#fast and furious 2021 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cozycryptidcorner · 29 days ago

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Yeah okay actually. Here is an unfinished story I uploaded onto Patreon back in 2021. I think I hit the same notes but better with Lullaby for Lambs, let me know if it's salvageable at all.

Reader x Unknown non-human. 8000-ish words.

You only tried escaping once.

It was just after you woke up within a cave formation, head aching and lungs burning. Everything hazed over in an aura of fanaticism, your vision blurry and mind unhinged. You became a being of only instinct, the all-encompassing need to protect and flee becoming your sole goal, all semblance of thought beyond bite, maim, kill no longer keeping your morals in check. You screamed and you flailed, scratching at the beings immediately perceived as threats, blood and scales caking beneath your fingernails.

You didn’t make it very far, running and crying and shrieking at anyone brave enough to approach, cracking a porcelain vase for a makeshift shiv. The hallways in the system are long, but at the moment, you felt like you were wandering a maze for a short eternity. The light didn’t seem right, flowing and filtering through the air as though its only source was a couple of shoddy projectors. Even as you stumbled through the strangely curving hallways, hostage in the crook of your arm, you couldn’t seem to make your eyes focus on any singular object.

Everything hurt, your teeth, your chest, your feet, the air so cold your jaw quaked despite how hard you clenched it. You barely even remembered who you were, just that this was wrong and these people were enemies and you needed to escape, go, run, leave.

“Let me out,” you half screamed, half choked, to anyone within earshot. Tears, blood, and snot dripped down your face, droplets of the ungodly mixture landing atop your bare feet.

Your hostage said something you could barely understand, in a voice far more calm and soothing than someone in his position. His words echoed and pulsed in your ears, equally far and somehow unbearably close at the same time.

“Let me out,” you said again, chest heaving and voice warbling with sobs.

“I can’t do that,” he was saying, hand reaching up to the hand that you hold your shard of ceramic in. Even as you pressed it dangerously deeper into his throat, he petted your arm in soft, gentle gestures.

“Someone else can,” you meant it as a threat, but it sounded more like a whimpering plea.

“They really can’t.” The only sign of distress he showed was a soft wheeze of breath when you pushed the shiv further into his skin. “But you’re going to be okay.”

“Fuck yo-” just when you felt like your focus was finally sharpening, your surroundings finally in full view, everything exploded with black. It was a blow too fast and furious for you to track, right within your blind spot.

Your captors wanted to kill you, apparently.

For the spectacle of your attempt, that is. Most humans immediately try to escape, apparently, but your captors weren’t adequately prepared for someone with your grit and tenacity. These assholes wanted to let you out, just like you wanted, into the crushing pressure of the deep sea, to watch your bones crack and crumble. As an example for anyone else trying to leave, to burn fear into their hearts and keep your people docile.

They should have.

“You were scared,” your hostage said, no longer threatened by your shiv, with an infuriatingly gentle expression on his face, “I forgive you.”

You wanted to jump over the table and strangle him because you aren’t fucking sorry, but you bore the humiliation with stony silence.

“That’s why I want to help you have a second chance,” he said, seemingly completely unaware of your bloodlust. A small cut on his neck taunted you with how close you almost got to killing him. “So you will be my wife.”

At first, the final part of the statement didn’t even register. You blink. It hits. And… you couldn’t help but scoff, a loud, angry snort escaping your body before you could tamper it back down. But the statement and the way he said it so calmly and absolutely was absurd, you lost control of your own body for a moment. Be his wife, is he insane?

With a single gesture, he stops his guards from striking you without even glancing at them. His entire focus was on you.

“You’re very strong,” he said, “and I admire that.”

You didn’t respond.

“I need you to be strong for me,” he continued, as though soothing a wild animal. “This place and my station aren’t one for the weak, but you’ve shown me that you are more than capable of handling brutality.”

“You like how I almost killed you?” You asked, voice strained and completely devoid of any restraint.

The edges of his mouth curve up into an almost-smile, his teeth sharpened and numerous. “You will thrive here, dearest.”

Jaime, he asked you to call him. Tall and wiry, head of black hair, and skin tinged oddly green even when he plays human. You already know that he’s not; you’ve seen him before, covered in scales with claws sharp enough to kill a man. That’s why he was so impossibly relaxed during your initial rampage; the self-assuredness of his own strength counteracted the fear you had so desperately tried to instil in him.

He comes to visit you more often than you would like, especially during the days leading up to your wedding. He wants you involved, as though that somehow makes everything better, despite the fact it’s essentially a brightly decorated band-aid on a gaping wound.

