#the three d's of this fic ....

[reineydraws]

three is a pattern, shanks!

#i made a joke abt this in a fic i posted recently then thought it'd be funny to make art for it lol #shanks #akagami no shanks #red haired shanks #one piece #one piece fanart #op fanart #buggy the clown #uta #one piece uta #monkey d luffy #buggy the genius jester #kid luffy #if shanks had a nickel for every time a kid accidentally ate a devil fruit around him #he'd have three nickels #which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened three times.

[asliceofzosan]

sanji has always known he loved zoro.

subconsciously.

it's hidden in the steps he takes to maneuver around the sleeping marimo on the deck. it's written in the recipes he creates to account for the amount of nutrients he needs for his frankly ridiculous workout routine. it's embedded so deeply in the way he fights, back to back, one leg swinging in perfect synergy with zoro's blade. how he stands on his blind side more often on the field. but stands on his good side when they have a conversation.

so the words "i love you" come naturally to him. it's like he was always meant to say it to zoro. his presence was an appetizer. his words, the entreé. his actions, a delectable dessert that even his sweets-hating boyfriend craves for after a long day.

but sanji has never heard those three little words from zoro. not even once.

and sure, it's not like he goes around saying i love you to every beautiful lady he meets. he knows the gravity of such words. he knows how someone saying it can affect you in ways that can barely be comprehended by the human mind. it stirs something within ourselves that awakens the age old yearning to be cherished. to be held.

to be worth something to someone.

sanji can remember the rare times someone said i love you to him. once held in his mother's arms in a tender embrace that weakens with each passing second, it was whispered against his temple, frail fingers combing through his hair, and he cries without knowing that it would be the last time he hears those words for a very long time. once shaking in zeff's arms as the nightmares roar louder in his head than the storm that rattled the windows of the newly opened baratie, the older man choosing to be gentle with the child he willingly gave everything to in order to survive.

he's never heard it from someone who loved him like a partner. loved him like an equal. loved him in ways lovers are supposed to love each other.

maybe it's because he never had one of those until zoro. for the longest time, he survived on fairy tales and myths and legends. oral tradition passed down through generations of every family he encounters on their adventures out at sea. and though his life as a prince was nothing like the pictures painted in children's books, he always longed for a princess of his own. someone he could save from the proverbial tower guarded by a fearsome dragon.

he wanted someone to love him like a hero. their hero. someone who admires him for all the things he desperately projects for others to see him as worth keeping around.

zoro isn't a princess by any means. he's honestly so much more like the dragon. but also not. fearsome as he is fearful. immensely strong as he is soft hearted. a steady pillar as he is the first to crumble at sanji's touch.

and zoro never admired him like a hero. never cared about the best foot forward sanji took care to show others. in fact, he saw right through him from the very moment they met. it irritated sanji to no end how someone like that stupid marimo could read him like an open book. he took care to make sure the pages of his story that he deems undesirable were sealed away under lock and key. no one needed to know the plot points that brought him where he is. he needs to be the hero. he needs to be seen as the hero in his story.

but who exactly was he trying to save?

what kind of hero has no one to save?

it took several years for him to realize that the person he needed to save was himself. and zoro knew that.

of course he fucking did.

he never mollycoddled him. never softened the blow. always blunt and direct with him. it drove sanji up the wall once with how little tact he had. eventually, he actually started to appreciate how zoro never once sugarcoated anything with him. if he was upset, he'd show it. if he was happy, it would shine in his gaze clear as day.

and if he was in love?

well.

sanji can admit it took him much longer to realize that the love he felt for zoro was not only reciprocated but was so much deeper than what three little words could possibly convey.

there's a permanent space for zoro next to sanji, right in front of the sink, when dinner is over and the soapy water goes up to his elbows. the windows are always open in the crow's nest when sanji's watch comes right after zoro's, just enough for the smoke to escape but the smell to linger. the wordless nod zoro gives him when sanji is combing through marketplaces and dragged him along to be his pack mule. the strategically placed shoulder for him to jump off of when sanji needs to launch himself at an oncoming enemy.

the 2am fights that devolve into holding each other and apologizing without saying any words at all.

the way zoro carries him back to his bunk when he's fallen asleep in the galley writing recipes down. the kiss to his forehead. the hand that runs through his hair.

and here sanji thought his actions were the sweet dessert. for in the dead of night, when no one is watching, zoro's devotion is blinding. zoro's love shines like a beacon in a dark, stormy night.

the dragon perched on the roof of the tower, breathing fire for the lost prince to find his way home.

so sanji lets zoro comb through the pages of his story that he doesn't tell anyone else. he lets zoro guide his hand to flip to the blank pages, allows him to convince him that the parts of his story that mattered are the ones written by his own hand. and if the pages are soon filled with endless adventures of the prince and his swordsman, no one else will really understand it.

no one except zoro.

so yes. sanji always knew he loved zoro and that zoro loved him back just as fiercely or maybe even more.

even if he never heard those three little words.

what sanji doesn't know, is that when zoro is sure he is fast asleep, zoro whispers those words against sanji's ear. like a revenant prayer to a god. zoro doesn't believe in god.

but he believes in sanji. he always did.

#i cooked smth at the dead of night again hi everyone #one piece #roronoa zoro #zosan #roronoa zoro x vinsmoke sanji #niki's fics: three little words #i saw someone post about how sanji probably said i love you first and zoro never actually saying it and well... this happened #: D

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 4 ]

{☆} characters arlecchino, furina, lyney {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood {☆} word count 3.7k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ]

Fontaine was bathed in darkness, not even the moon daring to illuminate where the common man fears to walk. The streets were bleak and empty save for the constant, rhythmic ticking and clanking of machines marching on endlessly, dauntlessly wading where even the bravest dared not to venture. Not even the sharp click of the Gardes boots followed the occasional hisses of steam as they walked the barren streets.

It was haunting, and it'd been like that for days now. It showed little signs of stalling in the slightest, too. Every inch of Fontaine was practically crawling with Gardemeks– like a swarm of rats skittering about.

Arlecchino had secluded herself in the Hotel Bouffes d'ete for days at this point, waiting– biding her time. Her nails clicked against the wood as she tapped at the table in a stilted rhythm, the subtle click of the clock mixing into the clanking outside, weaving in and out of earshot as the patrols slipped by. She reached forward after a moment of thought, reaching for the white king.

She leaned back against the chaise, tilting her head just enough to catch a glimpse of a patrol of Gardemeks as they vanished behind the rows and rows of buildings. It wasn't enough to keep her attention for long, however, her features twisting in disinterest as she glanced back to the chessboard– and the letter neatly resting beside it. The seal was unmistakable and a sobering sight, demanding her attention– the soft hues of blue etched into the shape of a dragon stared back at her in a way that almost unsettled her.

She had already parsed through it's contents hundreds of times, but she was met with only vague, flowing script that only served to irritate her more then anything– it filled the page top to bottom yet managed to say nothing at all. Her hand reached out again, but instead of reaching for the letter she plucked the black rook from the board, setting it down with a soft click.

Arlecchino had all the time in the world to sit back and observe her prey, but all that time would be useless if she lacked the information to act.

And he was quite tight fisted about it, evidentially. None of her inquiries or attempts to decipher any potential codes in the letter left her empty handed. She could not act without even knowing the reason for his summons– it was almost worded like a personal affair rather then one would expect for a foreign diplomat. In truth, she'd expected a scalding report on her operatives, but it lacked any mention of anything of the sort.

She was no stranger to people masking hostility behind pretty words and compliments, not that it was ever unwarranted per se– the Fatui did not create connections through honesty and genuine kindness. They have strong armed more then their fair share of people into cooperation to the point distrust is all the Fatui are met with outside of Snezhnaya. Every word was meant to conceal the deceit, every action meant to conceal the price later paid.

So she had been..skeptical of the letter, to put it lightly. She doubted the Iudex of all people would offer a hand to the Fatui without a price attached– a trap, perhaps, meant to lure in the most powerful piece left on the board. Her eyes narrowed, reaching for a white rook and moving it to the right.

Or he was hiding something. Something that he simply couldn't risk getting out to anyone, not even the Divine themself. A tempting prize, whatever it was.

..A dangerous prize, too.

She'd considered burning the letter and forgetting it all together– the risk was great, and she couldn't risk getting caught up by whoever else the Iudex may have on his side of the board. But she could hardly pass up the challenge and the prize that he fought so hard to keep from prying eyes and ears. Even her agents came back empty handed each time. She lazily picked up a black rook, sliding the white pawn aside.

"Lyney," Arlecchino drawled, crossing one leg over the other and turning her gaze to the door as it slowly creaked open. The pale visage of Lyney stepped through, though his siblings were noticeably absent. The weariness that weighed down on his shoulders was apparent in the slightest furrow of his brows and the subtle creak of leather as he clenched his fists behind his back. "Father." He choked out, the title dragged out by the sharp inhale and shaky exhale.

He looked out of breath, she noted.

The silence that lingered after the small exchange was punctuated only by the click of another chess piece being moved. She sets aside the black rook, letting it sit among the dozen other pieces that had been wiped off the board. She can see the conviction glinting beneath the fog of exhaustion, but if he would utilize it was another matter all together.

He had seemed to make his choice quickly, at the very least.

"Our contacts and operatives within the Fortress of Meropide have gone silent– all we have is their final confirmed missive.." His voice is confident, but it is rigid as the words spill from his lips. He takes a sharp step forward, unfolding his arms from behind his back and opening his hands– the small, water stained and messily folded note catches her eye, plucking it from his palms with a half hearted interest. "They believe the Duke left the Fortress of Meropide..and that he may be coming to the Court of Fontaine."

Her eyes narrow dangerously, nearly crumpling the thin paper in her hands– yet just as quickly, she collects herself.

But she cannot get rid of the bitter taste on her tongue, lingering as she sets down the note and slides it to the side, her lips pursed into a thin line.

So the Iudex had shown one of his pieces..she tightly grasps a black rook, tipping over the white rook, letting it roll against the board.

If the Duke was involved, things were much more complicated then she expected– he would be a problem, she was certain. She couldn't blame the lamb for fearing the wolf, either. Whether her agents had been killed or captured by the man mattered little. He had his ways, and he was a force that could instill fear in even them.

Which meant the possibility that her operation was already compromised was far too real.

What had the Iudex so concerned he had gone through the trouble of bringing in the Duke and herself? The Fatui was one thing, but to specifically request one of it's Harbingers..

The Prophecy? The thought had her clenching her fist, but..no. If it were to rear it's head now, the Iudex could simply not afford to waste time on his contacts deciphering his nonsensical script– If the prophecy were to be the issue, there time would be limited to mere minutes in the worst of cases. Which meant it was worth biding his time in order to ensure absolute secrecy.

So if not the prophecy, then what?

Her next moves were..limited. She was already walking on eggshells considering her position and the reputations of the Fatui– especially with a Harbinger in the midst. If they caught wind of her operations, they'd weed out her operatives and be on guards for any snakes that lingered in their garden.

She reached for the chessboard again, picking up one of the white rooks from the board with a scowl. The sharp click as she sets down the white rook and sets aside the black pawn draws a shaky inhale from Lyney as she moves another black pawn, the dull click of the pieces drowning out the distant clinking of machines.

..A draw, perhaps.

The pieces were all falling into place– the players of this game were slowly being revealed. Whether she could secure her victory..she was unsure.

She wasn't even sure who her opponent was. Only that the Iudex himself was but another piece in their game.

Arlecchino reached for the board again, yet this time she hesitated. Perhaps she could still swipe the win from beneath them, if she played her cards right.

She would simply have to capture the king– or, if need be, let it end on a draw. Either way, she would not concede. She could not afford to concede. Down to the last piece, she would drag out this match until she was in a position to force their hand into the outcome she desired.

She stood slowly, picking up the king piece and observing it for only the briefest of moments before she set it down on the table, taking measured steps around the table and across the room. She was hunting a much more dangerous quarry today– it would be no simple runaway traitor this time.

"Do you remember the directive?" She inquired coldly, her hand lingering on the door for that long, tense moment. "..Yes, Father." Lyney faltered, taking a hesitant step back and bowing at the waist. "Then do not stray."

All that was left was the silence and click of the door shutting behind her as she disappeared down the hall, her boots clicking harshly against the floorboards. The rest of the agents knew better then to linger in her path as she stepped down into the lobby, adjusting the cuffs of her sleeves. She barely even acknowledged the Fatui agent standing at the ready by the heavyset doors, their gloves hands held out with her cloak held loosely in their palms. She quickly snagged it from them, tugging it over her board shoulders and clasping it around her throat.

With a quick tug, she brought the hood up over her head to conceal her sharp features, lifting her hand and placing a neatly folded note within their waiting hands. She had only one chance to make the right moves and secure her victory– no matter the cost.

Each piece had it's purpose.

Oft, that purpose was a bloody and horrible end– but for the grand goal of the Fatui built on the backs of the dead, it was an honor.

She didn't bother speaking a word as she dismissed them with a wave of her hand, pushing open the heavyset doors and stepping out into the barren, damp streets. The rhythmic clink and whir of Gardemeks was still distant– she needed to move. Her boots clicked and splashed in the rain soaked stone of the streets as she slithered between the buildings, ducking through the openings in the patrols.

It was almost too easy.

She tilted her head back, taking in the towering Palais Mermonia with a scowl, her hands clenched into fists. The final moves were being played– the king was within her reach, yet she felt no more confident then when she began.

The air carried a sense of unease, thick and heavy, filling her lungs until she felt her breath still in her chest– listening to the empty, bleak night that seemed so..quiet.

She'd done her fair share of research, had more then her fair share of her agents try to peer into the Iudex's office or the Archon's supposedly hidden chambers, but every attempt was a failure. She had to give them credit, they were quite elusive when they wished to be. Though now she only thought about it bitterly– this was all a risky gamble, in the end, and only time would tell if it paid off.

With minimal effort, she'd managed to pull herself to the flat, tiled roof, eyeing the massive tower peaking out of the center cautiously. At least here the wandering patrols down below weren't likely to notice her..she could hear them passing by the spot she'd been in only a few minutes ago, just beneath her. She pulled the hood further over her face, peering through the sheer darkness of the night for any oddities, but it was almost impossible to see in the dark.

Her boots clicked softly against the tiles as she approached the tower jutting out from the Palais, her hand gliding along the smooth stone, pressing against odd indents or crevices. If it was for the Archon's chambers, she doubted they made it very difficult– she'd only met the woman once, but she doubted the Iudex make it all that complex just from a brief glance. And it surprised her little when one of the stones sunk into the wall, gears whirring as the walls split open to reveal a stairwell straight into an inky black hall. Only the barest hint of light peaked under the door at the bottom, but it's occupants must have heard her, considering it went out not a moment later.

She cautiously stepped down into the small crevice, her breath visible in the bitter cold air– her shoulders tensed at the subtle sound of muffled footsteps behind the door, her vision flaring with a molten heat between her shoulder blades as she reached for the worn handle of the door. The heat of her vision was enough to just barely heat the metal, her vision flaring like a quickly building inferno.

Arlecchino was prepared for a fight, if it came down to it.

The door creaked as she pressed against it, shoving it open with a grunt of effort and surveying the room with narrowed eyes and a biting remark on the tip of her tongue– the lavish opulence was expected, she supposed, but the lack of the towering figure of the Iudex was not.

Yet before she could get a word in or even take in her surroundings properly, the light flickered back on and she had to squeeze her eyes shut with a hiss at the sudden brightness. She could hear the door being shoved closed behind her, the hurried footsteps retreating just as quickly as her eyes adjusted to the light.

..This was a joke, wasn't it? It had to be.

She'd expected the Iudex, perhaps even the Duke if she'd been unlucky, not the Hydro Archon. She had half the mind to test her worth as an Archon then and there, her temper flaring like an uncontrollable blaze, barely kept at bay. It took all her self control to force herself to smile politely at the woman rather then snarl.

"Miss Furina," She sneered beneath her hood, x shaped pupils locked onto the startled, trembling Archon with thinly veiled contempt. "What a..pleasant surprise. You'll have to forgive my manners, I assumed I was meeting with the Iudex." She observed her body language carefully– the way her eyes darted about like a frightened rabbit seeking escape, the slightest tremble of her lips..

Arlecchino opened her mouth to offer another scathing remark, but her jaw audibly clicked shut as her entire body seemed to lock up. Even her vision went cold against her back, a chilling feeling creeping up her spine as someone, or something, crept up behind her. Their footsteps were almost silent, the slight rustling of their clothes the only thing she could hear over her heart pounding against her ribcage.

Arlecchino had always prided herself on being on the other end of that sensation– she was the monster, and her target was the prey frozen like a deer between the hunters crosshair.

It was a chilling feeling to have the dynamic shifted on it's head.

She couldn't even swallow, her jaw clenched so hard she could hear it creak as she tried to reason with her quickly splintering mind– a futile effort, her joints locking up almost painfully. Black spots were quickly swallowing her vision from the lack of air in her lungs, the sound of shuffling behind her barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

For a moment – a moment too long to have only lasted the seconds that it did, yet so quick it gave her whiplash – she thought she would hit the floor dead before she could even glimpse her assailant.

And then it was gone. She came crashing back into reality with a startled inhale, her lungs burning and her knees nearly buckling under her. The instinct to lash out and kill whoever had done it was intense, yet she couldn't bring herself to move even a finger– it would be so easy to twist around and ignite them with searing flames, but her feet were rooted in place.

She almost didn't notice the surprisingly gentle hands unclasping her cloak, tugging it off her shoulders, if not for the sheer intensity of the presence still lingering behind her. Her mind was still fractured, struggling to right itself after the ordeal, and it had her seething.

"..Are you certain you held back enough?" Furina croaked, the normally soft lilt raspy and almost hoarse. "Not– not that I doubt your capability, most Divine!"

Arlecchino felt her nails dig harshly into her palms, heat swelling beneath her skin– Divine? Had she lost her mind? The Divine was..

The Divine was upon their throne where they belonged. She'd seen them!

"Hm. Well, maybe? Sorry, I didn't think it'd affect you too." Their voice was sickeningly soft as they stepped around her like she wasn't even there, focusing their attention on the Archon who seemed more then delighted about it. "What gave you that impression, most Divine? Aha, I..was completely unaffected, as you can see! Perfectly fine."

Furina let out a small squeak when they pinched her cheek, but the almost affectionate smile that tugged at their lips revealed the lack of malice behind the action.

"You're a bad liar, Furina. You might want to sit down..please?" They didn't take her protests for an answer, gently pushing her to sit on the bed before abruptly turning to face Arlecchino once more, a forced smile on their lips. "Oh, good, you're..uh, not dead. That's good. I thought I fried your brain. Sorry?"

..Had she hit her head on the way here? The Divine should still be on their throne, yet she couldn't shake the weight of their stare– it felt tangible. She felt like she was standing face to face with the stars– galaxies and constellations bearing down upon her.

She grit her teeth and clenched her hands until she felt the sting of her nails against her palms, grounding herself in the pain through the sheer overwhelming nature of their existence.

"You.." She croaks, reaching out with a shaky hand and grabbing them by the collar of their shirt, lifting them up until their feet left the floor– she pays no mind to the startled protests of the Archon. Arlecchino would crush her like a bug before she even got the chance to intervene and they both knew it. "You shouldn't exist– you aren't them, and yet you..you're the imposter, aren't you?" Her grip tightens yet they face her without an ounce of fear, meeting her unyielding glare with a pondering look.

Arlecchino wanted to make them bleed just to see if she could, the urge to sink her teeth into skin welling up in her chest to the point she visibly snarled, her mask of politeness long . "You're the imposter." Her expression falls for a moment before she schools it into one of apathy, setting them back down and holding them there for a moment, finally releasing them after a tense moment. "Or you were supposed to be."

Hers brows furrow– she wants to demand answers, to throttle them for damning them to being nothing more then dolls for the supposed Divine to break at their whim, but none of the words come to her.

"..Why now? The current Divine has been in power for years, yet you descend now?" Her shoulders tensed, lips pursed into a thin line– it's impossible to ignore the truth that lay before her. The Divine is a fraud and this..imposter is the true Divine. How many years had they been in power, now? How many years were they waiting? Why did they wait? Was the suffering of Teyvat not enough? Was the blood that painted the steps of their stolen throne not enough?

She'd personally been on the wrong end of the Divine's wrath– she wonders..had they watched? Had they seen the cruel hand of their imposter and turned their back on Teyvat?

"I.." They hesitated. It made her seethe, her hands clenching into fists at her sides– her vision flickered, flames swelling within it's casing just to be smothered by the presence of the Divine. But once that spark had been lit, she refused to let it go out. "I didn't know."

The answer does not satisfy her. There is an itch beneath her skin that she cannot scratch, a fire that burns in her chest so hot it scorches even herself.

"And what about now? Are you content to cower like prey in the safety of the Palais Mermonia?" She snapped, taking a step forward, her brows furrowed and her glare intense– she can see the slightest bit of worry in their eyes. She revels in it. "Will you let them use your acolytes like pawns? How many more need to be broken on the steps to your throne before you act?"

Again, her vision flares and dims– it refuses to be used against the Divine that created it.

"Have you no answer?"

The room is silent. They do not speak and neither does she.

Even the world itself seems to quiet in the face of her accusations, fury boiling to the surface so hot it incinerated all it touched.

"I will kill them myself."

Their words are quiet, but they are not soft– there is a vindictive, searing anger that explodes out like dying stars within their eyes. The sight of constellations replaced by a void that would not be . The smell of ichor grows stronger– to the point she feels almost lightheaded.

"..I am aware that I have failed in preventing this, but I had no choice in the matter. Still," They muse, their voice like the tolling of bells. A solemn melody that stills the swelling fury burning in her chest, if only for a moment. "I will rectify it– I will tear down their throne of lies and let not even the earth tarnish itself by burying their corpse among it's soil."

They pause for a moment, holding out their hand– scarred and bandaged by the weapons of the devout, yet still they take upon the burden of dirtying their hands to save those who did not save them.

"Do you trust me, Arlecchino?"

Did she?

"Will you help me?"

She exhales heavily, meeting the starry iris' of the Divine with a scowl still tugging at her lips. Arlecchino trusted no one but herself.

"..Yes."

#sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #self aware genshin impact #fic tag #imposter au #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #arlecchino #lyney #furina #you do NOT wanna know what i got put thru writing this fic #trying 2 find out where arle was in the few times we DO see her and going down a rabbit hole of fuck fontaine and its layout actually! #I spent like 3 hours looking it up and checking in game it gives me a migraine thinking abt it. ew #anyway trying to write a really smart character is surprisingly difficult when ur as dumb as rocks #also used an actual chess match for this and gave myself an even worse migraine trying 2 make sure i didnt repeat moves or smth #furina doesnt get a spotlight yet just imagine her sitting in the corner trembling like a wet kitten you found on the side of the road #arlecchino goes thru a crisis more at 11 #shes a tired single dad shes isnt getting paid enough for this okay #hands u a fic over half the length of the other THREE PARTS #ehe :] #is arle actually on ur side??? is she gonna double cross u???? who knows!!!!! #shes unpredictable she might stab u for funsies #anyway im gonna go nap in a ditch now this took SO LONGGGGG OH MY G-D #also just think acolytes who arent buddy buddy w reader and even resent them is so tasty #bc how r they supposed 2 know reader was a human vibing 5 minutes before their got eebied 2 teyvat.. #reader gotta roll up their sleeves and get 2 WORK sometimes murder IS okay #they gotta fix some shit around here and that means committing several crimes all at once. sometimes more #a group can be g-d (just got here) their dragon (neuvi) their cat (archon) their dog (wrio) and their wolf (arle)

[eshtaresht]

thinking about this underrated panel (id in alt) that comes just before the couch scene

vash, in his comfort pose (bent knees, hugging himself, toes up), being loud and over the top with his speach, saying they should get on the ship as if that would somehow save wolfwood. forcing this facade because he can't do anything, he couldn't do a single thing since the moment he touched wolfwood and knew he was dying. the denial levels are through the roof and he's aware

wolfwood's absolutely devastated but calm expression. because he knows exactly why vash acts this way and he's so so sorry he has to die on him. but he can't stop it. he's already a dead man walking, but he will spend his last minutes pretending he's not

both don't say it. they never acknowledge that wolfwood is in fact dying out loud. they both say literally anything else and joke and bicker in the next panels, because they already know what's going to happen after they have this drink. so instead, they pretend it's going to be just a normal hangout. just so they don't have to say goodbye

#every time I see vash in his comfort pose my heart breaks but in this panel especially #I reread this volume like at least three times for my fic and I've transcended pain at this point #trigun #trigun spoilers #trigun maximum spoilers #trigun maximum #trimax #vash the stampede #nicholas d. wolfwood #vashwood

[firefirefruit]

Steel in Her Veins | Table of Contents

Read On: AO3

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Synopsis: Your name is Kozuki Raya, but no one calls you by that name anymore. Using the alias of Tenguyama Raya as advised by your grandfather, you are the descendant of the legendary swordsmith Kotetsu and a distant friend of the Shimotsuki clan. Following in your ancestor’s footsteps, you dedicate your life to the mastery of sword crafting, wielding, and learning. With much of your life being taught by gramps Sukiyaki, you realise that the dormant power, ancient knowledge and ancestral secrets that thrum within your veins start to play a very important role in the way the future world is shaped. Meeting the Straw Hats was not written anywhere within your blueprints, but – most importantly - meeting Roronoa Zoro wasn’t supposed to change the trajectory of your life either.

