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solxamber · 1 month ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: My Consort Calls Me Shrimpy || Floyd Leech

You get isekaid into a novel where the perfect Empress got absolutely wrecked by the plot, and now you have to juggle a bland heroine, a traitorous consort, and a delightfully unhinged eel who’s oddly good at solving your problems.

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You’re about three hours deep in line, squashed between a woman wearing an unsettling amount of dragon-themed jewelry and some dude intensely vaping in front of you. The line inches forward at the pace of continental drift, and you’re in no mood to be here.

You're here out of pure, misguided loyalty to your best friend, who’s practically shaking with excitement at the idea of meeting their favourite author—the world-renowned queen of girlboss fantasy.

In a valiant effort to distract yourself from your eternal boredom, you pull up her previous novels on your phone. Maybe, if you understood her work better, you’d understand why people would willingly spend this many hours standing on asphalt.

After skimming through some of her top titles, you can barely believe these are real book plots: Slaying the Patriarchy with My Stilettos? Lipstick and Blood Magic? Each one more ridiculous than the last, filled with protagonists who blast their enemies with a "feminine fury" and, honestly, you're just not buying it.

Why did I agree to this? you think, suppressing the urge to gnaw on your own hand out of boredom.

Suddenly, you spot a stray bird above—a pigeon, wobbling through the sky like it's had one too many lattes. You barely register the bird's existence until it lets out an alarming squawk and, in a tragic twist of fate, plummets from the heavens right towards your head.

In a perfect shot, it bonks you directly in the face, knocking you backward with an impressively dramatic flair. You spiral down, your vision blurring as you fall in slow motion, gasping.

In the last seconds of your consciousness, as chaos erupts around you, one solemn thought echoes through your mind: I hate pigeons.

And with that, you drift off into oblivion, serenaded by the panicked cries of your best friend and the distant wail of someone’s Lipstick and Blood Magic audiobook playing on full blast nearby.

You wake up, blink, and immediately realize that your bed is both way too luxurious and way too large. Rich, velvet curtains drape around you, shimmering with gold embroidery.

A chandelier overhead sparkles with enough jewels to fund at least three public libraries. The air smells like a mixture of incense, rose petals, and maybe faint hints of… burning tyranny?

Oh, dear God. You’ve been isekai’d.

Straight into that novel you were doom-scrolling through to survive the crushing boredom of line-waiting.

Your mind reels back to the summary you’d read. The heroine, a weepy maid with all the emotional range of wet toast. The consort, a charming traitor with “dreamy eyes” who betrays his own Empress for said toast. And then, of course, the villainess.

That poor, genius Empress who actually had talent and ambition, who could annihilate anyone with a flick of her wrist and yet was somehow destined to lose it all because of a love triangle involving a glorified housekeeper.

And now—you are that Empress. The Villainess Extraordinaire, Scourge of Kingdoms, War-Waging Prodigy, Mary Sue on Steroids… and now you're stuck in this tragic play of bad romance tropes.

You shoot upright in bed, taking it all in. Lavish room. Silk sheets. Jewels littered around like confetti. And then you notice a presence by your bedside. You whip your head to see… her. The heroine.

She's standing there, looking down at you with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who hasn’t yet discovered a single personality trait. Her face is soft, angelic, and you already know that beneath those doe eyes lies… absolutely nothing.

She's here to dress you, a task that apparently requires thirty minutes of excessive hair-braiding, enough layers to construct a mattress, and endless, mind-numbing conversation about the consort.

Oh, right. The consort. Your dear, disloyal boy toy who’ll soon be scheming against you. He’s probably off somewhere sharpening his cheekbones in a mirror, wondering if he can pull off “soulful yet traitorous” in the same expression.

The heroine starts tugging on your hair, a bit too enthusiastically for your taste. "Your Majesty," she coos, “Your consort was asking for you yesterday. He misses your attention."

You mentally scream. I'm running an empire, Susan! Who cares about his feelings right now? You're barely awake, freshly isekai'd, and trying to mentally tally your enemies, not exactly in the mood for his fragile ego.

And, technically, aren’t you the one in need of support here? Not the consort, who apparently needs a throne, a palace, and a shoulder to cry on every two hours.

"Oh," you manage to reply, voice dripping with an irritation that you pray she interprets as imperial grace. "Tell him… I’m thinking about military reforms."

The heroine’s eyes flicker in confusion. "Military reforms?"

"Yes. Reforms. Vital to the stability of our empire." You wave a hand, and she clearly has no idea what you're talking about. This maid was not hired for her intellectual curiosity, that’s for sure.

Then comes the worst part: her doe eyes start misting over. Great. You forgot. Crying is, apparently, her most crucial skill set. She clutches a sleeve to her chest, looking at you as if you’ve announced the arrival of a natural disaster. "Your Majesty… but what about your consort?"

You take a deep breath. Focus. How did this woman end up so crucial to the plot? What was it about her that was supposed to outshine an entire empire? It’s as if she’s constructed entirely from damp tissues and vague romantic inclinations. And this is the girl who’s going to take you down?

But you’re already devising a plan. You’ll keep tabs on her. Outwardly, you’ll play the role of the intimidating yet graceful Empress, while inwardly making sure that neither she nor the consort gets a single chance to stab you in the back. And as for the consort himself…

Well, when he finally arrives for his “audience,” you’ll be sure to give him the warmest, most menacing smile in your arsenal. For now, you’ll have to endure the heroine’s dramatic sniffles and the hundred layers of fabric she’s convinced you need.

As she fiddles with a particularly elaborate golden sash, you look at her with an eyebrow raised. “Tell me,” you say, feigning curiosity. “What would you do if the palace were to… burn down?”

Her face goes blank for a second. Then, she frowns and wrinkles her nose as if this question is somehow unsolvable. “Um… cry?”

Of course. Absolutely riveting. You sigh and try to look satisfied, which is hard when you’re mentally questioning how this woman has a heartbeat, let alone plot armor thick enough to take you down.

By the time she finishes with your dress, you've already come up with about sixteen ways to save the empire and seventy-two reasons why this love triangle is absolutely ridiculous.

In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself. You’re the picture of beauty and deadly grace, an unstoppable Empress who could wield the fate of kingdoms.

And they want to reduce you to a footnote in the saga of this girl’s whimpering romance?

Well, that’s not happening. You’ve read the novel; you know how this story ends. And now that you’re here, you’re rewriting that ridiculous fate.

You try to keep a dignified expression, but inside, you’re screaming.

The entire reason you’ve gathered the harem is to graciously cut them loose and rid yourself of the ongoing melodrama. Because if there are no consorts, there’s no backstabbing love triangle, no tearful betrayals, and no doomed political coups.

You can practically taste the freedom already—so you clear your throat and begin, putting on your most diplomatic voice:

"Esteemed consorts,” you say, hands clasped. “Thank you for your service and devotion. You are now free to leave and may claim land and titles if you wish to remain in the empire.”

You pause, waiting for cheers or at least some relieved sighs. Instead, dead silence. You glance around and spot the heroine sneaking glances at the traitor consort, eyes brimming with pure unadulterated… something.

She looks like she’s five seconds away from throwing herself across a fainting couch. The consort looks at her for a moment and then back at you, entirely unimpressed.

Maybe they’re just in shock, you think, trying to keep it together. Maybe they need a moment to process the incredible gift of freedom you’ve just given them.

But then, from the back of the room, someone clears their throat—Floyd Leech. He raises his hand, a gleeful glint in his eye that makes your stomach churn.

See, Floyd was not a character that should’ve belonged in this novel. The man was unhinged. Slightly terrifying, if you’re being honest. He treated warfare like a casual hobby and had a grin that said I could absolutely cause problems on purpose.

And the worst part? Floyd was actually one of the few who stuck around in the original plot. After the Empress dies on the battlefield, he takes her body back to his home country, out of sheer love.

He's also the only one who got to call the Empress Regnant herself "Shrimpy" and lived to tell the tale. You'd swoon over the romantic implications if you weren't that same Empress who had bigger problems right now.

You steel yourself. “Yes, Floyd?”