“Colors?” The wedding planner asked again, louder, and Jamie gently taps at your hand.

You blink back into existence, trying to anchor your disassociating soul on the samples of fabric on the table. “For what?”

No one dares misbehave while he is present, so the planner puts up a facade of understanding. “For the wedding dress, my lady.”

It takes you a moment to process what she says, the word wedding falling meaninglessly onto your ears. Instead, you try to focus on the word dress, pulling yourself back to reality by pretending to look at… like a prom, or maybe a ball dress. Some kind of college formal to celebrate a long-sought-after degree. You swallow tightly and run your fingers over the materials to see what they would feel like.

“This one,” you decide, hoping it would at least look good against your very human skin.

No disapproving clicks, no shaking head of disappointment, only absolute subjugation. The design came a lot smoother; you picked a shape you remember seeing on Pinterest once, on an infographic about what dress designs best suit different body types. Then you curl up into yourself, trying to steady your anxious blood by planning.

You won’t be able to escape the traditional way, so to speak. After the snide remarks of some kind of attendant, you know you’re too deep within a body of water to swim up on your own with no special equipment. That means you have to figure out how you got here and then how you can get out. There has to be something like a submarine, or some kind of gear… or even magic, you suppose.

“The delegates from the neighboring realms already agreed to come,” the wedding planner says, ignoring how you pinch the bridge of your nose and stare blankly at the windows. “With the number of people wanting to come to witness the ceremony, I estimate a few thousand to attend the reception.”

You choke.

Jaime looks you over with concern.

“Can I talk to you? Privately?” You feel yourself wake up again, like from a nightmare. Everything goes from blurry to sharp, your body’s need to protect itself shoving adrenaline through your bloodstream. Already you feel like this will be a physical altercation, even though Jaime never once raised his hand at you.

In that infuriatingly calm tone, he dismisses the staff. You hate how everyone jumps at his beck and call, how they scurry off and hide with the faintest flick of his hand, only to return the moment he calls. As though they wait just outside the door, always listening despite the illusion of being alone.

“I can’t do a big wedding,” you say, “I actually can’t do a wedding at all.”

Jaime sighs, then rubs his hair. “This has to be a bit of a spectacle.”

“Why?” You cross your arms and try to bite back the bile building in the back of your throat.

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it, allowing any frustrations he has to flow off him like a rock in a river. That’s one of the things you’ve come to hate about him the most- how fucking patient with you he is. Even now, when you put up as much resistance to every little thing you can be mentally present for, he goes with whatever direction you take him and ignores what he can’t change.

“You know I’m important,” he says, a conversation the both of you have had before.

“I can’t do crowds.” You mean it, too; the idea of performing like a lovey-dovey baby in front of the thousands promised by the planner makes you feel nauseous.

He looks you over again, deep in thought, mouth in a thin, straight line. “I don’t think my family will like this.”

“Will your family prefer to deal with someone kicking and screaming?” You ask, crossing your arms stubbornly. “Because I’ll fight. I will fight you all the way up the aisle, all the way through whatever kind of ceremony you have. I will kick, and I will scream and give people something to talk about.”

He lets out a sigh, like you’re nothing more than a tantruming child. “We’ve talked about this-”

“You’ve talked, I’ve listened, but I never agreed to anything.” You feel anger rising up through your veins. “You think you can control me? You think you can keep me locked up like an animal, that I’ll bend to your every whim?”

Jaime watches you for a moment, then shakes his head.

“A smaller ceremony.” You lean back in your chair. “As little people as possible, I don’t want to deal with more than… a dozen or two of you people.”

“Our people,” Jaime says, almost exasperated but still without a trace of anger. “Our people, now.”

You ignore the last part. “Here’s the deal: we have a smaller ceremony, and I pinky swear not to cause any trouble.”

“Pinky swear?” He sounds more baffled than annoyed.

“Super fucking serious promise,” you say, entirely over having to explain every minute detail of your life previous to being kidnapped. You hold out your hand, pinky up, trying not to look murderous. “No screaming, no running, no… having sex with your best friend the night before. Or whatever.”

Slowly, he mimics the action, placing his elbow on the table. You wrap your pinky around his, holding it there for a moment, then pull your hand back like the physical contact burned.

And you keep that promise. You even manage to participate in the rest of the planning for the day, pinching yourself beneath the table to stay present in the moment. At dinner, you refrain from making any stabbing attempts, picking at your food with barely any appetite. A partial victory, one you shouldn’t be too proud of, but still. You can’t help but feel like you just gained an inch, leaving you open to take a mile.

