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a-leg-without-fear · 4 months ago

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Flooded Red (pt.1)🩸🌧️

some lore for the reader character!! this takes place during the raid on the mansion in X2: X-Men United. please enjoy some Gore and some BAMF reader :)

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader

Rating: 16+

Wordcount: 4.7k

Warnings: gore, violence, Carrie-levels of blood, mentions of child abuse/abandonment, child endangerment, mentions of experimentation, depressive thoughts, drugging, choking, mentions of serious illness

Series: Flooded Red

You were no stranger to nightmares. Whether they were your own, making you toss and turn and wake up feeling exhausted, or Logan’s, leaving him shaking and panting. Yours were more infrequent than his. Every other night or so, your dreams were edged with that toxic darkness compared to his nightly torment. Anxiety-fuelled imagery that made your heart pump and your skin sweaty.

Tonight, it seemed, was your turn on the nightmare-express. Flashes of your life before joining Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters pierced your mind like a hot poker. Your father dying of polio, your mother abandoning you when your mutation showed itself, you begging for food on the side of the road for twenty years.

In particular, one evening in the ‘50s decided to plague you.

You, a 54-year old who appeared to still be twelve, were hunkered down in the abandoned building you called home. It was raining, humid summer air leaking in through the boarded up windows. Mildew spots covered the aged wallpaper. A distinct, old-house smell permeated the aged floorboards.

You sat on your collection of moth-eaten blankets. An array of warm reds and cool blues created a cushy, makeshift bed that you spent your nights in. Pale orange filtered in from the streetlamps outside the abandoned house. You had tried your best to block out light by sticking newspapers to what windows weren’t covered by pine boards.

A group of men stood in front of you. Varying heights and weights. One had darker skin and cropped black hair, another had a neck tattoo and a cleft lip. Those two stood at the front of the pack of five. All wearing dark clothes and brandishing various household items as weapons. Steel pipes, wrenches, tire irons.

“You guys really don’t want to do this,” you squeaked out. You silently cursed your prepubescent voice. The man with the tattoo scoffed, squinted eyes peering around where you sat.

“And what’re you gonna do, pipsqueak?” he sneered. He smacked his palm with the pipe in his hands. The others moved to form a line next to him, blocking you from any exits.

“You’re not gonna like it,” you muttered under your breath. The man on the far right, blonde-haired and green-eyed, chuckled at you.

“You are the least threatening girl I-”

His words were cut short, breath caught in his throat. Your head was tilted as you focused. Dark eyes flooded red, blood overtaking the white, as your left arm raised toward the group.

Rough gurgles echoed from each man’s chest. Eyes wide with fear, skin flushing, lungs filled with liquid. Your lips spread into a knowing grin.

With one flick of your fingers, you made the men’s blood reach its boiling point. Explosions of crimson ichor burst from the five men. Skin split and flowered around large wounds. Bones cracked, limbs twitching and flailing.

One by one, each man fell to the ground. Bodies turned to sacks of flesh and organs. Blood seeped from the empty carcasses into the wooden floorboards.

Your smile remained stretched across your face. You hadn’t moved from your pile of blankets. Left arm covered to the elbow in blood, rest of your body clean, eyes returning to their normal ruby shade.

A piercing, world-shattering scream broke you from the shackles of your nightmare. You darted up, chest heaving, hands covering your ears to shield yourself from the noise. Glancing briefly at your own body, you were met with your adult self. Your wide eyes looked up and darted around your room.

The left side of your bed was empty. Sheets bunched up by your knees, pillow ruffled. Results of Logan sharing your bed. Yet the grouch was nowhere to be seen. You looked up to the door hoping to see him standing there.

Instead, your eyes landed on three heavily armed men. Covered in kevlar, bullet-proof vests, thick helmets. Each one having several guns attached at various points on their bodies. They were hunched over, hands over their ears, occasional grunts coming from beneath black, cloth masks.

Ignoring the scream that jabbed your eardrums when you lowered your hands, you scrambled out of bed. Your socked feet slid slightly on the hardwood floors as you dashed to the doorway.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped. You shook your head and blinked a few times. You took the chance you saw before you while the armed men reoriented.

A sharp jab to the front man’s jaw, his head ricocheting back, and a swift kick to his stomach sent him careening back between the other two. You couldn’t stop to check if he was out yet. You swiveled on your backfoot to the man on the right. Grabbing the sides of his helmet, you yanked his head down and connected his eye socket with your knee. You punched him in the temple for good measure as he fell to the floor.

