Ozwald has a younger sister, her name is Winnie. She serves as the Acting Great Archmage in his absence. He hasn't contacted his kin as of yet...

✦ The Wizarding Society |

Although some wizards make an exception of this, they typically live on the "Observatory", which is a huge academy/library-like structure that floats throughout space. Wizards as a society and not simply magic-using peoples are pretty private and keep to themselves.

Whilst a staff or wand are important to channel their magic, wizards that are comfortable and skilled enough with it can perform spells without a vessel, simply using their hands. Enunciating spells is, in most cases, mandatory, but simpler spells like practical ones to make things float can be performed non-verbally.

Most wands and staves are made of metals like gold, silver, bronze and the like. Only very old wizards continue to use wooden staves. Ozwald, despite being more in touch with the newer generations of wizards, keeps his wooden staff because it was his mother's, and it will not break as easily as wood, because of the enchantments she had imbued into it.

As was the duty of the late Merline, wizards continue to observe the cosmos and planets to make sure everything is in order. While they don't tend to intervene ever since the Great War, wizards will warn planets if danger is upon them.

Wizards come in all races, shapes and sizes, but the most common ones are simirrors and waddle doos. Ozwald himself is a simirror.

The Observatory has many protection wards around it, along with the ability to become completely transparent, hiding itself and the wizards inside it.

The Observatory is capable of creating dimentional rifts to fast-travel around the galaxy. Ever since the Great War, wizards have been very careful about using this travel method, as dimentional rifts cause a very high, dense residual activity around the targeted areas, which can easily alert Nightmare of their location since he currently has dominion over most of the galaxy.

Merline is the original architect and creator of the Observatory. It was created as both a safe haven for wizards, but a place to protect the Knowledge and Mastery of Magic from falling into the wrong hands. It was her domain of planetary surveillance as well, when she used to watch over the cosmos on her own.

✦ Height Chart |

✦ Personality |

As unapproachable as he looks upfront, there is hardly sweeter than him. Ozwald is kind and patient, he will engage in conversation with pretty much anyone, even Dedede.

While Ozwald believes that a certain degree of sterness is required to properly teach the youth, he also believes that being too harsh and demanding will not serve any purpose. He prefers to teach with rewards, and attempts to make any topic interesting to get the attention of easily distracted children like Tuff, who usually dislike learning "boring stuff".

Ozwald is extremely forgiving, perhaps to a fault, some might think. But he says himself that as a man who has committed one of the greatest sins against his comrades (abandoning them), he does not get the luxury to be critical of what is done to him.

Ozwald is very doting with children. He does not necessarily want a family of his own, but he does have a strong sense of paternality in him.

Ozwald has an easygoing sense of humour, while he does not hold grudges, he is not above using previous events as ammo to tease someone.

Ozwald gets quite competitive with games of any kind and events putting him against other people/teams.

(Sidenote : i'd like to add things like the observatory and Winnie to his info sheet, but it's already me taken me long enough to get this done so i'll add those later !)

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afewfantasies · 5 months

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🗡️ꜰᴇʏᴅ'ꜱ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ 🗡️ - VIII - MONSTERS & MUSES

MASTERLIST

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 5.6K

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

ᴘʟᴏᴛ: Separated by a twist of fate, Feyd-Rautha searches for his betrothed across the wide expanses of Arrakis. He uses his cunning and brutality to inspire cooperation and to track his lady. While in the desert familiar characters Paul Atreides and Chani make an appearance.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: NSFW, minors do not engage, sexually explicit content and violence.

______

VIII - Monsters & Muses

Grinning Feyd tilts his head looking at the man before him.

It's no laughing matter.

His smile is deceptive in nature

Like any predator, a visible smirk

The showing of teeth means danger.

Rotating his wrists Feyd feels the weight of his blades as blood drips around him. Most high lords had people for torture or executions but Feyd-Rautha never strayed from seeing what the men who tried him were made of. Down to the sinew. There was an intimacy to using his blades and a ferocity that couldn’t be undermined by his slightly amused persona. Feyd’s viciousness and vitriol lies in his relentlessness, his patience, his commitment to seeing everything through. There was nothing he wouldn't do for you, no stone he wouldn't turn in the pursuit of your retrieval.

Feyd enjoyed an audience. He hadn't built his reputation on kindness. He needed people to tell of what they'd witnessed. He hoped word would travel fast that the Harkonnen heir flayed two men for their participation in your abduction. Word would travel that he had done it with a smile, without mercy, or hesitation. They would tell tales about his unsightly appearance. Crimson blood against his alabaster complexion, guts all over his clothes. About the other men he’d killed violently before freeing these two of their skin. People would recall how he’d stood up for hours, how he hadn't stopped looking for you, how he hadn't tired of doling out grave punishments. There would be no quick deaths, only long drawn out painful ones. He could hear the whispers declaring him to be someone monstrous. He could see his staff trembling as they brought his refreshments. He could feel the fear dripping from every person around him. He didn't want to feel any kindness if it wasn't from you, there was no warmth or light in his world in your absence and everyone would feel the darkness your absence brings.

Fear went a far way further than respect, so Feyd used that to his advantage. It’s a vulnerability to be exploited. He has taken note of everything, tracking the men who scurried off like rats. They would fall into his traps or lead him right to you. He noted that the Fremen were more angry than anything else about his decrees but so long as you were gone every man within his control would suffer his same fate. He’d cleared the city of Arrakeen of the women and children, he’d even managed ambushes in several neighbouring cities in the hope of your retrieval but it had been unsuccessful thus far. Instead of executing the most vulnerable, he did far worse by placing them in a harem to give their men hope of getting them back. Then Feyd pointed missiles at the structures filled with the vulnerable. His methods were malevolent but so was your abduction.

His woman and unborn child taken right under his nose. Just several feet away within his palace without commotion or any major resistance. Your abduction has the Baron’s stench all over it. Feyd makes a promise to himself that the Baron’s punishment will be the worst of them all. Leaving the torture chambers he heads to rid himself of the matter and blood. Feyd’s thoughts are on you as he tries to tune into the connection he’d felt that led him to you. He tries to focus on that connection hoping for a miracle. He wants you to be alright, he wants you to feel safe, to know he’s coming, that no further harm will come to you. There was nothing Feyd-Rautha wouldn’t do for you, he needed you to know that, needs you to know how hard he’s trying, he feels so close and yet so powerless. Looking up at the mirror in front of him Feyd slams a fist breaking the glass out of anger, shattering his reflection. He didn’t want to see himself without seeing you. Blood drips from his knuckles into the sink and Feyd turns on the water to wash it down with him. Staring into the drain he watches the water flow into an abyss, unseen and unheard of again. Shutting the water off he looks at his hands. He’d spent far too much time training to be a killer and far too little being a protector. His exhaustion has been stretched far beyond what is capable for the average man but there had never been anything average about Feyd. Looking at the blood pooling on his knuckles he turns on the water again watching it wash away the blood. Unclenching his fists he wraps a bandage on his hand to stop the bleeding and swelling. He looks at himself in a shard of glass when an idea settles his nerves. In his torture of a holy man he found out the secret to killing sadworms. As sacred fixtures of Fremen culture it would be an ace in his pocket. Without the fear of sandworms the Fremen’s remote hideaways could be easily accessed.

Swallowing hard Feyd nods to himself as the plan's conception grows. A slow smile creeps onto his face, he now had his terms and they would be met. Rushing to his war council Feyd looks at the live maps of the planet settling on the view of the most fortified Fremen city. The stronghold was undoubtedly where you would be held. Grabbing a pen and parchment he prepares a scroll and then has a Mentat prepare a translation with his terms to be dropped. He would not go begging. He would not jeopardise your safety with perceived weakness but what he will do is exploit the people who would keep you from him by all means.

——

You squirm trying to worm yourself free of the through restraints binding you to a stone pillar, the heat is relentless and your still suit can’t seem to produce enough water. You’re alone, echoes and the odd person coming to check on you are the only signs of life in your vicinity. It had been a gruelling trek, then you were sitting in a cool room when a battle ensued. Then after it was all said and done you were being passed off from Harkonnen traitors to Fremen soldiers. The Fremen soldiers had done the right thing with their murder of the Harkonnen. Kill or be killed. Instead of killing you the Fremen were gentle, allowing you time to maintain a slower pace and even going underground when the sun peaked, stifling you. Your concept of time is blurred as you sit in this subterranean cavern. The heavy concentration of Spice has your abilities and senses out of whack disabling your abilities' potency around Fremen. The whispers tell you that Feyd is wreaking havoc but you don’t fully understand the thick accents and complicated dialects being used.

“Let me go” you demand and a tall man that seems to be in charge turns to face you.

“Not until Usul arrives” he responds.

“You don’t look like a Harkonnen concubine” he muses. “You’re not ugly enough or bald” he mocks. Your abduction had been a coup. Harkonnen men disguised as Fremen. There was only one culprit, the baron who wanted you disposed of along with the Fremen people, what better way to get it done then to have you killed by the Fremen and Feyd end their race in one fell swoop. Then the spice would flow with such abundance House Harkonnen would be uncontested leaders within the imperium and favourites of the emperor.

“We’re being played I want to speak to your leader” you snap squiring more.

“Harkonnen whores are highly trained in seduction, black eyes steal the souls of men. You will make no demands until you see Usul” he says, reciting folklore that couldn't be further than the truth.

“Feyd-Rautha will cause more destruction the longer I’m gone” you warn and his eyes show emotion. His reaction tells you Feyd has already caused considerable damage. You watch as he makes calculations weighing his options.

“We wait for Usul” he concludes.

“Usul had better hurry” you comment and the man pauses looking at you over.

“You’re unarmed, bound and captured but you have no fear - you must be Fremen'' he scoffs. But it’s not the case, you just don't fear them for fear's sake. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant their vengeance aside from your allegiance to Feyd-Rautha. Feyd who makes all of their darkness look light. You hold his blue eyes and before you can conjure the voice the mans smile blurs your vision again causing a sting. “Perhaps not” he mocks, taking off one of his scarves and putting it around your mouth. The gesture is a charity and not an attempt to gag you. Here in the desert, strength honours strength. Swallowing you feel sympathy for what must be done.

“Have you ever known peace? Freedom?” You ask.

“No” he says regretfully.

“If Arrakis were no longer at war what would you be other than a soldier?” You ask and he pauses, unable to conceive that reality. It’s an awful truth and reflection of the horrors of house Harkonnen and the Emperor have caused the people of this planet. How could they subject people to this for generations? How could you be surprised by how the Baron treats his own citizens subjecting many of them to slave like conditions. When you look back to the man his eyes seem different, the effects of the spice take root causing you confusion.

“Your eyes understand hardship” he comments with wisdom despite his youth. “There are whispers that you are kind, generous and gave people water and aid to a mother with her sick child. Why would you be with a Harkonnen?” the man asks. There’s no honest answer, there’s no logical reason for why. Why had your father had chosen Feyd-Rautha above all other eligible sons with status? Why had your mother agreed and encouraged it the union? There was nothing to explain the magnetism and attraction you felt to him. The quiet reassurance that he was yours, the electricity, the child gestating in your womb.

“Reasons beyond reason or logic, matters of the heart and destiny are not easily understood” you admit unable to deny him even in the face of his enemies.

“Then why would his people give you up?” the man asks.

“To be a detriment to yours” you explain and the man sits. You see understanding before you see recognition.

“I know your face” he says looking at you and it echoes into your subconscious. Your vision blurs again and it takes work to focus on the man in front of you. He closes the space between you and cuts your bonds before stepping back. You hear gasps and realize for the first time you're not alone as angry blue eyes emerge from the shadows. You feel unnerved until the man removes his face coverings. The picture of him comes together as a puzzle. A familiar one. Your jaw drops as you make out a ghost from a past life. Overcome with emotion you hug him grateful for the twist of fate.

“You’re alive” you smile standing face to face with Paul Atreides.

“You’re alive” he repeats, hugging you tight. Angry Fremen comments erupt in a flurry as you take in his face, his new height, his eyes, his hair.

“You survived” you smile.

“And you did too. My father looked for you until he was killed. There were rumours but …” Paul says and you swallow hard realizing how deep the conspiracy flows.

“What?” Paul asks and your heart races, you go to walk out but bump into a soldier, the spice is affecting you tremendously. You look up and see the man who’d been caring for you. Paul emerges with a syringe. “It’s an antidote” he says and you withdraw.