Your hair has grown out, and with all sharp objects prohibited, you can’t play with the style out of boredom. You tug and pull at the strands, trying to keep track of time based on how long it’s become. Two inches per month, you remember reading, using your fingers as a makeshift measurement. Thumbs are typically two inches, right? You bite the skin of your lip until you taste blood, pick at the skin around your fingernails until they’re raw and red.

Not one of the attendants are brave enough to take care of you the same way you witness them coddle other captives. Jaime is the one who rubs cooling salves on your fingers, dares to dab your lips with thick fat. He sits with you, sometimes, looking over some kind of holographic tablet, reading words you can’t comprehend. These are the times when you start building a scope of just how much trouble you’re really in.

“How many other humans do you take?” The first and most important question answers how many friends you might have in the future.

He looks you over as though gauging your mental state before answering. “Not many.”

“What the hell is not many?” You’re already losing your temper, and you’ve barely spat out more than six words. “Like five? Thirty? A hundred?”

“Every few generations,” he says, clearly thinking over how best to answer without setting you off further, “the gene pool needs to be replenished, so introducing new people helps keep this nation strong.”

You can’t even believe what you’re hearing. Who- what… the fuck? It takes every ounce of self-control you hold in your body not to jump up and tackle him. Deep breaths. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He looks back down at his work. “Forty-six.”

“That’s specific,” you narrow your eyes, “how do you know the number?”

Even though you are trying your best to exasperate him, he remains unfazed. “Because I saw...” he seems to ponder his wording very meticulously, “the lists.”

“The lists,” you echo.

“We don’t like to use the word abduction,” he says, ignoring your dangerous tone, “I was allowed to have second… preference over the replanted people, and that’s when I saw the count.”

“And you liked my genetics?” You scoff, cracking your knuckles with one hand.

He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to choose you, truth be told. But then you tried to kill me, and I found that fire preferable to quaking fear.”

You stand, and to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. He even motions for the guard at the door to lower his weapon as you grind out, “do you think this is cute? Am I some kind of challenge for you?”

“Cute?” He laughs. Laughs at the notion, you would feel insulted by the blatant disregard of the personality trait if it were anyone else. “No. I don’t think you’re cute, or someone easy to control. That’s why I want you, because you’re not to be manipulated by false promises and glamour.

You remain silent, biting at your lower lips again, trying to figure him out. Manipulation? Really? Even though you furrow your brows and think about it hard, you don’t remember Jaime pulling any off, creepy gestures though. So you try to settle back and figure him out.

“Have I lied to you?” He asks, sensing an opening.

“Not that I know of,” you are chagrin to admit, feeling your breathing tighten.

“But think about it for a moment,” he continues, easy as can be, “wouldn’t it be easier for me to lie to you? To tell you that you can go back home after a little while?”

Would you have believed him if he tried? Maybe. Maybe you would have sniffed out the lie long before it even becomes obvious you wouldn’t be returned.

Jaime seems to sense your silence as compliance. “That’s what most of the males do, by the way, to make their human wife’s settle in and be docile. Lie until their tongues bleed and the hope dies from their eyes. I could have done the same, but I won’t do you the disrespect.”

He wants you to ask him, but the prideful part of you wants to let him drown in silence. The curious part of you wins, though, and you finally grit out, “so why didn’t you?”

“Because I want you to trust me.” He pushes the two sides of the holographic pad together until it collapses in a crisp snap. “And for there to be trust, a foundation of honesty must be laid.”

“Am I supposed to think that I’m special?” You sneer, rage and anger filling your blood. “That I somehow won the spousal lottery in the kidnapping sex slave industry? Thank you so much for doing the bare minimum a relationship calls for, your grace. I deeply appreciate it.”

No anger, how does he do it? If you were in his position, you would have smashed your own face in with an ashtray by now. But Jaime maintains a cool and calm composer, his voice not even raising a single decibel. “Think about it. I’m trying to establish you as an equal, dear. I want you to rule with me, not against me.”

Rule? The notion of you being in charge of anything is so ludicrous you almost scream with frustration and laughter. Still, he remains serious, refusing to break eye contact, his posture infinitely more relaxed than yours. Despite the fact you’re pretty sure to be the source of his dark, pronounced circles beneath his eyes, everything else about him is pristine. His black uniform is trimmed and fitted to the point you can trace his body through his clothes, combat boots so shiny you can see your haggard reflection through them. At the moment, he is everything you are not, clean, clipped, and beautiful, well-groomed to the point it hurts to look at him. Surely he’s joking.