Table of Contents:

Prologue

Chapter One: What Happens When a Swordsman Meets a Swordsmith?

Chapter Two: All Goop and No Blades

Chapter Three: The Golden Medallion

Chapter Four: A Cyborg, A Skeleton and A Lot of Limbs Walk Into A Shop…

Chapter Five: Oh, Ohara...

Chapter Six: It's Awful, Do It Again.

Chapter Seven: BWING!

Chapter Eight: The One-Eyed Marimooo

Chapter Nine: The Niece of Oden

Chapter Ten: Fight, Flight, Freeze

Chapter Eleven: The Bushido Code

Chapter Twelve: Read Me, But Don't Weep

Chapter Thirteen: A Line in the Sand

Chapter Fourteen: Enigma

Chapter Fifteen: Did You Watch Your Spine Run Away from You, Too?

Chapter Sixteen: Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Chapter Seventeen: Onigiri

Chapter Eighteen: Burn, Demon, Burn

Chapter Nineteen: Daemgar

Chapter Twenty: Minks and Vivre Cards

Chapter Twenty-One: Polar Twwwang

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Doctor Just Pinched Me

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Children of the Beyond

Chapter Twenty-Four: You Want to Come Over and Touch Me, Too?

Chapter Twenty-Five: One More Sword

Chapter Twenty-Six: Simple. Practical. Easy

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alcohol. Love It or Hate It

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sugar and Spice and Everything... Sooty

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stupid Fucking Plan

Chapter Thirty: Fuck You, Too.

Chapter Thirty-One: Rubber

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Thorned

Chapter Thirty-Three: Sharp Metal, Be Damned

Chapter Thirty-Four: Aragnus

Chapter Thirty-Five: A Surly Monster

#one piece #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #nami #zoro #one piece luffy #luffy #monkey d luffy #one piece ace #straw hat pirates #usopp #sanji #tony tony chopper #nico robin #straw hat luffy #one piece fanfiction #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #op fanfic #op fandom #female reader x zoro #zoro x female reader #zoro x fem reader #three sword style #zoro roronoa #zoro rorono x you #zoro roronoa x y/n #straw hats #one piece nami

[hauntinghyrule]

Working on fics set during the manga time frame like...

Do I allude to them having backpacks to carry their camping gear / Vio's book / weapons and tools they aren't using, because that makes logical sense (even though we never see them having bags in canon)?

Do I do what canon does and handwave it, allowing items to disappear and reappear without explanation as necessary?

Do I take this one panel as indication that their hats are canonically bags of holding and that's where they keep all their stuff when not in use???

#anyway I'm working on some more of those prompts people sent in! :D #probably going with option one or two because option three is a bit too goofy for the tone of the fic I'm currently working on xD #but this is something I think about every time #four swords #blue link

[lilliancdoodles]

They need more love

#qsmp #lcchats #qsmp fit #fitmc #qsmp richarlyson #of these three one is a one shot and its a confession fitpac fic #I don't think richas and fit even have a conversation (I read it just a while ago) #I favorited this tag just so i can check in on it once in a while #I really hope we get more fit and richas interactions when the eggs wake up again... #I have that one ss of Richas's sign calling fit 'PA? TIO? FIT!!! >:D' and I think about it way too much

[cupophrogs]

Take your time. But can we have more of rich and Charles angst or fluff. Maybe both. These two are just so adorable. This makes my heart melt

“Waste of Time”

He may not have been old enough to remember, but if Drew got anything form Rich, it was his astounding lack of self-preservation.

Clear ver.

Fic I got the idea from!

#old gay men #<3 #i love them so dearly #inspired by that fic where Dogday got a cut on his hand and said that stitching it was a “waste of time” #I'll see if I can find it #ugh I NEED to give them a happy ending #I'll die if I don't #I swear #some good ol' hurt/comfort #phrart #art #the three d’s #poppy playtime #rich poppy playtime #richard m welldam #ah the classic square x circle troupe #my favourite #charles poppy playtime #charles welldam

[rainboneish]

i’m a firm believer in Luffy not having qualms about killing his enemies but there is just something so delicious about the idea of Robin and Zoro being his demons…

Zoro, who used to kill for a living, brutally if his reputation of Demon of the east blue is to be believed, who has been lonely since kuina’s death, being his captain’s guard dog and best friend, willing to go into hell for him and bring a bit of hell into the world in turn… i love bloodthirsty Zoro, who uses his blades on their enemies and offers himself as Luffy’s sword as well

Robin, called the Devil Child since she was eight years old, through no fault of her own, having had to acquire the skill set to go with that name just to survive to adulthood, unable to trust or feel safe till she is fully accepted by the straw hats led by Luffy, finally able to let her soft side flourish but never above using everything she learned Before for the boy/man who gave her Everything

And luffy, the “son of the devil” as zoro jokingly called him at the Beginning, as many people would call him based on who his father is, carrying the will of D, the will of a wild liberator God from the hidden past, who burns as bright as the sun

there is just something about a bond between the Captain, his right sword arm and his spy master, who view him as both a younger sibling and a leader/savior they would do anything for, who both understand him without talking

#melodramatic ramblings #the platonic bond between those three has so much potential #i know there is a fic like that in my ao3 bookmarks #just way better written than this #one piece #nico robin #roronoa zoro #monkey d luffy #straw hat pirates #monkey d luffy & nico robin #monkey d luffy & roronoa zoro #luffy & zoro & robin #one piece meta

[cheriepits]

cold coffee | Roommate!Vash

ao3. part 4. we’re the new romantics, baby. masterlist. 

“So,” he pauses, “should I Wolfwood this?”

“You don’t have to. We all know that Nico just wanted his tits out,” you snort, dragging the pencil to outline his leg. In a way, you’re grateful for your direction if only to save a bit of paper; because Vash moves his hands.

i.

“Hey,” Vash calls out to you softly. “Do you wanna hear Nai’s newest composition?”

You’re still watching the pancakes bubble when he hops off the counter to lean against you, hip to hip.

“Huh?” you finally respond, finishing off the last batch. “Yeah, sure.” He presses the play button, and out comes a slow, soft melody. Vash sets the phone down and turns to you, voice playful, “C’mon, it’s quite good.”

He takes your hand as you stand dumbfounded. “Let’s not waste it, love. Come dance with me.”  

“I felt braver the last time you asked me this,” you say teasingly, yet you coil your fingers through his anyway.

“Oh,” he breathes, “is the baby giraffe scared?”

“No,” you huff, “baby giraffe is fine.” You let the hand resting on his shoulder curl around his neck, thumb running slow along his nape. The last thing you see before you bury your head into his chest is his amused smile.

He still smells like sun, like your first day.

Nai’s song has a lightness to it now, with high, bright notes, shedding off an earlier sense of longing. It is nice, you reckon.

“I would never have taken your brother to be the sentimental type,” you murmur, cheek against collarbone. Of all the things you’ve heard about Nai—executive, stern older brother type, nickname: Knives—a romantic was not one of them.

“Oh, he is so the sentimental type….” Vash says, brushing his lips against the crown of your head. “And the protective type,” he continues, swaying you gently. “And the possessive type….” At this, he wriggles the fingers on your waist, and you laugh. He lets your grip fall away just for you to wrap both arms around him. Your roommate mirrors you, palms soothing at your sides.

You finish the song this way—close, breathing small breaths on his pulse point—

Noting the way his heart thunders.

(The pancakes have cooled, but you still shoo away his hands when he starts to move them to the table. You pick a stem from the vase of pea flowers, rinsing them clean.

“Wait,” you say, “wait.” Carefully, you place a small bloom onto each plate.)

ii.

You bring up anatomy practice once, disclosing that it’s been a while and that you’re working towards realism more and more these days.

Wolfwood immediately volunteers as a model, unprompted, and Vash, to his left, protests.

“You’ve already seen these babies,” he gestures toward the obscene amount of skin exposed by his button-down, “what more about the rest?”

“Ey, Wolfwood!” Vash jabs his side harshly. “No one wants to see that!”

In the same breath, you quip, “Actually, next Saturday would work.”

They both look at you; one slack-jawed, the other equipped with a wolfish grin.

iii.

It ends up like this: the windows open, Wolfwood smoking in his seat. He’s shirtless, wearing only a silver cross around his neck and black linen pants cropped at his ankles.

“You getting all of this?” His eyes flit over to you, maintaining his posture outside of the occasional cigarette drag.

“Yup,” you respond. Your brows furrowed in concentration to get the light just right, to make sure his body doesn’t look hyperextended, but most of all, to do justice to his skin. Nico is beautiful, all corded muscles under deep caramel. He’s got freckles on his face and along his chest that blend a little too well with the rest of him, but you note them anyway—tiny, imperceptible dots on canvas.

You barely hear from Vash this afternoon; you figure that he’s too engrossed in the new video game he and Meryl are playing, but he looks over often enough with big, aquamarine blue eyes that look like the most delicate glass under the sun.

iv.

“I want to draw you.” There’s a pout in your voice. You watch his shoulders tense before they shake from laughter, a sheepish smile appearing on his face.

“Didn’t you get enough practice with Nico?”

No, you think.

“I wanted you, Vash.” There’s that damn pout in your voice again.

You hope to God it works. And it does—with the way he peels himself off the couch, padding lightly towards the ill-balanced stool in front of your canvas. You forgo the paint this time, lifting the easel to the left and picking up your drawing pad off the floor. You itch to get your hands on graphite again; like soot, on the pads of your fingers; like soot, along the soft swell of your palm. Thank you, Vash, you say, a little delicately. He slumps forward, straddling the seat and planting both palms between his thighs, fingers, flesh and metal, curled over the lip of the seat.

The back of his shirt has ridden, line marks to the beginning of deep scars appearing along the trim line of his waist. You’ve caught glimpses of them before, from his short sleeves, his workout clothes, when he stretches, reaching for the top shelves. Like usual, your eyes zone in on them like a string pulled taunt. You’re hungry in a different way, you think. You want your hands on him. You settle for this: starting from a lower vantage point, scar-first.

Vash notices. “I know…I’m not the prettiest.” He’s apologetic. For what?

“You’re plenty—” gorgeous, you want to say. You clear your throat, “You have nothing to worry about, Vash…” You look up to meet his eyes and shoot him a small smile.

“So,” he pauses, “should I Wolfwood this?”

“You don’t have to. We all know that Nico just wanted his tits out,” you snort, dragging the pencil to outline his leg. In a way, you’re grateful for your direction if only to save a bit of paper; because Vash moves his hands. Vash moves his shirt up and up until it’s over his head, mussing up his hair, and tossed aside. Vash moves his hands—behind him, pressing his chest forward.

“Like this?” he asks, but you don’t hear him. Your heart is in your throat. It booms everywhere.

You know deep in your gut that there’s a story here. Every scar tissue, every cruel imperfection rooted into his body. You want to weep, your bones suddenly heavy. You can’t imagine what it must have been for him.

“Oh, Vash—” you run towards him, notebook forgotten, tool clattering on the floor. “Sweetheart…who did this to you?” You take his face in your hands, but your gaze is trained over the poorly-healed wound too too close to his heart. An anguished noise leaves you, and before you know it, your vision blurs, barely seeing the way his lips move to comfort you.

“Hey, hey,” Vash utters, like the beginning of a prayer. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m alright. You know this.”

You have me. You have me, he incants. One hand wraps around your wrist while the other cups your cheek. Tears catch at his fingers from where he holds you, and you’re piteously hiccuping when he tries to joke.

“I’d have preferred, you know, maybe tears of joy over seeing me nearly naked…” he drawls, biting his lip. He tilts his head in your grasp to press his lips into your palm. “I’m sorry I made you upset. Let’s settle down over there and let me get you some water, yeah?”

He tries to move, but you keep him still. “Vash.” Your throat feels raw just saying it. Your vision clears, and you see him—his open, trusting eyes, the resolute line of his mouth. The still mussed hair. You remember his flowers and the cold coffees he drinks when he gets home, not having had the time to do so at the clinic. You remember the easy way he takes care of Wolfwood and Meryl, how he makes those hangover cures and buys favorite teas.

You watch the sun cast a shadow on half of his face, but the luster of his lips stays. Fuck it, you think to yourself.

v.

You kiss him, this boy who gives. He roots.

#wake up besties there's a new roommate vash #roommate!vash #bash.wr #bash.wr.coldcoffee #don't even talk to me about the massive writer's block i've had the past three weeks #vash x reader #vash the stampede x reader #trigun stampede #trigun fic #nicholas d. wolfwood #meryl stryfe #million knives #nai #trigun au #vash fanfiction #vash the stampede fanfiction #vash x you

[chaoticnerdsstuff]

Okay but why ship wars if poly exist?

#Hello Enid has two hands #honestly i wanna read a fic about them tbh #also multishipping exist i dunno why people are mad over ships in general😭😭 #enid and yoko making a competition who'd be able to woo Wednesday first #ofc enid and yoko already would be like a couple #we dont want a messy love triangle #Only for Wednesday to ask both of them out by a grave or something #WOW IT'S THREE AM #LMFAOOO THIS IS GOING TO BITE MY ASS TOMORROW HUH? #anyways #I dunno the ship name #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #yoko tanaka #wenclair #claroko? #I seriously dont know the ship names #BUT THEY'RE GAY THATS THE WHAT I WANTED TO SAY #yeah :D #rambles

[merakiui]

yandere!Azul thought 3: the line between employer and employee blurs as an all-consuming infatuation spells trouble for you. 

(cw: yandere, female reader, nsfw/suggestive themes, office au, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping/captivity, power imbalance, workplace misconduct/harassment, obsession, implied murder/death, brief descriptions of blood, suicide mention, pregnancy mentions, violence, thalassophobia, misogyny/sexism, alcohol consumption/intoxication, non-consensual photography, non-consensual touches/kisses)

Someone once compared you to a bird with splintered wings. Cowardly and flightless, yet uniquely intriguing nonetheless—an earthly specimen who remains caged by old, gnarled roots and a compliant temperament. Despite all of the darkness that has cropped up in your life, you try (and fail) and try again until, eventually, you succeed. And though you lack wings and may be fearful of every gruesome thing that lurks in both nightmares and reality, you find creative ways to work around the disturbances in your life. Some are easier to deal with than others, but you wish you wouldn’t have to endure a challenge every single day at work. 

Though your job wouldn’t really qualify as ‘work’ if it was devoid of complications. 

Exhibit A: Floyd Leech—your spontaneous coworker who can’t sit still for the life of him, always waltzing through the office in search of his next unfortunate plaything. It just so happens that he’s enjoyed using you as his means of entertainment for the past few weeks, for he always manages to find you even when it’s a busy day. No one can punish him for procrastination because, by some annoyingly consistent miracle, he always has his work finished before the deadline. Every spreadsheet analyzed, every paper filed, every client directed to Mr. Ashengrotto. He works in bursts of energy and will only ever complete his tasks for the day if he’s feeling it. 

As a result of his unpredictability, you’ve had to plan around him, lest he interrupt your carefully crafted schedule with his antics. If only Jade would keep his brother on a tighter leash. If only your boss would take the time to properly scold him. If only he wasn’t so shameless when it came to pestering you. Everyone has some sort of persona they adopt while in a professional setting, but this doesn’t apply to Floyd. No matter what environment he’s placed in, he acts in the same noisy fashion, undeterred by the strange looks or annoyed huffs that are boldly directed his way.

“So you were in here after all.” He towers over you, nearly pinning you to the wall like a butterfly on an entomologist’s board. His expression may be dark, but there is light in his eyes. You know at once that he’s here to tease you, which eases some of the tension in your shoulders. At least he won’t threaten you today. Your salary and employment are always things he holds over your head despite not being your boss, and you’re inclined to bow to him because of the harsh reality that’s perpetuated the office for ages now. No one would believe you if you said anything, so why bother? “Aren’t you supposed to be working, shrimpy?”

Had this been your first day in the office, you might have shrunk in surprise, cowed into submission by his forthrightness. But you’re used to this behavior; it’s to be expected with the unpredictable force that is Floyd Leech. He says and does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and has no regard for those who receive his ridicule. 

You indicate the tea you had prepared for your boss. “This was for Mr. Ashengrotto, but since you’re here you’re more than welcome to have it. I’ll just make another.”

Floyd takes the cup from you, removes the lid, and fixes the rosy liquid with an intense stare. You’re counting every second that passes, each moment so taut it seems to stretch into infinity. Eventually Floyd releases a disgruntled huff and takes a measured step away from you. 

“Stupid.” The playground insult barely reaches your ears and you have no chance to react before he jerks his arm forward and the tepid beverage sloshes out of the paper cup, soaking into your white blouse and leaving a dark, tea-scented stain in the aftermath. “I’m not feeling tea today. You should’ve known that.”

He crushes the cup in a resolute fist and then tosses it into the trash, a victorious smirk adorning his face when he lands his shot. Then he glances back at you, drinking in your frozen stupor with childish glee. 

“I... I’m sorry,” you mutter, touching the wet spot with a trembling hand. “I’ll do better next time.”

Floyd’s cruel chuckle breaks through the static of bygone memories, effectively halting any recollections of the past before they can tear into you with razored teeth. “No need to look so down, shrimpy. It’s not like it burned you. You’ll live.”

“You’re right.” You know you have to look at him, or else he’ll pick up on your apprehension and it’ll incite more trouble. So you lift your head like a robot on rusted hinges and grin through the shame. “I’ll live.”

“By the way, that bra you’re wearing is ugly. You should wear something sexier next time,” he calls out to you as he exits, humming an upbeat tune. “Otherwise no guy’s gonna wanna stick it in you.”

“Hah. Yeah...”

Brushing the offhand insult away, you grab at your shirt to analyze the damage. There’s an extra set of clothes in your car. Perhaps you can rush there, change, and then return before your boss realizes the delay. But will there be enough time? You were supposed to be back with his tea by now and he’s probably wondering what’s taking you so long. 

The solution to Exhibit A: Accept everything that comes your way. And when a smile annoys him, don’t react at all. In the end, it looks like a lose-lose situation when you juggle his mood swings. 

With a defeated sigh, you reach for a fistful of napkins and pat down your blouse in an effort to minimize the spreading liquid. Pathetic—that’s what the display is reminiscent of. A sad, feeble attempt of desperately trying and failing to pick up the pieces of your fractured morning.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, they do. 

“Oh dear. What a waste of perfectly good tea.”  

Exhibit B: Jade Leech—Floyd’s twin brother and Mr. Ashengrotto’s most trusted secretary. You take the title of second place and are only ever tasked with little things. It’s Jade who handles the bigger, more important aspects of secretary. If anything, you’ve been demoted from a diligent employee who actually completed real work to a mere errand runner for Mr. Ashengrotto and Jade. Not only does that twist the knife deeper into your pride, it forces you to come to terms with your own useless nature. Anyone can run errands. You’re just here because your boss chooses to keep you around due to your past achievements within the company, which have marked you as a shining example of an honest worker. If it weren’t for that, you’re certain he would have cast you aside the moment he took on the role of CEO.

Jade isn’t as bad as Floyd, but if you put both of them on a scale their peskiness would amount to equal weight. You hate Floyd’s degrading remarks, but you despise the pity in Jade’s voice more than anything else. You’ve never really cracked the code to dealing with Jade. Just how can you possibly interact with someone who only ever smiles and treats everyone with respect even if all of his words are secretly sharp? How do you combat faux kindness?

“I’m going to change, so please excuse me.” You try to move past him, but he remains in the doorway, casting an intimidating shadow over you. “If you would excuse me...”

He gazes down at you, eyes flicking from the stain to the outline of your now visible bra and then back up to your face. “Azul sent me to fetch you. You’ve yet to return with the tea he asked for—” Jade pauses to check the time on his luxury watch— “ten minutes ago. I believe it shouldn’t take that long to prepare a cup of tea.”

“I spilled it and was in the process of brewing another, but I’d like to change out of my blouse first. I don’t want Mr. Ashengrotto to see my mistake.”

“An unkempt appearance suggests an unprofessional mindset. You would indeed do well to change.” He finally steps to the side, allowing you passage. Before you leave, however, he shrugs his blazer off and holds it out to you. “I shall brew a new cup and bring it to him in your stead.”

You almost reach for the jacket, but you stop yourself when you remember what he’s like. As polite as he may seem, Jade will want something in return for aiding you. You’re already indebted to him for running the errand you were meant to complete, so having to owe him twice doesn’t sound very appealing. 

“I’ll be okay. Thank you, though.”

“I insist,” he says with a patient smile. “You can return it to me once you’ve changed.”

“I appreciate it, but I don’t need it.”

“Then is it safe to assume you’re content with others looking at you in your current state?” He takes a step towards you, his body blocking the doorway once again. The light from the hallway frames his figure in an oversized halo, bright and overbearing. When he places his palm on the damp stain on your chest, you’re reminded that he is far from an angel. “It’s not very professional. Our boss would not approve of such...inappropriate distractions.”

Before he can grope you outright, you stumble away from him, disgust flashing in your disbelieving stare. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” you snap, snatching his blazer and stuffing your arms through the sleeves. You make sure to button it all the way until the stain and your bra are no longer visible. “There. I took it. Are you happy?”

“Immensely.” As you shuffle past him, Jade ventures deeper into the room and opens a cabinet containing various tins of tea. “Next time, do take caution not to spill.”

Your mouth twitches, but you keep your remarks to yourself as you depart. A creeping revulsion prickles your skin. Jade’s cologne clings to his blazer, a fine scent that reminds you of fancy dinners and glittering sports cars—materialistic opulence that whisks you into another world entirely. The thought of smelling like him for the rest of the day is unbearable, so you pick up your pace as you make a beeline for the elevator and, after descending the floors, the parking garage.

The solution to Exhibit B: It lies in your avoidance of Jade. If you happen to run into him, it’s best not to trap yourself in any strange situations.

But knowing that Jade is cut from the same cloth as Floyd, you’re certain his own unpredictability will sour that solution at once.

Your boss, the marvelous, hardworking, benevolent Azul Ashengrotto, does not spare you of the workload in the following weeks. The company has taken on another important project, which has proved to be a major monetary investment and a time commitment. Jade conveniently informed Mr. Ashengrotto of your willingness to sit in his place and take notes for every meeting.

At least this is one of the two favors you owe him and it isn’t even that difficult to complete. It’s tedious and you’d rather be on phone duty than suffer through boring meetings, but you’re relieved to be getting the first favor out of the way. When you had returned Jade’s blazer to him, he’d held it as if it was radioactive filth—as if the gentle wash cycle you put it through wasn’t enough to erase traces of you from the fabric. You’re not sure why you even bother sometimes. Jade isn’t your friend; you’re not sure you could consider him an acquaintance either. But you couldn’t just leave his blazer sitting in the back of your car, so you resolved to clean it so that he was spared of the chore.

Perhaps you should have returned it as it was. Or maybe, if you really wanted petty revenge, you could have dirtied it a little. Perhaps that would earn Jade’s ire, but it would satisfy your growing hatred of him and this horrible workplace. The more you consider it, the more you realize just how futile resistance and revenge are. If you offend Jade, you’ll be offending Floyd and then Mr. Ashengrotto, and then your entire employment will be on the line because you’re not a worthy pawn on your boss’s corporate chessboard. So you’ll just have to imagine these possibilities and enjoy all of the candy-coated revenge in your sweetest dreams.

“And that concludes my reading of the meeting minutes,” you announce, setting the stack of papers on Mr. Ashengrotto’s desk. “If Jade wishes to see them, please forward them to him for his perusal.”

“Will do.” He picks the stack up and rifles through a few sheets at random. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If that’s all, I’ll return to my—”

“One moment.” He withdraws a folder from the cabinet in his desk and opens it to reveal sheets of paper with colorful prints. “I’d like to ask your opinion on these logos. One of them will be used by our marketing team, but I’m not sure which is best.”

My opinion? Does it matter? you almost ask, but instead you say, “They look very nice. I like this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“The colors and composition are aesthetically pleasing and easy on the eyes.”

“Anyone can see that this logo is superior and will therefore sell. But what’s your honest opinion on it?”

You stare at the pale seashell with the word ‘Mostro’ spelled beneath it in dancing cursive and hum thoughtfully.

“The minimalistic design—”

“No.” His expression softens when you meet his gaze. “I’m referring to your thoughts. Not as an employee. Not as a consumer. I want to hear what (Name) thinks.”