“I can’t” you tell him to be cautious of your child. It’s as though Paul senses it as another soldier runs in.

“Chani, take her to guest chambers,” Paul says, receiving scrolls. Looking up at the woman from your visions emerges. She’s tall, striking and angry. Her strides are powerful, she gets bows of respect from everyone you pass. When you arrive in a room she scowls as you sit. She’s skeptical.

“How do you know Usul?” She asks. Her tone speaks volumes to who she is to Paul.

“Paul Atreides?” You ask.

“Usul” she corrects and you swallow because names don’t matter.

“His father the Duke and my mother were childhood friends. I spent countless holidays on Caladan. Paul and I were friends” you explain.

“Now you’re carrying a Harkonnen” she says with a tone laced in judgement. “Your suits reservoirs are low for an outsider the Harkonnen way is excess so there’s no wonder there isn’t much water left. It’s why you’re so susceptible to the spice. Slight dehydration” she explains without kindness, warmth or affinity. “He’s a monster, Feyd-Rautha” she says.

“He is” you acknowledge. “But he’s not your enemy” you speak truthfully. You know better than most that you’re all victims of the machinations of men blinded by their pursuits.

“The things he’s done …” she trails, shaking her head. She’s so angry her body trembles.

“There’s far more at play then we know, isolation will only further the objective of our enemies. I was taken by Harkonnen and it was made to look like I was taken by the Fremen. Feyd will listen to me, he will not do as I say but returning me will put an end to whatever madness he’s conceived as punishment for my abduction.” You explain.

It had been death by a thousand cuts for your assault.

An inconceivable amount of violence that didn’t seem to shock or surprise anyone. The cruelty of Giedi Prime was unmatched. On Arrakis the climate was brutal as is the subjugation of the people by their reigning overlords. However, life among the people is easy and loving. In stark contrast to the Harkonnen planet. While the Rabban had excelled in cruelty, Feyd-Rautha enjoyed breaking down the minds of men, toying with them, bringing them to the brink and then unrelenting slowly making them lose their minds. He had patience he would start slow, he was methodical, precise and deliberate in each act. He was the ideal weapon of choice, and now all his efforts were concentrated on the wrong place.

Looking up you swallow at Chani who turns her back to you in the thick silence. Her hand slowly palms her own stomach. It’s an unconscious gesture in a moment of deep thought. It lasts only a second before she turns back to face you. You recognize the concern in her eyes. The wavering commitment to her cause.

“He has villages worth of women and children in one of the forgotten palaces. Explosives are pointed at them” she snaps. “He’s desecrated our temples and two cities and now he threatens to tell the guild how to kill the sandworms” Chani says. You swallow hard knowing it isn’t the half of what he’s done. You know the sandworts are consecrated entities to the Fremen and close your eyes as you imagine what Feyd had to do to get that information - likely from a priest.

“Have him clear out the women and children from the palace. Paul won’t let you go back to him. The war will rage on and too many innocents will lose.” She says adjusting the still suit. She begins listing off exit instructions and although you're skeptical you feel drawn to her. It’s not until your final goodbyes that you realize what’s happened. You feel it but it’s not quite you. The alarm in her eyes says she feels it too. The feeling is a kin tothe magnetism between you and Feyd. There’s a fierce level of protection you feel for the woman and you see its mutual. Her hand rests over her stomach as she tries to make sense of it.

Destiny.

You smile at the thought of your child and Pauls finding each other one day. Nodding in her direction the future is promise enough to keep you moving, you follow Chani’s direction hoping against all hope you make it to Feyd.

——

Feyd looks around your room, in your absence and in his rage he had found a way to occupy Leia and his staff. He would not release you, he would not yield to his enemies or the desert. You would return to him. He believed it the same way he had when he searched for you relentlessly. Feys stands looking out into the expanse, the extent of his commitment to your return is all around him. Traitors hang off the city wall and heads line it’s base. It’s unsightly and grotesque and an example of how all life will be until for everyone so long as you are kept from Feyd. Looking at the sun he sighs having waited long enough for word. Every person on Arrakis should be looking for you, the search party should be infinite, you should be in his care. He should be apologizing on his knees. He should be making up for all the love lost. Atoning for his actions, for his shunning, his reaction to your devotion and inability to keep him safe. He needed to feel you in his arms, against his skin, he needed to lay his hand over your stomach. He needed to see your smile, the swell of your breasts, your scent, your touch, the satisfied moans that come from your deep pleasure.

He loves you so much it’s taking everything in him not to crack under the weight of your absence. The humiliation of his failure, his inability to enact your return. It was like Feyd had been castrated and cuckold. No amount of violence could erase that simple fact, no amount of fear he placed in others could remedy what he feels inside. A piece of his heart was alone in the vast desert of Arrakis. In his heart he senses you. Deep down Feyd knows you’re alive but every time he goes to follow the sensations its scrambles ad leaves him disoriented and spinning. He hoped that knowing he was fighting was enough to get you to do the same. To fight for him and your child. Marriage would be his first order of business and then he would not let you out of his sights. People would believe there was an invisible tether keeping the two of you connected. There would be whispers of your witchcraft and strong effects on him.

Heading to his council room he looks at the live map of Arrakis again, there was a line outside the palace with people coming to confess information on your abduction. Feyd’s hand hovers over the missile detonator, the weight of not having you with him mounting. Horrible intrusive thoughts come to him, tempting him to act out of rage prematurely.. Static begins on the iradio, Feyd rotates the dial to tune it. The static continues until Feyd is able to pick up Fremen. Focusing on clarity Feyd tunes it to the very moment he makes out two words in the foreign dialect.

Harkonnen escaped.

It’s all Feyd needs.

Standing he leaves suiting up. He’d always been a renegade soldier and now would be no different. Soldiers straighten as he enters the room storming through the halls with purpose. Feyd cannot jeopardize your well being when he knows there’s a possibility he hadn’t rooted out all treachery. In the event that his uncle had found a motivator more powerful than fear, he had to be decisive and quick. Feyd-Rautha knows it’s a game of chance, that the stakes are stacked against him. Should you end up in the hands of the Baron, Feyd would become no better than the other slaves on Geidi Prime. It would be the final straw. That could not be his fate or yours. Rabban, the Baron and anyone else who dreamed of separating you from Feyd would die. He would create his own family with you. Putting on his helmet as he the aircraft, Feyd allows his senses to set the coordinates. Arrakis seldom reveals its secrets; there were countless settlements, tunnels and forts that only the Fremen could locate. To foreigners all there is, is sand as far as the eye can see with the dunes shifting hour by hour, day by day. He could not depend on anything external any longer, he would follow the pull in his chest. Quieting his mind Feyd-Rautha feels the magnetism in his chest grow as he charts a course in accordance with it.

“Where is the nearest building?” He asks and a few soldiers pull up a map passing over ruins. Feyd stops at the ruins zooming in. He sees heat signals outlining men. Technology had been outlawed by the imperium, especially certain weaponry but the Harkonnen seldom followed the rules. Programming his pets he tosses redesigned hunter seekers from a hatch. The poison will disable a person in seconds and the weapon is undetectable, no more different in size and appearance than a large beetle. “Drop me here” Feyd says adjusting his gun, he preferred knives but getting close enough for combat with Fremen was unwise. “No one shoots” he warns as his boots hit the ground. Feyd feels you close and doesn't want a shootout to scare you into hiding.

“Yes my lord” his men repeat as he drops. The rubble of the building ruins is littered with disabled Fremen.

“Bring them back to the ship for questioning” he commands storming into the caverns alone. There’s an odd sense of deja-vu and symmetry to it. Feyd-Rautha alone searching through caverns and rooms looking for you, while you are acutely aware of how close he is but unsure of how or where he will finally appear. The heat is stifling and as much as you want to remove your still suit you know it's keeping you alive, keeping your child hydrated. Pausing, you hear footsteps and move quietly. The footsteps slow as well. You make sure your face is wrapped hoping the dim lighting won’t highlight the absence of Fremen eyes.

Backing off the path you deviate to hide your heart racing so fast you try to find a weapon in the absence of your own abilities. You try to move quietly but seize when your back hits into a person. Alarms go off in your head as you tense out of fear and regret. Your ears ring, you feel tension in your heart and throat. Behind you Feyd-Rautha smiles as you walk back into him, your body fitting perfectly against his. Even dressed as a Fremen with no skin showing he knows it’s you and places one arm across you pulling you into him. Your iciness thaws in moments. Turning to face him he rests his head against your forehead in relief. There are no words exchanged as he pulls down the scarves covering your mouth. His lips find yours and you kiss him showing him all the love you can muster. Your regret for rejecting him is deep seeded. You pull him close as he stands there reveling in the relief of your return. He could feel the fight in you, feel how much you wanted him back. Feel your need for him. He’d almost lost you.

“Come, let’s go home” Feyd says, picking you up bridal style. He knows you’re weary, he doesn’t need to ask, he takes the lead relieving you. As he emerges from the caves his men watch in shock.

“Kill” he says into his watch and the insect assassins do just that to everyone but either of you. He needed you, he needed silence, to let his guard down for there to be no interruptions. No recounts or recollections of the moment. He didn’t need it getting back to the Baron or the Fremen he just needed you. Walking up the plank Feyd sets you down lifting the hatch and going into orbit while shielded. The absence of life on board is eerie, so is the overwhelming feeling of hope you feel now that you’re with Feyd. The relief is overwhelming, if you had tears to spear they would fall but no water spills from your eyes as Feyd cups your face.

“Are you okay, are you hurt?” He asks.

“No” you respond and he takes your hand sitting you down as he pours you a glass of water. You drink it greedily and his eyes are all over you. After days in the desert you grow self conscious.

“Don’t do that” he warns with his soft lips against yours. “You're beautiful, always,” he says gently. His hand covers your stomach and he stands behind you removing the still suit. He bends helping you step out of it and kisses your stomach, you hold him there against you. The feeling is incomparable. The three of you are safe together and at ease.

“Free the Fremen women and children Feyd. Give this moment to them. They did not abduct me” you confess. Feyd looks at you, his eyes brimming with anger now.

“Who was it?” He asks only to have his suspicions confirmed.

“The Baron” you respond.

With that Feyd walks over to the table disengaging all security measures, letting the vulnerable go. Watching him you feel seized by surprise at his compliance. Unphased by his mercy he hands you another glass of water. You put it to your lips surprised by his lack of resistance. He tips the glass making sure you hydrate. The feelings you have for him are so strong they overwhelm you.

“Feyd, I love you” you whisper, finishing the water and setting the glass aside. He looks you over feeling the very same way. The shock of the past few days hit him hard and all at once.

“I love you … I” he stops turning to back you and you place a hand on his back. You rub circles as he takes his time.

“Show me” you whisper, needing him but he shakes his head in refusal. It stings and you withdraw only for Feyd to watch your wrists.

“Not until the spice is out of your system or it could hurt you and our child. I’ve put you at risk enough” he says choosing your well being over an overdue sexual reunion. The silence is thick and you decide to give him a moment changing the subject to other pressing matters.

“Paul Atriedes is alive, he’s the Fremen prophet you’re at war with” you inform but there is no smirk. No delight in a potential cat and mouse game, nothing behind his eyes aside from a quiet relief for you.

“I don’t care.” he swallows, clicking his jaw. You watch as Feyd fights against his inner animal. “I don’t care about any of it” he snaps with a thumb under your chin. His eyes narrow in on your lips as he sits bringing you closer. “I almost lost you, again” he snaps. His reaction is delayed but the clouds roll in all the same. He cared for the things that belonged to him, he was a protector and you’d been out in the desert because of his uncle's jealousy and pathetic pursuit of power. Sitting across his lap you wrap your arms around him relaxing your aching limbs in their safe place. Feyd watches you intently thanking all forces that you were back to him. He wouldn’t know how to control himself. He slides his hand under the hem of your top placing it on your stomach. One fell swoop and mother and child could’ve been gone.

“I’m here” you say, drawing his eyes. “We’re okay” you add and he kisses your forehead again as the depths of his uncle's treason reveals itself to him.