“Can I stay?” he says, looking entirely too happy. “These other guys are boring, but you’re kinda fun to watch.” He stares at you like you’re some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. “Besides,” he adds, throwing an arm over a very uncomfortable-looking consort, “who’s gonna protect you if I leave? These losers?”

God help you.

Before you can even answer, the traitor consort steps forward, expression so intense you can feel it from across the hall. He clears his throat dramatically. “My Empress,” he says, taking a deep, tragic breath. “My heart is bound to you, like—like the tides to the moon. Like—”

In the background, the heroine lets out an audible, swooning sigh. Oh, please, you think. You’ve seen better monologues in toothpaste commercials. The consort glances at the heroine, clearly confused, then goes back to gazing at you with what he probably thinks is soulful longing.

Meanwhile, Floyd is grinning at him, shark-like. “Nice speech, buddy,” he says, clapping the guy on the back hard enough that the consort nearly goes sprawling. “But I think she liked mine better.” He leans in to whisper, loudly, “Besides, I bet you don’t even know her favorite food.”

The consort’s face scrunches. “Do you?”

“Nope!” Floyd beams, looking at you as if expecting some kind of reward. “But I’m gonna figure it out.”

The consort looks like he wants to protest, but before he can, another one of the harem—Lord Something-or-Other—steps forward, visibly shaking with emotion. He kneels, clutching a hand to his heart as if he’s about to propose.

“My Empress,” he says, voice wobbling with way too much sincerity. “Without you, my life is a barren wasteland. I would rather endure the endless, scorching sands of—”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Floyd groans. “Do you guys hear yourselves?”

“Can you not mock me while I pour my heart out?” Lord Something-or-Other snaps back.

“Sure I can. I’m multi-talented,” Floyd replies with a grin that’s somehow both playful and threatening. He leans against the throne, looking completely at home while you fight the urge to dive out the nearest window.

Now everyone’s in a frenzy. Every last one of these men—your so-called “consorts”—are lining up to deliver heartfelt soliloquies, tragic metaphors, and similes so flowery they might as well be a bouquet. You can barely keep a straight face as the next one steps forward, proclaiming that he would “gladly suffer a thousand winters if only to see her smile.”

As if on cue, the heroine wipes a tear from her eye, sighing dreamily. The consort she’s apparently in love with looks at her again, this time with an expression somewhere between pity and terror. But she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy whispering to herself, “Oh, how romantic…”

And then Floyd leans down and whispers in your ear, voice gleeful. “Y’know, if you let ‘em keep going, they might just start fighting each other for you. Free entertainment. Whaddaya think?”

You feel a headache coming on. “Floyd, please, I’m begging you—”

“What?” he asks, grinning wider. “I thought this was fun. C’mon, Empress,” he drawls, giving the title an absurd little flourish. “Let me stay. I promise I won’t let any of these guys stage a rebellion.” He smirks at the traitor consort. “Unless you feel like rebelling, huh?”

The traitor consort scoffs, bristling. “Unlike some of us,” he says, glaring at Floyd, “my devotion is genuine.”

“And boring,” Floyd mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Fine, Floyd. You can stay,” you say, hoping that giving him what he wants will end this disaster. You’re immediately filled with regret as his grin widens.

“Awesome! And you know what? Since everyone’s so devoted, why don’t we all stay? Make it a real party.” Floyd tosses an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the death glares from half the room.

Now you’re stuck with fifteen poets, one unhinged eel, and a heroine who’s still making heart eyes at a man who clearly isn’t interested. And as you sit there, feeling your last shreds of sanity slip away, you think, This is going to be a very, very long reign.

You’re making your way through the moonlit palace corridors, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the… experience that spending the night with Floyd Leech is sure to be.

Mostly, you’ve chosen him because, unhinged or not, he’s at least the most loyal out of this whole ridiculous lineup. Plus, there’s a kind of chaotic charm about him, like a very large, very untrained puppy with fangs.

But before you can even make it to his side palace, you’re intercepted.

“My Empress…” It’s the traitor consort. You sigh as he blocks your path, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. He’s clutching his chest dramatically, as if he’s seconds from fainting, and his voice wobbles with pure tragedy.

“Do you not love me anymore?” he blubbers, eyes shining with tears. “Why do you never choose me? Have I done something wrong? Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve graced my chambers?” He’s practically sobbing at this point, clutching at your sleeves like some tragic hero in a soap opera.

You stand there, blinking. “Uh… dude. I… what? ”

He looks at you with the heartbreak of a thousand rom-coms. “I thought you cared about me. I thought I meant something to you…”

You’re trying to process what exactly is happening (and failing spectacularly) when you hear an all-too-familiar voice.

“Yoo-hoo~!” Floyd’s voice echoes down the hall as he appears at the other end, looking like he’s just won the lottery. He practically skips toward you, a grin stretched across his face, his shark-like teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“Shrimpy!” he calls out cheerfully, giving you an exaggerated wave. But his cheerful demeanor drops like a rock the moment he sees the traitor consort clinging to you, tears streaming down his face.

Floyd’s grin turns into a much darker smirk, and his eyes narrow dangerously. He tilts his head, sizing up the blubbering man like he’s something he might enjoy crunching on for a midnight snack.

“Oi,” Floyd says, stepping closer, voice dropping into a lower, much more menacing tone. “What’re you doin’, crybaby? Gettin’ all snotty in front of my Shrimpy? That doesn’t seem real respectful, y’know?”

The traitor consort pales instantly, his tear-streaked face going from tragic to terrified in half a second flat. “I—I was just…” he stammers, trying to find an escape route.

“You were just what?” Floyd grins, but there’s absolutely nothing friendly about it now. “You got somethin’ you wanna say to her? ‘Cause I could help you say it better, y’know.” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis, and you swear the traitor consort’s soul nearly leaves his body.

And you? You’re exhausted. Normally, you’re pretty sure the original Empress would step in, say something appropriately royal and dignified to diffuse the situation. But at this point? You’re too tired to deal with either of them, and honestly, watching Floyd scare this guy senseless is a little too satisfying. So you just sigh and cross your arms, waiting it out.

“Look, I— I didn’t mean anything by it,” the traitor consort mutters, eyes darting between Floyd’s unsettling grin and your unimpressed stare. “I’ll… I’ll just go…”

And before you know it, he’s stumbling off, practically tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape Floyd’s glare. You can still hear his sniffles echoing down the hall as he disappears.

Floyd watches him go, then turns back to you with an exaggerated pout. “He didn’t even say bye. Rude, huh?” Then, just as quickly, his mood switches back, and he gives you a toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy! Let’s go. You’re finally here!”

And without another word, he loops an arm around you, practically dragging you the rest of the way to his palace. By the time you arrive, you’re half-expecting him to start a monologue or make a big romantic speech, but instead, he plops down on the massive, plush couch, pulling you down next to him with surprising gentleness.

“There we go! See? Ain’t this way better than dealin’ with crybabies?” He laughs, leaning back and throwing an arm over your shoulders.

You give him a look. “Do you actually scare all of them off on purpose?”

Floyd grins, showing all his teeth. “Only the boring ones.” He taps his temple like he’s sharing some brilliant secret. “Can’t have anyone else thinkin’ they’re more special than me, right?”

Honestly, you’re too tired to argue. So you just lean back, letting Floyd prattle on about his grand plans for “getting rid of the competition.” At least, you think to yourself, you’ve successfully survived another day of being Empress.

The banquet table stretches out in front of you, each seat filled by one of your fifteen consorts, who are locked in an elaborate battle of “who’s the cutest?” You watch, sipping your wine like it’s medicinal, as they coo, flirt, and — at least in one unfortunate case — attempt a juggling act.

A consort on your left even starts singing a heartfelt ballad he very obviously wrote himself. You silently make a note to ask Heroine if it’s possible to declare some sort of moratorium on public serenades.

Just when you think the evening can’t get any more surreal, the doors burst open. Floyd strides in, late as usual, with all the grace and subtlety of a pirate commandeering the dinner table.

Without breaking stride, he makes a beeline for the coveted King Consort chair, ignoring the man who’s been trying to occupy it and who now looks as if he’s about to faint.