Do people actually like these designs nowadays? If you were bold, you might have actually verbalized that question. But instead you can only offer your most intelligent, “Um,” and a weak shoulder shrug.

Mr. Ashengrotto leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “I’m curious and would like to hear your feedback.” He senses your apprehension and chuckles. “I won’t take any offense, so please feel free to be as brutally honest as you’d like. And while you’re at it, have a seat. I’m in no rush to send you away.”

You’re so used to balancing Floyd’s nonsense and being outshined by Jade’s brilliance that you often forget how kind your boss usually is. At least he’s not as vicious as the troublesome twins. Part of you wonders if he ever notices their treatment of you. Does anyone in the office notice it? Do they see how much you struggle to get by in this setting? Maybe they do and have chosen to keep their lips sealed. Why would they care anyway?

You pull a chair up to his desk and lower into it, awkwardly glancing at the octopus paperweight sitting atop a stack of files. Its tentacles writhe in a curling mass of obsidian, full of life and energy. Mr. Ashengrotto follows your wavering gaze and raises a brow.

“If I’m allowed to say anything,” you say slowly, testing the waters, “I think your paperweight is more appealing than the logo.”

An amused breath slips past his lips. “Is that so?”

“I think something’s lacking in the design. It just feels too plain and boring.”

“Do you have any suggestions that would make it more eye-catching?”

“What if there was an octopus living inside the shell? Most people look at shells and expect to see a snail or a crab or some other animal living inside it, right? What if the logo consisted of that same shell with an octopus emerging from the shadows and its tentacles were twisting into the letters to spell ‘Mostro’?”

“Hm.” He surveys the paperweight and then the design variations on the page, humming in contemplation. “It doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Maybe it is,” you blurt. “A bad idea, I mean. It’s probably not the best. I don’t know. I just thought it would look cool…”

“You’re quick to invalidate your ideas.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. Your opinions are very valuable. Had it not been for your creative mind, I wouldn’t be considering these designs from another angle. There are no bad ideas here. Please take care to remember that.”

“I will.” You rise from your seat. “If that’s all you need, I’ll return to my work.”

He nods, shutting the folder and tucking it away in its rightful place. “That will be all.”

On your way to the door, you debate the pros and cons of telling your boss about the twins’ behavior. On one hand, you might be able to score some sort of change. On the other, you could just be making more trouble for yourself. The twins wouldn’t like it if you snitched and you’re certain they’d become even more of a nuisance than they already are if they learned of your loose lips.

Your mouth moves without meaning to and once the inquiry is out in the open there’s nothing you can do to take it back.

“If an employee was being harassed and they came to you about it, what would you do?”

You refuse to look at him, so you glare holes into an abstract painting of a warped clock-bird hybrid as you await his response. A low thrum starts in your chest, and you straighten your posture to regain some of your diminished confidence.

“Why do you ask?” And then he adds in a serious tone, “Is there someone you know of who’s currently being harassed?”

“N-No.” You swallow a lump of nerves, unable to spend another second in this stifling room. The walls are too small—too bland and unassuming. You’ve been shoved in a professional box and there’s no way out, and you can already imagine the twins’ mocking laughter as they stand on the other side, peering in to witness your struggle. “No one at all. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Before he can utter another word, you’re pushing the door open and slipping out into the serene hallway, greedily inhaling a mouthful of oxygen once the door shuts behind you. The familiar ringing from phones and the click-clacking of fingers on keyboards brings you back to reality. Those noises remind you of the busy atmosphere within the office—a place where you can lose yourself in the mundane hustle and bustle of work.

It isn’t until you sit at your desk and view your laptop’s motivational background that your heart finally ceases its frantic beating. You inhale a long breath, hold it, and then release it, vowing to focus on the list of tasks you’ve written up for the day. If you can direct all of your time and effort into that, you won’t have a chance to ruminate on the failed conversation in your boss’s office. You were almost there—had merely scraped the surface of the issue—but you had lost courage as fast as you’d gained it.

It’s not like telling him will do anything, you think as you begin your research for the spreadsheet your coworker sent to you. He’s close with the Leech brothers. I’m not part of their circle, so he’ll definitely side with them if I try to tell him the truth.

For the rest of the day you power through your checklist, shunning the gloom that hangs over you like an invisible rain cloud. You forward most of your completed work to Mr. Ashengrotto for his review and then you organize the contents of your desk during your break. Floyd doesn’t make an appearance at all while you pick at a salad and watch amusing cat videos online. That would normally fill you with joy, but you can’t help worrying that he’ll pop up eventually. Like some foreboding rash or a sudden sickness or ringworm. 

The tension in your posture dissipates when a message brightens your phone screen. It’s from your boyfriend of two years; he wants to know what you’d like to eat for dinner. With a fond smile playing at your lips, you type your reply. Whenever he’s on your mind, all of the suffering you’ve endured at the office becomes meaningless and you’re able to think about every good thing that exists in your life: a loving boyfriend, a stable job, a comfortable home, and so many things that you deserve. Your therapist once said it wasn’t right to deny yourself of these things because you’re just as entitled to good fortune as everyone else. Briefly, you find yourself wondering if you’d benefit from seeing her again. Maybe it would help ease some of the anxieties that have begun persisting ever since the company found itself under new authority.

Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t a bad boss. You like working for him, but you wish he’d reconsider the people he chooses to keep close. Perhaps one day he’ll realize this. You know it isn’t right to leave this up to chance or time, but they’re your only options. You can’t tell him directly or else you’d be catapulted into the twins’ radar. And if you attempted an anonymous confession, they might sniff you out regardless.

Either way, the scenario ends with humiliation and regret. Perhaps you lose your job and are labeled as the hateful woman with the insincere tongue.

You can’t allow that to happen, which is why you’ve decided that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to stay afloat in the corporate ocean. That’s why your smile is brighter than light itself when you’re called into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office later that evening. The sun is well below the horizon now, and the sky is stained in colors of orange and purple. Pleasant pinks and blues have faded away, stomped out by the encroaching sunset. The large windows behind your boss showcase a view of the glittering cityscape: skyscrapers with dozens of windows—all sturdy metal and reinforced glass. Buildings that most likely house people who are going through similar struggles. Workplace misconduct, harassment, weird and annoying coworkers…

Jade is standing beside you, a quiet presence you’re forcing yourself to ignore. As the silence mounts to an unbearable level, you sigh and open your mouth, allowing easy words to sprinkle out like a dusting of snow.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Ashengrotto?”

“Both of you, as a matter of fact.” He addresses you and Jade with a polite smile. “I’m certain we would all like to call it a night, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently been invited to a luncheon with an important client and his associates. Seeing as the both of you act as my secretary, I would like to extend the invitation to you.”

“A luncheon?” you parrot, blinking owlishly. “Uh. Okay. Sure. When is this happening?”

“This Sunday at approximately three o’clock. If you’re able to join me, I expect you to dress appropriately and be prepared for business discussions.”

You worry your lip between your teeth. “I have dinner arrangements with my partner two hours after three. How long will the luncheon last?”

Mr. Ashengrotto stares at you for what feels like an eternity, his pale eyes boring into your flesh like maggots burrowing deeply in a rotting corpse. The look in his eyes is unnerving to say the least. It’s as if all color has drained from his pastel hues—as if something has died in his eyes and you’re observing a hollowed version of your usually charismatic boss.

It’s Jade who draws your attention when he clears his throat and says, “I’m certain your plans will not be affected in the slightest. Despite the leisurely circumstances in which we will be meeting, this is still an important occasion with plenty of potential for new partnerships and deals. Not only would it look acceptable if the both of us accompanied the boss, it makes it easier to network. Wolves hunt in packs, do they not? This is essentially the same.”

“Right…” His sharp smile drives a stake through your chest. You glance at Mr. Ashengrotto, whose gaze flicks between you and Jade, and his vacant eyes brighten when they settle on you. “I suppose I can make it.”

“Wonderful. I assume you’ll be joining us without issue, Jade?”

“I have no prior engagements.”

“Then it’s settled. The three of us will meet at the harbor thirty minutes beforehand and then we’ll—”

“Sorry. Did you say the harbor?”

“Is there a problem?”

“N-No. I was just clarifying, sir.” The rest of your sentence shrivels in your raw throat, dry and cowardly.

Mr. Ashengrotto nods slowly, as if your behaviors are an explosive he must handle with care. “As I was saying, we will meet at the harbor. I expect the both of you to be punctual and well-equipped to deal with the client and those he’s brought along. Jade will look into their background and anything else that might help establish rapport and he will forward his findings to you, (Name).”

“All right. Is there anything I should do?”

He pauses to consider your question. “You can continue to look your best. That’s all I require from you.”

“Oh. Okay then.”

I’ll do some of my own research so that I’m prepared.

A tiny voice in the back of your head says otherwise. You just want to seem useful.

“If you have any other questions, you’re more than welcome to email me.” He glances at the watch on his wrist, an expensive thing made of silver and chips of diamond or some other fancy stone—it’s hard to tell. You’ve never really gotten a good look at it, but you’ve heard it’s quite the rarity. “That’s all I wanted to say. Both of you are free to go.”

“See you Sunday, sir,” you say as you shuffle out of his office. Jade follows behind you and once the door closes the both of you are in the hall. Together. Alone. You force yourself to look up at him—to challenge him with an unyielding stare. “Have a pleasant evening, Jade.”

He smiles at you, but there’s a faint hint of amusement in his mismatched eyes. “You’ll have to excuse Floyd. He’s known to be very…enthusiastic around those he finds curious.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I took the liberty of keeping him occupied today, so I believe I am no longer indebted to you. If you attend this little retreat with Azul, I will consider it the second favor you owe.”

“Second favor? Oh, that’s right. Your blazer. Sorry, I completely forgot.”

“Well, if everything’s clear I shall be on my way.” He strides past you and you catch the cloying scent of sandalwood and some other delicious fragrance as he departs. “Enjoy your evening, (Name).”

He turns the corner and you’re left with your thoughts in the dimly lit hallway.

With a groan, you rub circles into your temples. I have got to stop apologizing for every little thing. Ugh… What a mess.

At least Jade is known to be a man of his word. Usually.

In hindsight, you should have declined the minute your brain registered the connection between harbor and luncheon. But that had been the least of your troubles as you looked into the client’s background and exchanged boring emails with Jade regarding extra information. The days went by in a blur and before you knew it you were donning your cutest spring dress and following the directions to the meeting place Mr. Ashengrotto had detailed in his email.

He’s sitting under an umbrella, separated from the crowds and focused entirely on his mobile phone. You weave through a group of tourists as you approach him, noting his black turtleneck and the pale jacket that hangs off of his shoulders in a way you’d never be able to pull off, lest it look uncomfortable and awkward. The distant shrieks of seagulls and the hush-hush of the waves unsettle you, but you force your fears to the side and keep your eyes firmly glued on your boss. You know that the moment you glance at the ocean beyond you’ll lose your nerve and someone will have to drag you to wherever this luncheon is taking place.

A harsh breeze rustles through the beach. You forgot how chilly it often gets near the shoreline, and you wrap your arms around yourself in an effort to stay warm.

“Good afternoon, sir!” You slip into the seat across from him and grin when he finally looks up to acknowledge you. 

“Ah. Good afternoon to you, too.” He pockets his phone. “You look nice.”

“I’ve been waiting to wear this dress. I’m happy I can finally put it to good use.”

He chuckles airily. “I imagine it’s quite the excitement.”

“It is.” You scan the crowds and nearby storefronts. “Where’s Jade?”

“He couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. Something about a culinary disaster… I haven’t the faintest clue what he was going on about in his email. His hobbies are beyond me.”

“You don’t say…”

His words from a few days prior resurface: If you go on this little retreat with Azul… Of course he found a way to weasel out of this since you’re the one who’ll be doing all of the work in his place. This is your second favor, paid in full.

Thanks, Jade. Truly.

“Oh, it’s almost time to board. We should be on our way.”

“Board?” Your head snaps over to him. “Board what?”

“The boat, of course.”

“The… The boat. As in—” You turn to face the harbor and all of the vessels that are currently docked. Ice crackles through your bloodstream when you see it. A hulking cabin cruiser is sitting there in the water, awaiting passengers, and groups of people are already beginning to line up for entry. Beyond it, the expansive, glistening ocean lies. “N-No. No, no, no…”

“Is something the matter?” Mr. Ashengrotto’s face is a portrait of pure befuddlement.

“I can’t…” You swallow thickly, but the saliva does nothing to coat your sandpaper throat. “I can’t do boats. I really can’t. T-There’s no way—no. I can’t.” You grip the table with clammy hands, struggling to brace yourself as you attempt breathing exercises. The sea air invades your nostrils with its briny fingers and it reminds you of so many things—of the water that filled your mouth when your head was forced under, of the ocean that currently surrounds you, of the boat that will undoubtedly become your grave should it sink down, down, down into a blue abyss. “I… I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I—”

His hands move to cover yours, warm and soft. “You’re okay.” It’s all you can hear; every other noise has faded away into nothingness. You stare at him, unable to stop the tears that well in your eyes. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Y-You don’t understand… I can’t… I really—” You shake your head wildly. Everything is muffled, as if cotton has wound itself around the world, and your heart is gripped in Death’s clenched fist. There’s nothing you can do to escape the reaching ocean, the reaching hands, the reaching insults. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I don’t think I can do this...”

“Don’t look anywhere else,” Mr. Ashengrotto murmurs, smoothly redirecting your attention even though your pupils are flitting from him to the umbrella to the ground. His thumb strokes the top of your hand in what you assume is consolation. “What are your favorite things to do during winter?”

“W-Winter?” You pull your hands out from under his to wipe at your teary eyes, confusion overtaking fear. “I… Um. I like…to bake sugar cookies and drink hot chocolate. If it’s really snowy, I’ll w-watch movies and my boyfriend will drape a fluffy blanket over my shoulders and we’ll sit on the sofa together to watch them.”

“And what about autumn?”

“Autumn is… Well, I don’t know. I guess I like to take walks.” Your brain is whirring in an attempt to differentiate critical thinking and panic-induced nonsense. Suddenly, fight or flight doesn’t seem all that necessary when you’re looking into Mr. Ashengrotto’s sincere eyes, hearing his calm voice as he asks you simple questions.

This isn’t the end of the world. This is an easy-to-answer questionnaire from your boss. 

“Walks are nice. I’m especially fond of the leaves.”

“M-Me too. They’re really pretty and crinkly.”

It’s okay. You’re okay, your mind repeats. It’s a newspaper’s headline, printed in big, reassuring letters. The ocean can’t get you. It’s not here. The boat can’t get you either, nor can the people from your past. You’re in the moment with Mr. Ashengrotto. You’re going to be okay. You’re safe.

Your boss is going on about autumn activities when the sound slowly starts to trickle in. You overhear nearby conversations. Everyone’s still here. The sea hasn’t swallowed them whole. And you’re still in one piece, too. You’re not in the jaws of a shark, you’re not drifting on a current, you’re not sinking into a deep, dark trench. You’re on the land, in your spring dress, talking to your boss on a sunny day. Another breeze combs its soothing fingers through your hair and you shiver involuntarily at the chill that settles under your skin.

I’m safe.

“Are you all right?”

“I…am. I think.” Your face scrunches into uncertainty. “I’m…sorry you had to witness all of that. Thinking about b-boats and the sea… It’s a lot.”

“There’s no need to apologize.” He sends a sympathetic smile your way. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“Thank you.” You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Thank you so much. Your voice is really nice, Mr. Ashengrotto. It calmed me down faster than I thought it would.”

“Really? Then I’m pleased it could provide some comfort.” But then his expression hardens and he faces the cruiser in the distance. “Although this does put us at a slight disadvantage...”

“I can force myself to go. I should be okay as long as the boat doesn’t leave the harbor. M-Maybe.”

What am I saying? I can’t step foot on that thing.

He peers at his watch and frowns. “We haven’t got much time.”

“Sorry, I’ll think of something. Um...” You rise from your seat and gaze at the shops behind you, hoping their colorful window displays will provide you with a foolproof solution. Normally, you’d rely on your boyfriend to act as your shield if you had to get near the water. His presence is always enough to soothe you; you’d trust him with your life. But Mr. Ashengrotto isn’t your boyfriend and you don’t know him well enough to confirm whether or not your life is secure in his hands. “Uh...”

I can’t think of anything! This is the worst. What if he fires me over this? What if I can’t find another job after this one? 

“I’ll go by myself.” He’s standing now, adjusting his jacket as the wind attempts to snatch it from him. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were uncomfortable during the luncheon.”

“No, I’ll go!”

If I don’t, I’ll still owe Jade a favor. And I don’t want this to be the reason I’m fired. I need to act professional. Get it together, (Name).

Mr. Ashengrotto studies the desperation painted on your face and sighs. He pushes his glasses up before they can slip down the bridge of his nose and says, “If you intend on accompanying me, I’d like to know what I can do to make this easier for you. I can’t guarantee whether the boat will remain docked, but I can assure you that it’s completely safe inside.”

You inhale sharply as a dark vision sparks to life within your head—one that consists of your own body filling with water until, eventually, you submit to the frigid depths; and they send search parties to look for you, but no one knows anything and they can’t locate your body. So your funeral is empty and there’s no corpse, and your boyfriend and your family—everyone you know and cherish—are all left to craft theories on your whereabouts. And when they remember you, they only ever think of death and the ocean and not the happy person you were in life. And your body remains on the sea floor, where the marine life feast on your flesh until each chunk is ripped away to reveal bloated organs and skeletal remains.

“I need to make a phone call!” you blurt, fumbling to withdraw your phone from your purse. “P-Please excuse me, sir.”

All it takes is a quick chat with your boyfriend, where his consoling voice validates every danger and fear that’s uttered and you’re feeling just slightly more confident than you were before. He offered to come down to the harbor to see you, but that would mean he’d have to leave work and you really don’t want to trouble him. So you promise him that it’ll be okay and that you’ll only focus on the fact that the boat isn’t to be feared—it’s what lurks beneath. But you won’t think about that.

And if you ignore the water and all of the creatures it houses, you can enjoy the luncheon and complete this task. After this, you’ll never come to the harbor again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come down there?” your boyfriend asks just before you hang up. “I don’t want you to force yourself into a situation you can’t get out of.”

“I can do this,” you tell him, face set in grim determination. “I promise I’ll be fine. Boats are…safe. A-And I’ll be with my boss. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”

For a minute his silence scares you more than the vastness of the ocean and you trace a wobbly circle into the sand with the toe of your heel. “Okay then. I believe in you. Knock ‘em dead, my love.”

A bashful smile blossoms on your lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, okay? Don’t forget about the plans we made.”

After exchanging sweet farewells, you tuck your phone back into your purse and wander over to Mr. Ashengrotto, who’s gazing at you with good-natured admiration.

“Let’s start over.” You hold your hand out. “I’m looking forward to today’s meeting, sir.”

He smiles and fits his hand in yours. The handshake lasts longer than it should have, but you aren’t bothered by it.

“If at any point you feel unsafe or uncomfortable, please tell me and we can leave.”

“That won’t happen. I can do this, so don’t worry about me. Just focus on the meeting.”

His stare lingers on your face before he shrugs. “Very well. Then let’s be on our way. There’s no time to waste.”

There are many challenges that come with your job. Never in a million years did you think you’d ever board a boat in your time as a secretary. Yet here you are, climbing the ramp with stiff, brittle legs and a slowly crumbling resolve. Once you’re inside the vessel and Mr. Ashengrotto has notified the hostess of the name for the lunch reservation, you admire the bright interior. Tables dot the dining area, covered in crisp tablecloths and polished utensils. As you follow the woman leading you to your designated table, you notice the napkins have been folded into delicate shapes. This entire place feels like any other fancy restaurant on land and if you focus hard enough you might be able to con your brain into thinking so. 

Unfortunately, your table is by a window and you have to look away in order to avoid peering at the sea. 

You’re here for the meeting. Don’t look. Just focus, you remind yourself, wiping your sweaty palms on your dress. 

“Who do we have here?” someone asks, his voice tinged with playful intrigue. 

Mr. Ashengrotto pulls a chair out for you and you’re grateful he’s taking the window seat. There’s no way you could sit there, so close to doom. You sit down, acutely aware of the eyes plastered on you, and meet the stare of the only other woman at the table. She returns your shy smile with a curt nod. 

“This is my secretary.” Mr. Ashengrotto lowers into the seat beside you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. My name is (Name).” As an afterthought, you add, “I’ve heard many things about you.”

“Only good things I hope,” the man says with a hearty chortle. You recognize him as the client and he’s just as piggish-looking as you imagined he’d be. The others are his associates, all of whom have yet to strike any deals with your boss. You’re certain that’s his goal. Luckily, you’re equipped with all the information in the world, which makes communication easy. “In any case, I haven’t heard anything about you, sweetheart.”

The pet name cuts into you like a hot knife through a block of butter and it takes all of your self-restraint not to openly cringe. Jade wasn’t kidding when he said this guy was fond of women, especially those who lack autonomy and power. You already hate him and his irritating ego, but your boss is observing and you mustn’t act out in his presence.

So you lean forwards, simpering, and say, “I’d be happy to talk about myself, but that’s not the reason we’re gathered here today.”

The man frowns. “How unfortunate.”

Once the others have introduced themselves and drinks have been ordered, Mr. Ashengrotto talks with the woman sitting across from him. She looks positively charmed as he slips a few smooth compliments into his speech. His client happens to be sitting across from you and, as he ogles at you, his foot moves to find yours under the table, cold leather tracing up the length of your leg.

Your smile tightens and a shudder electrifies your body. The man’s lips quirk upwards in a lazy smirk. Filled with disgust, you lift your leg and search for his foot. And once you’ve located it, you drive your heel into the expensive shoe, putting as much force and anger you can muster into it. From the way he grimaces, barely suppressing a pained grunt, you can tell you’ve hit your mark. His foot withdraws from your leg immediately and you catch yourself hoping he’ll leave here with a ghastly bruise or a broken toe. 

“I‘ve heard that you and Mr. Ashengrotto have history,” you say in a tone that’s sickly sweet. “I’m happy to know that the two of you get along so well.”

His eyes narrow into a dark glower and it’s then when you realize they don’t quite fit on his face. It’s as if he’s been assembled from a mashup of spare doll parts, each limb forced on in an effort to dress a factory reject in sparkling silver. 

“I don’t suppose he keeps you around for more than secretary work,” he grumbles. “Worthless bitch.”

What a child, you think. I’ve heard worse, old man. If you’re going to play in the sandbox, you’d better throw rocks, not sticks.

Before you can come up with a kind sentiment to combat the sour barb, the man sitting beside the client indicates the bottle of wine on the table. “Would you like another glass? I noticed you’re almost done with the first.”

You glance at your glass and marvel at how quickly it was drained. Perhaps drinking is all you can do in this situation. When faced with unfamiliar company, all you can do is down wine until the waiter returns to take everyone’s meal orders.

At this point, you almost wish Jade was here. You’d rather put up with him than the superficial people at this table.

“Oh, I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“Come on! Where’s the fun in a single glass?” The bottle is swiped from the table and your boss’s client is pouring a generous amount in your glass before you can voice another objection. You stare at the inky liquid with contempt brewing in your cold eyes. “Drink up, sweetheart.”

Your fingers curl around the thin handle. “Thank you.” Those words char your tongue, bitter and resentful.

For the rest of the luncheon, you speak with the others at the table while Mr. Ashengrotto makes conversation with the client. How he can tolerate him is beyond you, but that’s the beauty of a customer service smile and a confident attitude. You pick at your food, alcohol clouding your brain. You’re not sure how much you’ve had to drink, but it’s definitely enough to warm your entire body. At least the intoxication shoos your phobia to the outer edges of your mind.

By the end of it, it’s been an hour and thirty minutes of suffering and you’re clinging to your boss as he leads you off of the ship. He waves to the group as he departs with you in tow, promising to follow up with them through email. Through your tipsy haze, relief comes flooding in. You’re glad to have survived that, even if you’re coming out of it inebriated. It’s been a while since you’ve drank so much, and if you were sober you might have felt flustered when you abandon all thoughts of professionalism in favor of stumbling into the crisp, evening air, freed from the stuffy confines of the cruiser.

“Be careful. I don’t want you to slip.” Mr. Ashengrotto has hooked his arm around your waist as he aids you in your staggering, zombie-like stride.

You ignore the water that sloshes beneath the ramp and the boardwalk, not quite registering what would happen if you were to fall in.

“That stupid, piggish client… I hate him!” Your hands clutch Mr. Ashengrotto’s jacket, fingers curling into the fine material in clenched fists. “He’s gwoss.” Your brows knit together at the mispronunciation and you will your heavy tongue to try again. “Gross.”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodious chuckle has you staring up at his face, admiring his side profile with glazed eyes. “He’s unbearable, isn’t he? I can’t stand him either.”