“I'm sorry for everything I haven’t been able to protect you from” Feyd says out of frustration. Machinations of a mad man swimming around his mind. He’s ready to end it all, if he could the entire planet would be nothing but a memory, everything the Baron worked for. Reaching for the pitcher he pours you another glass watching you drink the water. Smiling, you rest your head in his chest.

“What?” He asks, raising his brow bone.

“I can almost hear the screams your thoughts are going to capture. I can feel the fear from your retribution” you comment honestly. Feyd turns his head to you, he’d been a witness to you being good, merciful and tolerant too many times for it not to be in your nature.

“That makes you smile?” He asks

“Anything that makes our lives together easier makes me smile,” you confess. “I’m with you, always” you promise. Feyd stands heading into living chambers, his hand guides you along with him. You realize he handles stress with silence, and kiss his hand. It’s an improvement from him requiring distance in his anger. He sets a bath filling the black tub with water, salts and oils. He undresses you slowly helping you in. He sits at the edge admiring you like a doll in his state of quiet anger. Dissociating his reflections run rampant. He’d lost and found you before. Only then as far as he knew you were safe in the care of the Bene Gesserit and not in the great expanse of Arrakis. Only then, you hadn’t yet been his. He’d never seen the beauty in your adult eyes. He’d never seen them smile. Never seen the fullness of your lips, or how they thin out when you smile. He didn’t yet know what it was like to crave you. Your presence, your body, your touch, your scent, your taste, your love. He’d never craved love before. You are and will always be the very best of him, his heart in human form and no one would ever take that from him and live to breathe or laugh about it. Looking at you in the tub is a physical reminder of the anguish the possibilities of a life without you would bring.

Looking into your eyes he stands opting to cherish every moment. Unfastening his gear he removes his combat suit making sure his blades are tucked in the right compartments. You watch intently for the first time as Feyd-Rautha disrobes before you. Usually he removed your clothes during frenzied kissing and strong lust. Sitting back you admire his full physicality from his broad shoulders to his well endowed manhood. A lifetime isn’t long enough to appreciate him. Stepping into the tub Feyd takes his time getting in your gaze filling him with pride and confidence.

Spice vulnerability or not you need him.

“Don’t look at me like that” Feyd warns.

“Why not?” you ask.

“Makes me want to fuck you hard” Feyd confesses sitting opposite you. He takes your foot massaging it for you.

“I'd probably like that” you confess embracing the here and now. You’d nearly lost him.

“Every inch of me is yours” Feyd says and you wade through the water to him. “Feel this? It’s just for you” he whispers in your ear as you sit beside him he takes your hand placing over his dick. Leaning in for a kiss Feyd comes alive in your hand when he breaks the kiss, you steady your stroke taking care of the man who would do anything for you.

“Only me?” You ask, watching him and he nods

“Only you” he affirms, closing his eyes as you tighten your hand around his manhood stroking more deliberately. Instinct kicks in and his groans are an indicator of his arousal. You share a kiss speeding up just as he’s close and he grabs your hand standing up abruptly. It’s startling until you realize what he wants. Looking up you smile at the weight of him in your hands, his pretty cherry shaped head. Never breaking eye contact you kiss his tip, a naughty streak coursing through you.

“You’re perfect” he says through rugged breaths. You take him in your mouth sucking hard. Feyd’s eyes close as you handle him with care knowing instinctively exactly what he likes. The intimate kiss gives him a head rush, he steadies himself by placing a hand on your shoulders as you suck harder, bobbing your head faster. You revel in his body reaction, to feel the power you get from Feyd’s pleasure. In making him feel close to how good he makes you feel. He guided your head to his desired depth and pace singing you the filthiest praises as he teaches you how he likes to be pleased. You pool at his words of affirmation, his attentiveness and his size. He makes an impressive mess leaving remnants of his orgasm all over you and in the tub.

Standing slowly you watch his signature smirk emerge onto his lips. Slowly but surely Feyd returns from his despondence fully. Smiling, you file his reaction away in your memory. Breathing life into his cock could bring him back to himself, to the present, to loving you. “Good girl,” he whispers, helping you out of the tub. “My na-baroness” he says, pushing you into the shower. “When it’s safe, I’m gonna give it to you rough, make it fun for you” he whispers.

“Hope that’s a promise” you remind and he nods, smirking in agreement.

“I can promise you that” Feyd smiles. “I can also promise you that this is the last time anyone separates us without our consent. I can promise it’ll all be over swiftly. I can promise after this I’m done with war because I’m just getting started with you” Feyd says, giving you the perfect bedroom eyes.

“I’ll be right at your side” you promise and the look in his eyes says he needs you right now. The air between you is electric and so is everything that is to come.

_______

As always thanks for reading & your support 🩶🩶🩶🩶 comment, like & reblog if you enjoyed!

_______

Taglist:

@elf-punk @dvmb4ssbiatch @thegabbyh @fanfiction-addict22 @meetmeatyourworst @jojoclown69 @lillypink @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @avidreader73 @emeraldsgirl33 @strawberryfieldsforevermore @rose-are-royal @delusionsofnostalgia @szapizzapanda @palomavz @mcswan02 @slutforsmut4ever @emeraldsgirl @jackiekae @sarahhelpimsinking @maat-the-prescriptive @moonsoulk @katherineswiftie2017-blog @melancholicmelanin @littlebugs @alexa4040 @unicoreads @mimsie95 @mamawiggers1980 @miaraised @7-reblogs @snwells @wo-ming-bai @wo-ming-bai

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growingstories · 4 days

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The will

Andreas Müller was a handsome, fat, 43-year-old chef who helmed a prestigious Michelin star restaurant nestled in the mountains near Zurich. The restaurant was a family legacy; his grandfather had founded it, and though his father had shown little interest, he still owned it. Andreas, however, had turned the establishment into a roaring success, earning it two coveted Michelin stars through sheer passion and culinary brilliance.

Every month, Andreas' father would visit the restaurant with a new girlfriend, collect an envelope of cash, and leave. Despite this strained relationship, Andreas cherished his own family—his loving wife and two beautiful children. They would eat together every evening in the restaurant before service, reinforcing their tight-knit bond.

His culinary team admired him, ensuring he tasted each dish, brewed him the finest coffees, and ate leftover meals with him after shifts. Over the years, this routine, coupled with his sedentary lifestyle, had led to significant weight gain. His favorite sport, skiing, was now a distant memory as his size made it impractical. Andreas often felt like a father figure to his leaner, more energetic team. The warmth of summer was suffocating for him, making him keenly aware of his desire to lose weight, but the cycle of indulgence persisted, and he gained a few more kilos each year.

Life took an unexpected turn when Andreas' father died suddenly. Out of respect and to arrange the funeral, Andreas closed the restaurant for a few weeks. The resulting stress and absence of excessive food intake led to a surprising few kilos lost, giving him a sense of relief. The departure of his father, while sad, brought a strange sense of freedom.

Two weeks later, just as Andreas planned to reopen the restaurant, he received an urgent call from his father's lawyer, inviting him to the will reading. The lawyer's insistence on keeping the restaurant closed until then sparked curiosity. Andreas mused about the odd request but complied. During the interim, he whisked his wife away to a luxurious spa for five rejuvenating days. They reignited their connection through healthy eating, mountain walks, and even some fitness workouts. Refreshed and lighter, Andreas beamed with newfound vigor as he walked into the lawyer's office.

At the office, Andreas was introduced to Julian, a handsome, muscular 28-year-old. The reading revealed a startling secret: Julian was his half-brother. Their father had accumulated considerable wealth through successful real estate ventures, amassing €50,000,000. The will stipulated that Andreas and Julian would each receive half the inheritance, but only after five years. Moreover, Julian would assume the role of general manager at the restaurant for that period.

Panic set in, and Andreas stormed out of the office. Yet the next morning brought a surprising turn. Julian reached out for a coffee meet-up, and Andreas, intrigued, invited him to the restaurant. They bonded over their shared experiences of an absent father and agreed to the arrangement. The future looked manageable; five years seemed like a fair trade for lifelong financial security.

Julian immersed himself in hospitality, learning the ropes from the team. Mornings were dedicated to studying food and wine, afternoons to menu tastings, and nights to running the shift. His 16-hour workdays bore fruit; the staff valued him, and patrons were charmed by his professionalism.

To Andreas' delight, this newfound balance allowed him to focus on cooking and prepping during the day, leaving evenings to Julian. Andreas even snuck in gym sessions and skiing trips, shedding more weight and rediscovering vitality. His relationship with his wife flourished; they laughed and shared pleasures like teenagers. Meanwhile, Julian, though popular and diligent, struggled to keep his fitness in check amidst the calorie-laden environment and relentless schedule.

As Julian's culinary journey progressed, the team adjusted their focus. They prepped meals, ensuring he tasted everything, leading to increased portions and frequent snacking. The grueling schedule left no room for the gym, and Julian's once-defined abs gave way to love handles.

Andreas, now leaner than ever, radiated health. His marriage thrived, and with the support of his wife, he embraced a slower pace. Julian, despite his growing girth, garnered guest adoration, embodying the restaurant's charm. The stress and fulfillment of his role were addictive, and he convinced himself that cutting down on food was a goal for tomorrow.

Desiring deeper culinary knowledge, Julian enrolled in a part-time prestigious cooking course. Here, he met Conrad, a talented young chef driven by the dream of working at Julian's renowned restaurant. Conrad showcased his skills through irresistible dishes, flirting and impressing Julian along the way.

Their chemistry was palpable, and though Julian remained professional, the allure was undeniable. After evening shifts, Conrad persistently brought more culinary creations, leading to intimate moments. Julian's confidence in his body waned, but Conrad reassured him, emphasizing that a hospitality professional needn't have a six-pack.

Returning from a rejuvenating spa weekend, a thinner and more radiant Andreas advised Julian to moderate his dessert indulgences, a remark Julian brushed off with humor. Conrad's persistent presence and exceptional culinary talent led to an apprenticeship request, with Julian insisting on impressing the team.

In the kitchen, Conrad faced competition from Leo, another ambitious and handsome young chef. Their rivalry birthed extravagant tryouts, pleasing the head chef. Julian, swamped by lavish meals, confided in Conrad, who nonchalantly admired his larger frame. Exhaustion often confined Julian to just laying on his back during sex, yet Conrad's admiration soothed his insecurities.

As the five-year mark approached, Andreas' transformation captivated the media, and his newfound fitness made him a regular on cooking shows. His shifts at the restaurant dwindled, while Julian, now significantly heavier, embraced the role of the restaurant's big-hearted patriarch.

Julian's popularity among guests soared, and Conrad and Leo secured permanent kitchen positions, curtailing their competitive tastings. Julian contemplated his future, ready to ease the pace and shed some weight with his €25,000,000 inheritance. The brothers, having navigated a unique journey, stood poised to honor their father's legacy in their own distinct ways.

#fictionalweightgain #maleweightgainstories #maleweightgain #weightgain #weightgainstories #fictionalstories #wg fantasy #wg fiction #exjock #aiweightgain

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theinnerunderrain · 5 months

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Pancakes and Waffles [Yandere! Bounty Hunter x Fem! Reader]

Warnings/ tags: yandere themes, description of violence, mention of murder, weapons, depiction of violence against reader, sadistic behavior, age gap (reader is 20ish and Yan is 30ish?).

"This place might be a dump, but the breakfast is always surprisingly good, isn't it?"

You jumped slightly at a casual remark, turning to find a middle-aged man at the table next to yours. His smile, somewhat bright, was accompanied by a gaze of peculiar intensity, his brown eyes fixed upon you as he leaned on the palm of his hand. You managed only an awkward laugh, instinctively reaching to pull your hood up, partially obscuring your face in a subtle attempt to shield yourself.

"Oh, definitely! The bathroom here's always a mess, but let me tell you, the pancakes are absolutely worth it!"

You aim for brevity in your response, silently hoping that he would take his leave and proceed with his day. However, the persistent man appeared to have different intentions. He nodded thoughtfully in response to your words before interjecting, "Yeah, the pancakes are good, but personally, I think the waffles here are even better."

"Waffles are good too."

You found yourself inwardly cursing, yearning for the man to depart. Gripping the handle of your coffee mug, you raised it to your lips, striving to steady your trembling hands as you savored the warm, bittersweet liquid. The notion of abruptly leaving crossed your mind, but you resolved to endure a while longer, intent on avoiding any undue attention.

"You from around here?"