The last man raised his machine gun to your torso. You paused briefly, eyeing the man up and down, then dropped to your knees as gunshots ringed over your head. You lunged forward at the man’s legs and knocked him to the ground. A strong kick to the face and he was out.

Breathing heavily, you clambered to your feet. Your gaze landed on the wooden door behind you. You expected to see bullet holes and splintered shrapnel. Instead, three small, white darts were embedded in the wood grain. You plucked one from the door to inspect it.

Right when the dart was lifted to your face, thick arms wrapped around your neck. Kevlar vest met your t-shirt clad back as the man who you’d failed to check choked you. Your breath came out ragged and strained. You tried to stomp back on the man’s feet, but he just stepped out of the way. Your vision was growing blurry around the edges.

“Stupid fucking mutant,” the man huffed in your ear, every word laced with malice and hate.

In a last ditch attempt, you took the dart still clutched in your fingers and stabbed it into the man’s arm. A string of pained curses left the man’s mouth as he released you. You stumbled forward, chest heaving to recover lost air, as you pivoted to face your attacker.

The man blindly grabbed at the dart in his forearm. He stumbled back, body connecting with the wall behind him, then started sinking to the floor. His head lolled to the side.

Huh, tranquilizers, you thought.

You hardly had time to assess your situation as you heard scuffling down the hall. Dozens of thick boots stepping quietly across the hardwood floor. When you listened closer, you heard the clatter of guns in gloved hands.

An involuntary growl left your chest. These men were here for the kids. Your kids. The kids you’ve helped teach and care for and raise. Flashes of fiery anger licked up your chest. You knelt and tore one of the machine guns filled with darts away from the unconscious men.

You kept low to the ground as you peered out of your bedroom doorway. A larger group of kevlar-clad men, about eight strong, were walking away from your room and toward the edge of the mansion. You nestled the stock in your shoulder and aimed at the group.

Muffled, quick shots echoed from the rifle as you shot at the men, each bundle of three darts connecting with a limb. Helmets clattered on the floor as the men collapsed. They had no time to register where the shots were coming from before they laid in an unconscious heap on the floor.

You threw the empty gun to the floor as you stood. You hated guns. Hated what they represented, the violence they caused, the people who wielded them. It was a very rare circumstance that placed a gun in your hands.

A chorus of children’s screams came from the hallway behind you. Terrified, heart-wrenching, utterly fearful. Pure, unbridled rage tugged at your chest. You could feel red coat the edges of your eyes. Blood seeping into the whites to make you look like some kind of demon.

You turned and walked briskly down the hall. Hands clenched in fists at your sides, pulse beating rapidly beneath your skin, eyes clouded in a flaming scarlet.

When you approached the next group of men, this group being six strong and standing outside Ryan and Addie’s room, your mind seemed to click off. All you could see was red, all you could hear was your own pulse in your ears, all you could taste was fresh blood coating your tongue.

Your body wasn’t your own. Fingers twisted and manipulated the pumping blood beneath the men’s skin. Bubbling and boiling the flowing ichor until each man froze where they stood. Twitching and shaking, eyes crying scarlet and mouths leaking red. Another flick of your fingers and they exploded into clouds of steamed blood. Crimson coated your entire body, leaving you drenched in the men’s remains.

Six men. Turned into empty skins and abandoned organs. Blood seeping into the hardwood floor. Dead.

Your vision came back to you. Gasping breaths left your throat in short bursts. Warm liquid beaded on the sides of your face and dripped down your skin. Your clothes were utterly drenched, your hair plastered to your scalp, feet submerged in a puddle of red.

It had been so long since you’d lashed out like that. Mind going blank and fingers acting of their own accord. Since that night in the abandoned house, you’d kept your wits about you. Always resorting to hand-to-hand or to weapons if the need presented itself. You never used your mutation if you could help it.

You felt ashamed. These six men were just doing as they were told. They were only following orders. No one, not even the worst humans, deserved to die like that.

Before the panic could grip you in a chokehold, another group of booted footsteps came from down the hall. A small voice echoed in the back of your mind. The kids. Protect the kids. Whatever it takes. How could you refuse, when the children were your life? Your reason for being?

You splashed through the puddles of blood as you moved down the hall. Eyes flooded red, fingers twitching at your sides, anger gripping your chest in a vice. You weren’t yourself anymore. You weren’t the art teacher the children loved, the friend that the X-Men laughed with, or the lover Logan had grown to know.

All you were was a burning, churning whirlpool of fiery hate. Flames licked at your lungs, filling each breath with fire. Swirling images of corpses at your feet filled your stomach to the brim.