“Azul.” Your serious tone catches him by surprise and his blue hues flick towards you. A giggle rises in your throat. “I just wanted to say it. Aaazul. Azuuul. It rhymes with jewel and cool and…mewl. It’s really cute.”

“I…” He clears his throat. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Hey, what time is it? Time… Right. Need to get going. I’ve got this thing planned.” The more you ramble, the more troubling it becomes to speak, and your sensible sentence structure soon falls apart. “Take me home, ‘Zul…”

“I don’t know where you live, (Name).”

“Your place. Take me there. Duh.” You break away from him to fish through your purse, clumsily searching for your phone amidst the other items inside. “I’ll text my boyfriend. He’ll understand. Or maybe he won’t. I dunno. Just need to go home.”

Your heels click along the wooden platform as you swipe through notifications, glaring at the too-bright screen. Just as you locate your boyfriend’s contact, your foot catches on a raised slat and the ground is suddenly approaching at a rapid speed. Before your face can kiss wood, Mr. Ashengrotto seizes your wrist and yanks you towards him. Unfortunately, the suave gesture doesn’t strike your drunken heart because the new weight is unaccounted for and he falls backwards. You go down with him, landing on top of him in a heap of sprawled limbs.

“Ow…” You place your hands on either side of his face to lift yourself off of him. Mr. Ashengrotto looks up at you with his eyes blown wide. “How’d you get below me?”

“We… Ahem. We fell.”

“In love?”

“Yes. Ah, wait. No. Just—” He breaks off with a loud sigh and pushes you away from him, cheeks burning brightly. He’s shoving your phone in your face before you can utter another embarrassing remark.

You take it from him and rise to your feet on shaky legs. There’s a crack running along the screen from top to bottom, evidence that it didn’t survive the tumble or the impact. “Home is…nearby. I think. Uh…” You’re struggling to see past the unsightly crack and with your unreliable sense of direction and spinning vision it makes it all the more difficult. “Damn it.”

“I can replace it,” your boss is saying, but you don’t hear him as nausea overtakes you.

You stumble towards the edge of the boardwalk and, dropping to your knees, empty the contents of your stomach in a mess of bile and wine. Your reflection warps in the murky water and you, throat burning, don’t recognize the ocean that’s haunted you your entire life.

Maybe that’s good because you also fail to notice your boss’s conflicted expression as he discards a grocery list of risqué ideas.

The jagged crack in your phone is, without a doubt, discomforting. When did it get there? How did it get there? More importantly, what were you doing that caused injury to your screen? These questions race through your brain as you make the short journey to your boss’s office. On the way, you cross paths with Jade and he acknowledges your existence with a close-lipped smile. If you could, you’d smack it off his face.

Memories of the luncheon are fuzzy and, like the strange sensation that twists your stomach into knots, outrageously tangled. You’ve tried and failed to unravel them, only to end up more confused than before. You remember that repulsive client, the bottle of wine, and the excessive drinking. You remember the abhorrence in his voice when he insulted you under his breath. You remember slamming your heel into his foot and feeling very satisfied with his pain.

And that’s as far as the timeline goes. It breaks off in a dizzying scribble and you can’t quite figure out when you left the boat or what happened after that. But the following morning, when you had woke from a deep slumber with a soul-crushing hangover, your boyfriend was there to scold you for skipping the plans he had made. You could recall the dinner you were meant to attend, but you couldn’t piece together how you managed to get home or where you had spent the rest of the evening.

“Where were you? You didn’t show up to dinner and I didn’t hear you come home last night,” he’d said when you stumbled into the bathroom to view your exhausted appearance in the mirror. “You didn’t answer any of my texts either. You left me on seen.”

“I don’t know,” you had told him, genuinely bewildered as you attempted to comb through the shoreline of your memory. “I really don’t know…”

So perhaps your fear of the crack in your screen isn’t so foolish after all. It’s been four days since the luncheon and you’ve only been able to come up with an innocent explanation for its existence. Short, sweet, and safe—you dropped your phone. But can a crack that big come from a simple fall? What if its origins are more violent? What if you did something despicable while drunk and that crack is proof of your potential crime?

What happened that evening?

“You wanted to speak with me, Mr. Ashengrotto?” You shut the door to his office, not at all ready to confront him. You’re too busy contemplating cracks and fragile screens to bother with a conversation. “If it’s about the monthly expenses in regards to the project, I’m working with Jade to—what’s that?”

You gaze at the rectangular box lying innocently on his desk.

“It’s for you. Go on. Open it.”

You approach his desk as if it’s a sleeping beast that will wake at the slightest sound and grab the box. You recognize it immediately.

“A phone?”

“A new phone,” he corrects you, pride dripping from every syllable. “It’s the latest model. I figured you were in need of an upgrade.”

“Is this coming out of my pay?” You slap a hand over your mouth to prevent anymore sudden accusations from slipping out.

It doesn’t seem to offend him because he laughs at your startled reaction, humor crinkling his eyes. “Not at all. Consider it a gift.”

“I can’t. I mean, it’s nice and I’m grateful you’d do this for me…”

“But?”

“But my phone still works perfectly fine.”

“You never know. It might be time to switch.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think it would be appropriate if I accepted this.”

“And why’s that?” He sounds more curious than betrayed by the suspicion in your voice as he leans forward, elbows propped on his desk. “Do tell me.”

“It doesn’t feel…fair. If I’m the only one getting this phone and the other employees find out, it wouldn’t look right. They might misinterpret your generosity for something else.”

“I see…” His gaze shifts, eyes darkening with a veiled emotion. “Very well.”

“Speaking of phones.” You withdraw yours from the pocket in your blazer. “I was wondering if you knew how my screen cracked. I’m pretty sure it was during the luncheon, but I can’t remember.” You recall your inebriation and frown. “And I apologize if I did anything inappropriate while intoxicated.”

“You fell.”

“I fell,” you repeat dumbly, not quite understanding what that means. And then horror strikes you across the face and you gasp. “I didn’t fall in the water, did I?”

He shakes his head. “You tripped on the boardwalk and dropped your phone in the process. That’s all.”

“Oh… That’s good.” You realize all of your worries have been for nothing and you heave a relieved sigh. “N-Not that it’s cracked. I’m glad it wasn’t anything life-threatening.”

“If you won’t accept this phone, please accept my thanks. The luncheon was a success and it’s all due to your courage in choosing to go through with it despite your apprehension.”

“It wasn’t a problem, sir. I’m still very sorry for the outburst. It won’t happen again.”

“Nonsense. Fear is a normal emotion, (Name). If I were to fault you for your fright, that would be like expecting you to be fearless. And you’re not. No one is, so don’t fret over it.”

You nod mechanically, still ashamed that you nearly lost it that day. Maybe you really should see your therapist again. “I was also wondering how I got home. I don’t remember that.”

“I drove you home.”

“You did?”

Great. Now I’m indebted to my boss.

“It was difficult learning the way because you were too far gone to articulate the directions.”

“I’m so sorry. I can pay for the gas fee or…something. I didn’t intend to drink so much, nor did I want you to become my babysitter for that evening.”

It was that idiotic client of yours who kept filling my glass! you think, scorning him with all of your fiery might.

He laughs as if he’s just read every thought that manifests. “It’s no trouble. I enjoyed seeing a new side to you. It was very entertaining.”

“It’s not a side you should have seen…” you mumble. “A-Anyway, thank you again for looking after me. If we’re done here, I’ll get back to my work now.”

As you head for the door, you spy the abstract painting again and you ponder its meaning. A woman who ran an art gallery gifted it to him a few years ago. You weren’t his secretary then. You weren’t even anyone important, but you had been the one tasked with delivering it to him. The woman had complained about it, claiming that she wanted to be the one to hand it to him in person. At that point, she might as well have wrapped herself along with the portrait if she was so desperate to see him.

You’d told her that, received a backhanded slap that stung like a wasp, and Mr. Azul Ashengrotto had seen it all. Apparently he wasn’t in his office like you’d thought. He’d been returning from a meeting, caught wind of the argument in the lobby, and had come down to view the spectacle. A few days later, he promoted you to secretary and that woman was never allowed to step foot inside the building again.

“I didn’t mind looking after you,” he whispers just as the door shuts behind you.

You’re thrown back into the fray and, unfortunately, Floyd just so happens to be there. Of all the people to run into in this office, he’s the last one you’d want to meet.

“Hello, Floyd…” Your dubious gaze trails down to the bag in his hands and the knots in your stomach tighten.

He grins at your unease and takes another step closer until he’s backed you against the wall. And then, without explanation, he’s grabbing at your blouse to undo the buttons.

“H-Hey!” You angle your body away from him, but he catches your arm before you can cover yourself. Your voice lowers nervously. “Whatever you want… Can you please not do it right outside Mr. Ashengrotto’s door? Please?”

“Relax, shrimpy. I’m just looking to see what color you’re wearing today.” He peers at the opening in your blouse with glee. “Do you think white suits you? Are you pure, shrimpy?”

“Are you?” you shoot back, irritated. “Now let me go. I have work to do.”

He laughs and pinches your cheek, nearly cooing at you in a high-pitched tone. If you could act without consequence, you’d whack him upside the head until he really sees white. “Aww. I wish I was your boss. Then I’d get to squeeze you all the time.” His fingertips brush along your chest, dangerously close to slipping under your bra. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if I’m your boss… Oh! But I did get you something special. Look here.”

He pulls away and shakes the bag, its contents rustling. You stare at it as if it’s a severed head, and the smirk grows on his face.

“Guess what it is.”

“I don’t know. Can we talk about this later? I really need to—”

“It’s…” He lifts a garment from the depths. “Ta-da! A new bra!”

Your hands shoot out to cover his mouth. “O-Okay! Okay! I get it. Please be quiet.”

The bra is hardly a bra. If anything, it’s two scraps of heart-shaped fabric held together by a flimsy string. Floyd chuckles and produces the other half of the lingerie set from the bag: a pair of violet panties with lace trimming. 

His murmured words reach you, and for once you’re thankful he’s the only one nearby. At least no one else is subjected to his embarrassing statements. “And they’re crotchless for easy access. See? Isn’t this much better than that lame bra you’re always wearing? If you wore this, I could bend you over your desk and—” 

The door swings open at that moment and you shrink away in alarm. Floyd, unfazed, continues to lean over you, the lingerie dangling in his grasp.

“Floyd!” Mr. Ashengrotto snaps, standing in the doorway and glaring. “I would appreciate it if you could be quiet when...” The rest of that sentence dies when he notices you and then the lingerie. “Am I interrupting something?”

“So boring,” he says with a pout. “I was in the middle of giving my shrimpy a gift.”

Your boss looks at you with a raised brow. 

Heat claws up your face. “N-No, this isn’t what you think! I’m not accepting it and I don’t know why he thought to purchase this for me.”

Not good! Not good! you’re thinking, tearing up from the humiliation. Is he trying to get me fired?!

Mr. Ashengrotto analyzes your panicked expression for a moment longer before sighing. “What a shame. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to intervene.”

Floyd tilts his head, but the amusement radiating from him makes you think he knows more than you do. He probably does. “You’re in trouble now, shrimpy,” he sings, drawing out each syllable in an effort to sound menacing. “Good luck.”

And then he slinks away, taking the lingerie with him.

“S-Sir, I’m not sure I—”

Your boss holds the door open wider. “Step inside.”

A biting chill races up your spine when you walk into his office. Its bland walls and minimal decor remind you of a hospital room that’s carrying the bare essentials, and you feel as if you’ve just been admitted to it, diagnosed with some incurable illness you do not have. But if you could brave the terrors of boarding a boat for lunch, you can brave whatever mood your boss is in. And judging by the frown he’s wearing, it doesn’t seem to be a pleasant one.

“I was willing to overlook your misconduct during the luncheon for obvious reasons, but it appears my lenience was misplaced.”

“My misconduct? I’m not following. What do you mean?”

“I shouldn’t have to spell out every rule you’re meant to follow. They should be common sense.” He fixes you with a disappointed stare. “You should know better than anyone else that it isn’t right to act salaciously around my clients or your coworkers.”

“But Floyd came to me first! I never approached him!”

“Distractions are similar to weeds. Once they’ve dug their roots into you, it’s nearly impossible to break away. If you continue to bother Jade and Floyd—and anyone else for that matter—I will have to eradicate the source of the problem. If weeds aren’t taken care of, they will spread their poison until everyone’s infected. You should know this.”

“But I wasn’t… I never…” You can’t think of a plausible explanation, especially not when he has the story completely twisted. What can you possibly say that will convince him otherwise? “Mr. Ashengrotto, I promise you that I’ve never once done anything to intentionally distract those around me. I’m here to work.”

“Are you? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like it.” He crosses the distance to his desk, opens a drawer, and withdraws an envelope. Before you can argue your innocence, he dumps its contents onto his desk and what you see tears your resolve in half. “I suggest you consider your next words very carefully, for they will determine whether you’re still worthy of your position.”

You stagger over to his desk, eyeing every photograph in silent horror. The gravity of the situation dawns on you when you spy yourself backed into a corner in the office kitchen, where Floyd’s towering form blocks your anxious expression from the camera’s red-eyed view. And then there’s a photo of you and Jade, where it looks like your hand is the one guiding his arm towards your chest—when in reality you had been trying to stop him from reaching further. There are other photos, too—past instances where the twins have cornered you or touched you or stood beside you and it all seems like you’re the catalyst. Like you’re the one to blame.

You commend yourself for staying composed even when the evidence indicates guilt, but you want nothing more than to disprove every photo with your own rationale. He watched the security footage. He must have in order to get these photos. So why isn’t he seeing that you were helpless to disobey? Why isn’t he seeing that the twins are the ones at fault here?

Why are you the bad one?

“I can understand if you meant no harm the first time, but to have testimonies from my client and your coworkers and photographic proof to back up such claims... Well, I’m sure you know that I can’t ignore this. What’s more is that my client personally reported your misbehavior during the luncheon and I was not impressed to hear it. Playing footsie under the table will not be tolerated. I’m lucky he’s an understanding and forgiving man, but not everyone is as saintly as he is. I expect better from you, (Name).”

“You’re lucky…” you mutter, allowing the information to sink in. Inside, you can hear strings snapping, ice breaking, glass shattering. “You’re lucky. You expect better from me. Is that right?”

“It is, and I hope that you’ll reflect on your behavior after this discussion.”

You’re kidding. You can’t be serious. Do you think I’d actually do any of that? Why would I endanger my job for something so stupid?! 

“I’m...terribly sorry for all of the problems I’ve caused.” You lower your head in submission. Tears blur your vision and the urge to scream your hate at him claws at your throat, ripping it into bloody ribbons. Your next words are thick with grief. “It won’t happen again.”

But it will because they can get away with it.

Your boss has the gall to smile as if he didn’t just wrongfully accuse you. “I hope to see an improvement in the coming weeks. Now then, you’re free to go. Consider this a warning. I won’t be so lenient next time.”

You drag yourself out the door, feeling as heavy as an anchor. The conversation replays in your mind, over and over, until all you can hear is the same phrase as it’s nailed into your cortex. I’m lucky. 

You’re lucky he didn’t fire you. You’re lucky Jade and Floyd have only gone as far as groping you. You’re lucky that disgusting man didn’t shove more false blame onto you.

The bathroom stall shuts and locks with a click, and the tears come falling shortly after. 

More importantly, you’re lucky you’ve survived this long in the office. 

The twins do not bother you for two weeks. In fact, they don’t even walk past your cubicle anymore. This would have been a blessing if it weren’t for what had transpired before they decided to stop interacting with you. This is unlike any sort of discomfort you’ve felt before; this is wrong and crooked and sickening, so much so that it unearths a slew of devastating memories. You want to scream, but your voice has been snatched and muted in a crowd of dozens. You want to tell someone, but you don’t want to drag them under the turbulent tide.

So you keep your mouth shut because it’s all you can do. 

The gloomy sky is threatening to open up and spill its own doleful tears when you glance out the window. As you make your way to your floor, you debate the pros and cons of resigning. If you did that, you’d never have to deal with your boss or the twins or anyone else who may hide wicked intentions behind charismatic connections. But then you would be forced to search for another job and you’re not keen on throwing yourself into another new space when you’ve finally managed to grow accustomed to this one. And if you stayed, you’d remain miserable and meek, unable to fight for your own justice as it’s chipped away in bits. 

It feels like you’re trying to battle fire with fuel—pointless and dangerous. 

You sit at your desk with a grumble. Your night was spent in fictional hell, trapped in dreams that left you drowning in a bottomless sea—grasping for assistance, struggling to cling to your slowly draining life. Whenever someone did catch your hand and you were yanked from the cold depths, you’d lock eyes with Floyd and then it would be Jade and then it was your boss. Then it was his client, your boyfriend, and the people from your past. And they’d all tell you the same thing: “You’re lucky.”

You couldn’t stand your reality; it was unfair and unsafe, but your dreams were just as unfortunate. Perhaps the ocean was better, even if you were destined to sink to the same forgotten resting place many shipwrecks wind up. Alone, waterlogged, and broken. Accumulating grime and barnacles. Perhaps the crabs could make a home out of your rib cage and then you’d finally be useful. 

In the end, you couldn’t get any proper sleep. You kept twisting and turning in bed, sweating buckets, until your boyfriend would shake you awake and insist that everything was okay. But that was a lie. Things weren’t okay; you weren’t okay. 

Sliding your laptop out of your bag, you place it on your desk and stare at its sleek top. Maybe you could pull a Floyd and skip out on work for today. Maybe no one would notice your absence if you hid in the office kitchen or went down to the lobby. Besides, wouldn’t it be better if you isolated yourself? That way, your boss can’t fault you for seducing everyone with a pulse and you’d be free to do whatever you wanted. 

It’s not worth it, you think and yank your desk drawer open to grab a pen. Your hand freezes when you spy the beige folder lying atop the scattered stationery. 

Your full name is printed on the cover and in smaller letters the word Background rests beneath. Confusion ignites within you and you pry the folder open with bated breath. Part of you can already guess what you’ll find, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening when your suspicions are confirmed true. There are many documents paper-clipped to the file, some of which are photographs and others are prints from old newspaper articles. You take each page out and set it on your desk until it’s covered in a collage of your past, all intricate strings and traumatic recollections on display. 

“No way...” you mutter, placing your palms on the desk to steady yourself.

Amidst the pile, one particular article stands out. There’s a photo of a familiar beach underneath the mouthful of a headline, which reads: Local Girl Found Unconscious Near Shoreline. Suspects Unidentified. A distinct cold washes over you—something akin to a bucket of ice spilling on you from above. Your blood freezes, your body grows stiff with shock, and a sick feeling travels up your throat. 

You thought you’d left that mess in the past. Why has it come back now? 

“The perpetrators were never apprehended.” Jade smiles comfortably, observing your trembling form from where he stands outside your cubicle. “That article is about you, is it not?”

“Why are you here?” you spit, venom staining your tone. 

“Someone was thorough.” He nods towards the pile and you throw yourself onto the desk to obscure his view. “Perhaps an admirer? Perhaps a novice sleuth? What do you think?”

“This has nothing to do with you. Stay out of my life.” You crumple the article into a ball and glower. “You and your brother. All you’ve done is harass and antagonize me. I never did anything to you. Why can’t you let me work in peace? Why am I the scapegoat? I just want to do my job!”

Jade frowns at your rising tone. “Perhaps you should take a break. If you need any help—”

You slap his reaching hand away. “I don’t need your help! I just need you to leave me alone!”

A few heads pop up from their respective cubicles, their focus straying, but you could care less about how loud you’re getting. You don’t see Jade when you look through him, past his tall stature and mismatched eyes. You see all of the people from your childhood. People whose fingers had curled around your arms and forced your head into the ocean, leaving you to struggle against the push and pull of the current. People who thought leaving you to fight against the rolling surf would make for a wonderful joke. People who were never punished for their actions because no one would listen to you. 

“I don’t know who’s responsible for this—” you gesture wildly to your desk, chest heaving as panic muddles your sensibility— “or why they think it’s necessary to dump it on me, but it’s not going to work. I’m not going to sit back and take it.”

“(Name), please calm down. I’m just as lost as you are in regards to the—”

“Calm down? Calm down? Why should I when you’ve done nothing but make my life difficult? I could’ve lost my job with those accusations!” You snatch up a handful of papers in a clenched fist and shake them. Jade steps back when you advance and you can see the gears turning in his gaze—can sense him trying to work out a suitable explanation for your meltdown. “And this—this isn’t helping!”

The first tear slips down your cheek and it isn’t long before more fall, cascading like spilled milk. Shouting at him doesn’t accomplish much, but it’s cathartic to say everything that crosses your mind, blissfully ignorant to the consequences that will surely follow. You shove the wrinkled documents at his chest as you stride past him.

“Fuck you and your brother. I hate you.”

He blinks at you, momentarily stunned. But as you’re departing, you catch his measured chuckle as he tells the onlookers, “It seems mornings are not for everyone. Please don’t worry and continue working as you normally would. I will sort this matter accordingly.” 

You’ve never been known to break down at work. In past jobs, you’ve remained strong even when facing rude and entitled customers who’d hurl insults faster than you could keep up. But as of late, you’ve felt so drained and hollow as you drag yourself through the molasses that has become your daily life.

You really are a bird with fractured wings. They were ripped from your back long ago and you’ve been too cowardly to regrow them.

A quivering breath escapes your raw throat as you trudge to the bathroom, feeling your pocket for the outline of your cellphone. It’s not there and, with another fresh bout of tears, you lament having left it in your bag. So you continue your walk of shame, head lowered, and weep the rest of the way.

“(Name)?”

You look up to find Mr. Ashengrotto at the end of the hall. His phone is angled away from his ear, hand covering the microphone to muffle his voice. You’re not sure who’s on the other end, but you can’t be bothered to find out.

“Mr. Ashengrotto,” you say with a sniffle, wiping at the tears that seem to fall in endless, salty streams. You’re certain your mascara is running down your cheeks in dark streaks and your eyes are probably red and blotchy. “H-Have a good morning.” You turn to head in the other direction, deciding that it’s easier to deal with Jade and a room full of your coworkers than the one in charge of your employment status.

“Wait!” He bites his lip as he considers something and then addresses the caller. “I’m sorry. I’ll have to call you back. We’ll converse over email regarding the designs I submitted. Yes… Yes, okay. Thank you for your understanding. Goodbye.”

And after he’s hung up and has slipped his phone into his pocket, the both of you stand on opposite ends of an invisible line, not daring to cross the threshold.

You meet his eyes and regret slams into you like waves along a rocky shore. “I’m sorry…”

“What for?”

“Everything.”

He frowns. “I assume you have a specific destination in mind, yes? If you’d be willing to take a detour, would you be able to step inside my office for a brief moment?”

You don’t want to, but it’s not like you have a choice in the matter. So you nod, sniffling pathetically, and follow him back to his office like an animal being led to slaughter. He holds the door open for you and this time it’s a welcoming gesture. When you drag a chair over to his desk and sink into it, the consequences of your actions begin to surface. This is it, isn’t it? An emotional employee is not useful in an emotionless setting. The minute you prove your undesirable flaws is the minute you’re replaced.

Mr. Ashengrotto sits across from you at his desk, sympathy contorting his handsome features. “I’m not a therapist,” he begins, coughing awkwardly into his hand, “but I’d like to do my best to help you through…whatever it is you’re going through.”

“Don’t give me false hope. If you want to fire me, do it now.” Your eyes brim with fresh tears. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“I’m not going to fire you. I’d never do such a thing.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. You recognize that soothing tone from when he helped you calm down when you were on the verge of a panic attack at the harbor. It doesn’t do much to ease your frazzled nerves now, not when you remember that that same voice harshly reprimanded you for something you didn’t do. “It’s obvious you’re struggling. If you’re comfortable telling me about the issue, please do so that I can work to resolve it.”

“I’ve just been stressed. It’s nothing you should worry about. I don’t want to trouble you, sir.” You swallow your rising sob and wring your hands together, hoping the movement will distract you enough to cease crying. “I’ll be okay.”

“That is the most obvious lie I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing,” he says with a tut. “I want my employees to feel content here and as of now you’re not happy in this environment. Therefore, I want to do everything I can to remedy that.”

“You say that and yet…” You inhale another rattled breath. There’s so much you could say, but you know that verbalizing the problems wouldn’t make a difference. He’d just turn it on you, finding a clever way to frame you as the villain. “I mean nothing to this company. I’m only ever your secretary when there’s a lot of work that needs to be done. It’s Jade who handles the actual work. I’m just your errand runner.”

That’s a start, the tiny voice in your head pipes up encouragingly. You can do this. He’s not as scary as the ocean.

But when he holds full control over your corporate fate, he might as well be the monster dwelling in the darkest trench.

“And I… I can’t just nod my head and pretend like I’m fine with it. I want to be useful, but when you tell me to get you tea or to continue looking my best it feels like I can’t apply my skills at all. It feels like I just exist without any purpose.” The more you talk, the more distraught your voice sounds. Every strangled syllable reaches your ears and it hurts more than physical pain. “I’m lucky to even be in this position, but every day spent with this company feels more like misfortune.”