“I’m not an equal, though,” you spit out, crossing your arms harder over your chest. “The power imbalance is so gaping we might as well be separated by a chasm.”

“Power imbalance?” He asks, as though tasting the way the words in his tone. Not like he doesn’t believe you, but more like he also thinks he might have a chance to convince you otherwise.

You turn to the guard, eyeing him up and down. The fact you managed to get the upper hand in your initial fight through the base seemed to make whoever assigns stations be extra cautious. The creature- thing, fish-man, whatever they want to call themselves, is fucking enormous. Thick, juicy arms, muscles and bone prime for crushing rebellious little twits. He even towers over Jaime, a foreboding and memorable presence that has stuck to your side every moment of every day, hand falling onto his baton if you so much as scratch your ass unexpectedly. Almost too easily, he can lift you up, which he typically does by the scruff of your neckline whenever he finds you lingering too long in one area.

“Please leave,” you say, trying to keep your voice even.

The guard doesn’t move, remaining stoic.

You turn back to Jaime, gesturing towards the door with exasperated movement.

He thinks for a moment, hands tapping at his bottom lip, then nods at the guard, who hesitates before leaving the room. Once the two of you are alone, Jaime prods, “satisfied?”

“Absolutely not,” you refrain from snapping, though, because it’s still a step in the right direction. “He’s not going to listen to me when you’re not present, so that still doesn’t count.”

Jaime leans back, arm stretched out over the couch, green eyes narrow in thought. After a few moments, he sighs, waving his hand towards the ceiling as though something can’t be helped. “He’s for your own safety as well.”

“But mostly for babysitting me, like I’m a problematic toddler.”

“No,” Jaime definitely speaks to you like you’re one, though, “just as someone who tried to assassinate a prince.”

You glare.

He’s unmoving for a moment, then sighs. “I’ll tell him not to follow you into your room if you swear not to try to kill me again.”

“You’d deserve it, though,” you say under your breath.

“Swear, love,” he prods, “maybe another one of those pinky ones.”

You wait for a beat, unsure of how to react to a grown adult referring to the pinky swear with utmost seriousness. Eventually, though, you raise your right hand, rolling your eyes. “I pinky swear not to try to kill you… unless you try to kill me first. Then it’s fuck-all and survival of the fittest.”

He listens to your wording, head cocked, but seems to accept it without any argument. Scooching forward just enough to wrap his pinky around yours, he says, “I’ll tell Rodrick to keep his distance.”

“Good.”

He waits, clearly expecting something.

You hate how he acts like you have to thank him for any decibel of freedom he offers, so you lean back and offer nothing. A few moments tick by, with nothing but the heating system gently whirring against the floor.

“We should have dinner together,” he says, as though the thought has never occurred to him.

“We’ve had dinner together before,” you say, remembering all the times you’ve had to be restrained from harming him. It was still early on when you saw nothing but red and heard thunderous screaming in your ears.

“Not in public,” he responds, “not officially. I haven’t introduced you to society yet.”

“I doubt your society is ready for me,” you say, with absolutely no intention of behaving.

“We are in agreement on that,” he says, completely solemnly, “but I believe we are thinking of different reasons as to why.”

You bite your tongue down to keep from asking why, you don’t fancy it when he can manipulate the conversation in his own favor. Flattery, unfortunately, works regardless if you like the speaking party or not. You need to be careful not to get too comfortable. Instead, you try to close in on yourself, shutting the door on him. “If you’re thinking about hosting some kind of party where I’m the center of attention, fuck off.”

“I’m thinking about a simple dinner, just you and me, maybe in a public restaurant.” He cocks his head slightly, opening his tablet again. “Not necessarily in a crowded area, though, I can make sure we have some privacy.”

“Without Rodrick?” You prod, refusing to relax even though the guard is no longer present.

“I can’t promise that,” he assents, “but so long as you refrain from any violence, it will be like he isn’t present at all.”

You think about it, completely unsure.

“I pinky swear,” Jaime remains entirely solemn, “to make the dinner as pleasant and quick as you wish it to be. My only purpose is to slowly integrate you back into public spheres.”

Integrate, like you’re some kind of wild animal he has been slowly taming. The sentence and the weak-ass promises are what really bother you, so fucking sure of himself and his so-called methods. But it’s okay, you also can play the long game. You can’t hurt him today, tomorrow, or even a year from now, but you can wait until the opportunity arises. Strike when he least expects it. So you reach your pinky finger out once more, wrapping it around his blue-tinged skin and nod in agreement.