“There’s another one! Wait… holy shit!” yelled out from in front of you. You cocked your head as you observed this new group of men.

Ten strong, all clad in kevlar and vests, all pointing their rifles loaded with tranquilizer darts at you. You could see a shake in their hands as they took in the sight of you. Eyes flooded red, blood seeping through your hair and into your clothes, feet tracking crimson in their wake. If there was a physical embodiment of Carrie, you fit the bill.

“D-Don’t move!” called the trembling voice again. Guns clicked in gloved hands as the safeties were switched off. You could see every hand had a finger resting on a trigger.

Your right hand twitched, fingers curling, as a manic grin overtook your stoney expression. These men, these infiltrators, were giving you commands? Were demanding you stand down as they took your children away? These puny, insignificant men were instructing someone with the power to kill them in a single motion? The thought made you laugh under your breath.

“Or what?” you said back. Red dots centered on your chest as every man aimed at you. Another chuckle flitted through your lips, “Good luck with that.”

Dozens of gunshots ringed out through the hallway as dart after dart embedded in your chest. Clusters of white needles protruded from your blood stained shirt. You glanced down at the intrusions to your bloodstream. A tired edge overtook your mind as the tranquilizers pumped their chemicals into you.

You gripped the darts and ripped them from your chest. A cacophony of clatters bounced back to the men as the darts fell to the floor. You shook your head to rid yourself of the chemicals threatening to knock you out.

“Wanna try that again?” you asked, every word dripping in sarcastic confidence.

Before the men could reload and obey your request, you raised your left hand to the group. Your senses focused on the blood pumping through their scared little hearts. Cortisol coursed through each man’s veins. Pathetic.

A twitch of your fingers made their hearts careen to a stop. Blood froze in their veins, oxygen being deprived from their lungs, eyes widening and limp hands clutching at their throats. It only took a few moments for them to collapse to the floor.

You breathed a humorless laugh at the mess of corpses in front of you. Who did they think they were, to challenge you like that? Especially after they saw that their darts didn’t work. You tilted your head side to side as you stretched out your neck.

“Vampire?” a small voice said from behind you. You turned to the source, fingers twitching in preparation. Whoever this new threat was, you’d deal with it quickly.

Regret filled your stomach like a lead ball when your eyes landed on Addie and Ryan. They stood, hand in shaking hand, feet soaking in the puddles of blood, wide eyes looking up at you. Your breath left your lungs in one sharp gust.

“Are you okay?” Addie asked, being the one who’d said your nickname before. She tucked a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear. You sank to your knees before the siblings.

“I… Yeah, I’m okay,” you sighed. You squeezed your eyes shut, clearing your head of the hatred it was filled with. When you opened them again, Ryan stood before you. His blue eyes looked you over with a deep concern crinkling in the corners.

“You sure? You’re pretty bloody,” he said. You wiped at the blood covering your face. It was no use, your hands being equally drenched.

“Is it your blood?” Addie questioned from behind her brother. You shook your head.

“No. No, it’s not. Are you guys okay?” you asked, desperate to shift the attention from yourself. Both children nodded. You gave them both a once over. Their hair was ruffled from sleep, hems of their pajamas and white socks soaked in the blood covering the floor, wide eyes looking to you for reassurance. You cleared your throat, “Did those guys hit you with anything?”

Both siblings shook their heads. You breathed a sigh of relief.

“Alright. Let’s get you to the passageway on this floor. Ryan, You’ll be right behind me. Protect your sister,” you instructed. The kids nodded their heads again. You stood before them, giving yourself a look up and down.

You looked horrifying. Once white t-shirt and green shorts were drenched in thick blood. Your hair clung to the sides of your head. Rivulets of crimson leaked down your bare legs and arms.

Yet, when your gaze met the kids’, they looked at you with nothing but adoration. How could they look up to someone as terrifying as you? Someone who just killed sixteen fucking people? What would that teach them?

You squared your shoulders, pushing your insecurities down as far as they could go, and started leading the kids back down the hall. Your knees were bent as you kept low to the floor. You would pause every few moments to listen to the mansion around you. More gunshots from the floor below you, screams of terrified children, grunts and yells from the men in kevlar. You kept your mind from wandering to that rage and continued to lead Addie and Ryan to safety.

Relief flooded your lungs when you saw a group of children, led by Piotr, standing by this floor’s escape passageway. You straightened your posture. Addie and Ryan ran ahead of you to reconnect with their classmates.