His hand twitches as if he intends to reach out and pat you. “I wasn’t aware you felt that way,” he admits. “For the record, I never saw you as my errand runner. You’re so much more than that and I should have made that clear from the very beginning. Secretary work should be split evenly between you and Jade, not skewed in the latter’s favor. From now on, I will ensure you’re given the recognition and respect you deserve.”

“Okay. Yeah. S-Sure…”

He slides a magazine across the desk and your eyes follow it. Home Decor is written on the cover in bubbly script. 

“I’d like to give you your own office space and I want you to choose the furniture for it.”

The admission slaps you across the face, raw and real. “My own…office.”

“No strings attached. It will not come out of your pay.” He hazards a tiny smile. “If I’m to truly appreciate you and the work you do for this company, you should be given a space where you can work without interruption.”

Even if this revolutionary news implies you’ll never have to run into Jade or Floyd unless it’s absolutely necessary, the taste it leaves in your mouth is more bitter than sweet. You don’t want an office. You want a proper apology. You want Jade and Floyd to be punished for all that they’ve done. You want to be treated like a human being. 

You want all of those papers detailing your past to shrivel into ash in a gruesome blaze.

“But I… I snapped at Jade this morning. I caused a scene. I’ve been a terrible employee. I don’t deserve a private office.”

“Who said one bad day was allowed to dictate what you deserve? We all have our fair share of rainy days.”

“This was more of a thunderstorm…”

“May I ask what prompted such a storm?”

I have to tell him my side of the story before Jade can twist it. I can do this. It’s just a conversation. I can handle a simple conversation.

“There was a folder in my desk. Its contents were…disturbing. Jade happened to be nearby. I sort of... Um. I sort of lost it when he offered to help.”

“Disturbing content?”

“It was… W-Well, it’s not important. It’s just stuff from my childhood. I thought I’d gotten away from it.”

“Would you mind elaborating? Only if you feel comfortable doing so.”

I don’t, but my job’s on the line right now.

Most of your tears have dried, but you still struggle against the lump in your throat. It’s been years since you last recalled that day, but it’s as fresh as bakery bread in your head.

“There was an incident,” you start, “w-when I was nine. I didn’t fit in at my school. I was bullied frequently. I…couldn’t tell anyone about it because no one wanted to listen. I guess they finally decided to listen when they found my unconscious body on the shore.”

Mr. Ashengrotto looks at you as if you’ve just sprouted ivory wings. "You were bullied, too?” It’s a murmur so soft it’s practically wrapped in clouds. 

“The story was big news in my small town. Everyone wanted to know what happened.” You gaze at your lap, unable to bear the weight that’s been crushing you ever since you stepped into his office. Mr. Ashengrotto is not your therapist; you shouldn’t have to spill such a traumatic story to him solely because he’s curious. But if you don’t, your behaviors will be taken out of context and you’ll be branded with an unsavory label. “It’s not every day a little girl washes ashore, right?”

“I...” He clears his throat and suddenly he looks small in his leatherette chair, as if your retelling of the event has forced him into a box. As if the horror of it has struck a chord within him. “I suppose not.”

“A friend led me to the beach. He wanted to play and I trusted him.” Your hands curl into tight, trembling fists. If only you’d had the strength to use your fists back then—to defend yourself against everyone who ever threw an insult or a stone your way. “I couldn’t swim, but he and his friends still managed to convince me to get in the water. And once it was up to my waist... W-When I was deep enough...” You rub furiously at your eyes, shaking your head as the memory replays itself in horrifying detail. “I’m sorry. I can’t... I really can’t…”

“It’s all right.” His blue hues sparkle with understanding. “I can tell it’s a rough subject for you.”

To give your hands something to do, you grab the magazine and open to a random page. The photographed display distracts you for a moment, replacing all images of the sprawling ocean with potted plants and comfortable cushions. Mr. Ashengrotto remains silent as he observes you. Eventually, you exhale slowly and force yourself to look at him.

“Do... Do you have a pen?”

“A pen? Yes. Yes, of course.” He’s quick to hand it to you, nearly fumbling in his hurry.

“If you really won’t fire me, I guess I’ll choose some stuff for the office.” A box of tissues is held out to you next and you pluck one from the opening. “Thank you, sir.”

He nods while you dab at your eyes and blow your nose. There’s a certain comfort that envelops his office while you sit there and mark the magazine pages in scribbles, circling various things that catch your eye. When you locate a glass paperweight in the shape of a bird, you glance at him.

“It’s like your paperweight, only it’s a bird.”

“Are you fond of birds?”

You shrug. “I think there’s more life in your paperweight. This bird paperweight looks...dead.”

“Is that so?” He lifts the octopus from the desk, tapping at one of its curling tentacles. “I suppose you’re right.”

Unable to continue the conversation, you say, “I think I’ve finished looking.” Setting the magazine and pen on his desk, you rise from your seat. “I don’t know if any of it is useful in an office and you don’t have to get any of it, but I’d like to thank you for giving me my own space. Even if it’s empty, I’ll still accept it. So thank you for giving me another chance, Mr. Ashengrotto.”

Adoration blossoms on his face, but you mistake it for sympathy. “I’ll always give you another chance, (Name). Please take the rest of today off. Use this as an opportunity to recuperate.”

“I couldn’t possibly—” you start to say before realizing something. Why are you going to stay here any longer if he’s allowing you to leave? “Then I’ll see you on Monday.”

Bright and early. A fresh start. A new week.

A knock at the door causes you to flinch and you turn to view Jade as he walks in, carrying your bag with a polite smile. You’ve had enough stress for the day, but seeing your things untouched and packed neatly provides some closure. Besides, you’re in the presence of your boss. Jade wouldn’t try anything unless he was a fool and he is anything but foolish.

“I’ve cleared your space of the offensive materials and will look into who was responsible for printing them and placing them inside your desk. As of now, no one else has received a copy of the documents.” He holds your bag out to you. “Your things.”

“Thank you. And… Um. I apologize.” You’re not actually sorry, but it feels like the proper thing to do in this moment. “For saying that to you. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s water under the bridge.”

As you drive back to your house, feeling both relieved and exhausted, you lean towards the passenger seat and pull your messenger bag onto your lap. With one hand on the wheel and your eyes glued to the road ahead, you reach into the cluttered confines in search of your phone. The only person you wish to hear from right now is your boyfriend, and as your fingers fish through the inside it dawns on you that it isn’t there at all.

“Don’t tell me I left it on my desk,” you mutter with a groan. “Seriously, where is it?” 

By the time you’ve made it home and have emptied the contents of your bag onto the counter, you can firmly conclude that your phone is missing.

I guess I’ll have to get it next week, you think. I’m definitely not driving back there. Not after what happened. I’ll look like an idiot.

You trudge into your shared bedroom to change out of your work clothes, already having made up your mind to nap the day away until your boyfriend returns home and you can confide in him.

But as the hours drag on and the sun sinks into Earth’s pocket, your boyfriend does not arrive. You sit on the sofa, flicking through TV channels, when you’re hit with an intense feeling of loss. You know it’s not because you’ve misplaced your phone. There’s more to it than that. It feels like you’ve just lost the most important thing in your life and you’re not sure why.

Before you can spiral, the door knob rattles and your boyfriend enters, holding a bag of carry-out and wearing a proud smile.

“Work ran late, but I brought your favorite.” He shakes the bag. “So I hope I’m forgiven. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought you were mad at me.”

The sight of him pushes your anxieties away, and you jump up from the sofa to throw your arms around him.

“I could never be mad at you. I misplaced my phone, so I couldn’t read any of your texts. But thank you for getting food. I love you.”

“N-No problem, love.” His pride ebbs away until all that’s left is the bashful grin that stole your heart two years ago. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You nod enthusiastically, ready to put this day behind you. “Let’s eat.”

“Your phone?” Jade seems to mull over its whereabouts for a few seconds before shaking his head in dismay. “I’m afraid I didn’t see it on your desk when I gathered your things. Perhaps you put it elsewhere and didn’t realize?”

“I looked at home, but it wasn’t there. I know I left it here. I’m positive.” You glance at Floyd, who’s rocking back and forth on his heels and licking at a peppermint-flavored lollipop. “You didn’t take it, did you?”

“Nah. You wouldn’t have anything interesting on it anyway,” he says and chomps down on the candy. It shatters from the force of his bite. “Besides, what am I gonna do with your phone?”

“Good point.” You’re still not over the lingerie incident or the fact that his childish mischief resulted in the harsh tongue-lashing from your cold-hearted boss, where your employment was severely threatened. But you have to ask both of them about it because they’re your top suspects. “Did anyone else come near my cubicle while I was gone? Was anyone here over the weekend?”

“Beats me. I never go over there unless you’re in.” Floyd bends the lollipop stick until it snaps and then tosses the pieces in the waste bin.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check the security footage,” Jade offers. “As of now, we have a few possibilities. One: Someone did indeed take it and there’s a chance the camera caught them in the act. Two: It could still be in your possession and you don’t know it. Three: Someone found it and turned it in for safekeeping until it’s claimed.”

“And where would they turn it in?” You hold your hand up to silence Jade’s response as the answer finally comes to you. “The place that’s most secure here—that would be Mr. Ashengrotto’s office, right? Either that or security.”

He nods. “If your phone isn’t with him, we can rule the third possibility out.”

“In that case, I’ll go see him now.”

“You can’t.” Floyd steps in front of you. “Azul’s in a meeting, so you’ll have to wait.”

“But my phone—”

“The world isn’t ending, shrimpy. Relax. You’re as spooked as a guppy caught in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Honestly, is your phone really that important?”

It’s not as if it connects me to my friends and family and emergency services. No, Floyd, it’s not important at all.

“I’ll wait until he’s finished with his meeting. Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“I’d say another thirty minutes or so,” Jade replies. “I do hope you’ll find it.”

“Me too. I’m not usually this forgetful.”

“Considering the meltdown you had last week, I’d say it’s not that surprising.” Floyd’s comment is met with a sharp glare from you and a disapproving tut from Jade. He snickers in response. “I bet it was a real sight.”

“I’ll just get some work done while I wait.” You snatch the coffee you had prepared from the counter and stride towards the door. “Please don’t bother me today.”

“You’re no fun,” Floyd mutters as he watches you go. 

A few invasive stares follow you to your cubicle, but you do your best to ignore them. Once you’ve settled into your chair, you open your laptop to the document you started on last night. The cursor blinks back at you, awaiting more letters. Slowly, you tap each key until a sentence has been formed and then, with a dissatisfied huff, you delete it. Thirty minutes doesn’t feel like a lengthy wait, but sitting at your desk, lacking motivation, is all it takes for the seconds to feel longer than they actually are. You try to distract yourself by opening a new tab to play a game, hoping that the sight of the pixelated T-Rex jumping over cacti will cure your impatience. 

Instead, you allow the poor dinosaur to run headfirst into a prickly cactus after reaching four-hundred points. Its eye widens in shock just as Game Over flashes on the screen. You glance at the time; only three minutes have passed since you left the office kitchen and sat down. Three measly minutes. 

I can’t do this, you think, clicking out of the tab. I’ll just peek inside, look around for a bit, and then leave. Mr. Ashengrotto won’t even know I was there.

Content with your decision, you head for his office, careful to avoid crossing paths with the twins. It might not be the smartest thing to do, especially since you’ve been on thin ice ever since your boss called you into his office to scold you, but you need to find your phone. Who knows what someone might do if they have your password. The thought of a stranger peeking into your private life unsettles you more than being caught, so you reason that your decision isn’t entirely foolish.

Your hand closes around the door knob and you inhale a nervous breath before entering. 

So much for a secure office... 

After shutting the door, you analyze the empty room. The blinds are open, casting odd shadows along the floor, and you turn the light on to brighten the space. There’s a small aloe plant on his desk with a ribbon tied around the pot. You disregard the succulent and move to stand behind his desk. A stack of papers rests under the octopus paperweight, which is positioned beside a cup of pens and a stapler. Your gaze crawls to the cabinets and drawers and you reach for the nearest handle. It doesn’t budge no matter how much you pull. 

Locked, huh? He probably has the key.

You take a few steps away from his desk until your legs bump into the swivel chair he always sits in. 

“If I was my boss,” you mumble, brows knitting in concentration, “where would I keep the key? I’d keep it on me, but in the event that I left it somewhere... Or if I misplaced it... That’s it! A spare key!”

You snatch the cup and dump the pens onto the desk without ceremony. Unfortunately, a key doesn’t fall out amongst the pile, so you turn your attention on the aloe plant. Its verdant leaves seem innocent enough, as does the soil it’s growing out of. You doubt he’d bury the key, but you still lift the plant to check under it. 

Sighing, you glance at the clock on the wall. Nine minutes have gone by since you left your cubicle. 

Maybe there isn’t a spare key after all. 

But just as that thought occurs to you, you glimpse the paperweight again and something clicks within you. When he had picked it up that day and tapped on it, it made a hollow sound. Again, your eyes dart towards the door and then the clock before falling on the paperweight once more. You test its weight in your palm before giving it a gentle shake. Something rattles inside, bouncing around within the ceramic walls, and your chest fills with hope. There’s a rubber stopper in the bottom and you force your fingernails under it. Unfortunately, the stopper won’t come free from the ceramic as easily as you had hoped and you struggle to yank it out for a few minutes. 

Eventually, it becomes clear that you’re only wasting time, so you give up on the stopper altogether and resolve to use another method of extraction. Drawing your arm back, you move away from his desk until you’re a considerable distance. And then you pitch it directly at the opposite wall, watching with great pleasure as it shatters into shards of black and purple ceramic. 

“I’ll buy you a replacement,” you tell the air as you rush over to the debris, sifting through it for the object that was inside. It fits into your hand, small and cold. A brass key. “Yes! I knew you’d have a spare!”

Ignoring the ticking clock, you turn towards the cabinets and begin the tedious process of fitting the key into every hole until one of them unlocks. You find where it goes after a few tries, but to your surprise it doesn’t unlock any of the filing cabinets. It unlocks his desk drawer, which is a slim space that houses more papers, file folders, an unopened package of pens, and a tape dispenser. You grab the files and set them on his desk before peering inside, desperate to find any hint as to where your phone might be. 

Did someone actually take it? Why? It’s cracked. The battery is going bad. It’s not even a good phone. 

Frowning, you lift the file folder and are about to slip it back into the drawer when the word scribbled onto the tab catches your eye. In elegant cursive, your name meets your puzzled stare. For a moment you stand there, stunned, as your brain attempts to comprehend your discovery. 

“Shouldn’t this be filed in one of the cabinets?” You flinch at your timid tone, having been so lost in the moment that the quiet began to feel pleasant. 

You’ve snooped through his things, damaged his paperweight, and broke into his desk. What’s one more offense added to the list? Although as soon as you open the folder, you wish you hadn’t. The article about the incident from your past is at the very top, as are some of the other documents that were part of the file you received, and as you flick through each of them trepidation crawls up your spine. 

A sheet of lined paper rests under everything else and you set the other documents down. Your name has been written in the center, circled in black ink that bleeds onto the page, and an entire network of lines extend outwards. The diagram reminds you of something you’d see in a biology class, where students would label parts of the body and its functions. Notes about you clutter the margins and some of the writing has been scratched out and corrected. You read assumptions and facts about your fears, your boyfriend, your personal life. Even the color of your underwear has been catalogued: White, according to Floyd. Black, according to Jade. The back of the page is just as alarming. He’s compared himself to you, marking every similarity and difference in an effort to determine overall compatibility. 

The realization digs into you like a shovel cutting through soil to hollow a grave.

“He’s obsessed,” you whisper, horrified. “He knows all of this information. Hell, I don’t even remember my meals and yet he’s... He’s documented all of them for every single day, down to the total caloric intake.”

You’re quick to pocket the evidence before turning your attention on the last two pages in the file, both of which have been stapled together. You separate them with trembling hands, desperately wishing for a sign that all of this is just one terrible joke and nothing more. But when you read his detailed plan on how he intends to kidnap you, where he’ll potentially keep you at various locations, and what your future will look like you can’t help the bile that rises in your throat. He wants to marry you, start a family with you, live with you for many years to come. He never saw you as his secretary to begin with, and he’s been planning to make you his for a while now. Years, as the writing suggests.

Years of a secret love that spiraled out of control, growing rapidly and stifling all forms of reason and logic. A sick obsession he’s managed to hide under many meticulously crafted layers. Layers you never thought to peel back and question.

The gross feeling only persists when you read the plan he’s penned for your boyfriend. In his usual curling script, he’s listed ways in which he can dispose of him and each one is more terrifying than the last.

Apparent suicide - Gunshot to the head (too messy; traumatic for angelfish should she discover his corpse).

Apparent suicide - Hanging (also traumatic, but not as bloody). Will need suicide note.

Kidnapped and killed elsewhere - Lost at sea? Drowned? Reported missing but never found? May need electric saw to scatter remains. Will have to separate him from angelfish. 

Suddenly, as you stand in the silence of your boss’s office, finding your missing phone isn’t your top priority. 

This can’t be real, you think, shaking your head in disbelief as you read over the words once more. Mr. Ashengrotto is so upstanding. He’s not like this. He’s running a business. He doesn’t have time for…whatever this is. There’s just no way.

You hazard a glance at the clock and gasp. Fifteen minutes have passed, and you scramble to put everything back where it was before you’re caught. If you can scurry back to your cubicle, Mr. Ashengrotto will never know you trespassed and you can take your evidence to anyone who’ll listen. Because they definitely will. It doesn’t matter if the world is his oyster; these receipts will prove his danger level and then you and your boyfriend will be safe once he’s locked in a cold, dark prison cell. Someone will hear your desperate voice. 

You gather the ceramic shards in your hands and throw them in the rubbish bin beside his desk. It’s impossible to put the key back in its original place, so you stuff it in your pocket. It’s practically burning a hole through the fabric of your blazer as it rests alongside the folded papers. After arranging the top of his desk to resemble how it looked when you first walked in, you smooth the nonexistent wrinkles in your pencil skirt and stride towards the door. Inhaling a sharp, anxious breath, you will your nerves to relax and then you reach for the door.

It opens and your entire body stills when you make eye contact with your boss, who looks equal parts surprised and confused to see you.

“Can I help you, (Name)?” he eventually asks, brows quirked. “Are you looking for something?”

“A-Ah. Um. I am. Well, I was a minute ago. I mean—” You swallow thickly as your composure cracks.

Shit. I can’t let him know that I saw everything. He can’t know. If he knows…

“I… I was looking for—um—for you!” You’re wrapping your arms around his neck in a hug that’s much too tight before you can stop yourself. He stiffens in your hold and you take this as your opportunity to pull him into the office, kicking the door shut with the tip of your toe. “Because I’m so grateful. I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, so I waited for you in your office. I know that probably wasn’t professional or polite, but I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

“R-Really?” His arms snake awkwardly around you. 

“Yes! I feel so ashamed for my behavior that I wanted to take the time to let you know that I’m really happy to have you as my boss. You’re so forgiving and kind. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You pull away from him and force as much gratitude into your wide grin as possible. Mr. Ashengrotto’s hands linger on your waist for a mere moment before he allows them to fall to his sides. You’re ready to excuse yourself and run as far from his office as you can get when he suddenly steps forward, arms darting out to seize your wrists. Before you can register what’s happening, he’s pushed you down onto his desk.

“I hate to sour such a genuine moment, but snooping is not something I can forgive so easily.” He gazes past you at the empty space where his paperweight once sat and breathes a hollow chuckle. “I see. So that’s how it is.” When he peers down at you, there is darkness in his eyes—pure, unbridled darkness. You lose yourself in the abyss that is his gaze, failing to sense his tightening grip or the way his lip curls in annoyance.

You’ve never seen your boss look anything less than perfect, but in this moment his expression is fraught with an anger that doesn’t quite fit on his handsome face. He looks monstrous in the light.

“Whatever you think I saw, I didn’t see it,” you say, but the obvious fright in your tone betrays you. “I promise…”

He scrutinizes you for what feels like forever until, eventually, he releases you and steps back to straighten his tie. “If that’s the truth, then I’ll have to kindly ask that you leave. I’m very busy at the moment.”

“R-Right! Of course!” You peel yourself off of his desk, heart beating so fast it’s gone into overdrive, and beeline for the door.

“Before you go, I would like you to empty your pockets.”

“My pockets?” You pivot slowly. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I’d rather not dig it out myself. I’m not a barbarian, so spare us both the trouble.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I really don’t have—”

“Your pockets, (Name).”

For a minute you hold his glower before promptly surrendering. Exhaling a defeated sigh, you reach into your blazer and withdraw the papers and key, sheepishly offering them to him like a kid whose hand was caught in the candy jar.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“If I were you, I would be conscious of the mistakes you make from now on. Curiosity is known to kill pesky felines who can’t keep their noses out of other people’s business.”

“O-Of course. It won’t happen again.”

“I know.” An easy smile tugs at his lips as he gestures to the door. “Now get out.”

You don’t have to be told twice.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of sleepless nights and tiresome workdays. Your boss carries on as if nothing ever transpired in his office, even going so far as to leave the new phone he bought you on your desk with a note that read: I’m sorry you couldn’t find your old phone. Please accept this one as a replacement. Part of you expects Mr. Ashengrotto’s plans to come to fruition the moment you lower your guard, so you’ve started reading up on self-defense techniques and how to fend off a stalker. Because that’s what he is, right? A stalker. Or maybe a pervert. Perhaps he’s both and you’ve been doomed from the very beginning.

He’s definitely going to kill us, you had caught yourself thinking when you woke at midnight and glanced at your sleeping boyfriend, who was wrapped up in a peaceful dream. One day he’ll break into our house, chop us into pieces, and cover everything up like an expert killer. He has the resources and money to get away with it. We’d end up as another murdered couple who fell victim to an unknown killer. Would anyone even bat an eye?

As a result of your constant overthinking, old nightmares have started to resurface and, in order to fight the clutches of sleep, you’ve resorted to drinking more coffee than you normally would. Your boyfriend thinks you’re being overly paranoid, but you know your fears are justified. If your boss has been hiding this side for a while, it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his breaking point. The same goes for you. You can only lose so much sleep before exhaustion pulls you under and you falter.

But what can you do to stop him? What are you supposed to do in this situation? You can’t go to the police without solid evidence. They’ll just assume you’re a scorned woman trying to dirty her boss’s promising reputation and then no one would take you seriously. You can’t tell your boyfriend about it either because you don’t want him to complicate this matter more than it already is. As of now, you’re stuck harboring this soul-crushing secret, witnessing the weeks fly by as your sanity thins.

When the plans he’s painstakingly orchestrated bloom, what will become of your current life? What happens when he kills your boyfriend and then sets his sights on you? He has so much to lose. Surely he wouldn’t risk his life just to make a mess of yours. 

Maybe he isn’t serious. Maybe those documents weren’t written by him and were instead created by the same person who shoved them in your desk. You highly doubt that’s the case, but you want to hope that that’s all this is—that he’s just holding it as evidence. That he’s not actually obsessed with every aspect of your life. 

Despite your boyfriend’s reassurance, you feel so small and alone in his house—a mere ant cut off from its underground civilization. A bird that has fallen from its nest. A human on a desert island. And Mr. Ashengrotto is the foot who will crush the anthill, the hands that will pluck the bird’s feathers individually, and the creature who lurks in the ocean, meters from the shoreline. And when you drag yourself into work, you feel like the world’s going to collapse on you. 

You rub at your eyes and take another gulp from your bitter, lukewarm coffee. Your laptop screen blinds you when you stare at it, but you continue to work in spite of the brightness. You’re not sure if the office is the safest place to be at night, but at the very least the security cameras will serve as your witness should anything happen. As wearisome as it is, you’ve been spending most of your evenings in the office under the pretense of working overtime. And even though that’s partially true, you’ve been wanting to find a way back into Mr. Ashengrotto’s office so that you can secure the evidence and be on your way. Then you’ll show it to the authorities and they’ll have no choice but to turn their attention on your boss. If he hasn’t destroyed those papers yet—and you’re truly praying he hasn’t—you might have a chance at bringing him down. Maybe. You have no idea whether your idea will work or if it’s any good. You’ve never had to deal with a creep like him before. 

But the odds are in your favor. He’s left for a business trip in the next few cities over and he won’t be back until tomorrow. You couldn’t get into his office yesterday because Jade had stayed late to finish some paperwork, but tonight the coast is clear. You have a chance; you can do this.

Your phone brightens in the dimly lit room and you glance at the pristine screen. You almost miss your old phone and its dwindling battery life and ugly crack. Leaning back in your chair, you snatch your phone from the desk and unlock it to view the text. The message doesn’t quite register at first until you read it again and the breath sticks in your throat. 

we need to talk. 