“I don’t want to be out for too long,” you say, the idea of being scrutinized is too sickening to think about.

“Done.” He says. “I’ll have someone tailor a cocktail dress for you. I will instruct your guard to stay out of your room if you request it, but that hinges on the fact you will not be a danger to yourself or the seamstress.”

Again, the child-like treatment. “Okay.”

He waits for a beat, like he wants you to say something else, but gives up. “Goodnight.”

“Bye.”

__________________________

True to Jaime’s word, Rodrick stays out of sight, but not out of mind. You’re well aware that you’re being monitored somehow, either through cameras or just really well-hidden servants. Now that you at least have the illusion of privacy, you allow yourself to fidget a lot more than previously, pacing across the large, clear window that looks out to the churning sea. While your room is large and spacious, it’s just that; empty, and you have been exercising just from walking laps against the walls. After counting your steps once out of boredom, you’re sure that it’s almost four times larger than your first studio apartment.

When the seamstress comes, she brings a foldable screen for you to hide behind when you change, which is more than welcome. Every single day you’ve been poked at and prodded and scrutinized until you want to scream blood; this small gesture almost causes you to cry with relief. But you don’t; you decide that looking strong in front of strangers will at least ingratiate yourself to Jaime.

Arms outstretched, allowing the seamstress to preen and fold and sew while you scheme. You don’t want Jaime to like you because you believe in some sickening happy ending, but you understand a fundamental thing about people, fish-like or not. When you love someone, you want the best for them, which for you would be on the surface. It’s not a guarantee that he might bend like that, but a fallback plan that sits with many others.

Still, tactful manipulation might be what saves your life in this instance.

Once the seamstress is gone and you’ve picked at your cuticles until the skin around your nails is a bloody mess, Jaime returns.

“I’ve heard you had a good day today,” he says, taking a strip of gauze and begins the task of bandaging your wounds. When you don’t answer, he continues. “I also had a good day. Everything at work went smoothly, and there haven’t been any issues with the wedding plans thus far. It probably helps that the wedding is so small.”

You squint at him. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because you need to be involved,” he dips your fingers in a bowl of water, “and that means I should tell you about my day.”

You scrunch up your nose but say nothing.

“You’ll meet my secretary, Leelah soon enough,” he continues, opening the jar of sweet-smelling salve, “but she’s exceptionally skilled at her job. Makes running things smoother.”

“Running the underwater nation,” you clarify, leaning back in your chair with your hands flat on the table.

“Yes,” he says, “the underwater nation you are now a member of.”

“I got that part,” you snap, then take a deep, calming breath. “I’m trying to show interest in what you do.”

“Oh,” his eyes lighten up marginally, and he squares his shoulders. “Well, today I was in a meeting discussing the distribution of funds across public necessities.”

Already you feel your eyes twitching to roll, but you manage to squeeze out an, “oh really? How did that go?”

He frowns as though trying to spot some kind of underhanded trick up your sleeve. You have none, though, other than making him comfortable enough so you can have some breathing room. “It was uneventful.”

“Okay,” you say, crossing your arms and retreating yourself. The rest of the hour is spent in dead silence; you don’t even offer any goodbyes when he leaves like that single conversation took everything out of you.

When he says goodbye, he places a hand on the back of your head, fingers slowly working through the steadily growing strands. You try your best not to recoil.

The planned dinner date, unfortunately, turns out not to be atrocious.

Your dress fits you like a glove, your waist tight and your breasts prominent. As you scratch at your arms and play with your hair, Jaime zips you up, careful to pull the dress away from your skin as he does so. You don’t take the arm he offers when you leave, but instead, stick as closely as you can without touching him.

You get stares, but most of them look away the moment you glare back for more than a few seconds. You wonder if it’s your outfit. The unfamiliar hairstyle. The uncomfortable aura pulsating out from your body. So many people are giving you sideways glances when not outright gawking, but you realize after hopping into a glass tube that they’re essentially looking through you, directly to Jaime.

You stare out the window at the sea, mostly seeing your reflection lit up against the glass. The sand is black, you realize, chewing on the bottom of your lip as the tube thunks</> out of its station. Your body jolts forward at the pressure of speed applies, but you brace your feet to the floor and sit back, so you don’t fall.