The man persisted, his gaze burning into the side of your face as you continued to sip your coffee, attempting to ignore his unsettling stare.

"Well, I'm just from a couple towns over. Just here to visit some family," you replied.

The lie slid smoothly from your lips, its delivery as effortless as the gentle cascade of silk ribbons. Setting your mug down upon the wooden table, you lifted the fabric of your sleeve to your lips, the delicate lace trim brushing against your skin as you wiped them clean. The subtle gesture, though simple, was executed with a precision that belied the unease stirring within you.

"I didn't think many people actually lived in this town, so that's surprising."

He mused with a laugh, the sound melodic and filled with amusement, causing you to steal another glance in his direction. His dark hair, tousled slightly, framed a pair of warm brown eyes that sparkled with a hint of mischief. His features, while bearing the marks of experience and maturity, still retained a boyish charm, adding an intriguing depth to his appearance. His smile, genuine and inviting, seemed to suggest a shared moment of lightheartedness, despite the underlying tension in the air.

"Yeah, it's a pretty small town. Are you from around here?"

"No, I'm just here visiting family too," he replied, nonchalant.

Your gaze drifted to his table, noting the absence of any food or drink. There was no coffee, no plates, no silverware—nothing, despite it being breakfast time. It struck you as odd; most people would take advantage of the complimentary breakfast offered by the motel. Could he have finished his coffee already? That seemed unlikely; you were among the first few people to arrive at the dining hall, and you were certain you would have noticed him if he had been there before. Another detail caught your attention: despite the early hour, the dining hall was unusually quiet. Typically, there would be a few families up early, grabbing a meal before hitting the road, or staff bustling about, preparing for the day ahead. However, today was different; it was just you and the strange man. Even the staff responsible for food preparation seemed to be absent—perhaps on a break?

"This town is so quiet, it's like a nice getaway sometimes, you know? A break from the city."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, but you forced a smile, trying not to read too much into them. Your fingers gripped the fabric of your pants tightly, a subconscious gesture of unease. He was just making casual conversation, you reminded yourself, but you couldn't shake off the feeling of caution.

"I agree, it's nice out here, especially with all the nature and stuff," you replied, keeping the conversation light. You felt a wave of embarrassment wash over you, an overwhelming urge to bury your face in your hands at the realization of your oversight. The motel was situated in the heart of the desert, surrounded by nothing but sand and cacti. What "nature" were you even talking about? The irony of your comment was not lost on you, and you couldn't help but chastise yourself for the slip-up.

"Right? It's a good escape from the bustling city."

Yet, it appeared the man was toying with your words, subtly teasing you without missing a beat.

"May I ask for your name?" he inquired politely, prompting a moment of hesitation within you. Why did he want to know your name? You stared at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you pondered whether to be honest or to fabricate a response. After all, your first name shouldn't matter, should it?

"...[First Name]."

"It's nice to meet ya, miss [first name]. The name's Alex."

He seemed content with your response, inching closer to you and dragging his wooden chair along with him. The warm light of the dining room enveloped him, casting a soft glow that gently softened his features and lent a sense of comfort to his demeanor. As he drew nearer, you couldn't help but notice his impressive build; he was quite muscular, his physique accentuated by the black, form-fitting T-shirt he wore, which highlighted his broad shoulders and contoured muscles. You also observed traces of scars and injuries scattered across his hands, along with a small cut on his cheek, adding a rugged edge to his appearance.

"You seem quite familiar with this place. Are you a regular visitor here?" you asked, your tone curious as you studied him, trying to unravel the mystery that surrounded him.

"No, I was born and raised in another shut off town before getting sent off to the military. What about you?"

You contemplated the possibility of him having a military background, which would explain his demeanor and appearance. However, you also couldn't shake off the thought that he might just be a man who regularly found himself in mischief. Regardless, you knew you should be wary of him; if he were to try to take advantage of you, it would be challenging to fend him off. Unaware of his intense gaze fixed not just on your face but also on your lips, which tended to part subtly whenever you were lost in thought, you continued to engage in conversation.

"I've lived in the city with my mother for a couple of years so you're right it's nice place to escape to."

He nodded in agreement, a gesture that seemed to convey a sense of understanding, yet it lack sincerity.

"I bet it's a good place to escape to, especially for people who are sick of the city and criminals like you miss."

Your body freezes at his words as your eyes widen in surprised, your mind racing to understand his words, on what he truly meant by that. You observe his face, trying to look for any signs of other emotions besides being relaxed, yet you couldn't detect anything. You see him reaching into the side of his pocket, causing your mind to race like crazy as you quickly stood up from your chair. Was he pulling out a weapon? A knife? A gun?

"You can't be serious," you replied in disbelief, the cheerful smile you once wore now replaced with a look of apprehension. Slowly backing away, you watched as he stood up from his chair, his size and height suddenly more imposing. Your eyes caught sight of a holster around his waist, the gun within becoming more apparent as his hand gripped it firmly.

"Yeah, it's a good place to lay low after smashing the mayor's head, huh? Definitely caused a ruckus back in the city."

Without a moment's pause, you hastened towards the door, but Alex made no attempt to pursue you, instead advancing steadily as if he were a predator stalking its quarry. Your heart throbbed in your chest, your palms grew clammy, and your legs trembled with each step, yet you persevered, determined not to falter. Upon reaching the dining hall's entrance, however, you discovered the doors were firmly locked from the outside. Despite your efforts, they remained resolute, denying your escape.

Stupid doors!

"Can't blame you though, the geezer was known for being a jerk to women. But hey, did you know that old dude had connections to the underworld?"

As his words filled the air, you abandoned the locked door and made a desperate dash for the window. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggled to maintain a grip on the chair you intended to use to shatter the glass. With a surge of adrenaline, you swung the chair, the sound of impact echoing through the room as the glass resisted your efforts to break it. Suddenly, a deafening gunshot shattered the tense silence, causing you to scream in terror. The chair slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor as you frantically sought cover. Heart pounding, you dove behind the nearest object—a salad bar—hoping it would shield you from the unseen danger lurking outside.

"Many of his clients were pretty pissed when they found out their little puppeteer was gone. Hard to control a dumb guy like him to do their bidding."

Peeking surreptitiously from behind the salad bar, your heart pounded as you endeavored to comprehend the unfolding turmoil. Alex remained composed by the window, a sardonic smile adorning his lips as he observed your futile escape attempts. The gun in his hands glistened under the diner's dim lights, taunting your existence and deriding your futile endeavors to evade both it and its wielder.

In that pivotal moment, you grasped the gravity of the peril enveloping you. Alex transcended mere acquaintance; he embodied imminent danger. Your survival hinged on evading his grasp. Crouched behind the salad bar, your mind raced, grappling with a decision. Should you risk exposure by making a break for it, or bide your time in obscurity, praying for timely rescue? You almost laughed at yourself for entertaining such a thought. There was no one who could help you at this point. Your eyes caught sight of a fire escape just across the room.

"That's why they sent me after you!"

The sound of footsteps approaching made your decision for you. Without a second thought, you bolted from your hiding spot, darting towards the emergency exit. The adrenaline fueled your movements, propelling you forward as you pushed past tables and chairs, nearly falling onto your knees yet you were desperate to escape the danger that lurked behind you.

As you neared the exit, your hand outstretched to push the door open, a smile of relief almost gracing your lips, another loud bang shattered the air. Yet your hopes were shattered. In an instant, you found yourself falling to the ground, a wave of surprise washing over you. Agonizing pain shot through your calf as you hit the floor with a resounding thud, knocking over tables and chairs in your descent. No, no, no! You were on the verge of reaching the door; just a few seconds more, and you would have made it.

"C'mon now miss, I feel bad if I have to hurt a pretty little thing like you."

Alex sighed softly, the sound carrying a weight of resignation as he closed the distance between you. His movements were graceful, almost silent, despite the heavy boots he wore. With a practiced motion, he holstered his pistol, the leather creaking softly as it settled against his side. As he reached you, his hand moved to his temple, rubbing it gently as he regarded the wound on your calf with a mixture of concern and contemplation. His gaze lingered on the injury, his expression unreadable, before he finally spoke, his voice calm yet tinged with a hint of regret.

"You should be happy I'm a great shot cause some other hunters would have shot you dead instead."

You couldn't stifle the instinct to turn, your gaze a glare tempered by agony. Did he anticipate commendation for sparing a more fatal shot? His countenance betrayed no hint of remorse, a grin like a scar etched into his features, persisting despite the violence he had wrought upon you. He knelt, the motion fluid, almost mocking the pain you endured. His eyes met yours, unwavering, as if daring you to challenge the twisted logic behind his actions. The silence between you spoke volumes, a clash of wills and morality, set against the backdrop of your suffering.

"You left me no choice," he said, his voice a blend of indifference and justification. But in that moment, as you struggled to comprehend the depth of his callousness, all you could muster was a silent, seething glare.

"Y'know, I thought you would be the tough type after hearing about what you did, but you're definitely the scaredy type.”

The scene was fraught with tension as Alex's finger grazed your cheek, his lips puckering in a gesture that would have seemed comical under different circumstances. However, the pain you were experiencing kept any amusement at bay. It dawned on you, belatedly, that his seemingly innocuous questions and comments had been a facade for his underlying suspicion. His laughter, tinged with pity and amusement, cut through the air, underscoring your predicament. In his eyes, you were nothing more than a small, defenseless rabbit, caught in his trap and unable to escape, your vulnerability adding to your perceived charm.

"No hard feelings, miss. I'm just doing my job.”

You watched in terror as he pulled out a taser from the pocket of his pants, his laughter mocking your fear. With a click of a button, the electrical power began to crackle, and he held it out in front of you, the weapon a cruel testament to your helplessness.

"Hey, don't look at me like that. The cloth-over-mouth method is just in movies. This is going to knock you out cold for hours.”

“...are you going to kill me?”

He paused, as if considering your question, before finally shrugging, his expression unreadable.

"Who knows? Since you're a cutie, I might be able to convince the bounties to spare your life.”

He replied with a smirk, bringing the taser closer to your neck. With a deft motion, he activated the device, the blue crackling electricity illuminating your face. He held it just inches away from your skin, the threat of pain palpable in the air. As he drew his hand back, he almost affectionately petted your head, a stark contrast to the agony coursing through your body as the taser made contact. Your scream pierced the air, drowned out only by the crackling of the taser. As you faded into unconsciousness, his mocking voice lingered in your mind, a bitter reminder of the cruel fate you faced.

"Goodnight, [First Name]. Don't sleep too long, 'cause I'll be here for you, waiting.”

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theemporium · 5 months

Note

hi king!! could i get a uuuuhhh…

"I'll do anything for a woman with a knife."

🩷 w/luke? xoxo

we tried something different with a wee historical fiction/prince au🤠they are not my forte but i wanted to try challenging myself. thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

22. "I'll do anything for a woman with a knife."

Luke had always found the royal festivities to be tedious and long winded.

Maybe it was because they very rarely focused on him, with most guests taking interest in his parents or his older brothers—Quinn especially, being next in line to the throne. Or maybe—just fucking maybe—he found them tedious and long winded and boring because they were.

He wasn’t even sure what the reasoning behind this one was, if he was being completely honest. Though, there was never usually a good reason for many of the high class patrons of the kingdom to deny the chance to be invited into the castle or flaunt their pretty fabrics. But Luke had to assume this one was semi-important if people from neighbouring kingdoms—people of importance—were making the journey.

Still, it did little to make him feel anything but utter boredom as he did his rounds. He flashed the guests a few smiles, usually letting Jack or Quinn take over the conversation. And once he had shown his face for a socially appropriate amount of time, he found himself sneaking off in the shadows to find something to occupy himself before his father’s expected speech.

Usually, he would find himself sneaking into the kitchens to see if the staff would slip him a few desserts before dinner or some snacks to entertain him with.

This time around, Luke didn’t even make it to the secret corridor that led down the kitchen before he was pressed against the wall, his breath knocked out of his lungs and something cold pressed against his neck.

“Shit,” you hissed, only your eyes visible to the boy as you glanced over his face.

Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through him that didn’t have him thinking straight. Maybe it was the excitement for something different to happen at this ball.

Or maybe Luke just lacked common sense and self-preservation because the only response he managed after a random woman dressed in all black with a knife pressed against his throat was, “pick the wrong prince?”