Floyd’s “gentle” suggestion to move aside comes in the form of a rather forceful nudge, and the poor consort goes skidding two seats down, clutching his untouched plate of tiny hors d’oeuvres.

Floyd plops into the seat, throws his legs up on the table, and proceeds to grab a handful of grapes like he’s claiming territory.

Instantly, fifteen men start having what can only be described as a collective meltdown. One consort gapes at Floyd, cheeks puffing like an indignant chipmunk; another begins audibly hyperventilating. Somewhere on the far end of the table, a man has already shed a single, dramatic tear.

Your maid Heroine sidles up to you, wide-eyed. She whispers loudly, as if she’s sharing a forbidden secret, “Your Majesty! You’ve broken their hearts!”

You stare at her, bewildered. “How? By letting Floyd sit down?”

Heroine nods, lip quivering. “They think you’ve… chosen! That’s the King Consort’s seat!”

“What? ” You glance at Floyd, who’s now lying back, casually chomping on a drumstick he must have acquired from who-knows-where. He doesn’t seem perturbed in the least.

“Yes!” Heroine sniffles, pulling out a lacy handkerchief. “It’s the sacred chair of royal favoritism!” She dabs at her eyes, gazing at you with something akin to heartbreak. “And here I thought you were a romantic.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” You rub your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I just wanted a quiet dinner!”

One of the consorts, evidently hearing this, begins to wail, “But why, Your Majesty? We loved you!” It’s clear he’s already going to be composing several tragic stanzas about this moment.

Then Floyd — who’s been watching this entire scene with the amused look of someone who’s just discovered he’s won the jackpot — clears his throat, aiming a rather shark-like grin at Heroine. “Hey, little miss servant girl,” he says, his voice sugary sweet with a terrifying edge. “Maybe stop making Shrimpy feel guilty, hmm? Unless you want to join ‘em in the Royal Seat Shuffle?”

Heroine squeaks, as if he’s just offered to turn her into a garden gnome, and stammers an apology, hands fluttering as she edges away.

In the silence that follows, you decide enough is enough. “Thank you all for coming,” you announce, giving your consorts a forced smile. “This has been… lovely. But we’re done for tonight.”

The consorts hesitate, as if they want to protest. But when Floyd gives them one of his very special grins — the kind that says he just might take a whole different seat next — they practically stampede out of the dining hall, leaving behind a trail of emotional debris: teardrops, wilted roses, and a half-eaten plate of pastries.

As the door closes, Floyd leans back with a smirk, throwing an arm casually over the back of his new favorite chair. “So, looks like Shrimpy’s all mine tonight.”

You chuckle, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “Well, seems you chased everyone else off.”

“Don’t be like that,” he purrs, clearly pleased. “You know, you’re different now. Last time, you’d have been practically begging those guys to come back.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I’m just too tired to care anymore.”

He leans in, gaze softening. “Nah. You’ve just gotten tougher. And it looks good on you. The new Shrimpy’s got a spine.”

You smile, almost despite yourself, as Floyd raises his glass, winking. “To the new Shrimpy: long may she rule.”

The annual Talent Showcase Extravaganza for the Empress’s Affections has begun, and your consorts are pouring every ounce of drama and flair they possess into their performances, each desperate to secure that exclusive week at the countryside villa with you.

Unfortunately, it seems that the traitor consort — Mr. ‘I-know-the-theme-because-Heroine-can’t-resist-my-cheekbones’ — is dominating the competition. He’s wowing the audience with a perfectly themed tapestry, and you can already hear the maid giggling over in his cheering section.

This calls for drastic action.

You glance over to where Floyd is occupying himself by tormenting a pair of unfortunate ministers with tales of his more “creative” fishing techniques. With a sigh, you snap your fingers. He looks over, feigning annoyance at being interrupted in what he surely sees as “Minister Horror Story Hour.”

“Shrimpy, what gives? This is the first fun I’ve had since I got here,” he says, hands on his hips.

You clear your throat. “Actually, Floyd, I need you to… win this competition.”

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “What, by doing some fancy painting or something? Boring. If you want something painted, Shrimpy, I’ll fish out an octopus to do it for me.”

You take a deep breath. “If you do this, I’ll grant you any wish you want. Plus… an extra reward.”

Floyd pauses, smirking as he steps closer, his voice dropping into an exaggerated whisper. “Any wish, huh? Dangerous promise, Shrimpy.”

You raise an eyebrow, undeterred. ��You in or not?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he sighs. “Fine. But I’m not painting. I’ve got something much better planned. Just try not to faint in awe, yeah?”

When Floyd finally unveils his “masterpiece,” the room falls silent. Somehow, he’s cobbled together a mosaic made entirely out of shiny rocks he probably pilfered from the palace’s prize garden.

The piece is of you, looking bold and triumphant, wielding what can only be described as a “battle spoon” against some sea monster (you’re guessing it’s supposed to be a shark, but it might just be a rock that looked vaguely fish-like).

“Ta-da!” Floyd announces, throwing his arms out. “The Empress: Rock ‘n’ Roll Edition. I call it, ‘Shrimpy, Queen of the Waves.’”

Despite yourself, you’re mildly… no, very swoony. Somehow, it’s both absurd and… kind of amazing. Floyd’s grin is pure mischief as he winks at you. “Like it, Shrimpy? Don’t worry, I can make one for the garden too.”

But your moment is interrupted by a loud sniffle from across the room. The traitor consort, clearly irate at being outshone, is tearing up, looking at you with big, watery eyes as if you’re the villain in this scenario. Heroine looks one step away from bolting to his side, but he raises a hand, his voice trembling as he murmurs, “No, I only want the Empress to comfort me.”

You shoot a silent plea to the universe, practically chanting, “Please, mercy, mercy…”

Floyd, never one to ignore an opportunity, steps up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Sorry, bud. Shrimpy’s already spoken for tonight. You’ll have to get in line. Oh, and try not to tear up over her rock portrait, yeah? Not all of us can handle the majesty.”

The crowd erupts in applause, one point to you and Floyd — and you’re pretty sure Heroine’s sulking in the corner, still staring longingly at the sobbing traitor consort, but that’s a future problem. For now, you’ve got a mildly unhinged art piece to hang up and a certain mischievous consort to thank.

It’s another late night in the study when you notice the Heroine, your ever-loyal (if not a little clueless) maid, lingering by the doorway, watching you with an odd expression. At first, you chalk it up to her usual eccentricities. But as the minutes tick by, she doesn’t move, just stands there with a faraway look in her eyes. Finally, you set down your work and gesture for her to come in.

“Hey,” you say gently, “what’s on your mind?”

She hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s nothing, really…” Then, in a small voice, “It’s just… I never got to study like this.”

Your brow furrows, and as she opens up, the full picture starts to form. The Heroine, despite her noble blood, was barred by her father from studying—her dreams of an education crushed under his outdated beliefs.

She clung to the traitor consort, she confesses, because he seemed like an escape, even if a flimsy one. He was a nobleman with some level of authority, and for her, he felt like the only ticket to a different life.

Understanding sinks in. It’s not love she feels for him at all. It’s desperation, something almost like a distorted version of Stockholm syndrome.

She’s convinced herself he’s her only way out, though it’s clear as day that he doesn’t deserve her loyalty. The man’s barely got two brain cells, but he’s got freedom—and for her, he must have looked like her only way out.

The realization hits you hard, like finding out your favorite dessert is made with broccoli. No wonder she’s been swooning over that guy. She’s not “in love”—she’s just starved for any path out of her cage. Your heart softens, and you give her a gentle, if slightly exasperated, smile.

“Well, that won’t do,” you say firmly. “How about this? I’ll teach you myself. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll get you the education you deserve.”

Her face goes through a series of hilarious expressions, from shock to joy to the kind of wide-eyed, wobbly-lipped excitement normally reserved for puppies seeing their owner after a long day. And so, your lessons begin.

Over the next few weeks, you teach the Heroine to read, and she devours each lesson like a kid in a candy store. She’s throwing herself into her education with such energy, it’s like she’s forgotten the traitor consort entirely.