“How many do you have?” you called over the swarm of scared children. Piotr, an older student whose skin could turn to metal, looked up at you from directing kids through the narrow doorway. His eyes widened at the state of you.

“Uh… Twelve, I think,” he replied. He ushered Addie and Ryan through the door, then turned to you, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said through gritted teeth. Your shoulders seized when you heard heavy boots across the hall from you. Piotr looked over his shoulder, having also heard the approach.

Logan turned the corner. White tank top bunched around his midriff, jeans torn around his thighs, dark hair mussed from its two points. He held a knocked-out Jones, a young brunet who could manipulate electrical frequencies, in his arms. His hazel eyes glanced at you then fixed on Piotr.

“Hey, take him. He’s stunned,” Logan said, handing Jones over to Piotr. The larger boy held Jones tight against his chest.

Just as Logan was turning to you, Piotr called out, “I can help you!” Logan looked back at Piotr. He pointed down the passageway, then said, “Help them.”

Piotr nodded at Logan, ducking into the doorway and sealing the passageway behind him. Logan suddenly grabbed your shoulders in both of his hands. You met his frantic eyes, narrowed lids shadowed by his furrowed brow.

“What the hell happened to you? Why are you covered in blood?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Lo. It’s not my blood,” you said, shrugging his hands off your shoulders. His indignant reply was cut off when you both heard movement around the corner.

Logan shoved you behind him as you both approached the corner. He pushed on your shoulder so you could squat next to him. His sturdy arm held you against the wall at your backs.

“Stay here,” he breathed into your ear. You nodded once in acknowledgement. Logan nodded back, then turned his attention back to the approaching group.

You focused on lifting the blood from your shirt. Beads of crimson drifted away from your body and floated in the air before you. Your fingers twitched and the beads crashed into each other. Blood cell on top of blood cell, stacking together and forming a sharp lance the length of your forearm. One last flick of your wrist and the iron in the blood hardened the lance. A solid, red, metal weapon fell out of the air and into your open palm. At least you were significantly less bloody now.

Logan watched you out of the corners of his eyes. An air of admiration crossed his face.

The brief moment was interrupted as a combat boot landed by Logan’s knees. Logan’s chest rumbled a deep growl, his claws shinking out of his knuckles, as he lunged forward and stabbed his right claws through the toe of the boot. A pained cry fell from the kevlar wearing man. Logan leapt to his feet as he plunged his left hand into the man’s stomach, shoving them both around the corner and out of your sight.

You remained crouched, back leaning against the wooden wall. Loud pops of gunfire echoed around you. Real guns, loaded with bullets instead of darts. Sharp cracks pierced the air as bullets flew in rapid succession toward Logan. A few bullet casings landed, smoking, by your feet.

Light beamed from the dropped flashlight that rolled into view. Spurts of blood coated the tool in red jets. You spun the lance a few times in your hands, waiting.

“Clear,” Logan called. You pushed yourself upright and rounded the corner. About a dozen men, all clad in the same dark kevlar, lay dead at Logan’s feet. His chest was heaving, eyes darting to and from each man’s face, fists still clenched with claws poking out between his knuckles.

“All good, Lo?” you asked. His claws fully retracted as he met your gaze. He gave you a sharp nod then turned on his heel. You picked your way through the bodies, accidentally kicking a few limbs here and there, as you followed after him.

“You never answered my question,” Logan said. You caught up with him and met his fast pace down the hallway. The two of you jogged while you tried to ignore his question. A few moments passed, the clipping of Logan’s boots on the floor being the only noise between you.

“I snapped,” was your quiet response. Short, simple, to the point. And it was all Logan needed. He threw you another quick nod while you two approached the balcony overlooking the mansion’s foyer.

Bright lights shone on Rogue, Bobby, and John as they stood below the balcony. All in their sleep clothes, all looking absolutely terrified. A guttural yell came from Logan as he leapt over the railing and dived into the four men aiming rifles at the older students.

You were about to follow when the back of your head was grabbed, a rough hand shoving your face into the railing and knocking your forehead on the wood. Spiked pain shot through your head, your knees crumpling beneath you. The hand tangled in your hair remained.

“Got the bloody one,” the man gripping you called behind him. You scratched at his hand as you tried to free yourself.

Slicing claws through flesh and pained yells soared over the balcony from the floor below. Your dazed mind tried to comprehend what was happening around you.

Some of the kevlar-clad men stood around you. Five, or was it seven, surrounded you with the muzzles of their guns aimed at your woozy form. Your head was utterly spinning. Nausea flooded your stomach and sent you reeling. If it weren’t for the gloved hand in your hair, you’d be sprawled out on the floor.