You blinked. “You matched the description.”

“So…I was the right prince?” He asked, something akin to amusement in his voice and it threw you off.

“Do you have your life threatened often?” You questioned, partially rhetorical because a part of you was genuinely interested in the answer. “You seem very calm.”

“I just assumed if you wanted me dead, I would have been dead already,” he replied honestly, making no move to try and escape your hold. He had a feeling you would bury that knife in him before he even got the chance to take a step.

“I could still kill you if you don’t listen to what I say,” you told him, and he knew better than to question how truthful you were with that promise.

But still, Luke was young and sheltered and spent far too much of his time trapped in the castle, learning how to be a prim and proper gentleman. There was something thrilling about you and, for reasons his own brain couldn’t comprehend, he didn’t want to lose your attention just yet.

“I’ll do anything for a woman with a knife,” he retorted, his lips twitching upwards when he noticed your eyes widen slightly in response.

“It’s like you have a death wish,” you grumbled, the edge of your blade digging a little further into his skin.

“So if I wasn’t your target, who was?” He asked casually, like you were two acquaintances catching up. Like there wasn’t the possibility of someone turning the corner and finding the two of you. Like there weren't guards already starting to notice his absence.

“None of your business,” you snapped, your eyes narrowed in annoyance. He wondered if you were contemplating whether or not he was worth killing and adding the extra hassle for.

“It seems like my business when you have a blade to my throat,” Luke added cheekily.

“You have no sense of survival,” you told him like it was an insult.

He grinned. “Perks of being a prince, I assume.”

“I don’t have time for this,” you grumbled and, in a blink of his eye, you were already three paces away from him. “You’re distracting me.”

He pushed down the uneasy feeling in his chest the second you were no longer pressed against him, the second your eyes were no longer on him. “Will I see you again?”

You paused, tilting your head to the side. He couldn’t see your mouth but he had the strongest sense that you were smirking beneath your mask.

“Depends what kind of enemies you plan to make, Your Highness.”

#cece's cocktail celebration #luke hughes #nhl #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes fic #luke hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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anniebeemine · 22 days

Text

warnings: blinded reader who was injured in the field, anger, some rude comments to Spencer, happy ending :)

You heard the door creak open and the soft flicker of a light switch being flipped. Instinctively, you tried to step over the threshold, eager to be home after what felt like an eternity. But before you could take that step, Spencer’s hand was on your shoulder, the touch gentle but firm as he moved you slightly to the side.

“Hold on,” he said softly. “We sort of left a mess. Let me go in first.”

The air felt different in the entryway—warmer, familiar, and yet, with the loss of sight, strangely foreign. It had only been a few weeks, but it felt like everything had changed. You knew the layout of your home by heart, each piece of furniture and each corner. But now, in the absence of your vision, everything felt distant, like a memory you were trying to recall in the dark.

You stood in the doorway, listening closely to the sounds inside your home. There was the unmistakable thud of shoes being tossed to the side, followed by the soft rustle of clothing being picked up and moved. Each sound painted a picture in your mind, filling in the blanks that your eyes could no longer see. A small smile tugged at your lips, and you tried to lighten the mood, to bring some semblance of normalcy back into the situation.

“I never realized we lived like slobs,” you joked, your voice laced with a mix of humor and uncertainty.

There was a brief pause, then Spencer chuckled, a sound that warmed you from the inside out. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he teased back, his voice closer now, as if he had moved toward you.

You could almost picture the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled, the way his lips would quirk up in that way that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay. The sound of him straightening things up, trying to make the space as comfortable as possible for you, was both endearing and bittersweet.

“It’s not too bad,” Spencer continued, his tone softening. “Just a couple of things out of place. But I’ve got it covered.”

You nodded, the smile lingering on your face.

The first week back home had been a challenge. While you had managed to stay somewhat optimistic during your time in the hospital and through the intensive therapy sessions, reality had begun to settle in now that you were back in familiar surroundings. Learning to navigate with a cane, relying on your other senses, and coming to terms with the fact that this was your new normal had been difficult, but you’d handled it—at least outwardly.

In the hospital, there had been structure, routine, and the constant presence of medical staff ready to offer encouragement or assistance at a moment’s notice. But now, in the quiet of your own home, that structure had dissolved, leaving you alone with your thoughts, with nothing but the unfamiliarity of your familiar environment.

The first few days had been bearable. You found some comfort in knowing that Spencer was there, that he was trying his best to be supportive and patient. He would guide you around the house, making sure you were safe, his voice always calm and steady. But as the week wore on, something inside you began to shift.

At first, it was just a dull ache in your chest, a sense of sadness that would wash over you in waves when you accidentally knocked something over or missed a step while trying to navigate from one room to another. But as the days dragged on, that sadness began to fester, morphing into something darker, more volatile.

You tried to stay positive, to remind yourself that you were strong, that you could adapt to this. But every time you reached for something and missed, every time you stumbled or misjudged the distance to a piece of furniture, the frustration built. It gnawed at you, making you short-tempered and irritable.

You found yourself snapping at Spencer over the smallest things—like when he tried to help you find a cup and you insisted you could do it yourself, only to realize you couldn’t. Or when he offered to make you breakfast and you lashed out, accusing him of treating you like you were helpless. He never snapped back, just took it in stride with an understanding that only fueled your guilt and frustration.

And then there was the anger—pure, unfiltered rage that simmered just beneath the surface. Anger at the job that had taken your sight. Anger at the world for being so unforgiving. Anger at yourself for not being able to accept this new reality as easily as you wanted to. You could see bright lights and shadows, sure, but they were a constant reminder of what you had lost.

One evening, as you sat on the couch with Spencer beside you, the weight of it all became too much. You could feel the anger bubbling up, threatening to spill over. You clenched your fists, trying to keep it at bay, but it was no use.

“Why did this happen to me?” you burst out, your voice trembling with the force of your emotions. “Why did I have to lose my sight? I was just doing my job, and now… now I can’t even walk around my own house without bumping into things!”

Spencer looked at you, his expression pained. He reached out, but you pulled away, not wanting to be comforted, not wanting to feel the softness of his touch when all you felt inside was jagged, sharp-edged anger.

“It’s not fair,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to live like this.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, hot and stinging, but you couldn’t tell if they were from the anger, the frustration, or the deep sadness that had taken root in your heart. Spencer didn’t say anything, just sat there with you in the silence, his presence a steady anchor even as you felt yourself drifting into a sea of emotions you couldn’t control.

And as the week wore on, that anger became harder and harder to contain. It would flare up at the smallest provocations, leaving you feeling exhausted and hollow afterward. You knew Spencer was trying to be patient, that he was doing his best to help you through this, but in those moments of rage, you couldn’t see past your own pain.

You hated that you were pushing him away, that you were taking out your frustration on the one person who was always there for you. But the anger was all-consuming, leaving no room for rational thought or measured responses. It was like a storm inside you, one that you didn’t know how to weather.

And so, you kept struggling—struggling to adapt, struggling to keep the anger at bay, struggling to figure out how to live in this new world that felt so foreign and unforgiving.

You wake up to the sound of Spencer's steady breathing, the weight of the previous night's argument still heavy on your heart. He’s lying with his back to you, and even though you can't see him, you can sense the distance between you. It’s not just physical; it’s emotional too. The anger from last night lingers in the air, but so does the regret.

You know he’s sleeping like that to give you space. He’d offered to help with something simple, and you’d snapped, frustration bubbling over in a way you couldn’t control. You hated that you were doing this to him, to both of you. You didn’t want him to be the collateral damage of your struggle, but it was happening anyway.

Determined to make up for it, you decide to get up quietly and make breakfast. Maybe you can start the day differently, show him that you’re trying, even if it doesn’t always seem like it. Maybe if you show him that you’re trying, you’ll start to believe it yourself.

The house is eerily silent as you shuffle your way to the kitchen, relying on memory and touch to guide you. It’s still dark enough that the shadows blend into one another, but you’ve memorized the path by now. You reach out for the counter, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you orient yourself. The toaster is where you left it, so you reach for the bread, feeling for the familiar shape of the slices.

You focus on what you can do—something simple, something you’ve done countless times before. You pop the bread into the toaster and turn the knob, trying to estimate the time. It’s a small victory, but one that feels significant in this moment. You can do this. You can make toast.

As you wait, the smell of warming bread fills the air, and for a brief moment, it feels like everything might be okay. Maybe this is enough—a small gesture to show Spencer you’re still here, still trying to hold on.

But then the toast pops up, and as you reach out to grab it, your fingers brush against the metal. The sudden, sharp pain makes you flinch, and you hiss in frustration, jerking your hand back. You’re immediately angry at yourself for making such a simple mistake, and for a split second, it feels like a confirmation of everything you’ve been trying to deny: that you’re helpless, that you can’t even make a simple breakfast without something going wrong.

But you don’t let the anger take over. You breathe through it, trying to remind yourself that accidents happen, that burning your hand on a toaster could have happened to anyone. Even if you could see, this could have happened. It’s not a sign of your failure; it’s just a moment, an accident, nothing more.

Still, the burn stings, both physically and emotionally, and as you stand there in the kitchen, you feel the weight of everything pressing down on you. The toast is done, but the small triumph you’d hoped for feels hollow now, overshadowed by the sting in your hand and the frustration bubbling up inside you.

You think about going back to bed, about lying down next to Spencer and pretending none of this ever happened, but you know that won’t fix anything. You’ve already put the effort in, and you can’t back down now. Even if it’s not perfect, even if it’s not what you wanted it to be, you’ll finish this. You’ll try.

You slowly make your way to the cabinet, grabbing a plate and placing the toast on it. You feel your way to the fridge, finding the butter and spreading it across the toast with practiced movements. It’s simple, but it’s something.

As you stand there, alone in the kitchen, you can’t help but feel the exhaustion creeping in. You’re tired—tired of struggling, tired of trying to make things work, tired of feeling like you’re fighting a losing battle. But giving up isn’t an option, not when Spencer’s still here, not when you know he’s trying too.

When you’re done, you just stand there, letting the weight of everything settle over you. You want to go back to bed, to curl up beside Spencer and hide from the world, but you know that’s not fair to either of you. You’ve come this far, and you won’t give up now, not yet.

Determined to push yourself, you decide to try making scrambled eggs. You remember the guidance from the nurse during therapy—the way she patiently walked you through the process, how she showed you to feel the eggs through the spoon to know when they’re ready. It’s not just about cooking; it’s about regaining some sense of normalcy, some control over your life. It’s a challenge you’re willing to take on, even if it’s daunting.

You carefully gather everything you need: a bowl, a whisk, a spoon, and the carton of eggs. You take a deep breath and reach for the first egg, concentrating as you tap it against the edge of the bowl. The crack sounds louder in the quiet kitchen, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders as you carefully pull the shell apart, letting the egg slide into the bowl. Relief washes over you as it lands safely, the familiar squish reassuring you that you’ve done it right.

Encouraged, you reach for the second egg, feeling more confident. You tap it against the bowl, feeling the crack form beneath your fingers. But this time, when you try to pull the shell apart, it’s slippery. The egg slips from your grasp, and before you can react, you feel the cold, slimy sensation running through your hand.

It’s the kind of mess that would have annoyed you before, but now it’s overwhelming. You freeze, the egg continuing its descent until it plops onto your foot, oozing between your bare toes. The sensation is startling, the cold yolk squishing against your skin, and it’s enough to shatter the fragile sense of control you were holding onto.

You stand there, feeling the egg seep between your toes, and you can’t help but feel a surge of frustration. This was supposed to be something simple, something to prove to yourself that you could still do this. But now, with the egg on your foot and the mess in your hand, it feels like a reminder of everything you’ve lost, everything that’s changed.

You want to cry, to scream, to let the frustration out in some way, but you don’t. Instead, you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. You reach for a paper towel, carefully wiping the egg off your foot, the sensation of the sticky yolk making you cringe.

You feel the burn of tears behind your eyes, but you blink them back. You won’t let this defeat you, not today. You clean up the mess, your movements slow and deliberate as you wipe the counter and the floor, focusing on each small task to keep the frustration at bay.

Once the mess is gone, you stand there for a moment, your breath coming in slow, shaky waves. You’ve cleaned it up, but the feeling of failure lingers. You were trying so hard, and it still wasn’t enough.

But you know you can’t give up. You won’t give up.