And you’re thrilled—partly for her growth and partly because it means your coup odds have just dropped by a solid 90%.

Soon, Heroine’s loyalty to you is ironclad, her former starry-eyed infatuation with the traitor consort completely extinguished. You’re so relieved you could dance, and, maybe more importantly, you realize that the kingdom’s other daughters deserve the same chance.

In a flash of imperial inspiration, you draft a new law requiring all daughters, noble or otherwise, to attend the academy. The state will foot the bill, so no one has an excuse to hold their daughters back.

Later that night, feeling unexpectedly sentimental, you return to your room to find Floyd sprawled on your bed, grinning like he’s just heard the world’s juiciest gossip.

“You look smug,” you say, arching an eyebrow.

“Nah, just… pleased,” he drawls, giving you that signature mischievous smirk. And before you know it, he pulls you into a surprisingly tight hug, his arms wrapping around you with unexpected warmth. “Look at my Shrimpy, changing the world one law at a time.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks despite yourself. “Oh, stop it,” you mutter, though you don’t pull away.

He chuckles, giving you an affectionate squeeze. “Nah. You’re doing great, Empress. I’m proud of you.”

You’re speechless. Floyd? Sentimental? But as he holds you, laughing at your stunned expression, you can’t help but feel a little…smitten.

You’re reviewing reports in the study, savoring the rare, blissful calm, when the double doors burst open like some villain from a badly written romance novel. There stands the traitor consort, dressed in what looks like…a suit made of loose, strategically placed peacock feathers, a sequined sash, and—oh, yes—face glitter.

He strikes a pose, does a dramatic hand flip, and announces, “Behold! My love for you is eternal, as boundless as the stars, and as bold as my outfit!”

You're thinking about ordering Floyd to chase him out with a chair, when you catch Heroine’s expression—somewhere between horror and volcanic rage.

With a fierce gleam in her eye, she steps in front of you, looking like she’s about to deliver an exorcism. “You…” she begins, her voice so cold even the peacock feathers on his shoulders look like they might molt in fear. “You miserable, egotistical, fashion-disaster-in-waiting!”

He’s stunned, blinking like a child caught sneaking candy. “W-what? Heroine, you used to help me with my plans!”

“Yeah, well, that was before I got a brain cell,” she snaps. “I actually know my worth now, and it’s definitely not tied to whatever fever-dream cape situation you’ve got going on.” She points to his glittering sash. “What, did you rob an arts-and-crafts store on the way here? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

He stammers, visibly shrinking, feathers quivering with fear. “Y-you were always there for me…”

“That was when I was too naive to realize you were the human equivalent of a trash fire!” She’s in full swing now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, spitting out insults that would make the court jester blush. “Please, the Empress has standards, and you’re down there with questionable cabbage soup.”

He reels back, totally caught off-guard. By this point, you’re honestly not sure if you should applaud or slowly back away.

With a smirk, you lean forward and say, “Well, since you’re dressed for the occasion, why don’t you strut that ridiculous ensemble back to your own country?”

He opens his mouth, gapes like a fish, and finally closes it, completely defeated. Without another word, he shuffles out, feathers dragging behind him in a sad little pile.

The second he’s out of earshot, you sigh, look up, and thank the universe for finally sparing you from that headache. The Heroine just dusts her hands off, grinning like she’s just won the greatest battle of her life, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how terrifyingly competent she’s become.

Floyd has been hounding you about his reward for days now, showing up at all hours with the persistence of a cat at dinner time. You’re mid-sentence in a policy meeting, mid-sip at dinner, even mid-bath when you hear him shout from outside the door, “Hey, Shrimpy! Remember my prize? Don’t forget now!”

Finally, in a moment of resignation, you sigh and wave him in. “Fine, Floyd. What do you actually want?”

He grins, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that should probably have you worried. “Make me king consort.”

You open your mouth, ready to laugh and then say something like, “No chance,” but then…you pause. Because—why not? He’s loyal, he’s your particular brand of chaos, and honestly, the idea of using it as an excuse to disband the harem is almost too good.

You’d get to tell everyone you’d found the “love of your life” and keep your mornings free of peacock-feathered declarations of eternal devotion.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say, shrugging as if you just agreed to a dinner plan and not a royal title. “You’re king consort.”

For a solid five seconds, he’s frozen, blinking like he’s not sure if you just announced the best prank of the century or an actual royal decision.

Then, with a roar of laughter, he picks you up, actually tossing you in the air like a sack of grain. “SHRIMPY, I’M KING CONSORT! WOOOO!”

Ministers nearby practically leap out of their chairs in terror, and one drops his teacup with a spectacular crash.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, setting you down but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t think I forgot—I still get that week alone with you in the countryside. Just you, me, and the great outdoors.”

You’d expected to feel dread, but instead…you’re kind of excited? Because it turns out, when there’s no glittered consort in sight, Floyd’s brand of mayhem might just be exactly what you needed.

You’re slumped on the throne, staring into the void as a minister drones on about the scandalous rise in scarf-wearing among the commoners.

The man is red-faced and foaming at the mouth as if he’s narrating the downfall of civilization itself instead of just… knitted accessories. With each drawn-out sentence, your urge to grab his own scarf and dramatically tie it around his face grows stronger.

“And, Your Majesty, don’t you agree that such… frivolousness undermines the dignity of the empire?” he sputters.

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, one mental toe dangling into the sweet abyss of existential crisis. How did your life get to this point? Did the previous Empress really deal with scarf politics? You contemplate just passing the crown to the nearest potted plant. Surely it couldn’t do worse.

Then, like a savior bathed in sunlight, Floyd appears. He slinks in casually, eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of glee and malice. He takes one look at Wedgeworth’s scarf-induced fervor and rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see the scarf issue is really eating away at the Empire,” Floyd deadpans, clearly unamused at the absurdity.

The minister stammers, blinking like he’s never been interrupted in his life. “Well, actually, I was explaining to Her Majesty—”

Floyd raises a hand. “I’ll take it from here, Lord Scarfington. Very urgent royal matters, wouldn’t want to keep the Empress from them, now would we, hmm?”

The ministers exchange horrified looks, but when Floyd locks eyes with them, his expression darkens into a gaze that could probably scare the teeth off a shark. Ministers shuffle out, muttering about “the sanctity of scarves” and how they “never liked those shellfish folk anyway.”

When you’re finally alone, you look at Floyd, and he gives you a grin. “Come on, Shrimpy, I’ve got a surprise.”

He leads you through a series of narrow, winding hallways you didn’t even know existed until you arrive at a small, hidden courtyard surrounded by high walls and shaded by some flowering trees.

In the middle of it is a picnic spread that looks… questionable. There’s food you don’t recognize: odd, glistening items that could pass as snacks in a very brave galaxy.

“I brought some delicacies from the Coral Sea,” Floyd announces, looking way too proud. “I even cooked some of this myself.”

You smile, hoping he means the less suspicious dishes, but as you take a bite of one of the “unique” items, you immediately realize your error. It’s a taste explosion, and not in a good way; you’re fairly certain you just ate something alive. Floyd’s already laughing, watching you try to hold back a gag.

“Oh, that’s rich, look at your face!” He claps his hands, doubled over with laughter.

But then you try the food he actually cooked, and it’s… it’s really good. Your eyes widen. “Floyd, you didn’t tell me you could cook!”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Guess you just have that effect on me, Shrimpy.”

As you eat, you feel the weight of scarf debates and mundane ministerial crises slip away. Floyd’s teasing you about your reaction to the Coral Sea snacks, you’re pretending to smack him, and somewhere between the laughter and the food, you realize you’re completely relaxed. You’re even… happy.

Then he casually picks up a pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, Shrimpy,” he says slowly, “bet I can take you down.”

“Bring it, fish-boy,” you fire back, grabbing a pillow.

A feather flies. Then another. In no time, the two of you are engaged in a full-on pillow war, feathers floating through the air in chaotic puffs. You swing a pillow with all your might, narrowly missing Floyd, who dodges and counters with a playful shove, sending you sprawling onto the blanket, laughing so hard you’re almost crying.