“Vampire!” Bobby called. You could just barely see his face through the bars of the railing. Wide, blue eyes glanced between you and the men surrounding you. He threw a hand up in your direction, “Duck!”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You yanked your head away from the man above you and dove to the floor. Just as your hands covered the back of your head, a biting chill filled the air above you. Wave after wave of flowing ice coursed over the balcony. You shivered from where you laid on the floor.

“C’mon!” John yelled up at you. You peered at the men who held you captive. All of them were coated in a thick layer of ice, skin turned pale and blue, joints frozen in place. Living ice sculptures.

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the sway in your motion, as you prepared to vault over the railing. Just as you had swung your leg over the wood banister the front door burst open, streams of LED lights illuminating the four mutants below you.

Logan motioned for you to stay where you were, looking you up and down, then ushered Rogue, Bobby, and John further into the mansion. Dozens of men followed in their wake.

You, not being one to listen to instructions very often, crept along the banister until you reached the stairs. Lucky for you, your socked and soaked feet wouldn’t make much noise on the hardwood. You snuck down the stairs while listening to the kevlar-clad men flood through the front door. When you reached the bottom you paused. Squatted, lance clutched in both hands, waiting for the last of the men to pass.

Once you saw a break in the stream of soldiers, you dashed between shadows while trailing after Logan. Keeping out of sight, ducking beneath flashlight beams, sneaking around corners.

“You want to shoot me? Shoot me!” you heard Logan yell down the hall from where you were. You picked up the pace. Soaked feet slapping against the wood floors, clubbing soldiers on the head as you passed with the blunt end of your lance to knock them out, racing to try and prevent Logan and the others from getting hurt.

“Don’t shoot him!” a male voice yelled. You slid around the last corner and found a cluster of kevlar-clad men. All with their rifles and flashlights pointed at Logan down the hall. You froze in place, breath held. One of the men stepped forward, a flashlight held aloft in his gunless hands. He moved to stand in the middle of the rest of the men, “Not yet.”

You slipped behind one of the giant vases scattered throughout this hallway. Tucking yourself into the long shadows thrown by the large piece of pottery, your head just barely poked out to watch the scene unfold.

“Wolverine? Well, I must admit, this is certainly the last place I’d expect to find you,” the unarmed man said. He took a few more steps forward. Logan watched his approach, confusion written in his knitted brows. The lone man chuckled, “How long has it been? 15 years? You haven’t changed one bit. Me, on the other hand…” the man trailed off. He stopped a few feet in front of Logan and gestured to his own face, “...nature.”

You didn’t like this. The man in front of Logan gave you a bad feeling. Like shocks of anxiety pricking over your hypersensitive skin. You gripped your lance tighter in your hands.

Logan’s claws retracted back between his knuckles. Narrowed, hazel eyes analyzed the man standing in front of him.

“I didn’t realize Xavier was taking in animals,” the man said with a laugh. He adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of his wide nose, “Even animals as unique as you.”

“Who are you?” Logan asked. His hands remained clenched at his sides.

The man laughed again, “Don’t you remember?”

Logan stared at the man, mouth agape. He took a few steps forward.

You’d had enough. This man, whoever he was, wasn’t going to talk Logan into… whatever it is this guy was trying to do.

You darted out from behind the vase, lance brandished in your hands. Your head cocked as you sent the weapon soaring through the air. One of the kevlar-wearing men to your right gasped as the lance speared through his back and exited from the center of his chest. You focused on the lance as it flew from one man to the next. Sailing through the air until it pierced the men’s abdomens and sent them careening to the floor.

Every gun pointed in your direction. Some men holding rifles containing darts, others aiming real guns straight at you. You paused mid-step.

Your gaze met Logan’s. Recognition flashed in his widened eyes. He took another step forward, this time toward you.

Ice crackled on the walls of the hallway. Large snowflakes linked together as they stretched the width of the hallway and formed a wall. The ice solidified, creating a transparent, blue blockade between you and Logan.

“No, no!” Logan yelled from his side of the wall. He pounded desperately on the ice.

The unarmed man turned to face you. He was older, hair graying and beard wiry. Black glasses framed his squinted, blue eyes. You shifted your weight between your feet.

“Hello, my dear. You must be the one called ‘Bleeder,’” he said. Your posture stiffened at the name. You felt your jaw clench.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time,” you replied. God, if it weren’t for the guns pointed at you, you’d have skewered this man ages ago.