Below your feet, a city rushes by, lights and towers buried beneath another layer of glass and water. You can see through the distortion a collective of other tubes, a train running adjacent with your ride until there’s a sharp right turn.

Eyes glued to the transparent floor, you ask, “Is this how you people typically get around?”

He seems to bristle at the use of you people, but doesn’t try to correct it anymore. “The private chambers are for higher ranking officers and emergency trips.”

The restaurant is mostly empty, and you are instantly relieved. You allow Jaime to lead you through the dome, the floor a sparkling crystal, and the walls only sporting a few narrow windows. You can’t tell where the light comes from, the floors? Ceiling? Walls? There seems to be a dull glow permeating the smooth transitions between the atrium and dining area, and as a waiter leads you to a quiet, secluded corner, and you settle in, no mean words, no snide comments, no stabbing incidents.

Slowly, you look over your shoulder, noticing through your blind rage that the waitress looked… like Jaime. As in, not human. Humanoid, yes, but with the kind of rippling, scaled skin that shimmers in the light. Perplexed, you turn over to Jaime, “why don’t you try knocking up the ladies already here?”

He glances over at the long-haired, graceful creature, then turns back to you. “She can’t have children.”

You arch your eyebrows. “That’s a large thing to accuse someone of.”

“It’s true,” he says, shrugging, “all the women of our kind can no longer reproduce with us. It will only take three generations removed from their human mother before your descendants will be the same.”

You gawk. Gawk, at both the expectation for you to have his grandchildren, paired with the tragedy of mass infertility on a scale you can barely comprehend. “But the men can reproduce just fine?”

“Yes,” he says, though the tone of the obviousness of the answer is thick in his voice.

Can’t you fix it, you don’t ask, knowing full well that someone somewhere probably worked themselves to death over this. You don’t want to ask about the men of your kind- you don’t remember seeing any when you woke up. You pick up the menu, a thin film of plastic that shimmers and glitches as if alive between your fingers. At first, you only see a mishmash of what looks like thick gibberish, but the words quickly rearrange themselves into a readable script.

Seafood, all of it, with words and species of fish and mollusks you don’t even recognize. You squint, trying to suss out the other ingredients to figure out what the dish might be like. Sweet? Savory? Spicy? You try to extrapolate what you might be in the mood based on the words you can actually read. A part of you wants to give up and let Jaime order, but you’re far too stubborn to lean on him for anything more at this point.

When the waitress comes back, you manage to force your voice to speak, almost like you have to strain the air from your lungs to communicate. Everything is filled with a thick haze, and you can’t even look her in the eye when you almost mumble what you want, pointing to the menu in case she can’t understand what you are sure is barely a wispy breath.

When she leaves, you slump back into the chair, almost completely exhausted from that single encounter with a stranger. Your fingers are pale and clammy, mouth twitching uncontrollably; you have to do your breathing exercises for the first time in a long while before your body shifts from flight or flight.

“Are you feeling overwhelmed?” Jaime has the audacity to ask.

But it’s okay, you’re zen. You are one hundred percent filled with inner peace right now, so while that might have annoyed you twenty minutes ago, now you are definitely not thinking about reaching over and slamming his face down onto the table. The spirit within your chest is filled with so much zen that you are overflowing with the stuff.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to get your chakras or whatever to pass some more of that zen stuff around.

“You’re doing good,” he says, as though his words of encouragement mean anything to you.

You cross your arms, legs spread in the dress, in the most unladylike way you possibly can. That doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, though, despite the fact his very posture emulates that of a pretty princess. His back is straight, even when he leans over slightly to rest his chin on his hand. Even when he does that, though, his fingers are poised in a way that screams nothing but elegance.

He clears his throat, glancing up at the ornaments surrounding the ceiling. “What did you think of the selections?”

“I didn’t understand half of it,” you mutter, tracing the odd tableware with your eyes.

His brow furrowed in confusion, eyes narrowing slightly. “Did it not translate to your native tongue?”

“Most of it, but what the fuck is a- uh-” you try to remember the most prominent word, “ashtaroff?”

He blinks, slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “A fish that grows in the upper section of the ocean, nearer to the surface.”

“Never heard of it,” you say, wishing you could lean back in your chair just a little bit more.

“Odd,” he says, “well, we are in a dangerous area where the surface currents are volatile. Fishing boats likely would not wish to risk the dangers.”

That makes a bit of sense, but something about how he behaves towards the question raises a red flag. You don’t know what exactly it could mean, yet… but just to be safe? “You aren’t feeding me human beings, are you?”