In the flurry of feathers and laughter, you realize just how much you care about him. And as if reading your mind, Floyd suddenly stops, pinning you down, his face hovering just inches above yours. His usual playful grin fades into something softer, more serious, and you find yourself staring up at him, completely captivated.

You kiss him, right there, surrounded by scattered feathers and half-eaten snacks. “I think I’m in love with you, Floyd,” you whisper.

He grins, looking almost smug. “Knew you’d come around eventually, Shrimpy. You’re a smart one.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, and pull him into another kiss, feeling lighter than you have in ages. Whatever royal nonsense tomorrow brings, you know you’ve got him—and for now, that’s more than enough.

Vacation plans with Floyd start out so simple in theory, but the minute he said, “Countryside? Nah, Shrimpy, we’re going under the sea,” you just nodded because, hey, you did promise a reward. Plus, how bad could it be?

Bad, it turns out, is relative. Upon arrival, Jade, Floyd’s brother, gives you a grin that says welcome, poor soul. “So, my brother’s finally gone and gotten himself an Empress. How unexpected,” he says with a glint in his eye that suggests he’s got a bet running on how long you’ll last.

But you’ve barely survived Jade’s interrogation when Azul, Coral Sea’s resident business octopus, swims up with an entire briefcase of contracts and a grin that spells danger.

“Welcome, Your Majesty! I thought we might discuss a mutually beneficial agreement,” he says smoothly, his tone so charming you almost miss that the contract slides in a 50-year lease on your kingdom’s fishing industry.

“So that’s how it is here,” you think, snapping back to business mode. You haggle until both sides are happy, but the second you reach across to shake Azul’s hand, Floyd swoops in, sighing dramatically. He grabs your hand, practically prying it out of Azul’s. “Alright, Shrimpy, enough time with the fish dealer. You’re mine this week.”

Before you can blink, he’s thrown you over his shoulder like you’re a stray potato sack, striding away from an open-mouthed Azul and an utterly delighted Jade who looks like he's a minute away from bursting out popcorn.

By the time he hauls you to your guest room and plops you on the bed, his usual grin has given way to an expression you’ve only seen on annoyed cats. He’s holding your hand in a grip that could rival steel, not letting go even as he sulks like a kid who just lost his favorite toy.

“Floyd,” you say slowly, “is something wrong?”

He looks away, puffing out his cheeks, refusing to answer. It's downright adorable in an overgrown, slightly unhinged eel sort of way. You squint at him, reaching over to grab his face, smushing his cheeks together until he finally makes eye contact. “Hey, I can’t read your mind, Floyd. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He mutters something too low to hear, and you lean closer, arching a brow. “What was that?”

“You’re my Shrimpy,” he grumbles louder, still not meeting your eyes. “And the handshake with that fish scammer went on too long.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to burst into laughter. “So that’s it, huh?” A laugh slips out despite your efforts, and his pout deepens, though his grip on your hand stays as firm as ever. “You silly eel,” you chuckle, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “As if anyone could match me like you do?”

That does it. His expression softens, the pout melting into that slightly unhinged, overly excited Floyd smile you know too well. “See, Shrimpy, that’s why you’re the only one for me!” he practically shouts before pulling you into a spin that has you clinging to him for dear life.

He kisses you again, and you’re so breathless you half-expect a storm outside to rise to match.

But it doesn’t matter—he’s too busy swearing up and down that he’s not letting anyone else get a “single fin” on you. And somehow, as you laugh together, it feels like you really are on a vacation you never knew you needed.

The ceremony for crowning Floyd as your King Consort goes all-out, much to your delight—and, judging by the expressions around the room, their absolute horror. The whole throne room is so packed with flowers and banners it might as well be a festival.

You’ve made sure that this is a spectacle the diplomats and ministers will never forget. After all, the more smitten you look with Floyd, the less they’ll try to “reason” you out of it. And if they have any opinions about your choice, well, they can keep it to themselves—or they can talk to Floyd.

As you lean in to place the crown on Floyd’s head, he’s giving you a smirk so bright you swear it’s practically a stage light. The second the crown touches his head, he dips you into a kiss that is equal parts “fairytale ending” and “scandalized gasp from the old guard.” The ministers are barely holding in a collective gasp. Someone clutches their chest like they might need medical attention.

Over on the sidelines, you can see Jade and Azul clapping way too enthusiastically for the room’s mood. Meanwhile, everyone else looks like they’re watching you deface a holy artifact. You pull back with a satisfied smile, fully aware of the whispers swirling through the room.

Now, to seal this newfound reign in your own… unique way.

You turn to the front rows where your now-ex-harem stands, looking various shades of awkward and confused. These “prizes” will be going back to their respective nations, and it’s about time. “Ambassadors,” you announce, your tone absolutely oozing sincerity, “I believe you’ll be taking back your… prizes. Enjoy.”

The diplomats exchange looks, clearly unsure if they should feel insulted or relieved. You give them a regal wave and watch as they shuffle out with the ex-consorts in tow, one of whom lets out a dramatic sigh loud enough to reach the rafters.

Just as the room finally starts calming down, you glance over at the row of your ministers—many of whom look like they’d rather have run off with the consorts.

These are the ancient relics of nepotism who have only ever accomplished growing their own egos and possibly a few money-siphoning schemes. You decide now’s the time to deal with them, too.

Smiling so politely it almost looks sweet, you say, “Ministers, thank you for your service. But I’m sure you’ll understand when I say…” You pause, voice dropping to an icy sweetness, “You’re dismissed. Please kindly fuck right off.”

Several of the men freeze, as if unsure they heard you correctly. One or two start spluttering, “But—Your Majesty—this is—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Floyd cuts in, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You’re free to go! You wouldn’t want to disappoint the Empress, would ya?”

It takes a second, but the room clears of protesting ministers soon enough. Then you turn to the waiting group of young scholars, women who fought their way up to the top on pure merit, many of them owing their presence here to your recently passed education reforms. “Welcome,” you say with a genuine smile. "Your interviews will be conducted tomorrow"

Their reactions are priceless. Several tear up on the spot, whispering thank-yous so heartfelt you nearly tear up yourself. One of them murmurs, “This is a dream come true. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

You feel a swell of pride. This is what you’ve wanted to see—a competent court, fresh talent, and the chance to make a real difference. Just as you’re soaking in the satisfaction of this triumph, Floyd leans over, clearly up to something.

“You’re done now, yeah?” he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

“Uh, yes?” You've barely said the words, only for him to suddenly scoop you up and throw you over his shoulder, entirely ignoring the royal dignity of it all. The young scholars stare, completely unsure of whether to salute or run.

“Floyd!” you half-laugh, half-scold. “You could at least let me walk out on my own!”

“Nah,” he says, casually strolling down the hall with you like you’re a sack of potatoes. “You’re mine now, Shrimpy. And besides, it’s tradition for the King Consort to carry his Empress, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” you mutter, but you wave cheerfully at everyone as you’re carried off.

As he strides out of the throne room, ignoring the horrified gasps and protests behind you both, Floyd grins. “Any more old men to fire? ‘Cause I’m having a great time.”

You shake your head, smiling. After all, you’re the Empress—who’s going to stop you now?

Your empire has transformed. The old guard, once weighed down by nothing but scarves and scandals, has finally given way to a bright-eyed group of scholars and ministers, most of whom—much to the old ministers' horror—are brilliant young women now leading the realm.

Among them is your ex-maid, the heroine herself, newly appointed as Minister of Diplomatic Affairs and already so intimidatingly competent that foreign diplomats quake just a bit when she enters the room.

And the grandest twist of all: you declare that your successor will not be by blood but by merit. The heir to the throne will be the sharpest, most capable mind in the empire, regardless of their birth.

You’re already giddy as you imagine the ambitious parents prepping their offspring for the grueling tests you’re planning—challenges you’ll design alongside your newly assembled council.

After hours of being regal and respectable, you finally get back to your chambers, ready for a night of blissfully ignoring politics. Floyd, your beloved eel, is already sprawled on the couch like he’s conquered half the known world, arms open and ready to receive you. You practically collapse into his embrace, sighing as you burrow against him.