“And yet it was your moniker all the same,” the man said. His boots clicked against the hardwood as he approached you. Thick coat covering his torso, gloved hands clutched behind his back. He stopped a few paces in front of you. His hooded eyes passed over your blood-covered form, “I believe I have use of you. Take her.”

The familiar pop of the dart-filled guns rang out as you were peppered with white needles. Dozens and dozens of pinpricks filled your chest. You gasped, falling to one knee. The edges of your mind began to cloud with a foggy haze.

“Vampire!” you distantly heard Logan yell. You felt the floor sway beneath your feet. Your hands planted on the hardwood when you fell forward.

“That’s it. Off to sleep, Bleeder,” the man said above you. You threw him one last hate-filled glare, then collapsed as the tranquilizers overtook your senses.

some looooooooooore for reader!!! hope y'all enjoyed. and what a cliffhanger, huh?

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#logan howlett #wolverine #hugh jackman #xmen #x2 xmen united #logan howlett fanfic #wolverine fanfic #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #mutant!f!reader #trying my hand at writing combat!! what do we think?

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rel124c41 · 8 months ago

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VISCERA. floyd leech

Held in Floyd’s hand is a single fish fork. It incandesces like a lamp, and when you blink, the contour is burnt on your inner eyelids. “Can I taste you?” OR; Floyd is trying and failing to confess to Mostro Lounge's new line-cook.

tags: cooking, not actually unrequited love, courting rituals, cannibalistic thoughts, developing relationships, food as a metaphor for love, blood kink, first kiss, wingman jade, underage smoking, culinary crucible (twst), they're sooo in love ur honor

word count: 17,669

You do not like the look in Azul’s eyes. To be frank, you do not think you have once seen a favorable expression on the roulette wheel of masks Azul Ashengrotto wears. So, backtracking, you have never liked the look in Azul’s eyes (even more so now).

This one you have seen before: right at the point where the words ‘I heard if someone makes a deal with you, you’ll grant any wish’ fell from your mouth when you wanted to snip anemones off Grim, Deuce, and Ace’s heads.

Originally, you did not have the drive to save all two hundred and twenty-five students. Only those three. Even with the title Prefect, you could have cared less about NRC’s student body until Azul sought to amp up the risk and reward. You accepted his offer for thrill and entertainment, loving the taste of it.

Now, you stand in the VIP room with that similar atmosphere perfuming the air. Old paper and pen ink, the scent of an odious deal about to be struck. You challenge Azul’s self-assured look with an equally authoritative simmer. Your expressions size each other up like claymores on a battlefield. Azul is the first one to break first. He raises a hand and says, “Jade. Floyd. You are dismissed.” He even sends away his reinforcements in this warfare.

Leaving himself vulnerable like that? … No, backtrack again, Azul is far from a vulnerable student.

“Aw, but I wanna hear her answer!”

“Come now, Floyd. We shall be made aware of their decision at a later time.”

“No fun Azul.” Still, the door closes behind the twins. Now, it is just you and Azul alone. Like two shipwrecked survivors in a rowing boat. You are sure he knows you will go for the jugular upon the sight or scent of blood.

He gestures towards the space between you two, two sofas and a table. “Prefect, why don’t –”

“I’ll stand.”

Ah, Azul thinks fondly, that callousness that managed to ensnare one of Octavinelle’s slipperiest and mischievous fish. Still. A knot forms in Azul’s cheek in vexation. Your audacity and Azul’s are matched up so evenly that he almost wonders if you two share the same Zodiac sign.

“So be it.”

You cross your arms as Azul continues. “A talent of yours has been brought to my attention. I was hoping that we could discuss it peacefully,” his blue eyes narrow, taking your stone-like stature, “without any hostility … But, no matter, it is still worth discussing.”

“I thought the Ramshackle dorm is the only asset of mine that has value.” Your posture shifts, straightening. “If it has to Aduece or Grim, you can forget it.”

“Aduece …? Um, no, nothing of the sort. It is strictly something brought to my attention during –”

There is this thing about Octavinelle. More like Octavinelle’s atmosphere. It clings in the air like a heavy candle scent, suctioning itself to the wallpaper, aquarium tank glass panels, and each stitch of the Octavinelle uniform. Something that stalks like a shark. It is a presence you label: viscera.

A stomach and intestines is a viscera and a viscera is a stomach and intestines. You feel if you ever drop your armor around Octavinelle, gastrointestinal acid will come to consume you. The jaws tunneling down to the belly of Jonah’s whale is just a show of weakness away. It is why you act so callous now.