There’s a picture that accompanies the sentence. In it, you’re sprawled on a bed in a dark room, illuminated by the phone’s flash, and your dress has been hiked up to reveal your underwear and thighs. You look completely out of it in the crisp image, eyes screwed shut and lips parted in a daze. You zoom in on the photo and your heart plummets into your stomach. The spring dress you’re wearing is the same one you wore to the luncheon, and its straps hang loose on your shoulders, nearly exposing your chest to the camera. You can’t understand why or how this picture came into your boyfriend’s possession and you don’t want to know the explanation for its existence.

Another message pops up under the image: where is this picture from? have u been cheating on me?

That evening flashes through your mind in a whirlwind of sound and color until it all circles back to when you asked Mr. Ashengrotto how you managed to get home. He claimed he had driven you back, but that’s not true. He’d taken you to another location before that, and as the photo suggests he brought you to his place and then he...

With a hammering heart, your fingers type out a rapid reply: that’s not what it looks like I promise!! I would never cheat on you. Never.

The ellipsis pops up, an indication that he’s writing a reply, and it remains like that for eternity until it disappears altogether. Without wasting another second, you slam your laptop shut, stuff it into your bag, and sling it over your shoulder. 

I was drunk!!! you’re typing, fighting the urge to cry. Eventually you delete your message and call him instead. The phone rings twice before he answers and you don’t give him any time to respond before diving into a hasty clarification. 

“That’s me in the picture, yes, but I was drunk. I was passed out! I don’t have any memories of that night. You have to believe me. I’d never dream of cheating on you. I love you!”

You stumble in your heels as you click down the halls, no longer interested in breaking into your boss’s office. You finger taps impatiently at the elevator’s call button and once the doors part you throw yourself in, press the button for the parking garage, and wait in silence as you descend. Your boyfriend doesn’t say anything while you rant about your innocence, and it doesn’t occur to you that he hung up until you move your phone from your ear and stare at your background instead of the outgoing call screen. When you attempt to call back, it directs you to voicemail. 

Gritting your teeth, you lurch out of the lift, listening to the automated message as it plays. And then you break into a run as you make your way through the parking garage, stumbling under the sickly glow of a yellow light. Your steps echo in the shadows and as you talk into your phone your voice comes back to you in a distorted waver. 

“I... I’m sorry. Please just call me back. I really need to talk to you.”

Shoving your phone into your pocket, you dig through your bag for your keys and search through the gloom for your car. It lights up when you unlock it, emitting a faint beep to help guide you. Your brain is whirring with thoughts as you walk, heart pounding out a terrifying rhythm. 

Is this his plan? the tiny voice muses. To make you seem unfaithful so that your boyfriend abandons you?

What could he possibly gain from all of this madness?

You.

Just as you reach your car, your fingers curling around the handle, someone’s strong arms emerge from the darkness to wrap around your waist. Your mouth opens to scream, but someone claps their hand over your lips to muffle all sound as they yank you against them. You thrash wildly, kicking out in a blind panic, and attempt to recall the few self-defense tips you read online. But everything turns up blank as the primal urge to survive overrides all coherent thoughts and it’s impossible to remember every step one must take in subduing an opponent. Your elbow digs into your assailant’s stomach and their hold loosens for just a moment, but it’s all you need to wriggle out of their arms. 

With a shuddering gasp, you stumble away from them, feeling around for your car. Your heels skid against the concrete, sending you tumbling to the ground. Everything is happening so fast and you hardly have time to react when someone kicks you back down, digging their foot into your backside. 

“P-Please!” you hear yourself cry out, voice thick with terror. “Take my money o-or my car. I’ll give you my keys! Please just let me live.” You drag yourself as far from their foot as you can manage, squinting up at them in the darkness. Their tall figure looms over you, silently watching. 

“Do you want more? You... You can take my laptop and my bag! Everything’s yours! I promise I’ll hand all of it over without a fight!”

Their leg retreats into the shadows and you heave a relieved sigh. You feel around for your bag and its spilled contents, and when you grab your phone you hold it out to the stranger. The screen brightens with another message and it bathes their face in a fluorescent glow.

You recognize him at once.

“W-Wait. What are you—”

That’s as far as you get because he brings his foot down on your ankle with so much force that you hear the bone splinter and crack. The howling comes next. It’s a sound that shreds your throat, so foreign and riddled with agony that you hardly recognize it as yours.

Floyd glares down at you. “You’re really annoying, you know that? Just shut up and—” another cruel stomp— “fall asleep!”

When he gathers you in his arms and lifts you from the cold concrete, your consciousness soon starts to fade away. You’re certain it’s because of the sharp pain that races up your leg and the anxiety that has thrown you into survival mode. Floyd sets you down in the backseat of a vehicle that smells too sterile for your liking, but you don’t have any energy to fight back. Tears stream down your cheeks and you reach out for him, hoping he’ll reconsider.

The door slams shut and a few moments later he returns with all of your belongings, which he drops haphazardly onto the passenger seat. Floyd slips into the driver’s seat, buckles in, and turns the key in the ignition.

“You ready for a road trip, shrimpy?”

The half-whimper, half-groan you grind out is the only reply he receives, and once he’s exited the parking garage you’re sinking into an ocean of unconsciousness. And this time no one’s there to rescue you from the depths.

Every muscle in your body screams in protest when you sit up in bed, but nothing smarts more than your leg. It’s unbearably sore and the slightest movement has you grimacing. When you pull the blanket off of you, you find that it’s been bandaged tightly. That’s not the only befuddling thing. The bedroom you’re in isn’t yours, and the king-sized bed is far too big for one person. You swing your legs over the edge, mindful of your ankle, and slither off of the bed. Pain seizes your ankle when you put your weight on it and you flop onto the mattress with a hiss.

“Okay, take it slow,” you mutter through grit teeth. “Slow and careful. You can do this.”

You lift yourself from the bed and limp towards the door, only pausing to grip onto the bedpost to steady yourself. As you catch your breath, you observe the sparsely furnished bedroom. Despite the grand vanity and its matching stool, you recognize some of the other decorations strewn about. When you approach the desk, you find something peculiar. The glass bird paperweight from the home decor magazine you looked through is there. That feels like such a distant memory now, even if it’s only been a few weeks since. A houseplant sits on the windowsill, where the sun shines through in bright rays, and you hobble over to the window. It doesn’t budge when you try to force it open, so you peer outside at the lush lawn that seems to go on forever.

“Where am I?” you ask the houseplant, running your finger over one of its leaves.

It takes a few minutes, but you manage to drag yourself out of the bedroom and into the hall, which stretches onwards and breaks off into multiple rooms. The path dizzies you as you travel down it, counting every door you come across. You emerge in a monochrome kitchen, complete with a granite island and a hanging light fixture, and continue through the doorway into what you assume is the sitting room. The man lounging on the L-shaped sofa catches your attention, framed by the morning light that spills in from the expansive windows behind him. He’s focused on a tablet screen, feet propped up on a fluffy pillow, and is dressed in an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants.

“Mr. Ashengrotto?” You lean against the wall, half expecting him to vanish if you blink hard enough.

His gaze snaps up to meet yours. “How’re you feeling?” He sets the tablet down on a circular coffee table before coming over to assist you. “It’s best that you avoid putting weight on that leg.” His narrowed eyes and furrowed brow match his aggravated tone when he adds, “That brute. What am I to do with him? I made it very clear that you weren’t to be injured. My deepest apologies, dear.”

As soon as his fingertips brush your arm, you stagger away. Last night comes back to you in a flash—the messages, the struggle with Floyd, and the sickening crack of bone. All of it comes crashing down on you like a massive tidal wave.

“D-Don’t come any closer!”

Mr. Ashengrotto rolls his eyes. “Be reasonable, (Name). If I wished to harm you, I would have done so already. You’re safe here.”

“No… No, you kidnapped me. You—you’re crazy!”

“Right.” He folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. Since I’m so ‘crazy,’ I won’t move from this spot. Does that make you feel better?”

“What do you want from me? I… I’m not someone worth kidnapping… Please think about this, sir.”

Abhorrence twists his deadpanned expression into something frightening. “Azul. That’s my name. Use it.”

Your back connects with the island and you realize he’s been advancing while you retreat towards the kitchen with slow, cautious steps.

“A-Azul...”

His first name feels far too casual in your mouth. Awkward and not right, like a shirt that just barely fits. If you were back at the office and you’d addressed him in such a way, you’d feel so unprofessional. After all, you’ve been calling him ‘Mr. Ashengrotto’ and ‘sir’ for so long now. Anything other than that is difficult to stomach. But you’ve already crossed the line of a healthy employee-employer relationship and have fallen off the precipice into a perilous pit.

“I don’t expect you to understand or accept my reasoning, but I hope you’ll listen to me.” He counts the years on his fingers with a delighted hum. “It’s been five years since I took on the role of CEO, hasn’t it? I believe I met you a few months after that. Do you remember that day?”

You muster the courage to nod. “T-The painting. I was supposed to bring it to you.”

“If I’m being honest, I didn’t think you were all that spectacular. You didn’t stand up for yourself, you let that woman raise a hand to you, and you were the one to apologize in the end. Truly pathetic.” He sighs and his voice takes on a dreamy undertone. “We’re the same, you and I.”

“We are most certainly not.” You glare at him. “I don’t care what you wrote on that stupid chart. We have no similarities at all!”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He takes a bold step towards you and grabs your hands. “You’re not made of steel. You were bullied. You cry. You make mistakes. You’re so naturally vulnerable. And I… I can relate to that sort of helplessness.”

“I’m human. Those are human traits.”

“And that’s what makes you so fascinating! Even when Jade and Floyd pushed you to breaking, you picked up every piece and continued on as if it didn’t bother you. Even when I brought you into my office and scolded you for such obvious lies, you still apologized and went on with your day. I really wondered how far I could push you until you cracked. Perhaps it was a little mean to subject you to so much stress, but these tests were all necessary stepping stones.”

“Hold on. You knew I was innocent?” When he doesn’t answer, you rip your hands from his grasp. “Are you serious? Do you know how shitty I felt afterwards? Do you know how much I suffered while your lapdogs got off on it? How much they touched me. Harassed me. You don’t, do you? Because you were too busy writing an entire thesis paper on my meals!”

“Speaking of that, your diet will change to accommodate mine. If we’re going to be compatible—”

“We’re not compatible! Mr. Ashengrotto, you can’t act like all of this is okay. You put me through hell. You let me get drunk at that luncheon—that same luncheon that I hated because every minute was horrible and I was so scared, but I endured it for the company’s sake—and then you took advantage of me! You sent that picture to my boyfriend and now he thinks I’m a lying cheat!”

He scoffs. “I only positioned you for the camera. I’m not a monster who preys on incapacitated drunks.” He frowns when he notices the disbelief etched on your face. “That’s the truth. I needed a prop for the final act and at the time it felt reasonable. A young couple, divided by damning evidence, and the heartbroken boyfriend disappears shortly after his devastating discovery. It’s a little cliché, but you have to work with what you’re given.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Consider yourself lucky I deviated from my original plan.”

The craziness of this entire situation has yet to truly land. You’re unable to absorb everything he’s saying and all you can gather is that he’s been obsessed this whole time, so much so that he’s gone to insane lengths just to get to this moment. You’re moving on autopilot when you pull the largest blade from the knife block, brandishing it before you as if it’s a sword and you’re a valiant knight ready to slay the dragon.

“Let me go. If you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

He gazes at the blade, unflinching. “You’re shaking.”

“I’ll still kill you.”

“Angelfish, think logically. Who else will be here to ferry you on and off the island if you kill me? Who will feed you? Who will care for you? You’ll rot in here alongside me if you bury that blade in my heart. I imagine the sight and the smell won’t be very pleasant.”

“The…island?”

“That’s right.” His lips twist into a smirk so sharp it rivals your blade.

Still gripping it in a resolute fist, you limp past him. He trails after you. When you make it to the window, you stare out at the sprawling landscape, searching for any indication that this house rests on a strip of land in the middle of the ocean. It’s hard to believe, but knowing how wealthy Mr. Ashengrotto is you’re certain he can afford it.

“Allow me.” He opens the door and offers his arm. You push past him, hissing with every step. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Don’t care,” you snap. Your legs carry you across the lawn and down a steep slope, where a dreadful seascape awaits you.

“At first I thought you were fearful of ships,” he says, stepping into your line of sight with the grace of a cat. “But then I truly considered it. You’re scared of the ocean, aren’t you? I came to that conclusion once I learned of your past. Your thalassophobia is not ideal for you, but it benefits me greatly.”

The wind grabs at you with cold fingers, threatening to drag you down the hill and into the yawning mouth of the water. You swallow around a lump of nerves. “Why would you… I… The ocean…” You sink to your knees in the grass, staring at your lap and the knife in order to dispel the sea from your mind. “I’m on land. There isn’t any ocean. It’s not here. I’m…here. Land. G-Grass and dirt. This isn’t the ocean.”

No matter how much you repeat those lines, they don’t stick. You can’t fool yourself this time and the same voice that was once so comforting has become an unsettling horror.

“And to think I considered selling this property…” He bends down to your height and places his hand on your shoulder. “You won’t have to lift a finger while you’re here. I won’t force secretary work on you either. We can live in peace together. Just you and me. No one will disturb us. No bullies. No troublesome clients. No distractions.”

You heave a shuddering breath just as the tears start falling. The thought of being confined to a chunk of land with no means of escape is downright terrifying. But what’s scarier is the ocean that surrounds you, its deceptive depths calling to you—reminding you of your childhood and the days spent cooped up in a humid classroom, too nervous to leave in fear of the bullies lingering in the courtyard.

And the only connection you’ll ever have is with your boss—the only one who knows you exist here.

“Why?” you’re whispering, voice snatched by the greedy sea breeze. “Why are you doing this to me? I… I can’t live here. N-Not if the ocean is… No. No, no, no! I can’t! Please take me back to the mainland! I need to be on r-real land. Please, I’ll do anything.”

He pulls you in for an embrace despite your initial aversion. His hand rubs soothing circles into your back while you remain still, glassy eyes confronting the sea. The waves roll in from afar, smashing against the rocks below in a spray of surf and salt.

“‘Anything’ is a strong word, angelfish. Be mindful of the things you say while wrapped up in your emotions. If you aren’t, I might just take advantage of your willingness to do anything.”

“P-Please.” You clutch his sweater with shaking hands. “It’s too close. If I’m in the house and the tide rises… If it swallows me—” You break off with a gasp, shoulders shaking. “I can’t swim. I’ll drown. I—”

The first few drops of rain land on the tip of your nose. Slowly, you pull away from him to peer up at the cumulus-spotted sky. Despite the drizzle, the sun remains bright, mocking you with its happy shine.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?” Just as he opens his mouth to respond, you shove him away, overcome with a sudden, adrenaline-fueled frustration. He stumbles on the too-perfect grass. “Because I don’t think it’s possible to ‘get used to it’ when the one responsible for this is my fucking boss! I trusted you and you let all of this happen to me! And why? Because you think I’ll fall for you if I’m shoved into an expensive house? Is that it? Do you think I’ll like you if you swoop in like a prince and admit that everything was done for my sake? To protect me? Am I supposed to accept that?”

Mr. Ashengrotto’s eyes travel to the knife and, though you’re trembling and crying and sucking in breath after breath, he doesn’t move, mindful of the threat.

“I’ll never love you. I have a boyfriend.”

“Not anymore.”

“What?” Once you comprehend the meaning of those chilly words, the breath sticks in your throat. “W-What do you mean?”

“You read my notes. I’m certain you can guess.” He holds his hand out to you, tutting. “You’re in no state to be wielding a knife. Hand it to me and we’ll head inside before it starts raining harder.”

But you’re not listening. You’ve buried your face in your arms and pulled your knees up to your chest as countless sobs rack your body. The knife is still gripped in your hand, but it’s trembling along with your cowering form. That intense feeling of loss returns, an old sensation you thought you’d buried, and all you can picture is your boyfriend as he’s held under the water just like you were. And all of the demons from your past did to him what they couldn’t do to you: They killed him.

You’re not sure what you can do anymore. It’s too late to act on any plan you might have been formulating whilst still on the mainland, and you certainly can’t play hero to a corpse.

Mr. Ashengrotto lets out an impatient huff. “Two years are not that remarkable.” When that fails to get through to you, he risks moving closer, still conscious of the hysteric wails coming from you and the weapon in your possession. “You’ll be happier here. Once you overcome your thalassophobia, I’ll move you to a new location. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? If anything, I’m doing you a favor.”

There are so many emotions swirling within you that you’re not sure how you’re meant to feel anymore. Most of all, you’re filled with grief as you mourn all of the mistakes that led up to this point. If you stayed home, perhaps Floyd wouldn’t have kidnapped you. If you found some way to schedule another group of meetings right after he returned from the short-lived business trip, perhaps you wouldn’t have woken up in this hollow house on this strange slice of earth.

What’s worse is that the ocean surrounds you, a deadly reminder that there won’t be any escape unless you find a way to cross it. And you have no idea how far the mainland is or if you’re even still near the city. Although it’s not like you could ever hope to leave this place via the water. You can’t swim and you have no idea how to pilot a boat—if one even exists on this island. Just how big is it anyway?

You lift your head to view him through tear-filled eyes. He smiles at you and it’s so lovesick that it twists your insides.

“Please let me go.”

“Begging won’t serve any purpose here, and there will be no negotiation on that subject either. This will be your life now.”

He reaches out to wipe your tears away with his thumb and you react on impulse, instinctively swiping at him with the knife. It almost happens too fast, for you’re unprepared to confront the slash on his palm or the cyan blood that rises to the surface. You freeze when you see it.

It’s blue.

“Angelfish...”

“H-Hey…” You scoot away from him while he observes the laceration in disapproval. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It was just… Just a reaction.”

Why is it blue?

His fingers close into a tight fist and he inhales a steadying breath. “Of course. A reaction. Right.”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or genuinely accepting of it, but when he towers over you and holds his other hand out with the same expectance of a schoolteacher admonishing a student for stealing you have no choice but to relinquish the knife. Some of his blood has gotten on the blade and you stare at the foreign hue in awe. The sun shower is quick to wash it away, and you force yourself onto your legs, avoiding the ocean and focusing solely on the house. It’s a typical modern design you’d expect from someone with Mr. Ashengrotto’s wealthy tastes: all glass and wood, bathed in colors of white and black and brown. If anything, it looks like the houses you used to see whenever you searched for ‘fancy homes’ online.

“I’ll…go back inside.” You suppose the house is better than the ocean. It’s your only other choice and as of now it’s the lesser of two evils. “C-Can you help me walk? My ankle really hurts…”

Wordlessly, he sidles up to you and wraps his arm around your waist. You grab onto him, relieved that you’re no longer putting your broken ankle through a world of agony. He climbs the hill with you, and the only sounds that follow are the crying seagulls circling above, the fierce howling of the wind, and the crashing of waves along the rocky shore. You catch sight of a boardwalk once you’ve made it to the top, partially hidden by the trees.

With Mr. Ashengrotto’s support, you manage to make it inside before crumpling on the sofa, heaving exhausted breaths as your ankle tingles painfully. He disappears into the kitchen and it’s a while before he returns, but when he does his hand is wrapped in bandages.

After draping a blanket over you, he holds it up for you to see, a delighted glint in his stormy blues. “Now we match.”

Your nose wrinkles and you curl into yourself on the sofa, gaze shifting to the wide aquarium in place of where a TV ought to be. Fish of all sizes and colors swim within, ignorant to your predicament but just as caged. Your heart won’t stop its frenzied beats and, beneath all of the hopeless sadness, an underlying fear remains. You’re not sure if you’re more scared of the ocean or your boss, but when he sits beside you on the sofa and pats your head you think it’s the latter.

No sane man could act this way in a situation that’s far from normal.

“I should let you know that if you try anything that may cause harm to either of us you will find yourself restrained. I’d rather not treat you like an animal, so please don’t make this harder on yourself.” He curls a lock of your hair around his finger, toying with it as if the two of you are actually lovers relaxing on a rainy morning. “It hurts to see you so distraught, dearest, but you must realize that I’m doing this for us. I’m protecting you.”

“You k-killed my boyfriend. You kidnapped me. You’re sick.”

“I didn’t kill him.” Mr. Ashengrotto tucks the strand behind your ear, still smiling down at you like you’re the most precious thing in his world. “Although I might as well have the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Oh,” you mumble brokenly, and it sounds more like a defeated sigh than an actual word. “I don’t know what else to say. You’re so…” Whatever hateful adjective you intended to verbalize dies on your tongue.

Your thoughts are dyed in a blue so deep it calls forth the surging tide, washing over your emotions and swallowing what’s left of your tears. You want to think this is a dream and that when you fall asleep you’ll wake up in the office, in front of your gleaming laptop, at the crack of dawn. But even the dream world you slip into is not as promising as your current reality, for it is tinged in the same blue that colors Mr. Ashengrotto’s blood.

“Get some rest, my dear.” He presses his lips against your forehead and you don’t have any energy to retaliate. 

There is no boat by the dock, but there is an office that overlooks the empty space where it ought to be. Out of the many rooms in the house, this is the one that has been furnished according to the scribbles you made on the magazine. The tall windows lack curtains and the desk faces them, so you’re forced to confront the ocean through the trees. It’s a room you refuse to enter, even if Mr. Ashengrotto has told you it’s yours to use however you’d like. But there’s not much you can do with it when it’s lacking all forms of technology. Does he expect you to doodle on sheets of paper with crayon? Does he want you to sit in there and contemplate the benefits of reciprocation? Now that you’re no longer his secretary, that room is about as useful as your ankle right now.

Maybe you’ll storm in there and break things in a fit of rage. One day. It won’t be today, but you’re certain it’ll happen the longer you spend trapped inside, allowing frustrations to build and swell. Once your ankle heals and you’re no longer stuck under the soothing thumb of painkillers and stacked pillows, you’ll utilize your newfound mobility to scope out the rest of the property—should you manage the courage to do so—and conjure ways to escape.

You’re secretly happy there isn’t a boat. It means Mr. Ashengrotto is just as stuck as you are and that fact satisfies you. Neither of you can leave.

You’re not sure how long it’s been since you woke in this abstract house, where your daily routine consists mainly of bedridden boredom, in which Mr. Ashengrotto dutifully brings your meals to you on a tray and insists you maintain a balanced diet while you bicker with him and ignore your hunger cramps. He’ll read from books, newspapers, and magazines while you fix your stare on the houseplants in the bedroom (He adds a new one with each passing day, and you haven’t the faintest clue where they’re coming from). You never listen to any of the stories he relays, but he still tries. He still reads on. You hate that about him—his persistence. He’ll hum a soothing melody while he changes your bandages, pressing kiss after kiss upon your slowly healing ankle as if that’ll speed up the process.

And then he’ll help you walk around the house, allowing you to lean on him and the cane he’s provided for you. It’s supposed to be exercise or something akin to very early physical therapy, but it just succeeds in hollowing your soul. Mr. Ashengrotto likes these walks the most because he gets to hold you, guide you, praise you. You’ve observed him in this private setting long enough to realize the Mr. Ashengrotto you interacted with at the office is so very different from the Azul who’s patient, tender, and loving.

When you began to show some progress with your scheduled walks, he put a record on and offered his hand to you. For a slow dance, of all things. You don’t want slow dances and sugared soirées. You want your freedom. But you’d accepted his invitation, unable to do much aside from rest your head on his chest and sway with him in the emptiness of the living room, basking in soft, crackling jazz. You never knew he had a penchant for collecting antique records.

And you hate to admit it, but Mr. Ashengrotto is a good dancer.

The more time you spend examining the house when you aren’t resting in the bedroom, the stranger its design becomes. Doors open to cold, slanted rooms—most barely furnished—and the halls are thin and lengthy, stretching like taffy. There are hardly any decorations on the walls, so it feels more like you’ve stumbled into a house that’s been put up for sale rather than something inhabited by another person. Then again, Mr. Ashengrotto did mention something about his considerations for selling the property. Oh, how you wish he would’ve gone through with it.

Instead, he reassures you that he’ll do all that he can to make this place more cozy for you and him. 

You’ve seen your fair share of thrillers, and kidnapping is always a terrifying what-if that would have you sitting as far from the TV as possible. Your boyfriend used to comfort you—tell you that he’d never allow any of that to happen to you. It feels like an empty promise now. But all this time spent in captivity isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be. Perhaps it’s because you know Mr. Ashengrotto doesn’t intend to hurt you. Even so, you hate thinking that this situation is boring when you ought to be relieved it’s not worse. At least he keeps you fed, washed, and clothed. He could very well do whatever he wanted and you’d have no choice but to obey out of fear and the animalistic instinct to survive.

Instead, he’s tending to a bird’s broken wing, nursing it back to health until it’s ready to fly again. And when that happens, he’ll clip its wings and the cycle will repeat.