“So, Shrimpy,” he drawls, smirking. “Fix the whole empire yet?”

“Almost,” you laugh. “At least I’ve retired the Scarf Parliament. That’s enough for today.”

You snuggle closer, closing your eyes, and for a second, you think back to the ridiculous, drama-filled story that threw you into this life. Maybe the original author had a point, or maybe she just really liked throwing you curveballs.

Either way, cuddled up with the love of your life while your empire flourishes, you can’t help but think, yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech x you #floyd x reader #floyd x you #floyd leech #floyd #trash novel chronicles

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badkitty3000 · 3 months ago

Text

One Fateful Day

Five x Single Mom reader, one-shot, 5k words

Warnings: None!

I received a request quite a while ago for a fluffy, sweet one-shot where Five befriends a single mom. Hope you like a super soft Five, cause that's what this is! ❤️

A/N: This image was made entirely with AI, as you can probably tell by the glaringly bad mistakes.

Five listened to the sound of happy children playing and screaming, along with the quiet hum of distant traffic and the crunch of bike tires as they rolled across the gravel pathways of his favorite city park. He found his usual bench, brushing off a few fallen leaves before easing himself onto it with the groan of someone years older than he looked. As soon as he was situated, he glanced around and waited. It never took long before they found him. Sure enough, less than 30 seconds later, the gang of ne’er-do-wells showed up out of nowhere.

Five’s bird friends consisted mostly of some mangy looking pigeons, a few brown sparrows, and one particularly ornery blue jay. They knew him by sight and would flock at his feet whenever he came to visit. As they gathered around, cooing, chirping and hopping excitedly, Five smiled down at them.

“Hi, guys,” he said quietly. “How’ve you been? Staying out of trouble?”

As usual, he received no real response, but more flitters and flapping of wings. That was ok, though. He didn’t mind the one-sided conversations.

Pulling a small bag of bird seed out of his inside coat pocket, he continued talking.

“Sorry I missed you yesterday.” He sprinkled a handful of the seed on the ground and watched as the excitement of the crew intensified. “Klaus needed a ride to the dentist. He said to say hi.”

Five watched the intricate dance of bird hierarchy unraveling before him. He already knew their order of rank and which bird was going to get the majority of the feast while the others waited their turns.

“Wren Franklin…be nice. Bernice isn’t taking your share, Jack Sparrow, so quit your squawking.”

He threw another handful on the ground. “Trucker Bob, it’s ok buddy…you get on in there, they aren’t going to hurt you.” Five suddenly stomped his foot at the blue jay, causing everyone to scatter for a brief moment before scurrying back again. “Sandra Jay O’Connor, I saw that! If I see you peck at poor Mr. Tippington again, you will be banned for a month!”

As Five cursed the blue jay while cooing soft words of encouragement to a small and plain-looking brown bird, he heard a quiet giggle nearby. Sensing it was aimed in his direction, he looked up. On the next bench over, he saw you. Your eyes sparkled as you tried to stifle your laugh. You looked abruptly away as soon as Five glanced at you.

Five smiled softly to himself. He knew he looked and sounded like a crazy person. But he sensed you weren’t making fun of him, just that you were amused.

“You laugh, but I’ve seen that bird fly right onto a man’s head and fly off with his toupee purely for spite. Granted, she was probably doing him a favor because it was god awful, but still.”

You looked at Five and laughed shyly again before shaking your head. “I had no idea bird crime was so rampant in this city.”

“Oh, yes,” Five nodded solemnly. “In fact, I advise you to stay away from the park at night. You might find yourself in the middle of a fly-by shooting. Lots of bird gang violence around here.”

“Is that so? Well, thank you for the heads up,” you said with a smile. Just then, your 5 year-old daughter ran up, out of breath. You handed her a bottle of water. “Ready to go, sweetie?”

The little girl nodded while taking a sip. “Yep.”

You got up and started to walk away, taking your daughter’s hand in yours. You stopped and looked back at Five, who was still watching you. “Have a nice afternoon with your friends there, and I hope Mr. Tippington is ok.”

Five grinned widely. “Thank you, and he’ll be just fine.”

You nodded with a smile and turned to leave. Five watched you go, ignoring the fact that his feathered friends were now clearly irritated that their benefactor had yet to give them their full ration of seed for the day.

Two days later, and Five was back on his favorite bench. As he was in the middle of another inciteful, one-way conversation with his buddies on the ground, he heard a familiar voice from behind.

“Go along and play, Cassie, I’ll watch you from here.”

When Five turned, he saw you standing there. Your eyes sparkled in the sunlight just like the first time he saw you.

“So, do these birds do anything for you in return for you feeding them? Like bringing you gifts, or doing your taxes?” you teased.

Five chuckled. “No. They just let me talk their ears off while they eat.”

“Huh. Do birds have ears?”

Five shrugged. “You know, I’m not sure. Maybe that’s why they don’t care that I’m talking at them.”

You laughed and gestured to the empty side of Five’s bench. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

As Five moved over to make more room for you, you introduced yourself with a handshake.

“Nice to meet you. Five Hargreeves,” he said.

“Hargreeves? Why does that name sound familiar?” you asked, tilting your head.

Five sighed quietly. He really wondered why he hadn’t just picked another name by now. It would make things so much easier.

“Does The Umbrella Academy ring any bells?”

You were thoughtful for a second and then the lightbulb went on. “You’re kidding! You were…are…one of them?”

Five nodded. “Sure am. Good old Number Five.”

“I see,” you responded with a smile as you looked him up and down. “So, which one were you? I mean, what can you do?”

“Teleportation. Time travel.” He paused. “Pigeon summoning.”

You laughed. “Very cool. I can see your very impressive pigeon power in action now, but you’ll have to show me the others sometime.”

Five smiled. “Sure thing.”

You nodded. “Ok, Number Five. So, I’ve seen you around the park here a lot. Are you here with your kids, too?”

Five felt called out and a faint blush appeared on his cheeks. “Uh, no. No kids.” He was really hoping you didn’t think he was some creeper hanging out at the park for less innocent reasons. “Don’t worry, though. I just like to come here and feed these guys,” he explained, gesturing to the birds on the ground. “It’s like therapy but without the judgment and bill at the end.”

You looked dubious for just a moment, glancing over at the play structure where your daughter was swinging happily. But when you turned to face Five again, you relaxed. You glanced down at the birds. “They certainly seem to like you.”

Five shrugged. “I think they just view me as a human vending machine.” He held out the bag of seed towards you. “Want to be the hero?”

You nodded and reached into the bag, scooping up some seed and tossing it on the ground. The birds went crazy, tweeting and flapping their wings, making you laugh. Five grinned.

“See? They have no loyalty.”

“I see that. But you have names for them all?”

“Ah, well…some of them. At least the usual ones that come around. It’s rather interesting to observe their little avian society.” Five stopped, realizing that he sounded like a weirdo. “I’m sorry. I’m not a complete lunatic, I promise.”

You laughed, and once again Five could tell you weren’t making fun of him. You seemed genuinely charmed by him. You also had a very calming presence, he noticed. He didn’t feel awkward or on edge when talking with you, which was a refreshing change of pace these days.

“I don’t think you’re a lunatic. Believe me, I can spot them from a mile away and you’re not one.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”

You jumped when you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket from an incoming call. You held it up to Five with an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, I have to take this. It’s my ex and he’s supposed to take our daughter this weekend, so I have to figure out the details.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

As you turned to walk away for more privacy, Five took a look over at the playground. He saw the little girl you had called Cassie, climbing up the ladder to the monkey bars. She was small and Five watched as she got to the top rung, hesitantly reaching out for the first bar to cross. As she swung out, Five could see she wasn’t truly comfortable with what she was doing, and the ground was pretty far below. He stood up, looking over at you, but your back was turned as you were trying to focus on the call. When he turned back to the girl, he saw it start to happen like it was in slow motion. On the second bar, one of her hands started to slip, leaving her dangling by a few fingers. She let out a scream that got your attention, but it was too late.