He balks at that, mouth opening and then shutting like he has no idea what to even say to that accusation. He even has to take a moment, fingers pinching at his nose, before answering. “No, we are not feeding you human flesh.”

It’s a simple, sweet answer, but you can see a part of him wants to throttle you for even asking, so you dig in your heels a little further. “Well, you could be, as like, a threat or something. Honestly wouldn’t put cannibalism past you people.”

He closes his eyes, almost like a blink, but far too long to be one, then opens them again. “We are not cannibals.”

“Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised if you were,” you lift up a fork between your fingers and pick at a prong, listening to the slight reverb. “Kidnap women and eat the ones who are not cooperative.”

“If that were the case,” Jaime says, generously, “you would have been the first to go.”

“I don’t think so,” you say, “because you’re somehow fond of me.”

He arches his eyebrows, wordlessly gesturing for an elaboration on the statement.

“Well~” you sit up, picking up a long spoon, “the servants told me that the ones in charge of the little sex ring you have going on wanted to flush me out of an entrance chamber or whatever, but you’re the ones who stopped them. I don’t know what about me you found hot- probably the part where I almost ripped your throat open, but I digress.”

Instead of protesting, or even acting coy or unbothered, he seems a bit tenser than he was prior. “Who told you that?”

“Which part?” You ask for the sake of being difficult.

“Who told you about the execution?” He leans forward in his chair, face tight with concern and anger.

“Oh, so that was true?” You feel a bit ill in your stomach, but brush it off like nothing is the matter. “I thought they were just saying that because most of them don’t like me.”

He seems equal parts perplexed and pissed. “Your servants don’t like you.”

It wasn’t a question, more of an echoing statement, but you shrug. “Dunno. Guess some people can’t handle me snapping up the fishperson’s most eligible bachelor with my sexy, feminine wiles.”

He doesn’t seem to comprehend the joke, his eyes darting to just over your shoulder, stony silent. It’s just the waitress, though, and the mask of polite society immediately slipping off the moment she steps away.

“You should have told me,” he says as you start picking at the colorful arrangement on your plate.

“And what? I figured you’re the ones who assigned them, so like,” you take a bite, not bothering to offer up the high manners he does, “I wouldn’t be too comfortable or anything.”

“You thought I would give you disloyal servants,” he says, voice hard like a stone, jaw clenched.

“Don’t act like that’s not a semi-accurate read,” you decide that you’re not a fan of the green pile of steamed something to the right of the plate. “What with the whole kidnapping brides deal, am I supposed to just assume that you aren’t also capable of bullying us into absolute submission? I thought it was like a hazing ritual or something.”

His mouth tightens, and his shoulders tense. For a long, almost scary moment, he’s staring at you, eyes tracing down the length of your face, as though looking for any signs of abuse. His eyes are dark, and his expression of one barely restraining themselves from rage, but you don’t know if it’s directed at you or not. After a moment, he turns to his food. “I apologize for their conduct. It was never my intention to put you in any harm’s way.”

The apology slides so easily off his tongue that you immediately search for signs of falsehoods, but he at least seems sincere. You also have a feeling that he wouldn’t even act this oddly if his intent was to scare you into submission, because for all the weird kidnapping stuff, Jaime is not a liar.

That you know of.

You try to shrug it off, poking at the unfamiliar cuisine with almost no interest. A part of you doesn’t want to give him any sort of positive attention over the apology, but the other, more strategic part is trying to figure out how to use this to your benefit. You don’t… have to do any sort of kissing ass, but just thinking about being nice to him feels like a mouth full of ash. Luckily for you, though, he seems to take the cue to talk.

“Besides your servants, is everything else to your satisfaction?”

You glare up from your plate.

“Besides not being able to return home,” he says, almost as though it’s generous of him to even acknowledge your kidnapping as it is.

You shrug. “It’s boring.”

“Boring?”

“Not a lot to do besides count each and every crack in the walls.”

He cocks his head to the side. “And what can I do to remedy that?”

You pause, because you weren’t expecting him to kind of rollover and offer a solution, you were prepared to drag your feet a lot. “Stuff, I guess. You have mentioned that you’ve been at this for awhile- shouldn’t you know that most humans like being stimulated in some way, and there really isn’t anything I can do by myself.” Besides masturbation, but you don’t say that part out loud.

“So you would like projects,” he says, almost as though he expected this day to come.

“I mean-” you try to think in further detail, “yes, I guess, but like maybe also some entertainment to go along with it? Do you have fishpeople tv dramas?”