Sighing, you shake your head to dispel those thoughts and continue hobbling through the main living room with Mr. Ashengrotto in tow. You’ve only traversed the first floor. Mr. Ashengrotto told you he doesn’t want you climbing the stairs unless he’s there to help you, and since you want to ease the pressures applied to your ankle you’ve settled on investigating the floor you’re currently confined to. Everything about this house feels so vacant and lonesome. There is no personal touch. There isn’t even evidence that it’s been thoroughly lived in. The master bedroom, which is where you’ve slept for the past however many days, is the only room that has a semblance of life to it, but that could just be due to the abundance of plants spilling out the door. Mr. Ashengrotto has resolved to sleep on a futon beside the bed, insisting that he’ll only sleep with you when you’re comfortable.

Comfortable. Right. Like you’ll ever find comfort in this situation. You hate that he’s genuinely trying to acclimate you to this new environment. Most of all, you hate that it’s slowly starting to work. You hate that you’ve begun enjoying sitting at the dinner table with him because he’s the only one who will indulge you in lighthearted chatter, as one-sided as it usually becomes. You hate it when he reads fairytales before bed, hoping that by providing you with enough candied fantasy your dreams will be just as sweet. (And, much to your displeasure, they usually are.) You hate how careful he is with you. You hate his eyes and the love that threatens to spill out when he admires you. You hate his warm lips. You hate his smile. You hate him.

Do you really?

There’s one room on the ground floor that you’ve yet to peer into. Its door is unlike anything you’ve ever seen: a solid hunk of metal with an accompanying keypad and a retinal scanner. You’re not sure what he’d need to hide that would warrant such drastic security measures. Just thinking of all the possibilities is enough to root you to the floor. Your boyfriend could be in there, just barely clinging to life. That could be your prison within a prison when you act out of line. He could have corpses piled high behind the door. Or maybe not. You haven’t smelled anything. This house is always so clean and crisp, reeking of the sea (a constant reminder that dredges up old memories and fears), and you’ve worked with Mr. Ashengrotto long enough to know how much he values tidy spaces.

A hand on your shoulder shatters your train of thought, and then his smooth voice invades your ears.

“You’ve been admiring this door for quite some time now.”

Your ankle has improved over the course of a few weeks—has it already been weeks? It’s still awkward to walk on, but you’re no longer in need of Mr. Ashengrotto’s shoulder to lean on. You suspect he dislikes this newfound freedom of yours, for he always frowns when you avoid the arm he offers.

“I’d like to know what’s inside.”

“Someone’s curiosity is getting the better of them.” He chuckles, but the circumstances are far from humorous. “Are you that desperate to know?”

“Not desperate,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “But knowing would ease some of my anxiety. I walk past this door every day and I’m worried that…”

“That…” he prompts with a sly smile. “That something terrible lies within?”

You nod and chew your lip.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to show you. They say transparency is important in relationships. Although I would’ve preferred to unveil this when you need it most.”

Where was this transparency when you let me suffer at work? you think, glaring at him as he moves over to the door.

He bends down to meet the retinal scanner, briefly removing his glasses so that his eyeball can be analyzed by the red beam of light produced by the scanner. After it flashes green, he fits his glasses back onto his face and types a code into the keypad, which releases a soft beep and grants him the access he requires. The door slides into a thin crevice in the wall on automatic hinges, humming with hidden machinery, and you don’t have any time to prepare yourself for the sight that burns itself into your brain. Light illuminates a padded room that’s been furnished to look like a nursery, complete with a small bed, a crib and its matching mobile, and all of the essentials a pregnant mother and her child might need. Boxes of diapers, empty milk bottles, breast pumps, stocks of baby food in glass jars, vitamins, towels, a first aid kit, and more line the bookshelves that stretch up to the ceiling, arranged with such precision you’d think this was a display for a magazine.

“This once functioned as a panic room,” Mr. Ashengrotto says as he strides inside, ever so nonchalant. You watch him in horrified silence. “But, as you can see, I’ve converted it into a nursery. It’s fully soundproofed and there’s no way to truly hurt yourself in here.” He glances at you. “So in the event that postpartum depression strikes you, your environment can’t be weaponized.”

“W-Why?”

It’s a foolish question. You know why, but you don’t want to confront the answer.

He smiles shyly and you wish you had the courage to lunge at him. But fighting won’t accomplish anything, and if you seriously injure him—if you kill him—you’ll be all alone, forced to turn to the sea for a way out. So you wrap your arms around yourself and inhale a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’d like to start a family with you.”

“A… A family.” Your nails dig into your sides. “Mr. A-Ashengrotto, I’m not—”

“Azul,” he corrects.

“I’m not…” Not your lover. “I don’t want to start a family with you.”

“I figured you might say that, and that’s all right. Love takes time and creating a family is a big commitment. We won’t rush into it right away.”

“But this isn’t love.”

It will never be love.

“Don’t say that, my dear. You know very well how much I treasure you. You’ll come around eventually. We’ve been making progress so far.” His hands are clutching yours moments later and he pulls you into the nursery. You gaze at the empty crib. “You’ve complained about how desolate the house feels and I agree. It’s much too bland. Wouldn’t a child liven the atmosphere? I’ve already penned dozens of names. We can look at them during breakfast.”

His hand trails along the length of your arm until it gravitates towards your stomach, where he rests his palm against it. You stiffen under his touch. You’d read his note about his wishes to have children with you, but you never thought such a desire consumed his every thought. To go through all the trouble of creating a nursery, of gathering every supply needed for a healthy pregnancy, of contemplating possible names for a child that doesn’t even exist yet (and will never exist, so long as you have anything to say about it)… His dream is your encroaching nightmare.

“It’s a thought that’s lingered in the back of my mind for a while now. I’ve always wondered how you’d look with my child growing inside of you.” His finger traces a heart into your clothed stomach and you shiver in disgust. “You’d look so pretty. So round and sweet and domestic... We’ll build such a happy family together. Just you and me.”

“I don’t want that. I’ll never want that,” you whisper and take a wobbling step away from him. His hand pursues you.

“You will. We just need more time.” 

“You’re delusional if you think I’d willingly have your child.” You swat at his reaching arm. “I’d rather die.”

“Surely you don’t mean that.” The vitriol burning in your fierce glower has him sighing. “Angelfish, stop avoiding me. Let me hold you.”

“No!” You stumble backwards, grabbing onto the doorframe for support. “Get away from me! I’m not having your kid and that’s final!”

“But you’ll be so much happier!” he insists, spreading his arms, palms up, as if he intends to show you a materialization of such joy. The desperately hopeful look in his eyes births raw unease within you. “Think of how wonderful it’ll be! If it’s the nursery you’re worried about, I can always allow you time outside—like how we’ve been doing our walks through the house. We can make this work. Just consider it for a moment and then you might—”

“I don’t want that! Mr. Ashengrotto—”

“Azul.”

“Mr. Ashengrotto, I don’t want any of this! I just want to go back to the mainland!” Frustrated tears gather in your eyes. “I never did anything to deserve this. I put up with the unfairness at the office. I sucked it up and smiled and worked because that was my job. I never misspoke or caused any trouble. I’ve never once complained. So what did I do to offend you? What did I do to you that would make you want to do any of this to me? If all of this is just some crazy form of revenge, then please tell me what I did and I’ll apologize.”

“Angelfish, you didn’t do anything wrong.” His features soften despite the abhorrence shimmering in your glassy eyes. “I’m aware that this situation isn’t ideal, but you’ll find comfort in it eventually. You’ll love me soon enough, and when you do we can finally start a family. Then it’ll be as if all this strife never occurred!���

“That’s never going to happen! Do you honestly think I’d ever want to spend the rest of my life locked up in this stupid house with a stupid criminal?! You can’t act like this is a normal relationship when you kidnapped me and killed my boyfriend. You took me away from my life. You ruined it. I’ll never love you. Not even a little bit. Not in a million years.”

“You’re just speaking out of anger, darling. You don’t mean these things.”

But you do, and that much is obvious in the way you clench your jaw and tighten your hands into fists. Everything about this situation is unfair and sickening. Mr. Ashengrotto’s true colors are much darker than you would have ever imagined. But you couldn’t imagine—not when you were busy fighting humiliation at the hands of the twins. You’ve spent so many years of your life working in misery, but now that you’ve made it to this point all of that suffering feels meaningless when compared to this twisted arrangement. 

“And what about work? You’re the CEO. You don’t have time for family or me or...any of this.” 

“That’s nothing you should concern yourself with.” 

“But people will have definitely noticed we’re not showing up to work. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, sir.” 

“Ah, so you think someone’s reported us missing? The truth is that we let you go. Your behaviors haven’t been very collaborative or appropriate in recent months, and since I have the final say in these kinds of decisions... Well, no one’s going to question the word of the CEO, right?”

A proud smirk sprawls on his lips. Of course he’d have this planned out, you think as you recall the notes he kept hidden in his desk. He’s had this excuse tucked away since the very beginning. Everything has always been in his favor. It’s because of his status and power that he’s able to get away with such a terrible thing. It’s because no one bothers to question him. It’s because you mean so little when pitted against him—an insignificant, flightless bird versus the vast sky that houses it. 

“Besides, it’s not that challenging to leave this island. I can come and go as I please, but you, my dear, cannot. I hate to break such tragic news to you, but your absence doesn’t impact the company in the slightest. A shame, considering you’ve always done such good work. But that’s expected of the spineless yes-man. Would you have eaten glass if I had told you that doing so would earn you a raise? Would you let Jade and Floyd go further in their exploratory touches if your employment status was threatened? Would you have gotten on your knees for me if it meant you could continue to work as my secretary?” He chuckles, cold and cruel. “That’s all right, though. I love every side of you, even the most troublesome ones.”

His every word is as grating as nails on a chalkboard, and the last fraction of your contented soul disintegrates when he paints your nature in harsh wording. You are a yes-man. You’ve always been a yes-man, even when you were a child. You’d willingly agreed to meet up with your bullies because you didn’t want them to hurt you if you’d said no instead. You willingly apologized to the gallerist and accepted her slap without standing up for yourself. You’ve been submissive to Jade and Floyd, fearing termination should you speak out, and it’s allowed them to harass you for so long now. Even if it was an elaborate act orchestrated by your boss—a scheme meant to snuff your spirit and drive you into his waiting, outstretched arms—that doesn’t excuse the fact that you never did anything to change their treatment. You took it all as you’ve always done.

You feel so filthy listening to him as you stand just before the threshold of the nursery, not daring to cross it and get closer to the monster who lingers within. Under the too-bright light, in a room meant for permanent captivity, he looks...

“Ugly.”

The smug glint in Mr. Ashengrotto’s pale eyes drains at once, and his posture stiffens as the word digs into his composure, cracking it slowly like a stone that’s been dropped in still water, ripples expanding on the surface of faux tranquility.

“(Name), sweetheart, what do you mean by—”

“You’ve always been ugly.” You wipe furiously at your eyes as the haunted admission hangs heavy in the air, filling the space with its toxicity, like the poisonous spines on a pufferfish. Expanding, expanding more, until it pops and catches you in the fatal undertow. “You lie and you cheat and you put others below you so that you can stay on top. I can’t believe I actually thought you were nice.”

I can’t believe I thought your voice was calming.

He grits his teeth. “I am nice,” he declares, but the way he practically hisses it says otherwise. “I’ve always been nice to you, haven’t I?”

“Last time I checked, doing all of this for the sake of ‘love’ isn’t nice. Pushing me to breaking isn’t nice. Accusing me of things I didn’t do isn’t nice.” You cross your arms and fix him with a nasty scowl. “You’re mean and ugly.”

It feels childish to insult him, but it’s all you can do. You can’t fight him. You can’t run from him. Your only weapon is your tongue, sharp and malicious. His features sour—almost unnaturally, as if he’s a creature testing various expressions in order to pass as human and dissatisfaction is one that can’t fit on his face—and there’s a broken tremble in his intonation when he speaks next.

“Don’t… Don’t say that. I’m not those things.” An unsteady laugh rises from the depths of his throat, but it doesn’t sound right. It sounds strangled, as if he’s trying to get past the object lodged in his throat and can’t quite force the sound out clearly. “T-Tell me I’m nice. Please, angelfish… Please take it back.”

“Why should I? I’m not going to sugarcoat an obvious lie, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Lies are easier to stomach.”

“I’ve done all of this for you, so why must you be so ungrateful? I’ve shown you immense kindness. I’ve cared for you, I’ve fed you, I’ve helped you. I only want to protect you. I just want to love you. There’s nothing ugly about that,” he rants, and the sudden uptick in volume alarms you. Before you can react, he’s seized your wrist and yanked you into the room. He shoves you so hard the breath is nearly knocked from your lungs, and you’re sent tumbling into the bed. “But if I’m as ugly as you say, then you can stay here and reflect on your own undesirable qualities!”

You hardly register the sting in your ankle or the fact that he’s moved swiftly to the other side of the threshold when you catch sight of the door as it slides shut, and the last thing you see before you’re locked inside is the grieving countenance of Mr. Ashengrotto. The sorrow he wears fits perfectly on his face, and you wonder if he’s always looked so...sad. So lonesome and small. Perhaps you’ve never noticed it because of the lofty grandeur that drapes itself over him in the forms of expensive suits, luxury colognes, and money-making smirk-grins.

As soon as you’re on your feet, you throw yourself at the door, bringing your fists down upon the metallic surface with panicked haste.

“Wait, don’t go! Don’t leave me here! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Mr. Ashen—no, Azul, I didn’t mean any of that. I… I’ll love you from now on, so please open the door!”

Ironic as it is, he doesn’t answer those ugly lies.

Your frantic cries are met with silence, and you press your ear against the door in hopes of hearing something. But this room is soundproofed. No one could hear you even if you screamed your throat raw. Your panting breaths fog the reflective surface and you peel yourself from off of it.

You’re alone in the nursery.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, shuffling over to the bed and lowering onto it. “I’ll be okay. He… He’ll come back. He has to. T-To feed me. To change my bandages. He’ll come back.”

He doesn’t.

You remain on the bed, sometimes lying down and staring up at the ceiling, sometimes sitting up and counting the many items he’s stocked the shelves with, and Mr. Ashengrotto does not return. That door remains closed, trapping you inside as if you’re nothing more than a bad memory he’s chosen to seal within his panic room-turned-nursery. Hunger descends upon you and it only grows more insatiable as the hours pass. You’re not sure how much time you’ve lost while stuck here and you’ve resorted to snacking on the baby food he’s kept on the shelves, if only to give yourself false hope and a momentary respite from the horrors of isolation. At least you had some form of freedom in the bedroom. Now you’re successfully stuck, enclosed on all sides, and it doesn’t seem like your captor is going to rescue you from this room anytime soon.

Despairing, you curl into yourself on the bed and allow fresh tears to fall. The salty liquid follows you into your dreams, and this time you can’t fall asleep to Mr. Ashengrotto’s melodic voice as he reads from a page in a book of fairytales. You drift in a dark sea while the waves wash over you, cradling you, before swallowing you. You’re held just above the surface by a lurking beast, your nose and lips inhaling brief quantities of oxygen, and then the water sloshes over your face again. It’s like you’re a boat being rocked to and fro, just barely drowning.

You wake to the jarring crash of glass upon a tiled floor. It almost sounds like it’s come from your own dreamscape, a muffled sort of note that electrifies your every nerve. Snapping your eyes open, the lights are dimmed and the door that was once fastened shut is now opened wide, revealing the darkness that presses in on the windows outside, painting the hall in grey shadows. Another sound pierces the air—this one distinctly moist. Like a lump of tongue spattering on the floor, cold and wet and slippery. You almost expect the door to slam and lock you in when you get off of the bed, gathering bits of your bravery as you step out into the hall. There’s the faint glow of light at the very end, spilling out into the empty corridor from the kitchen. 

Something else smashes to the floor. More shattering glass, which is then succeeded by a slew of unhappy curses, and you feel along the walls as you guide yourself through the dark. You’re not sure what sight awaits you when you peer into the kitchen, but the mass of writhing tentacles, sleek obsidian appendages that wind and curl, unfurling from a well-built form to reveal dozens of suckers lining the violet-hued underside, momentarily stuns you into a frozen stupor. A single, choked breath sticks in your throat and the creature’s head snaps towards you—so inhumanly fast that you don’t even realize you’re backing away until one strong tentacle shoots out to twine itself around your waist. 

He’s trembling as he grips you firmly, not hard enough to splinter your skeleton—though you’re certain a creature of his size and strength could easily do so if he wished—and you shiver in his unyielding grasp, unable to pinpoint whether it’s a byproduct of your fear or his shaking frame. You realize two things in that moment. One: This is unmistakably Mr. Ashengrotto. His icy eyes cut through the dimness in the kitchen and his glasses have been crushed under a thick tentacle, one that writhes uncomfortably on the floor, twitching bonelessly. And two: He’s crying. Muted sniffles wrack through his body, tears slipping in salty globs. You’re not sure if you’re more terrified of his emotional state or this new form or the fact that you have no idea what to do or how to act. You’re helpless as you gawk at him, opening and closing your mouth as the words wither on your tongue. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally admits, forcing it out like it’s an impossible phrase. But you can hear the anguish that thickens his voice, and he raises a tentacle over your eyes, blocking your view of him. “I’m so sorry... I... I pushed you and...locked you away. I could have—no, I did hurt you. I’m very sorry, angelfish…”

“It’s… It’s okay,” you whisper, though somehow your voice comes out louder than intended.

His suckers brush your face, not quite affixing themselves. Now you understand what must be done to placate him. You can deny and fight and cry all you want, but it won’t sway Mr. Ashengrotto. It won’t change the fact that you are, undeniably, permanently, trapped. But you can at least change what lies ahead with honeyed half-truths. You’re downright terrified of him in this moment—that’s a feeling you can’t choke down no matter how hard you attempt to do so. Still, you try because it’s all you know how to do. It’s all you’ve ever done.

Slowly, your hand searches for part of him. It isn’t a difficult task, for he’s everywhere. Your fingers brush slick skin, and the picture paints itself in your mind. Glasses of water, tipped over to provide just enough wetness to keep the gills along his sides from drying out. He’s almost…clumsy in this form. Your boss, the always perfect, never faltering Azul Ashengrotto, is struggling. It would have satisfied you if you weren’t so gripped with fear and a tentacle that tightens out of some emotion that’s currently foreign to you. Is it desperation? Fear? Disgust? Regret? He’s rigidly stiff under you, but he allows your hand to wander and trace soothing patterns into his skin.

“What do you like to do in the summer?”

Mr. Ashengrotto hiccups through a strangled sob. “S-Summer?”

“Do you like summer, Azul?”

“I… I suppose it’s an enjoyable season.” He clears his throat in an attempt to build himself from the ground up, still just as guarded and defensive as before, but the tentacle around you loosens its possessive hold slightly. “I’ve always wanted to try that thing… What was it? Movies in the dark of night, sitting in the back of a car, wrapped in thin sheets and…smelling of citronella. And there’s an abundance of junk food. The stars are brighter than light itself and the sky looks so expansive…”

“Oh, a drive-in cinema. I’ve never been to one.”

“Really?” Lighthearted shock replaces sorrow. “You’ve never been? I would have thought… Ah. Well.”

“I’d like to go to one.”

“As would I.” He coughs awkwardly when your fingers curl into his tentacle and adds in a discontented grumble, “I never should have gotten careless. This is what happens when I lose track of time.”

“We can have our own cinema here. Just you and me.” Your other hand pries the tentacle from your eyes, and he cowers when you look at him. “It’ll be our first date. I’m sure the stars are much prettier out here than in the city.” You smile at him and his shoulders tense and relax all at once. “How does that sound? A movie date under the stars. We can even put little plastic ones on the ceiling since I…can’t exactly go outside anytime soon. The ocean is…s-still there and…”

“That sounds wonderful!” he blurts and then flusters. Surely he’s not this easy, but if you can delude yourself into thinking otherwise then Mr. Ashengrotto can easily do the same. “Ahem. I mean. Well… I… I look forward to it.”

You exhale through your nostrils. “I’m sorry for arguing with you. We can start a family someday. Not today or tomorrow, but one day.”

Those words don’t feel as empty as you would’ve hoped, for you know that he’ll get what he wants eventually. All he has to do is exercise patience, and Mr. Ashengrotto is immensely patient when it comes to long-term investments.

He smiles, real and raw, and relieved tears gather in his pearly eyes. “Thank you… I’m also sorry…that you have to see me like this. I didn’t intend on—ahem. Well, in any case, I’ll change back and explain everything as soon as I—”

“It’s okay.” You cradle the tentacle in your arms, nuzzling it with the same gentleness of a mother, and he melts under your careful touch. “I’ll like all of your sides, too.” It’s another lie. There is no side to him that can be liked, for he’s made himself so cantankerous. “Even the ones you like to hide. That just means I’ll have to uncover all of you for myself. If you’ll allow that, Azul.”

His name, spoken so sweetly, in a tone you’re certain he could only relish in his deepest dreams.

“Of course,” he whispers, weepy with joy, fully submitting, and you know you’ve hooked him. For now, at least.

Now it’s your turn to toy with him much like how he did to you throughout your years at the company. And luckily for you, you’re very familiar with the high-stakes chessboard Mr. Ashengrotto adores playing on.

#yandere twst #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul ashengrotto x reader #slight n/sfw #azul thought three #ceo azul: i want to spend the rest of my life with you <3 #reader: how about you spend the rest of your life in JAIL #he very well should for his crimes (but also because it took me so long to finish this fic orz) #now to continue azul thought 4: the contractual fwb mwahaha >:D

[asliceofzosan]

in which Zoro takes the blame for not paying for the food at the Baratie (sequel to Sanji witnessing the riceball incident in Shells Town)

Ribeye steaks piled one on top of the other, a massive helping of mashed potatoes with boatloads of gravy, salads, soups, and fancy dishes with names Zoro can't pronounce — all made up the massively long order list that he knows Luffy has not a single Berry to his name to pay with.

Zoro looks around the place, tuning out the story of the giant goldfish that Usopp has told them before, his eyes resting on the blonde waiter flitting about and flirting with every woman at every table.

Sanji was his name. Zoro didn't recognize it. But when he arrived to their table and saw Zoro, it looked like their resident waiter recognized him. Zoro's reputation in the East Blue is not a laughing matter, so it didn't bother him at first. But the way Sanji stared at him, wide blue eyes and with a touch of a smile on his lips, told Zoro that there's something a lot more than recognition swimming in that man's head.

He can't put a finger on what it is exactly though. It's driving him crazy.

"Waiter, can I get a beer and something for my friends?"

Sanji turns to him and nearly steps back in shock. Zoro quirks an eyebrow, confused and a little annoyed. He wore his best clothes today (Captain's orders). And he's pretty sure he even took his mandatory once-a-week bath before they went inside (Nami's orders). Still the waiter looked at him like Zoro had grown a second head. Like he couldn't quite believe his eyes.

"Maybe there really is something wrong with your eye," Zoro muses, crossing his arms as Sanji quickly straightens his posture and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Got a problem with me, waiter?"

Sanji coughs out a laugh. Zoro notes with narrowed eyes that there is the slightest tint of pink coloring his cheeks. Is he blushing? The fuck?

"None at all, sir. I think I was just seeing things." The look in the waiter's eyes betrays his statement but Zoro chooses to say nothing. With a practiced smile, he turns back to Nami and asks her how she'd like her water that makes Zoro stare at him this time like he's grown a second head.

"And um..." Zoro is surprised Sanji hasn't left yet and is once again directly addressing him. "We have a few specialty riceballs not on the menu today. I'll bring them out... on the house."

Without even explaining what the fuck that meant, Sanji turns on his heels and beelines straight for the kitchen.

"I think Nami's boyfriend might be yours too, Zoro." Usopp teases him with a snicker and the glare he gives him is sharper than the blades of his swords.

Now, here Zoro is, letting Ussop's words affect him more than they have any right to as he downs his third bottle of beer.

The specialty rice balls haven't come out yet. Zoro's starting to think it's just a sick joke. But he doesn't let it get to him. Or tries to. Why offer free food when you can't deliver on it? Fucking ridiculous. And no, it's not like he suddenly craved rice balls when the blasted waiter mentioned them. That's not it at all. Bullshit.

"Didn't the waiter said he's coming by with rice balls?" Zoro finally snaps and the conversation his crew was having died down immediately at his statement. Ah fuck. He probably should have just kept his mouth shut because Nami was now looking at him with a shit-eating grin not entirely unlike the one he gave her when he teased her before the meal.

"How would you like them, oh great swordsman?" She teases with a glint in her eye. She cups her cheeks with her hands in delight at the irritated snarl Zoro gives her.

"With or without seaweed?" Ussop chimes in.

"Cubed or crushed?"

"Fuck off," Zoro hisses between his teeth. Nami and Ussop share a look before bursting into laughter. Zoro looks over at Luffy who was swinging his feet and obliviously sipping his milk. When Luffy makes eye contact with him, he just tilts his head with wide blank eyes and it makes Zoro question all his life choices.