Just as your daughter lost her grip with her remaining hand and began to fall to the ground, Five blinked directly under her, catching her just in time. As he stood there with your daughter in his arms, both of them looking shocked, you ran over in a panic.

“Cassie! Oh my god, are you ok?”

She nodded, still looking up at the mysterious man that had appeared out of the literal blue to save her. “Yeah.”

Five set her down and she ran to you, hugging you tightly around your waist. You held her to you and looked up at Five.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t believe I wasn’t watching…but you were…oh my god if you weren’t here…”

“No problem. I’m just glad I got there in time.”

You choked back the tears you could feel coming on. “I’m a terrible mother, aren’t I? I just let my kid fall off the monkey bars because I wasn’t paying attention. What kind of person does that?”

Five smiled gently. “A normal one. Of course you’re not a terrible mother.”

“You don’t even know me,” you sniffed with a smile.

“True. But in the very short time we’ve been talking, I can tell that you’re a great parent. Just like you can sniff out the lunatics, I can spot a shitty parent a mile away.”

Cassie let go of you, glancing back at Five with a smile and then back at you. “It’s true, mommy, you’re not shitty at all.”

“Cassie!” you gasped in horror at your daughter’s language.

Five tried to hold it in, but he had to laugh, which made Cassie laugh, which then made you laugh.

“Sorry, I think that’s my fault,” Five said.

“Well, I’d like to blame you, but the truth is I have a bad habit of swearing like a sailor myself. I just usually try to keep it to a minimum around her, but I’m not always successful.”

Five nodded with a smile before crouching down in front of Cassie. “Maybe next time stick with the swings, ok?”

Cassie frowned, her eyebrows scrunched together as she crossed her arms. “Swings are for babies. I can DO the monkey bars, but these were slippery. Someone made them slippery.”

Five looked back up at you with a grin, then back at Cassie, fixing his face so that he was serious again. “I bet they did. That seems like a very logical explanation; I can tell you are very smart.”

Cassie uncrossed her arms with a smile and nodded. “I am! I get in trouble at school for saying I’m smarter than the other kids, but it’s not my fault. I’m only telling the truth.”

“We’re working on being humble, aren’t we Cassie?” you said in a reproving way.

Five chuckled and leaned in to whisper to Cassie, making sure he was still loud enough that you could hear. “I completely understand. I have the same problem.”

The little girl nodded solemnly, recognizing a fellow put-upon genius in her midst. She looked back up at you. “Can I go on the slide now?”

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Yes, I’m ok.”

“Alright, then. I promise I’ll be watching.”

As she ran off to the slide, you turned to Five. “I should probably go over and stand at the bottom. Just in case.”

“Oh sure, I understand.”

“Really, I can’t thank you enough, Five. You’re amazing.”

Five put his hands in his pockets and smiled shyly. “I think amazing is a bit much, but you’re welcome.”

“So, will you be coming by to feed your buddies tomorrow?”

“Most likely, yes.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I was thinking that I might bring Cassie back here tomorrow as well. Maybe around 2pm? Do you think you’ll be here then?”

“I think I will definitely be here at 2pm.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.”

With a smile, you gave him a small wave and turned to go join your daughter at the slide. Five watched you walk away, unable to keep the growing grin off his face. This was the most interaction he’d had with anyone that wasn’t part of his family in a very long time and it felt surprisingly good. Really good.

The next day, Five was already waiting at his usual bench when you and Cassie found your way over to him. When he saw you, he stood up, holding out a cup of coffee for you. His own cup was on the bench next to where he had been sitting.

“I wasn’t sure how you liked it. Or, even if you drank coffee, but here you go. It’s just black.”

As you took the cup, you giggled. “Yes, I do drink coffee, and black is perfect. Thank you so much, that wasn’t necessary.”

Five shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I was getting one for myself anyway, so it was no trouble.”

Cassie watched as you and Five stood there smiling at one another, but not saying anything. Her eyebrows came together and she looked up at Five, tilting her head to one side.

“My mom said your name is Five.”

Snapping out of his trance, he addressed Cassie. “Yes, it is.”

“That’s a number.”

“Yes, it is.”

“That’s how old I am.”

Five nodded. “You seem very mature for your age.”

She paused, eyeing him up thoughtfully. “Five’s a weird name.”

“Cassie!” you cried out, completely embarrassed at your daughter’s lack of a filter.

Biting back a laugh, Five pretended to look confused. “What do you mean it’s weird? I know at least a dozen other people named Five.”

Cassie paused, trying to determine if he was telling the truth or not. Then she shook her head with a small smile. “No, you don’t.”

Five grinned. “See? I knew you were smart.”

You laughed at their interaction, looking around. “So, where are your friends?”

“Oh, I haven’t put out the buffet yet. They’ll be here though.” He turned to Cassie. “Would you like to help feed some very ungrateful birds with me?”

The little girl’s face lit up. “Yes!”

“Ok, then, here you go,” Five took out his usual bag of birdseed and handed it to Cassie. “Just start sprinkling it on the ground. They’ll be here before you know it.”

As she took the seed and started to throw handfuls around and up in the air, laughing to herself, you and Five sat on the bench and watched. Sure enough, after about a minute, the small flock began to swoop in. Five identified all of them that had names, which made Cassie laugh even harder. As she giggled and let out little shrieks of joy while she continued to throw them more food, you turned to Five.

“I haven’t seen her this happy in a long time.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “It’s been really hard on her since the divorce. She has to go back and forth from house to house every week. It’s stressful and I can see it taking a toll on her. Which, naturally, makes me feel like shit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Five said earnestly. “But even if it’s hard on her now, it will be better for her in the long run. Kids are resilient and she really is very smart, so I have no doubt she’ll be fine. What happened with you and your ex, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Well,” you sighed, “it’s a long story. But the short version is that we got together when we were young and just outgrew one another over time. He’s not a bad guy, but we argued all the time. The love was gone and we just didn’t want to fight anymore.” You looked over at Cassie with a guilty frown. “I just wish I could protect her from all of this.”

Five was silent for a moment as he took that in. “Look, I’m not a parent and I don’t pretend to know anything about marriage, but I can tell you that it sounds like you did her a favor. Growing up in a house with constant bickering can be stressful in its own right. And not seeing any love between parents is even worse. So, she’ll be more than fine. You showed her that everyone deserves to be happy and she’ll carry that with her as she grows older.”

It had been so long since someone had said exactly what you needed to hear, that you immediately started to tear up. Hurriedly wiping your eyes, you laughed at yourself.

“Sorry, I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.” You looked up at Five with a grateful smile and patted his hand that was next to yours. “Thank you for that. You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Five swallowed nervously and looked down at your hand on top of his. “You’re welcome. And who knows, maybe you’ll find the right person down the road.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, taking in his clear green eyes. “Maybe I will.”

“Mommy look!” Cassie shrieked with a laugh, jarring you and Five out of your moment.

You quickly pulled your hand away, turning your attention back to your daughter. She was standing there, smiling ear to ear, as a small, skinny pigeon sat on her shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“It likes me!”

Five laughed, shaking his head. “I have been coming here for months and not one of those damn birds has ever sat on me like that.”

You laughed, too. “Unbelievable.”

“What’s this one’s name, Five?” Cassie giggled.

“Oh, uh…yeah, that’s…Fred.”

As Cassie continued on, feeding and talking to Fred, you looked over at Five. “What was that about?”

He ran a hand through his hair and lowered his voice. “I actually call that one Fuck Face.”

When you doubled over with laughter, Five grinned from ear to ear. He’d never made anyone laugh like that before, and it was the best he’d felt in a very long time.

Over the next few weeks, you and Five built up a close friendship. He listened to your stories about single mom life and how it could be lonely and difficult. You listened to his stories of his traumatic past and how he was attempting to live as a normal man for once in his life. The conversation came easily and you never felt awkward around one another. Soon, he had integrated himself into your life, and into Cassie’s, too.

She loved spending time with Five, and on the days when you didn’t see him, she always asked about him. He liked to tease her and she was always ready with her own zingers to sling back at him. When she told him bad knock knock jokes, he would groan and tell her how horrible they were, but he would be smiling the whole time. You would sit back, watching their banter, thinking how cute they were.