You always try to keep yourself schooled in the trio’s presence. “--During the Culinary Crucible.” And with that, viscera returns to you when those words leave Azul’s mouth. You feel like you just drank spoiled milk. Before he can accuse you of anything, you speak.

“You were one of my judges. I hope you aren’t going to make a baseless acquisition like food-poisoning. Remember, two other people ate what I served you.”

“I also remember, quite clearly, that you were one of the four students able to get a perfect score of thirty.”

Spoiled milk is too weak of a rotten flavor. You feel like you have just dug into a garbage bin and picked the last mold-crusted food item, all the way at the bottom of the barrel, sponging up all other rotten seasonings. To have something of yours peak Azul's interest again … it is not a nice taste. You are quick to shut down what you know has probably already been formulating in Azul’s head.

“Dumb luck. Floyd also got a perfect score.” Him, Trey, Jamil, and yourself.

“You seem to forget I was one of your judges too. I thought you had a more effective memory than that, Prefect.”

Floyd getting a perfect score could be more closely aligned to dumb luck than you. Which is not to say it was dumb luck. Nonetheless, stars and planets happened to align as Floyd was in a good mood while cooking and Jade was a judge out of three others; it just happened. Your food though? Azul runs a restaurant. He can taste experience and talent on the edge of a fork.

Coupled with your experience and talent, you are not an ignorant individual either. Which is why you sit down, imaging that this conversation is going to drag. You ignore Azul’s smile.

Elbows on knees, you drill in, “So, what? You want me to replicate a meal for you? Getting the twins to drag me here is a bit excessive for another bite of lamb and oysters.”

“I would rather monopolize that talent beyond just one simple meal. You’re thinking too small, Prefect.”

“You’re thinking too big.”

You really wish you had magic, just to reverse time. Even if you were a mage, you doubt you would even have the skill to master such a complex spell. But, you would master it. To reverse time and find a way to get a different judge not named Azul Ashengrotto. The line-up for your judges at the Culinary Crucible was three housewardens: Riddle Rosehearts, Kalim Al-Asim, and Azul Ashengrotto. Grim had panicked at the trio, thinking both of you would be losing your elective credit. As always, you took the reins and got you both out of the whale’s stomach before digestion.

“I was thinking: the fruits of your talents are quite wasted. Who do you cook for? That ungrateful cat-beast has no refined palate; he would eat table scraps if presented to him. Ace and Deuce, neither of them are grateful for the meals you must provide. You are surely underappreciated.”

“Wow, you clearly don’t think at all.” You eye a section of the VIP room in exasperation, close enough to the eye-roll you desperately want to do. “You think – what? – I don’t get enough thank you’s and I’m suddenly going to do what exactly?”

Azul almost deflates. It is surprising how easy you can sometimes manage to get him that way. He chooses to straighten a few pencils on his desk as a means to straighten and iron out the imperfections of his approach. Glasses tilted down, Azul answers, “I mean no offense to your friends. But, I think you are not getting proper payment. No, that I know.”

“Unbelievable.” You tsk, falling into the embrace of the seat. “You think the world runs on money.”

“Does it not?”

“...”

“Your silence tells me all I need to know.”

“You want me to work at the Lounge, don’t you?”

“Yes. A much better use of your talents, don’t you think?”

In your head, you imagine the taste of umami takoyaki. A cleaver is raised with the vindication of a French guillotine; when judgment falls, it hits the thick part of Azul’s upper arm. Which would be more ironic: selling Azul’s body parts or eating them?

Below you, your foot taps on the wooden floor. A restless rabbit pittering that gives the housewarden some insight into your otherwise stone expression. Azul must be so certain that you are thinking of throwing in the towel right then and there. Really, you are thinking of Ruggie. Ruggie and the Intra-school Competition. For that time briefly, he had worked in Mostro Lounge, wearing his ceremony robes.

You and Ruggie are very close, lesser than the trio you had dubbed your own, but still more than your other first-years. So one day, he regaled you with the story of working for Azul Ashengrotto just to fill up talking space.

The situation of the broken glass and Floyd’s moodiness. The situation of the kitchen lacking people and Azul having to send servers into the back to help cook. Those are two factors you really have to roll around in your head. You do not like to be rushed and you are wary of Floyd’s penduluming moods.

Though Ruggie has a positive outlook of the rewards he reaps from that time, you do not think you can handle working in Mostro Lounge. You squeeze by with the money you make. However, “You pay well?”

“I assure you will have proper compensation for your labor.”

“Could you stop being scummy and just tell me the hourly rate?”

“For your skills – if they aren’t dumb luck – you’re looking at twenty-eight per hour.”