Taking another deep breath as you wash your hands, you grab a new egg and try again. This time, you manage to crack it without any issues, the egg sliding smoothly into the bowl. It’s a small victory, but it’s enough to push you forward.

As you whisk the eggs, feeling the texture change beneath the utensil, you remind yourself that this is just one moment in a long process. It’s okay to struggle, to get frustrated, but you can’t let it stop you. You’ll keep trying, keep pushing, because that’s the only way forward.

You carefully reach for the pan, the cold metal sending a shiver through your fingers. You place it on the stove, your hand lingering on the handle as you mentally prepare yourself for the next step. Turning on the burner, you feel the heat begin to radiate from the stove, a warmth that should be comforting but instead fills you with anxiety. You’ve done this so many times before, but now it feels like a monumental task, the simplest of actions turned into an obstacle.

As the pan heats up, you reach for the butter, guiding it into the pan by feel alone. The sizzle is sharp and immediate, and you move quickly to pour the eggs into the pan, feeling the way the liquid begins to solidify under the heat. You pick up the spatula, gripping it tightly as you start to stir, trying to focus on the texture beneath the spoon. It’s a delicate process, one that requires both patience and attention, and you’re determined to get it right.

But then, in a moment of distraction, your hand grazes the edge of the pan. The burn is instant and sharp, a searing pain that makes you gasp. You pull back quickly, your other hand instinctively reaching for the injured one. But there’s no time to dwell on the pain, not when you’re in the middle of cooking. You shake your hand out, trying to push the pain to the back of your mind, and force yourself to keep going.

You return to the task at hand, stirring the eggs with renewed determination. But then it happens again—another misstep, another burn. This time it’s worse, the heat searing into your skin and bringing tears to your eyes. You grit your teeth, fighting the urge to throw the spatula down in frustration. The pain radiates through your hand, and you can feel the tears building, threatening to spill over.

Standing over the pan, you try to focus on the eggs, but it’s hard. You’re crying now, the tears mixing with the pain and frustration of it all. This was supposed to be something simple, something to prove to yourself that you could still do this. But instead, it’s turning into another reminder of how hard everything has become. You want to stop, to walk away, but you don’t. You can’t. You’re determined.

Taking a deep breath, you focus on the task in front of you. You stir the eggs one last time, feeling the way they’ve set, the texture just right. With shaky hands, you scrape them onto the plate, placing them carefully next to the toast. It’s a small victory, but it feels like a monumental one.

You freeze, the plate trembling slightly in your hands. You debate whether or not to serve a glass of juice or milk. The warmth of the eggs seeps through the ceramic, but it’s the heat of his gaze that you feel most intensely.

“How long have you been standing there?” you ask, your voice a little unsteady.

“Since you pulled the eggs out of the fridge,” Spencer replies softly. His voice is a mix of concern and admiration, the words tinged with an emotion you can’t quite place.

You swallow hard, the weight of his presence settling over you. You’re not sure if you’re relieved or embarrassed that he’s seen you like this—struggling, vulnerable, determined to do something on your own but fighting every step of the way. You turn toward him, gripping the plate tightly as if it’s a lifeline.

“I wanted to make breakfast,” you say, the words coming out more defensive than you intended. "For you."

Taking a slow step toward you, he let out a soft, “Thank you.”

You bite your lip, debating whether to admit just how hard it was or to keep pretending you had it all under control. Though you can’t see him, you know how he’s looking at you, pure love and admiration.

“I almost gave up,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper.

“But you didn’t,” he responds immediately, his tone firm. “You didn’t give up.”

You can’t tell if that makes you feel better or worse. The truth is, you did finish, but it came with tears and pain, and part of you wonders if it’s worth it.

Spencer’s hand reaches out instinctively, his fingers grazing the back of your hand, careful not to touch the tender spot. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he takes the plate from your hands and sets it down on the counter. You’re grateful for the relief, the pressure of holding it now gone.

“Let me see,” he says softly, taking your hand in his. He examines the burn with the same care and precision he uses when handling evidence, his thumb brushing over your skin with a soothing touch.

“It’s not too bad,” he reassures you, though his brow is furrowed in concern. “But I’ll get something for it.”

You nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration. Gratitude because he’s here, because he cares. Frustration because you wanted to do this yourself, to prove that you could. But now, standing in the kitchen with him tending to your burn, you realize that maybe you don’t have to do it all alone.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice catching in your throat.

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You don’t have to do this by yourself,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your skin. “I’m here. We’re in this together.”

You nod again, the tears you’d been holding back now slipping free, but this time they’re not born of frustration or pain. They’re tears of relief, of love, of knowing that despite everything, you’re not alone. Spencer wraps his arms around you, pulling you close, and you lean into him, letting the warmth of his embrace wash over you.

As you stand there, you realize that this is the first step in moving forward—not just for you, but for both of you. It’s okay to struggle, to have moments of weakness, because in the end, you’ll always have each other. And that’s more than enough.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reidx reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x you #fanfic

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iarrelm · 7 months

Text

Hazbin Hotel Swap AU - Alastor. Husk. Nifty.

Charlie, Vaggie, and Angel

I saw a few different versions of this AU going around and thinking about it made me want to draw my own take on it.

I don't have this fully fleshed out yet but I've been thinking about it for the last few days so here's what I've got so far.

Alastor -> Charlie

He still started out in Hell as the Radio Demon

However, when he disappeared for 7 years, he came back as a seemingly changed man. The first broadcast on his radio show after 7 years of silence was an advertisement for the Radio Demon's new project: The Hazbin Hotel.

Not very many sinners actually managed to hear that advertisement but those that did thought they were hallucinating tbh

I wanna say the reason why he wants to try rehabilitating sinners is mostly because he spent his 7 year hiatus with Lilith, who asked him to do this for her so she could try to convince Charlie (and Lucifer) that they're wrong about sinners. And Alastor decides to do it because Lilith promises that she'll free him from his deal the moment he gets a soul into heaven.

For this AU, I'm gonna say the person who has Alastor on a leash is Eve, and his deal with her is completely unrelated to his 7 year absence.

Because of all that, despite founding the hotel, he doesn't fully believe it's possible to redeem a soul. And it shows sometimes no matter how much he tries to convince the guests otherwise.

Nifty -> Vaggie

When Alastor brought up the hotel and asked for her help, she jumped at the chance and agreed without hesitation.

Alastor is still an overlord and still owns some souls. He owns Nifty's but made it clear to her that he was asking, not ordering, her to help with the hotel.

Before Charlie brings in more staff, she was the one that handled cleaning and pest control and all that other stuff.

She helps him brainstorm ideas for activities. Unfortunately both of them are pretty unhinged so at least 80% of those ideas are unusable

Husk: What the fuck is "Knife Monopoly"?

Alastor and Nifty: :)

She's Alastor's biggest cheerleader and helps him out by enthusiastically participating in any and all hotel activities with a smile

Husk -> Angel Dust

Instead of Alastor, Husk sold his soul to Vox, who became interested in the Gambling Demon after Alastor was seen going in and out of his casino.

Vox ends up using Husk as something like a personal assistant. He runs around all over hell doing anything and everything Vox asks him to.

Immediately after losing his soul, he moves into the Vee's Tower. It's nice because the Vee's tower is one of the most protected places in the pride ring, which means none of the souls he used to own will be able to try to come after him. Unfortunately this also means that Vox has access to an employee that can work overtime whenever he needs him to.

Husk is... so tired.

So when Alastor offers him a room at the hotel, Husk agrees before he can finish his pitch.

Later, he hears the full thing - that Alastor is trying to redeem sinners and thinks he can get Husk into heaven. Husk isn't sure what exactly made Alastor believe that, but a free room is a free room

(He is grateful though. So even if he doesn't think there's a chance in hell that he's getting into heaven, he does put in some effort toward rehabilitation.)

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel swap au #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel husk #nifty hazbin hotel #my art #i was coloring these and i wanna say that alastor's color palette almost defeated me #i wanted him to look a bit more friendly so i added in some brown so the red wasn't so overpowering #but then picking where to use the rest of his colors and where was a struggle #husk and nifty were easy af #i just gave husk and shirt and a tie with vox's colors #and for nifty i just added some yellow and moved her blood splatters around #this would never happen in the show but i really want husk and alastor to be friends okay

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soaplickerrr · 14 days

Text

Accidentally Coincidental

CHAPTER 7 (click pictures for better quality)

|⇠ Previous | Next ⇢|

a/n: updates will be slow, i'm working on a pretty long fic on my side blog.

pairing: Idol!Kim Seungmin x Fem! CollegeStudent!Reader

genre: contemporary romance

SMAU

synopsis: Y/N, a regular college student accidentally texts Seungmin, a star in the K-pop group Stray Kids while trying to text her Ex, Soonyoung to come pick up his things, leading to an unexpected connection that blossoms into a heartfelt romance.

ignore time stamps, dates (other than the ones mentioned during texting) and typos

THERES A WRITTEN PART, DO NOT JS SCROLL THEOUGH THE PICS!!

The towering glass facade of JYP Entertainment stands in front of you, gleaming under the afternoon sun. The building is sleek and modern, almost like a beacon calling you forward with its promise of dreams fulfilled and careers made. For a moment, you pause outside, taking a deep breath to steady the nervous energy buzzing in your veins. Today is a big day, your chance to prove yourself at one of the biggest entertainment companies. The opportunity to showcase your editing skills is finally here, and you’re determined to nail it.

You step through the revolving doors and into the lobby, where everything is polished to a shine, from the pristine marble floors to the sleek, minimalist decor that screams sophistication and class. The soft hum of conversation, the rapid tapping of heels, and the occasional chime of an elevator create a symphony of activity around you. You can feel the eyes of staff and visitors glancing at you as you make your way to the receptionist’s desk, your pulse quickening with each step. You straighten your back and put on a polite smile, trying to project a confidence that you don’t quite feel.

The receptionist looks up with a professional but somewhat warm smile. “Hello, how can I help you?”

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “Hi, I have an appointment today. My name is L/N Y/N.”

The receptionist nods, typing something into her computer with swift, practiced keystrokes. Her eyes flick up to meet yours again, studying you briefly. “Alright, just a moment. Someone will be with you shortly.”

You manage a tight smile and nod, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you wait. You try not to fidget, but your hands feel awkward and out of place, unsure where they should rest. Just as you’re contemplating what to do with them, two men in suits approach from a side door. They move with a certain authority, their expressions serious, no, stern, but not in a way that feels threatening. Just…official.

“Excuse me, could you tell us your name again?” one of them asks, his tone flat and his gaze steady.

“Uh, Y/N,” you reply, a bit taken aback by the second request but deciding it’s best not to ask why.

The men exchange a quick, wordless look. Then, one of them speaks again. “We’ll need to take your phone. Company policy. No recording, photos, or unauthorized communications inside.”

Your eyes widen a little at the unexpected request, and you blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh, sure. Right.” You fumble with your bag, pulling out your phone. Handing it over feels strange, like you’re parting with a lifeline. You watch as they slip it into a small, padded pouch and secure it with a seal, locking it away. You know it’s standard security protocol in a place like this, but the absence of your phone suddenly makes you feel vulnerable, almost exposed, like you’ve had a piece of armor taken away.

“Follow us, please,” the other man says, turning sharply on his heel. You nod, swallowing down the nerves bubbling up inside, and fall in step behind them. The click of your shoes against the immaculate floor seems louder than usual in the otherwise hushed hallway. You try to keep your breathing even as they lead you through a series of corridors that seem to grow more pristine and imposing with each turn. Bright overhead lights reflect off polished surfaces, and you catch glimpses of framed awards, photographs of famous artists, and plaques of achievement lining the walls.

Finally, they lead you to a set of heavy double doors, which they push open to reveal a spacious conference room. Inside, the air is cooler, almost chilled, and there’s a tension you can’t quite place. Several people are already seated around a large, glossy table, including the CEO of JYP Entertainment himself, as well as a group of individuals who appear to be part of the editing team, seasoned professionals by the looks of them. A sense of awe mixed with anxiety twists in your stomach.

“Welcome, Y/N,” the CEO says with a smile that is both warm and assessing, his gaze sharp. The tension in your shoulders loosens a little. “We’re glad you could join us today. We’ve heard some promising things about you. Today, we’ll be putting you through a series of tests to evaluate your editing skills and see if you’d be a good fit for our team.”