There were more play dates at the park, more bird feedings, then lunch at a café, and eventually Sunday dinners at your house. Five had never felt this comfortable in his own skin before, and he actually thought he might have found what he had been looking for this whole time. Happiness.

Even though he had become such a big part of your life in such a short time, you and Five had not moved past the friends stage. You were still a little gun shy after the divorce, and you weren’t even sure Five was interested in you that way. Sure, there had been several times when you had caught him looking at you in that way that made your heart do a little flip in your chest. And maybe your breath hitched a little whenever his hand brushed against yours in passing. But you liked how things were between you. At least for now.

Five wasn’t sure how you felt about him, either. He knew you were coming off a bad relationship and you probably wanted nothing to do with men for the time being. He definitely liked spending time with you, though. He found he looked forward to it more and more. Seeing you smile when you saw him was the best part of his day. But he didn’t want to assume you were interested in anything more. If he made a move and you shot him down, not only would it be embarrassing, it might ruin what you already had. And that was too important to lose.

The three of you were at the park again, and you watched as Cassie dragged Five off toward her favorite twisty slide, taking his hand and pulling him along while he pretended to grumble about it. After he was forced to slide down the plastic slide, you laughed loudly when you saw him reach the bottom.

“What?” he asked, brushing the dust off of his pristinely pressed slacks.

“Your hair!” you laughed. “The static made it stick straight up!”

He patted at his crazy hair with a frown and tried to smash it down, which made you laugh even harder. After Cassie came tumbling out of the slide herself, Five pretended to be annoyed with her.

“Hey, kid, you didn’t tell me that slide would mess up my hair.”

Cassie giggled. “You look funny. Like a porcupine.”

After Five fixed himself as best he could, Cassie took his hand and tugged on it again, this time trying to get him to crouch down to her level. When he did, she rested her hand on his forehead for a second, pulling it back with a frown. Then she looked at Five with a shake of her head. “You don’t feel hot.”

“Should I? I’m not feeling sick.”

She looked over at you. “I heard you talking to Taylor’s mom at the bus stop and you said Five was hot.” She put her hand on his cheek. “He feels normal.”

If the ground suddenly opened up and swallowed you whole, you would not have been more grateful. Instead, you remained frozen, your face on fire and your mouth trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

“Uh…” was all that you stammered out.

In true kid fashion, Cassie was oblivious to the faux pas she created. As Five slowly stood up again, and Cassie skipped off to the swing set, unbothered by it all, his eyes met yours. The self-satisfied smirk on his face spoke a thousand words.

“You said I was hot?”

“I…no…I mean well yeah…kind of…” you tried to stumble your way through a cohesive sentence.

Five adopted his typical cool stance, with his hands in his pockets, as he continued to grin like an absolute asshole. “So, is Taylor’s mom cute? Did you give her my number?”

After a few more seconds of being mortified, you started to see the humor in the situation. You relaxed and laughed quietly, looking at the ground with a shake of your head. “Damn it, you’re an asshole sometimes, you know?”

“But still hot, right?”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” you said with a groan.

Five shook his head slowly. “Probably not.”

As you ran a hand down your still-flushed face, you sighed. With a raised eyebrow, you jabbed a finger in his direction. “You fucking know you’re hot, too. That’s what makes it worse.” When he laughed, but didn’t deny it, you sighed again.

On your way over to the swings, Five bumped you with his elbow. “You’re pretty hot yourself, you know.”

When you looked over, you saw the corner of his mouth turn up as he swallowed hard. His eyes skirted away from yours as he looked at the ground.

“Thanks, Five,” you said, suddenly feeling very warm again.

“You’re welcome.”

It was a few days later when your little trio was walking to the park from your house. After Five had joined you for dinner, you had decided to take some of the leftover bread to his group of feathered friends. As you got close to Five’s regular bench, Cassie stopped him.

“Wait. Can you do the whooshing thing with me?”

Five chuckled. “You mean blinking? I suppose. If your mom doesn’t mind.”

“You can do my mom, too,” Cassie added.

Trying to hide a laugh, he nodded. “I would love to do your mom.”

Even though that little side comment sent a tingle down your spine, you pretended you hadn’t noticed. “It’s ok, you two go ahead.”

Five shot you a very devious grin before grabbing you both by the arms and blinking you over to the bench. Your shriek of surprise was cut short as you appeared out of his portal. Cassie was falling on the ground in a fit of giggles while you tried to catch your breath with a hand on your chest.

“Sorry,” Five said, unsuccessfully holding back his own glee.

“You are not, liar,” you laughed.

With a shrug and a grin, Five handed Cassie the bread for the birds. “Here you go, kid, they should be pretty happy with this feast.”

When Cassie opened the bag and spread the crumbs on the ground, the birds descended, recognizing their new, smaller food-bringer.

“Mr. Tippington, it’s ok,” Cassie cooed to the little brown bird that had become her favorite. “Trucker Bob, you’ll like today’s dinner, it’s bread!” She swatted the angry blue jay away, just like Five had shown her. “Sandra Jay…you be nice or no one will be your friend.”

Sitting next to Five, on the bench where you had first saw him talking to those ridiculous birds, you turned to him and studied his profile. You knew his face more intimately than anyone else’s, you thought. How many times had you stared at it while he was talking? Taking in the sharp angles of his jaw and the way he swept the hair out of his eyes with an agitated hand. It made you wonder…what was stopping you from doing what you really wanted?

Out of nowhere, you leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but let out a short burst of laughter because the expression on his face was one of complete and utter confusion.

“Sorry,” you said, looking down at your lap. “I couldn’t resist.”

After a few seconds of Five trying to get his wits about him again, he smiled. “I’m so glad you did that first.”

“What do you mea—”

Your question was cut off by Five’s lips meeting yours, his hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. His kiss was soft and pure, and unlike any other kiss you’d had before. When you finally opened your eyes, meeting his gorgeous emerald ones, you felt so good you couldn’t contain your giant grin.

“I’m not sure what took me so long,” you confessed.

“Me either,” Five said with a chuckle before leaning in again, letting himself get lost in the softness of your lips and the sound of your quiet, contented sigh.

It was magical, pure and simple, and he wasn’t even sure how this was even possible. He wasn’t sure he was deserving of it, but he would take it.

“EW!!!”

You and Five jumped, pulling apart abruptly as Cassie looked on, hands on her hips.

“That’s gross,” she complained.

“Sorry, honey, uh…Five and I were just…”

“Mommy, I’m not dumb. I know you were kissing and it’s definitely yucky. You’re going to get germs.” She paused. “Are you married now?”

Five laughed, and covered your hand with his. “No, we’re not married. But we like each other, is that ok?”

Cassie thought for a moment, the birds around her seeming to stop and think with her. “Yeah, it’s ok. Just remember I want a baby sister, not a baby brother.” Then she turned back to her birds, ignoring the two shocked adults.

“Well…sorry about that,” you responded with a cringe.

“No need to apologize. These are all good things to know. Yes to a baby sister, no to a baby brother.”

“Oh my gosh,” you said, covering your eyes in embarrassment.

Five gently moved your hand away. When you looked back at him, his soft smile told you everything you needed to know. And when he leaned in for another kiss, you felt like you were finally where you were supposed to be.

“I want this. Do you?” he asked, his voice heartbreakingly quiet.

You nodded. “Yes. I feel like…like we’re meant to be somehow. Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” Five said before kissing you once again, cradling your face in his hand.

Five had found what he had never dared to dream of. Someone he didn’t have to lie to, or pretend with, or put up a wall against. You liked him for who he was, and he wasn’t ashamed of anything when he was with you. You brought out all of the good within him, and he never felt safer than when he was with you and Cassie. You and she were his found family; the key to his happiness.

As for you, you had finally found the right person. Somehow, Five had become your best friend and confidant. And now, he was something more. Someone that understood you and knew the real you, all the way down to your bones. He was all you had been waiting for, and you couldn’t wait to start a new chapter of your life with him.

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