He cocks his head to the side, observing you as though some kind of withered anthropologist tackling his new study. “Of course, I will immediately arrange something after our dinner.”

You cringe, spending the rest of the meal in silence despite Jaime’s immediate moves to slightly placate your concerns. Everyone about him thus far has been an enigma- or maybe not, and you’re reading too far into the relationship. You don’t even know any other human wife/fish husband duo to compare it to, but the way Jaime holds himself when in the presence of others, you think it must be unusual.

Or maybe making the angry human think they’re somehow special for their tenacity is a part of some bigger, more well-thought-out scheme, and you’re so out of depth that they can probably predict your next fart. You don’t know their capacity for knowledge about you yet, so you have to assume they know everything. Even if you aren’t an open book on social media, surely a group of people who have been kidnapping women for centuries (?) would figure out how to get a simple FBI profile or something if needed.

While you might not directly say you inhaled the food, you end up scarfing it down much quicker than you intended. Still, though, watching Jaime eat is almost like a spectacle sport. His table manners are impeccable, and if this was in any situation less violating than this, you might be embarrassed over your complete disregard of etiquette. But you’re done talking, and he looks done trying to wheedle conversation out of you.

He doesn’t pay, you notice, when he ushers you out of the restaurant when finished. The waitress gives him what you assume is like a salute- a hand over her chest and a soft nod, almost like a partial bow- as the both of you leave. You suppose that since he’s one of the big guns, he’s just one of those people who has a secretary or something to take care of costs when he’s not in the mood to take care of it himself.

The trip back is more effortless on your part, where you try to note little landmarks that would lead you right back. As you lean back into the pod, watching your reflection ripple back and forth against the water, you realize something.

“Is this a capitalist society?” You ask.

Jaime blinks once, and that’s all that signifies you caught him off guard. “A what?”

“A society that bases itself on the ideas of capitalism? If you don’t know what that is, then the answer’s no, probably.”

“I know what it is,” Jaime responds, voice as testy as strawberry La Croix tastes like strawberries. “The entire structure isn’t correct for our society; our needs and future endeavors are not focused on the success of an individual, but rather the continuation of a species as a whole.”

That makes sense. “So you didn’t pay for me?”

He looks at you strangely, the tube coming to a stop. “I did not. The system is based on merit, not wealth.”

“But as a prince, you theoretically have both.” You pick at the hem of your dress.

“I also have done many things to keep this city running,” Jaime says, standing. “It may seem to you that my station has played a role in your captivity, but if it weren’t me, it would be someone else.”

“So I should thank you.” There it is again, a reason to be annoyed at him. You were almost tired of digging.

He walks you down the hallway slowly, hands behind his back, face straight ahead, and refusing eye contact. Then, in a way that would only be reckless for him, he says, “maybe you should.”

Oh, you’re going to eat him alive. “I’m so sorry that I’m not bending over for you to fuck over the table on account of me being your glorified baby incubator.”

“Sex doesn’t have to be part of the process-”

“Oh, because being artificially insemination is somehow less invasive?”

He’s silent for a moment more, and you’re so angry you can barely contain yourself. In the corner of your eye, though, you see the guard poke his head into view, drawn to the ruckus of your anger. You shut your mouth, knowing full well that you’re three angry words away from getting slung over the guard’s shoulder and carried back to your room.

“Dear,” Jaime says, and you hate it when he calls you that, “this is not ideal for you. I understand. But I’d rather you try to look at the positives of this situation, rather than trying to claw your way back to a life that you will never be able to return to.”

You bite down on your tongue, hard, and then you say something you instantly regret. “You try to stop me.”

Inwardly, you cringe, regretting the admittance of your escape plans, but Jaime doesn’t immediately react. Instead, his gaze sticks straight ahead, deep in thought, mouth twisting in a thin line. Despite the sudden silence, he’s still walking, though more slowly than before.

Before you even have time to maybe cuss him out, or really let him have it, he turns around. “A project for you,” he says, “I have an idea for that. I will also try to arrange for various mindless entertainment.”

You’re still so mad that you can’t do anything but seethe in response.

“Dinner with you was…” he searches for an adjective, “surprisingly competitive. Your rhetoric is sharp as always.”

I’ll give you something sharp, imagining him sliced to ribbons only marginally helps your headspace.

“Goodnight,” he says, the door to your cage opening. “I’m sorry to leave you on such a sour note.”

“Shove your apology up your ass,” you say, stepping through the threshold.

#monster lovers #x reader #monster x reader #monster x you

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