"You wanna ask him?" Luffy says, already clamoring over the booth and waving at the object of Zoro's unexplained irritation. Zoro sinks into the seat as Sanji approaches with the bill for their meal.

"Your bill, sir."

"Zoro's asking if you're gonna bring the rice balls you promised." Zoro just stared up at the ceiling and thought of a million different ways to cut a hole into the floor so that the ocean could take him.

There is a headache inducing silence that follows Luffy's question. Zoro can't help but finally look at the waiter and he doesn't know how to explain the feeling that bubbles up when they make direct eye contact. Maybe it's indigestion. It's probably indigestion.

Instead of bringing up the damn rice balls, Zoro just grabs the tray with the bill from Luffy's hand. Just as expected, his annoyingly endearing captain put down an I.O.U for the ridiculously long list of food they ordered. Several possible scenarios could happen from this. And Zoro doesn't want to think about Luffy wreaking havoc in someone else's kitchen.

With a deep sigh through his nose and a knowing look at Nami, Zoro wrote down his own name in place of Luffy's.

"Zoro, what—" Luffy almost took the bill back when Zoro stood up and handed it directly to the waiter, who looked just as dumbfounded as the rest of them.

"If your head chef's got a problem with that, he can talk to me directly. Tell him that for me, won't you?" Sanji takes the bill, reads what's written, and there's a phantom lurch in his chest that happens when Sanji looks up at him and smiles. Zoro doesn't want to describe it. He'll allow himself to firmly believe that it's a side effect of eating too much food. It's indigestion. You're just constipated. Never mind that the feeling is most prominent in his chest and not his stomach.

"Of course, sir." Sanji purrs and the sound runs like a cold river down Zoro's spine. There's a hint of mischief in the gleam of his visible eye. Every instinct in Zoro tells him it's dangerous. He should take his crew out of here, onto the Merry, and run.

But he stays rooted to the spot, wrist limp on the hilt of his sword, as he watches that damn waiter walk away from him.

"WHO THE HELL IS RORONOA ZORO?!"

The steady routine of washing the dishes helps quiet Zoro's racing mind.

It's a very welcome distraction. The clinking of the ceramic against metal utensils provides a cacophonous symphony that helps drown out all of Zoro's waking thoughts. The sooner he starts to think, the sooner he starts to notice how that stupid fucking waiter has just been sitting at the table behind him, cursing Zoro with his mere presence.

Scrub scrub scrub...

"You sure you don't want any help?"

Scrub scrub rinse...

"No."

Scrub rinse dry...

"I really have nothing better to do."

Zoro's eye twitches.

"Good for you."

A long silence follows this and Zoro thinks the waiter finally gave up. That was until...

"Are you still mad about the rice balls?"

"Oh my god!" Zoro nearly slams a pile of dishes onto the floor. He turns to Sanji, who is just casually smoking at the table, and stomps over to him. Once he was right in front of him, Zoro snarls at him, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Talk about those damn rice balls one more time, I'm gonna chop your head clean off for them to use in tomorrow's ramen stock."

Sanji blinks, then turns his head to the side to blow smoke away from Zoro. Zoro tries to convince himself that he isn't staring at the way Sanji's lips purse around the cigarette in the process.

"I can still make you the rice balls," Sanji says without a single ounce of fear in his body. "I just couldn't do it while the old man was around." He then stands up and steps around Zoro with a practiced grace. "Are you willing to wait ten minutes?"

"I'm not hungry," Zoro hisses but his stomach betrays him with a loud grumble. He's been washing dishes for so many hours. He probably missed dinner.

Then, as Zoro straightens his posture, Sanji does it again — he smiles and Zoro doesn't know what to do.

"Sit." Sanji gently nudges a chair out with his foot. It lands perfectly in front of Zoro at a perpendicular angle. "I'll have them out in five."

"You said ten minutes." Zoro found himself saying, only to be contradictory. Sanji laughs this time and the resulting smile pierces Zoro's heart with a million cursed swords.

"When someone's hungry, I feed them." Sanji says simply and that's the statement that ends their conversation. Zoro still refuses to sit on the chair, instead finding himself gravitating towards the counter that Sanji was preparing his ingredients at and leaning against the marble.

Before Sanji found them at their table, he brought down a marine and a fearsome pirate with just his feet. Zoro was fascinated by his fighting style even if he didn't want to admit it out loud. But he's always been curious. Especially now, with Sanji whipping out the sharpest knives and using them effortlessly as Zoro would wield the Wado Ichimonji.

"You're good with knives," Zoro says before he could stop himself. Sanji chuckles.

"Of course, I am. I'm a chef. Best one in the East Blue."

"What's a chef doing waiting tables, then?"

"Cause I was kicked off the line this morning. It's a weekly occurrence, nothing special." The way Sanji scrapes his ingredients into a bowl betrayed how he felt about it despite his nonchalance. "I can cook better dishes than everyone in this damn kitchen but Zeff refuses to acknowledge that. It's always 'your food is crap', 'slice those carrots thinner', or 'needs more fucking oregano—"

Sanji throws the knife onto the cutting board, its tip now embedded neatly straight down the middle. It stood perfectly still, like it was afraid of what Sanji could do if he added more pressure. Zoro raised an eyebrow, looking up at the now irritated cook with a smirk.

"Sorry," Sanji mumbles, taking the knife and cleaning it carefully with a cloth. Zoro says nothing. He just props his elbow on the counter and places his chin into his hand as he watches Sanji in his element. Eventually, it's down to just shaping the rice balls with his hands and Zoro asks the question that poked at his mind during Sanji's mini outburst.

"If you're so dissatisfied cooking here why don't you just leave?"

Sanji pauses. His head is down, his blonde fringe obscuring one eye as his fingers twitch against the rice ball.

"It's not about that."

"Yeah?" Zoro leans as close as he could get with the counter between them. Sanji still refuses to look up. "A hot-headed cook who claims to be the best in the East Blue settling down here — where he is not head chef — is as contradictory as it gets."

"You don't know–" Sanji snaps but stops himself immediately. He looks up to glare at Zoro through narrowed eyes. "You don't know why I still stay."

"Enlighten me then, cook." Zoro leans his hip against the counter. "Because really, someone as good as you claim to be has got to have some ambitions. Dreams." Zoro holds the man's gaze. "Do you hate the old man?"

"No!" Sanji counters immediately. "The man fucking raised me. I owe him my goddamn life!"

"Owing him your life isn't the same as giving up your life to work at a restaurant that barely lets you cook."

"You don't know shit!" Sanji nearly slams his fist down on the counter, pointing a finger at Zoro with his face beet red. "This restaurant was his dream—"

"But is it your dream?"

Silence. Total utter silence.

Where color is nothing but a dark void of black and grey, a sea of blue greets him from the pages. Vivid pink skies and tangerine mangroves burst to life. All types of fish swim in his mind's eye but if he reaches out to touch them, it certainly should be real. A phantom breeze kisses his cheeks and water laps at his feet. He's drowning but he swims in delight. He's falling but he feels the clouds cushion him with warmth.

There is a vast ocean out there, one that contains delicacies and species from all four seas. Creatures of every kind, spices that have never been tasted.

The All Blue.

In Sanji's world of black and white — he strives to find the one place that's in screaming color.

There are tears in Sanji's eyes before Zoro could comprehend what was going on. But he wipes them away before he can get a good look at him. The kitchen was quiet around them. The only sound peeking through was the faint music from the bar outside. Though Zoro's heartbeat was louder in his ears than his own breathing.

But he could hear each footstep Sanji takes, the scrape of the plate as it's pushed in Zoro's direction, and the click click of Sanji's lighter as he helps himself to another cigarette. Zoro looks down and sees the rice balls presented in front of him — three heaping helpings, all coated in a different topping, all different flavors.

Zoro takes one.

And it's the best rice ball he's ever had in his life.

"I have a dream," Sanji murmurs, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. One glance and Zoro could see that whatever his dream is... it still burns like molten lava in the heart of this chef. "I'd just rather give up on it than die searching for mine."

Zoro swallows, turns around, and takes the cigarette from Sanji. The ashes fall into his palm, its embers dimming as he squishes it between his fingers.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Zoro says, looking up to make eye contact with Sanji. He can see it almost immediately — the longing for something that seems near impossible to achieve, the acceptance that it's hopeless — but Zoro sees it, clear as day, that the flickering flame of hope still shines in Sanji's eyes. That he's just waiting for his sign to let it once again consume his soul in a roaring fire, brighter than even the sun could be.

Zoro wants to see him shine.

"Come meet my captain," Zoro instinctively wraps his hand around Sanji's wrist. Surprisingly, Sanji doesn't pull back. "I think he'd really like to get to know you."

Sanji doesn't protest.

Zoro takes the rice balls to go.

Never waste food.

#niki's fics: debt and doing dishes #one piece #sanji #roronoa zoro #opla #zosan #one piece live action #nami #ussop #monkey d luffy #MY GUYS IT GOT SO LONG I THINK THERE NEEDS TO BE A PART THREE #roronoa zoro x vinsmoke sanji #zoro x sanji #fic series: it all started with a dirty rice ball

[novantinuum]

comic wip or whatever (half sketch half not lmao)

#when ur gem heritage doesn't even give u the courtesy of experiencing puberty like a human uwu #wips #jen rambles #this is for the comic/fic combo i've been working on #i have like... the cover and three pages done #then this one... and two others to finish #also the fic part lmao #of course #it's gonna be a bit of a longer project but i'm excited :D

[skywriter97]

Farewell, My Friend💔😭

(PSA: Possible spoiler warnings for The Murder of Me by the Zielo Cave. Only a couple panels, but still...)

So, on Monday night, I was at work, and I checked my phone, mostly out of habit. (I don't recommend doing this, btw, it's a good way to get you written up or worse.) And I saw that I had a YouTube notification on my lock screen. So I open my phone and pull down my drop bar to have a look. And literally saw the absolute worst news.

TMOM is over from The Zielo Cave

Now for those of you that don't know: The Murder of Me, AKA TMOM, is a Sonic the Hedgehog fan comic that first debuted I think 15 or so years ago, give or take, and as much as I would love to claim that I've been a fan since the beginning, I only discovered TMOM about a year or so ago. (I have the worst luck when it comes to finding things; I'm always late to the party 🥺)

When I discovered TMOM I was in a terrible rut. I hadn't posted anything in YEARS, and the writing I had done I kept locked away in notebooks, never to see the light of day. I had no inspiration, no motivation to tell stories. It was a horrible place to be. (-10000/10 recommendation.) Then I was scrolling through Pinterest one day, and I saw a panel of this random comic.

You could probably imagine my reaction. It's so random. Then more cropped up:

My thoughts went HAYWIRE. "Why is Sonic fighting his mother? Why's he dressed like that? WHY IS HE DROWNING?? WHY ARE KNUX AND TAILS LETTING HIM DROWN??? WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING???" So I went hunting, and came across The Murder of Me by Gigi-D on DeviantArt.

I was HOOKED. The plot was so well thought out, the characterization was incredibly done, and as you can see, the art itself was BEAUTIFUL. I couldn't get enough. I flat out ignored life and read through 14 issues in one sitting. It took me all day but it was so worth it. AND THEN: I discovered the dubs on YouTube, and found that Gigi-D had decided to put together a creative team to produce the issues of The Murder of Me as episodic dubs, and I fell head over heels. The cast and editing was absolutely phenomenal, and The Murder of Me had my heart, hook, line, and sinker. What was even better was that they turned Issue 15 into an animatic episode.

Episode 15 Part 1: Purpose released on October 30th, 2022, and since then I have been anxiously awaiting the next episode by rewatching the series and all the prequels and bonus episodes I could get my mouse on. I even forced my best friend one night to binge the entire series with me, and she's not nearly as much of a Sonic fan as I am!

TMOM was more than a great watch or story for me. It was inspiration. I had an itch in my fingers that grew from writing a TMOM fanfiction that would stay hidden away into it's own complex project who's rough draft is now in production. (And could very well be released this summer if all goes well.) It was life breathed into my creativity. It was hope. For the first time in a very long time, I wanted to write. To tell a story like Gigi-D and the Zielo Cave.

And then that notification came. It was like a punch in the stomach. I was terrified and without watching it, I reacted and sent it to my best friend, wailing that once again, a story that I loved was being abandoned. That the writers were giving up. I was indignant. Screw that, I was angry and hurt.

Then I watched the video. I listened to Gigi's story, and immediately felt shamed by my own reaction. The Zielo Cave had been saying that Part Two was taking a while because of personal situations, and when Gigi revealed what had happened, that her inspiration was gone and couldn't bring herself to even sketch these characters that she loved so dearly...my heart shattered for her. While I might not really know or understand the pain of her personal situation, I do know what it is to completely lose the passion for your story. For the characters you still love, but can't bring yourself to engage with.

And while my heart of hearts aches, I know Gigi is doing the right thing. No one wants a story that it's writer is dragging their heels to share, can't bring themselves to write. God knows I've tried that, and trust me, it only hurts everyone. The writer, the fans, and the story itself. By ending TMOM here, she's protecting TMOM and its fans, and even though my heart breaks for TMOM's fate and (mostly) for her, I couldn't be more proud of her. The courage and strength it takes to walk away from such a huge part of your life in search of something more, something better?

Not only that, but honor the work and effort her team has given for Part Two and post it anyway, even though it's unfinished? To offer a written conclusion for the series for the fans that want to know what happens? I've never heard of any creator doing that, ever. All that I have seen would NEVER post any unfinished content, or unveil the unwritten plot and ending. And while I'm devastated for what that means, that TMOM is well and truly concluded and Gigi will probably NEVER return, as a fan of this series, I'm so grateful that what happens to these characters won't remain a mystery.

And to repeat what I said in the comment section of the announcement video: I pray a future that is bright and beautiful for you, and you discover what an amazing person you on this journey of healing. You're going to be magnificent because you are already an incredible person, Gigi. I can't express how important TMOM has been for me, how inspiring the story has been when I was down and unable to pursue my own creativity in my writing, and I just want to thank you for the years of dedication, passion, and love you and your team have given us through The Murder of Me. I bless all the paths you walk from this day forward, and all my love and support for you goes with you on your journeys for all the rest of your days.

The Murder of Me is over. I will always be a TMOM fan, and I will always love Gigi-D and the Zielo Cave for giving me inspiration, passion, and hope for my writing again. It's because of TMOM that The Three Sovereigns even made it to development and is now currently being written with the hope of release this summer, and The Three Sovereigns will always be a tribute to The Murder of Me and the hope this story has given me.

Thank you so much, Gigi-D, the Zielo Cave, and The Murder of Me, and fare thee well, my friend.

#sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog #sth #the murder of me #tmom #zielo cave #gigi-d #fan comic #sonic au #this is the end #sadgirl #this is painful #im hurtin #heartache #heartbroken #goodbye #goodbye TMOM #im crying #fic teaser #up and coming #fanfic writer #writers on tumblr #writeblr #fanfic #writerscommunity #writing #In honor of TMOM #the three sovereigns #i am not okay #very very unokay

[firefirefruit]

Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Thirty-Four

Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter

Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro

Chapter Thirty-Four: Aragnus

All she can think of is him.

He plagues her in her sleep. Comatose and unkempt, all her body is able to do is toss and turn, drink and re-drink each memorised plane of his body.

His hands. Large and calloused and firm – in another lifetime, she really would’ve complimented them. She would’ve held her fingers over them, quietly sliding over each scar, over each section of where his skin regrew to be tougher, to be stronger, to be… better.

Oh, and the way those very hands travelled across her jaw; his rough, heavy fingers curling across her throat as he held in his own admiring breaths reserved for her. They felt firm on her skin - yet in the way they lingered, they could only be described as soft, tender almost. It was as if they were self-assured, that in that moment, she was his, and nothing could take that away from him.

His mouth. His jaw. The way he’d silently part his lips and pant out repressed breaths as he’d loom over her, and when he stared at her like he’d never seen someone so delicious as her, consumed by the lust that even the strongest men are rendered vulnerable to…well, something tore within her.

Constant dreams. Of his breath laying hot against her skin, his large back curling over her body. His shoulder blades flex as his lips near the shell of her ear. And with each pant he released into her, another wall between them broke.

Hard kisses and shivering gasps and intensely gripped at hair. Bare skin brushing against bare skin, lips crossing across lips like wind that delicately brushes through long grass.

A swell of something inside her grows as she turns in her sleep again, her psyche desperately clawing at the vision that lays before her - begging, pleading, for it not to dissolve into some man-told fiction.

It’s a constant and repetitive dream, lasting for days on end. And when Raya finally stirs from her own relentless mind, she wakes up gasping, her torso shooting up from the bed.

Raya gasps heavily, blinking confusedly within the darkness of the medical cabin. It’s silent here, the only source of noise being from her own fearful mouth that inhales all the oxygen of the room.

She feels hot – too hot, uncomfortably hot in a way that feels like her body is on fire. On fire with anger, with lust and confusion and heat, and everything in between, every single thought and feeling is relentlessly aflame.

And so, Raya makes a run for it.

Plagued by the intensity of her own blood and skin, she swings her legs over and stumbles out on the night-ridden deck, where she’s immediately slapped in the face with a gust of freezing air.

Wearing nothing but a long shirt and socks, Raya stands on the deck, shivering. A repulsive sensation of the wind mingling in with her sticky sweat irritates her even further, making her look down and curse at herself for leaving the room without putting any pants on.

But when Raya inspects the skin on her legs closely, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, a sense of dread washes over her. Because her legs aren’t just bare, no. They’re glistening, with metallic protrusions threateningly spiking out from her skin.

Since when did it grow out of her legs, too?

“You should be asleep,” a deep voice mutters out from behind her, the heaviness of his boots creaking against the wooden surface of the dock.

Raya’s heart trembles.

Because she knows whose voice that is.

Raya spins around clumsily, meeting with the face she only stopped obsessing over a few moments ago.

Her breath catches in her throat as she continues to stand stupidly in front of him - Zoro, meanwhile, tries his absolute best not to look at her legs, but his little glances downwards betray him.

“I…feel…” Raya swallows. She doesn’t know when or why she does it, but her legs automatically take a dizzy step towards Zoro. “I feel all wrong.”

She takes another step closer, taking in Zoro’s baffled furrow of his brows, his arms tightly folding against his chest as he quickly scans her over for any sign of injuries.

She stares at him. At his strong jaw, the thin scar that slits down his eye, the muscles that ripple from his neck, and the heat from within her pulsates, the sweat across her skin beading faster together in a desperate attempt to regulate herself.

Zoro clears his throat, feeling quite uncomfortable with being under her scrutinising eye. “Wrong?” He forces his gaze away from her half-naked form. “What’re you talking about?”

Raya tries her best to shrug as coolly as possible. The heat underneath her skin continues to pulsate as she roughly swallows, eyeing the muscles that run so perfectly through his arms. And, as if on their own command, her fingers raise towards Zoro’s face, gravitating towards the line of his thinly veiled scar.

“I… Everything feels so…”

Zoro gapes at her as he raises his own hand, grabbing her fingers before they reach his face. He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes off from her. “Raya… You should go back to sleep.”

"I can’t. Someone’s coming for me. I can feel it" Raya dazedly whispers, rising on the tips of her toes to reach his face. She nears his mouth, her fingers gently searching for respite in the nook of his shoulder. “But…but I…”

She can’t control herself anymore. The heat within her is too suffocating, and she needs a release more than ever.

So, softly, ever so gently, her lips lay against Zoro’s neck. Peppering his tan skin with light kisses, trailing so sensually towards his clothed chest, her voice softly muffles against his body. "But I can’t seem to care."

Zoro stands frozen in place, his mind reeling as Raya's lips press against his neck with a tender urgency that sends pleasure through his entire body. His heart pounds in his chest, his breath catching in his throat as he struggles to comprehend the sudden shift.

For a fleeting moment, he's overcome by a surge of conflicting emotions - confusion, desire, and a gnawing sense of unease that coils like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. He knows that something isn't right, that Raya isn't herself, but the intoxicating heat of her touch ignites a primal urge within him that he can't ignore.

As her soft lips trail down his neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, Zoro's resolve begins to waver. His muscles tense involuntarily, his hands twitching at his sides as he fights against the overwhelming tide of desire that threatens to consume him.

Zoro's voice emerges as a rasp, strained with a mixture of disbelief and arousal. "Tenguyama," he manages to force out, his words thick with restraint. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

In response, Raya's gaze intensifies as she searches for his eyes, her own filled with a desperate longing. With a swift movement, she pulls away from him, her breath still warm against his skin. "Are you uncomfortable?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper. "I can stop."

Zoro's cheeks flush hotly, his gaze darting away from her as he struggles to find the right words. "No!" he blurts out, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "That's not... I mean, it's not about that. You're just... not yourself right now."

“But I want you,” she murmurs softly, her arms hesitantly returning to rest across his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I want you.

But just as Zoro begins to speak, his words are swallowed by a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips. Raya’s mouth electrifies his senses as her lips press against his neck - harder this time - and begins roughly sucking at his skin, sucking so desperately, that even Raya muffles out a sigh of pleasure. With each stroke of her tongue, he feels an intoxicating wave of pleasure wash over him, rendering coherent thought impossible.

“Raya,” he hoarsely mumbles. He fights to suppress a mounting groan as she responds to her name with a teasing nip at his neck.  “You’re not in the right mind—”

“Why do you never leave me alone?” Raya slurs softly against his neck. She kisses a tender spot from below his ear. “Even when I’m in a bloody coma, you’re still there. Burned into my retinas.”

With a low growl of desire, Zoro leans into Raya's touch, his hands sliding possessively over her hips as he pulls her closer. The feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips sends a shiver of anticipation down his spine, igniting a fierce hunger within him that demands to be sated.

Before Zoro can open his mouth, a ferocious onslaught of wind consumes the sails of the ship, throwing the Sunny itself into a spinning plank of wood. Amidst the deafening roar of the tempest, all semblance of sound is devoured by the howling winds, leaving only a cacophony of chaos in its wake. With wide-eyed terror, Raya watches as the air itself seems to warp and distort, heralding the arrival of an unimaginable threat.

An enormous gasp escapes her lips as the surreal sight unfolds before her: a horde of colossal dragons descending upon them with breath-taking speed.

Each behemoth is a marvel of ferocity and power, their scales gleaming like molten gold in the pale moonlight as they carve through the tumultuous sky with deadly precision.

Zoro's hands move with practiced urgency, instinctively reaching for the comforting weight of his swords as he braces himself for the impending clash. Muscles taut with anticipation, he stands ready to defend against this otherworldly onslaught.

"What the fuck?" Zoro's voice booms above the tempest, his words swallowed by the roar of the wind. But even amidst the shock, his resolve remains unyielding, his gaze fixed on the approaching threat.

And then, Raya does the mistakeable. She locks eyes with the largest of the swarm, the darkest of the dragons.

The dragon, a towering titan among its brethren, commands the sky with a presence that defies description. Its scales, as dark as the abyss itself, seem to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it, giving the creature an aura of ominous power. Each movement is fluid yet purposeful, its sinewy form twisting and coiling with a grace that belies its immense size.

As it descends upon the ship with lethal intent, the dragon's eyes burn with an intensity that pierces through the chaos like twin beacons of malevolence.

It is her, his voice rings in her mind.

Raya staggers backward, overwhelmed by the sudden intrusion into her mind. The dragons' voices reverberate within her skull, sending shockwaves of pain rippling through her consciousness. She clutches her head, her nails digging into her scalp as she struggles to block out the cacophony of voices assaulting her senses.

Another dragon swoops into her vision with a huff from his snout, almost as if sneering at her. She does not smell strong, Aragnus. Perhaps old age is catching up to your snout.

The large dragon roars furiously in response, his large, wet eyes narrowing at his red brother.

Do not ridicule me, smallthing! He thunders out loud in Raya’s mind, making her scream out in pain, desperately clawing at her ears to make it stop. Her talons do not lie.

Speak with the human, Aragunus, a feminine voice huffs out. With each of its exhale, plumes of smoke and flame billow forth, painting the night sky with a searing glow of impatience. She seems to be in pain.

"What are you doing?" Zoro yells, staring at Raya who’s gripping at her head in complete terror. “Grab a weapon, already!”

But Raya shakes her head, her eyes never leaving the dark behemoth that soars overhead. “No,” she whispers, her voice barely audible above the roar of the wind. “No. They’re here for me.”

#one piece #one piece zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #nami #zoro #one piece luffy #luffy #monkey d luffy #one piece ace #straw hat pirates #usopp #sanji #tony tony chopper #nico robin #straw hat luffy #one piece fanfiction #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #op fanfic #op fandom #female reader x zoro #zoro x female reader #zoro x fem reader #three sword style #zoro roronoa #zoro rorono x you #zoro roronoa x y/n #straw hats #one piece nami