You nod, your mouth a bit dry but you manage to offer a polite smile in return. “Thank you for this opportunity. I’m excited to get started.”

They don’t waste any time. One of the team members, a woman with a sharp bob and an even sharper expression, gestures for you to follow her to another room. As you walk, you take in the atmosphere: a blend of high-stakes professionalism and intense creative energy. She leads you into a larger room, even more imposing than the last, lined wall-to-wall with high-end computers. These aren’t your average editing setups; they’re top-of-the-line, the kind of equipment you’ve only seen in magazines or YouTube reviews, machines that look like they could handle any project you could throw at them and then some. Your fingers itch with anticipation.

You’re directed to one of the stations and take a seat, feeling the weight of their expectations settle over you. “Alright, let’s get started,” the woman says. “We have an unedited scene from a music video here. Take a look, and tell us how you’d approach it. What kind of cuts, pacing, effects, anything you think would make the scene really stand out.”

You lean forward, watching as the raw footage plays out on the screen. It’s a good scene, but there’s a lot of room for improvement. Your mind starts to race with ideas, visualizing how you could tighten the cuts, adjust the pacing, and use color grading to make certain moments pop. After a moment of silence, you start speaking, sharing your thoughts. You can see the team members watching you closely, a few nodding slightly, others jotting down notes. When you finish, you notice a few raised eyebrows, they weren’t expecting that.

“Interesting approach,” one of them says, scribbling more notes. “Not the usual take, but it’s got potential.”

Then, they take you over to another project, they reveal what the unedited footage actually is. Your breath catches in your throat. It’s “JJAM” by Stray Kids, you recognize the song. You’re momentarily stunned, feeling a rush of excitement and disbelief all at once. You’re a huge fan of the group, and now you have the chance to put your spin on something this important. It feels surreal. But there’s no time to get lost in the moment. You’re given two scenes to edit, the first chorus, and the scene right after it. You listen to the hype music as you edit, the next scene’s calmer sound a blessing, both Seungmin and I.N’s voices loosening your shoulders.

You refocus, your heart pounding.

Your hands move with a blend of instinct and precision as you begin editing. You adjust the cuts to match the intensity of the beats, sync transitions perfectly with the energy of the music, and add visual effects that enhance the atmosphere without overshadowing the artists. Time starts to blur as you fall into the familiar rhythm of editing. You’re in the zone, entirely focused on the work in front of you.

When you finally lean back and look at the clock, three hours of cutting, moving and placing have passed in what felt like a blink. You hadn’t realized how deeply you were holding your breath until you exhale and call the team over.

“I’m done,” you say, trying to keep the fatigue out of your voice but unable to hide the pride in your work.

They gather around, their eyes on the screen as they review what you’ve done. The room is filled with murmurs, some nodding, some pointing at specific cuts or transitions. You can’t hear everything they’re saying, but you pick up a few key words: “clean,” “sharp,” “unexpected.” You try not to overthink it as they finish their discussion.

“Very good, Y/N,” the woman with the sharp bob finally says, nodding in approval. “Now, let’s test your attention to detail. There’s a tiny flaw in this already-edited video. It’s subtle, but we want to see if you can spot it.”

You nod, feeling a fresh wave of determination. You lean in closer to the screen, eyes scanning carefully over the footage. A few seconds pass before you see it, a tiny synchronization issue where the beat of the music and the cut don’t quite match up perfectly.

“There,” you point out confidently. “The beat and the cut are slightly off-sync. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s there.”

There’s a pause, and then a few murmurs of approval ripple through the team. You catch a few nodding in agreement, clearly impressed, though they keep their expressions controlled. Over the next several hours, they put you through a series of additional tests, each one more challenging than the last. Some require speed, others a sharp eye for continuity, and a few push your creativity to the limit. You’re exhausted, but adrenaline and sheer willpower keep you going.

By the time you finish the last task, you’re nearly slumped over the desk, eyes tired but heart pounding with a mix of hope and anxiety. You can barely keep from fidgeting as one of the senior editors, a tall man with graying hair, speaks up.

“Well, Y/N, you’ve shown us a lot today,” he says, and you hold your breath, waiting. “We’re pleased to offer you a position on our editing team. Congratulations.”

The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, you’re not sure you heard correctly. Then, a wide smile spreads across your face, and a rush of relief and joy floods through you. “Thank you! I’m so excited to be here. I promise I’ll work hard and give my best.”

They hand you your phone back, still sealed in its pouch, and guide you back through the maze of hallways. You bow in gratefulness, a huge, full-teethed smile adorning your face.

As you step out of the building into the cool night air, you finally allow yourself to breathe freely. You tear open the pouch and grab your phone, hands slightly trembling with excitement. The screen lights up, and you quickly navigate to your messages, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Idk how to feel about this chapter , ALSO I DONT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT EDITING SO DONT BASH ME 😭😭😭

TAGLIST - CLOSED - if your name is in pink, I couldn't tag you

@disasterousdangerousbi @akitfffr @alexateurmom @jeonginplsholdmyhand @sunarins-whore @feelikecinderella @minniesuperversee @istglevi-gotmesimping @dreamerwasfound @whiteghostt @your-favorite-pirate @pnutbutter-n-j-elyy @chuuyaobsessed @ihrtlix @onlyhyunjin @jisuperboard @dazzlingjade @sellomaybe @lixiesbrownies333 @kkamismom12 @iatemycatfreckles @puppyminnnie @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @ayyonoona @missvanjii @jc003 @dontwannaexsist @everglowdaisies

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skyloftian-nutcase · 23 days

Text

Outbreak Pt 1 (LU in Healthcare)

(Content warning: This is likely to hit close to home for everyone as it's essentially a pandemic fic told from healthcare workers' POV. It's as mild as I can make it, with the boys dealing with their usually lives and stuff, since I don't want this to be a drawn out fic, but still. FYI.)

It started like a whisper.

One case. A new illness, a variant of a disease that had torn through Hyrule's military during the war, had popped up in the outskirts of the Gerudo Desert. Someone who had traveled there recently brought it to Castle Town. But it was just one case.

Everyone had been put on alert with emails from the health department, but no one had really thought much of it. Legend had seen plenty of scares in the past - just as recently as two years ago, there had been another stir like this over a far deadlier disease, and nothing had come of it.

But this new disease--officially named Respiratory Failure Influenza, colloquially called Arfy by healthcare workers, and unofficially called Yiga's Revenge by the public given its point of origin and how it was tearing cities in the desert apart--was starting to make an impact.

To the world at large, the media would not stop talking about Arfy and stirring up the public. Inside Hyrule General, though, the staff was pretty calm about it.

"Who names a disease Arfy, anyway?" one of Legend's coworkers chuckled.

Legend shrugged and stretched. "I've heard worse. At least it's not based after somebody's name - I hated memorizing all those names for diseases. Nowadays the naming scheme's much better - respiratory failure influenza makes it pretty straightforward to figure out what happens."

"Preach," a tech who was in nursing school grumbled.

Time walked by as they chatted, and Legend nodded in greeting, throwing out, "Whatever reason you're here for, it wasn't me, my patients are fine."

The trauma surgeon smirked. "I'm not here for your patients, no."

Legend bristled. "Look, this is my first night shift, I haven't been working insane hours."

Time outright cackled now. "I was consulted for someone else. Relax."

"Good," Legend huffed. "Anyway, did you hear there's a case of Arfy in town? I haven't seen them pop through here, though, think they got diagnosed at an urgent care clinic."

Time hummed thoughtfully, growing serious. "Hopefully it just stays one case."

"Eh," Legend shrugged again with a noncommittal sound. "The media stirs everyone up. This happened last time, and it was contained and never came here."

"Arfy's cousin nearly killed me during the war," Time noted gravely. "Don't underestimate it too much. The fact that it's a brand new strain, and the typical medications for its cousin don't work on it, isn't promising."

"Look, I'm not saying it isn't something to take seriously," Legend argued mildly. "But it's isolated to three cities in Gerudo Desert, and then the one guy who came here. The media makes it sound like the world's ending."

"They tend to do that," Time agreed, looking down the hallway. "But in either case... let's just hope it stays as one case."

Wild wandered over at that point with an empty stretcher, having just transported someone to the floor, and both men honed in on him. He looked pale and distracted, but he somehow still managed to notice their scrutiny.

Wild watched them silently, not seeming eager to speak. So Legend talked first. "You want to explain what happened earlier?"

Time glanced between the two, brow furrowing in confusion, and he silently observed the exchange. Wild seemed to grow colder, crossing his arms, but Legend wasn't going to back down.

When his friend remained silent, Wild pressed, "Rulie said it looked like you had another absence seizure when we were dealing with that heart attack patient. Tell me what's wrong. Now."

"I didn't have a seizure," Wild assured them as Time took a protective step towards him. "Look, I just..."

The young man sighed, shriveling into himself further.

"Link," Time said sternly. "I understand you have a lot of things in your past that you're trying to reconcile. But not telling us led to you going undiagnosed and getting into a wreck that almost killed you. What's wrong?"

"When I have absence seizures, sometimes I just zone out. But other times, I get hit with... I don't know, I feel like seizures don't give you memories, okay? I don't think it was a seizure. It was a trigger."

"Trigger?" Legend repeated. "You got PTSD?"

Wild blinked, thought about it, and shrugged while shaking his head. "Probably not. Sorry. Bad phrasing."

"You have said before that you don't remember much of the war and your past because you sustained serious injuries," Time supplied. "I know you did. I operated on you. Twice."

"Sorry," Wild mumbled sheepishly.

"Just tell us what's wrong," Legend insisted as gently as he could. "What set you off?"

Wild was silent for a long time, and Legend almost grew impatient. However, eventually, he finally said, "I... I know the guy. The one who you were taking to the cath lab. I knew him be-before. Please, I don't want to talk about it right now."

Time and Legend exchanged a look, and the surgeon shook his head. Legend sighed, backing off. "Okay. But you're okay? Like physically?"

"Yeah," Wild answered, voice growing raw. Legend watched him worriedly.

"You know, you can talk to us," the nurse tried to say, but Wild shook his head.

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeated.

Time nodded, putting a hand on the young man's shoulder. "When you're comfortable, we're all here for you, okay?"

Wild stared at Time for too long, eyes watering, and he cleared his throat, nodding and walking away.

Legend bit his lip, swallowed, and looked back at Time. The surgeon was still watching Wild go down the hall. A call bell light went off, as well as a cautionary alarm on the monitors, and the nurse had to return to work, brain filled with too many thoughts and worries.

Time found himself far more nostalgic than he needed to be. Wild's words about his past, about the war, and this new virus that was kin to the one that had almost killed the surgeon were mixing together. He sighed, shaking his head. This all just needed to resolve.

He would keep an eye on Wild. That was the bigger issue than anything else.

It started like a whisper. But the roar of their pasts was coming for them, haunting and rumbling and demanding everyone’s attention.

#Sicktember #writing #lu in healthcare #lu time #lu legend #lu wild #me: sicktember. Sickfics. Healthcare boys.#Brain: epidemic? :D #Me:.........#Me: sure why not #Brain: epidemic PLUS Wild Angst to add a personal flavor???#Me: Ok that might be getting a little ambitious #Brain: Sky Angst??? :) :)#Me: Welllllll #Brain: EVERYONE ANGST??? :D :D :D #Me: FINE OH MY GOSH WE'LL BREAK THIS UP #anyway hope y'all enjoy it's gonna get so much worse #I'm wondering if I should even be writing this but whatever I ain't gonna make it some gigantic thing

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adonis-koo · 1 year

Text

sweet nothing • 4

(in which he has never been grocery shopping before)

↳ Description: being a guest at the Jeon Estate after a mishap of being kidnapped and dragged into your brothers affairs isn’t all that bad. Truth be told it brings you a lot closer to the mobster and owner of the estate Jeon Jungkook himself.

His two rules are simple, don’t cause trouble and don’t give him a hard time. Somehow you manage to constantly do both in the most endearing way despite being pregnant and waddling around most of the time.

↳ Pairing: Jungkook/reader, ???/reader

↳ Genre: slice of life AU, mafia!AU, pregnancy, there’s like…a little bit of a plot but not a lot, future smut? maybe? it's very domestic!

Word Count: 2.5k

Previous | Next

Note: for all my slice of life girlies!!! Here’s a lil treat 🫶 I’ve been having brain rot for sweet nothing the last couple of days so enjoy!!

When Jungkook had said he would take you anywhere, he meant it. Whether it was a two hour roadtrip or a two week trip to Morocco, he’d do anything and take you anywhere to make up for his absence the last week.

You had thought long and hard on it and when the time came to decide on your first weekly outing, Jungkook was truly prepared to take extra time off, just for you.

What he hadn’t expected was this.

“Y/n, remember when I said we could go anywhere?” Jungkook asked, trying to keep his sniffle quiet as he fixed his face mask and then adjusted the black ball cap he wore.

“Hm? Yeah?” You replied, beaming as you held your swollen tummy in excitement.

“I meant anywhere in the world. Not the grocery store.”

You glanced up at him, a shy smile on your face, “I know, but I’ve been wanting to cook for myself the last few days but you don’t have anything in the second kitchen. And staff won’t let me in the first.”

Jungkook frowned though you couldn’t see it, “Is the cooking not to your standard?”

“Oh no! The cooking is fine,” You smiled somewhat nervously, already noticing the look in his eyes which said he was close to whipping his phone out and firing people on the spot, “I just miss cooking for myself. Gourmet food is amazing, but nothing beats home cooking! I thought we could browse around and get some ingredients for a few dishes.”

Jungkook shrugged, “It’s your outing choice not mine. Let’s go.”

He opened the door to the small local grocery store, the bells jingling as he let you walk in first, the ladies at the registers greeting you both as you grabbed a grocery basket.

You browsed through the isles, admittedly curious to see what goods they sold, you had never come in before but had found it online after doing some looking because if Jungkook was coming with you, it would be best to try and be discreet, he was a CEO after all.

Granted he didn’t look discreet himself, even in casual clothes he was still in all black, black jeans, black leather jacket, black cap, black mask.

Oh and the gold Rolex on his wrist.

You briefly glanced at the shiny metal before looking back at the produce. Jungkook was practically glued to your back, leering over you with each product you picked up, looking as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“That’s ridiculously cheap.” He commented as you set the salad dressing back on the shelf.

You twisted around in surprise, “That’s eight dollars! That’s not cheap at all.”

Jungkook cocked his head to the side as if trying to figure out whether you were serious or not. This made you sigh as you felt a small kick in your stomach hand automatically grabbing the spot as you corrected yourself, “It’s not cheap for anyone who isn’t a millionaire.”

“Multi-millionaire.” Jungkook corrected as he reached back over, tossing it into the basket.

“Jungkook-”

“Not a word.” He replied, looking down at you chastising, “In fact.”

“Jungkook!”

“Give me that,” Jungkook grabbed the grocery basket from you, it was empty aside from the salad dressing that rolled about in it, “You’re pregnant you shouldn’t be carrying it anyways.”

“I can still carry things!” You replied indignantly, crossing your arms above your stomach.

“Yeah but should you?” Jungkook replied but cut you off before you could even try to reply, “Yeah I didn’t think so, moving on.” He pressed his hand into your back, giving you a gentle push to move forward.

Briefly in the peripheral of your eyes you could see an elderly couple giggle at your squabbling. You could feel the tips of your ears begin to burn as you without putting up a further fight, continued on, you didn’t want to make people think you and Jungkook were…

Your thought wasn’t continued at the sight ahead, instead a delight noise escaped you as you clasped your hands together, “Ah! Look at these, aren’t they just darling!” You sped over to the small clothing section but what had caught your eye was of course the baby clothes.

There was various sizing but newborn was what your eyes honed in on, little bright colored onesies, the smallest coats with little bear ears! And the socks! They were so tiny.

Just all of the clothing had you grabbing your bump in excitement as you dug through them.

Jungkook only sighed as he leaned against the metal rack, basket still in hand as he asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t know,” You confessed with a shy smile, “I want it to be a surprise. I’d be happy with either. I don’t have much for the baby to be honest with you…” Your smile faltered a little, “I have a few sets of onesies that I’ve gathered throughout my pregnancy but I’ve been trying to keep them in gender neutral colors.”

You tried to not linger on the words that accidentally slipped out of you about not having much for the baby, but it was the truth. You absolutely hated going to baby showers before, always feeling awkward and a bit bored most of the time, and not really understanding the purpose of it.

Now being pregnant yourself you realized it was about chipping in and helping the new mom out on expenses, just about everything was insanely expensive.

Especially when the baby would be grown out of many of these garments in just a few months.

So the simple fix was, just have a baby shower.

The problem was, embarrassingly enough, you didn’t have any close family left aside from your brother, could you even count him anymore? The few people you knew were your coworkers, they were kind people, going out of their way to give you an informal baby shower which included a small set of gifts when you came in to open one day and a small set of cupcakes for everyone.

It was such a kind gesture it had brought you to tears, but it still didn’t fill that void inside you that in the end, you truly didn’t have anyone to come back to at home.

“What do you have for the baby?” Jungkook asked casually, looking as if his cuticles were more interesting than the conversation at hand.

You knew better than to believe his nonchalant attitude though, “Enough.”

“But how much,” Jungkook repeated, shifting his eyes from his hand to you revealing that he was very much invested in this conversation, no matter how cool he was trying to play it, “You’re staying with me until this whole ordeal with your brother is solved, remember? Which could be months.”

You sighed in irritation, grabbing hold of your stomach as you shifted your weight, “I’d hope not months, if it can be helped.”

This made Jungkook sigh in exasperation as well, “Of course, but again, it’s better to be prepared then not. I could buy this entire store in a second if I wanted, you think infant clothes are gonna break my bank?”

“That’s not the point Jungkook!” You frowned, not happy at all with how this conversation was going, “I’m sure you’ll find Wonho soon enough, can we please go check out my back is starting to hurt.”

You weren’t lying by any means, anytime you stood for more than a few hours at a time your back would start to dully ache these days.

Jungkook tucked his tongue against his cheek, looking as if he definitely had more to say but relented as he gestured you to forward first, huffing you kept your hands on your bump as you walked past him.

After checking out Jungkook was determined to carry your grocery bags for you all the way to his car, a custom made Viper with LED’s on the inside, it felt a bit ridiculous to ride in honestly, but seeing his satisfied tap of his fingers against the wheel told you that as long as he was happy, so were you.

The last stop of your short trip was the one you were looking forward to.

“This is a horrible idea.” Jungkook commented, his voice sounding a bit raspier as you turned to him in suspicion, “What…?”

“Are you okay?” You asked, turning your head to the side in question.

“I’m fine.” Jungkook waved a hand, his voice still a bit scratchy though, nothing a good cup of tea couldn’t fix though, and luckily Serendipity Bakery could help with that. Otherwise known as your old work place!

Walking in you made eye contact with the cashier you blinked as if trying to figure out whether you were a ghost or not, “Y/n!?”

“Eunwoo!” You cheered with a bright grin, he was the owner’s son of the shop but he had been training in every position while learning the trade of the business in hopes of one day taking over the shop for his father.

He rounded the counter sweeping you into a hug, careful of your stomach though before he held your shoulders tenderly, “I was so concerned when you sent in that text about going on maternity leave early! I’ve been trying to contact you since, you’ve had me worried to death! Is the baby okay?”

You were so surprised by the amount of questions that it took you a moment to process before you glanced down at his hands, sliding from your shoulders to your stomach.

“I’m okay…” You admitted, a bit shy at his attention, Eunwoo was…you weren’t sure what you two were to one another, other than perhaps a missed opportunity had you not been pregnant, in your first trimester when you had started working here, “Just been busy.”

“But the baby…”

“Is fine.”

The deep voice of Jungkook cut into the conversation making you remember he was indeed still here, he looked like a black rain cloud, suddenly looming right behind you and his eyes had twisted into a death glare, except it wasn’t aimed on you, moreso on Eunwoo’s hands, which were still on your stomach.

“Oh…?” Eunwoo’s hands reluctantly dropped as he frowned, “And you are…?”

“Jungkook,” He replied with a clipped tone, “her caretaker.”

“He mean’s roommate.” You curved a brow at him, caretaker? Seriously? “I moved into a new home! Jungkook is my roommate, he’s been helping me settle in and get ready for the baby. Right…?”

Jungkook said nothing, despite wearing a black face mask it wasn’t difficult to tell his expression beneath was unfriendly, you had seen many sides of Jungkook but this one wasn’t one you were most familiar with, he had flashed expressions like this at men who would attempt to talk to you at the Red Light before you had gotten pregnant.

But this was Eunwoo, not just some guy.

“I see…” Eunwoo frowned, glancing at Jungkook, “Well, it’s nice to meet you Jungkook, I’m Eunwoo, Y/n’s co-worker and friend, I hope you’ve been taking good care of her, she deserves only the best.”

“Eunwoo...” You felt a bit flustered at the sudden tension between both men, uncertain of how to translate this, you never had any intimate relationship with either of them aside from a certain unspoken attraction that you had at some point just assumed was you being stupid and it was only one sided.

At least in terms of Jungkook…You tried not to think about those days anymore, after all you never truly knew Jungkook back then, other then you were girlishly flattered at the attention he would sometimes give you.

You were too embarrassed to even think about it these days, the amount of times you’d stay up late into the night imagining a glimpse of a life that would never happen with him.

Eunwoo however...was a very different story, he had a boyish charm about him, the boy next door type of feeling, he had always been sweet to you, even after knowing you were pregnant he looked at you no different, and he was the reason you even had a small baby shower to begin with.

You could’ve had something with him, but the only person stopping you was yourself.

Partly because you didn’t want him involved in all of this, but there was also something else you hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Luckily for her I only provide the best,” Jungkook replied, a little haughty, as if he was ruffled at the insinuation at not being able to take care of you, his glare didn’t let up, “You gonna take our order or what?”

You could tell Eunwoo didn’t appreciate his tone, but he forced a smile as he replied, “Anything for you Y/n, what’s on the craving menu today?” He rounded the counter as he rested his elbows on the surface.

You gave a soft smile, trying to ignore Jungkook practically towering over your shoulder, now acting as if he was a force field making sure you stayed a good distance from Eunwoo, “Honestly a London Fog and a blueberry scone sounds amazing! What about you Jungkook?”

“Coffee, black.” Jungkook replied deadpan.

“Alright,” Eunwoo nodded, “It’s on the house.”

“What? No, no we can pay!” You frowned as Eunwoo chuckled, a pretty smile on his lips as he shook his head, making his freshly dyed blonde hair brush over his eyebrows.

“Nope, too late, order’s been voided, i’ll be back with your stuff in a moment.” Eunwoo winked at you as he disappeared into the back.

“He’s your coworker?”

You twisted around, your frown turning into a pout, “Not for long with the way you were glaring.”

“I wasn’t glaring.” Jungkook replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Before you could pursue the conversation Eunwoo returned with your drinks and food, both in to go cups and a small pastry bag, “Here you are.”

“Thank you Eunwoo!” You grinned as you reached for your drink.

But before you could grab it Eunwoo softly grabbed your hand, “Anything for you Y/n, seriously, text me, I know you’re on maternity leave but if you want to hang out let me know! We can go out sometime.”

“Let’s go.” Jungkook’s voice was a tad deeper than normal, his eyes back into a glare as he reached over your hand grabbing both drinks, somehow managing to hold both in one hand before pressing another against your back firmly to turn you around.

It happened so fast you could hardly process it as you waved goodbye to Eunwoo.

“What was that about?” You asked bewildered by his action as you exited the shop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jungkook replied, his eyes staying forward as you huffed, curving a brow as took your drink from his hand, taking a sip of it as you decided to not pursue this conversation though it was very tempting.

Being so focused on how childish he was acting you didn’t even notice how his hand still stayed against your back all the way until you returned to the car, Jungkook making the point to even open the door for you as you sat back down with a groan, your back aching once more with the need to rest.

“Anywhere else you wanna go?” Jungkook asked as he slid into the drivers side.

You shook your head, “Nah, I just wanna go home.”

You couldn’t see it beneath his mask, but the tiniest smile tugged on Jungkook’s lips at your words, “Then home it is.”

#bts #bts jungkook #Jungkook #Jeon Jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #Jungkook x you #mafia!jungkook #bts jungkook x reader #bts au #bts mafia #jungkook smut #jungkook imagine

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