You know what? The world really does run on money.

While not an expert at mental math, even you know that with just a twenty hour work week, that kind of money would shift the motion of your boat, put more wind under your sails. Monetary motivation is perhaps the most powerful thing in the world.

Expression still schooled, you contemplate it. Accepting this … you imagine yourself tiny, using a tongue as a diving-board into a devilish pit of gnashing teeth and churning tentacles. Right into the belly of the beast. The conjured up image makes you want to shudder. Instead, your soft enamels move and your tongue articulates, “I’m gonna need smoke breaks every two hours.”

Oddly enough, out of all the times you pressed him, this one catches Azul by visible surprise. “Sm-Smoke breaks? … why, I suppose that is acceptable.” That is far from unreasonable, surprising but not unreasonable. “I’m glad that we could come to –”

“And I’m going to need more time to even consider it. That isn’t a yes. I’m outlining terms.”

“Perfectly fine. I was actually going to outline this,” you and Azul lock eyes. “Just in case what I tasted was dumb luck, in a week, I wanted you to return to Mostro Lounge during closing hours. You’ll cook a meal for three judges again, myself included. Then, this conversation will become serious.”

“I will not sign a contract.”

“This is employment; no contract is required. You labor – cook. I pay. Such is the usual transaction of jobs.”

Despite the feeling of a tongue slimming itself across your spine and teeth nibbling on your toes like garra rufa, you think that does not sound too devastating.

A week passes; you decide to keep your discussion with Azul concealed to yourself. There is this epidemic going around NRC called the lost art of keeping a secret. You decide for your mental well-being that you will wait for a week to pass, serve your meal to Azul and two other mysterious persons, and then, spill your guts to Ace, Deuce, and Grim.

You have a close call though, guts almost prematurely ripped from your abdomen. The familiar feeling of teeth on your jugular creeps up onto you in the cafeteria. Fingers agile, you press your plastic fork into another’s jugular and greet him, “Hi Floyd.”

Held hostage by your plastic fork dug into his throat, Floyd smiles and cheers, “Shrimpyyy! Thought I could surprise you this time.”

“Nah, not fast enough. Next time though.” You smile sweetly..

You do not hate Floyd Leech. Though, he is far from your favorite student. The label of friendship does not really fit on him (despite the fact he thinks the opposite). Out of everyone in Octavinelle, the presence of viscera glues itself to him. Carnivorous teeth coupled with his predator adroitness screams belly of the beast to you.

Which is why you fend him off with a plastic fork.

“Hehehe, next time then,” Floyd grins. He leans in, uncaring of how plastic folds on his pallid throat. “Azul-y told me that ya remembered I got a perfect score.”

For a second, you have no idea what he is talking about. You share a grand amount of two classes with Floyd; you do not remember him getting perfect marks in either subjects. Until it dawns on you, that far-off conversation with Azul, the Culinary Crucible. For some reason, your neck feels warm as if you should not have made that observation; like noticing Floyd’s perfect score is a rude thing to do. “Ah. Yeah, I did. Good job again.”

Floyd laughs; you feel the noise through the connection of fork and skin, finally lowering it at the sensation. “Shrimpy did pretty good too. Ya gonna cook me something sometime? Not fair that Azul is the only one who got to taste your cookin’.”

You lower your voice to a suspicious whisper as a thought dawns on you. “... Hey, why does Azul need me working there if you cook so good?”

Unlike Azul, you had not been mystified by food at the Culinary Crucible. During the entire ordeal of being transported to a tropical beach via book, Floyd had cooked at the abandoned cottage. You had been amazed by his skills, gorging yourself on the delicious spread.

His eyes shift up to the left, avoiding your slight interrogation. Almost hiding something. “Eeeh, I don’t know. Azul’s always complainin’ even though he can barely cook. His food is super boring; Shrimpy’s probably tastes better.”

“Talk to Azul about it. I’m sure it can be – Grim, paws off my food.” You brandish your makeshift fork-slash-claymore at your little beast.

“Ah, but I want Shrimpy to cook for me because they wanna.”

“Heh, yeah,” you trail off, unsure of how to respond to that. Mostly failing to come up with a response because you cannot see a possibility of that ever happening. “Like I said, um, Azul.” And that is all you really can articulate because, that’s a cool thought but I can’t see myself cooking for him.

Besides; to you, love is an ingredient stored in the kitchen. And, to you, love is about finding people to be in the kitchen with. Your philosophies do not synchronize with your feelings with Floyd Leech.

“Mmm,” Floyd hums, dissatisfied with your answer. He watches you place your fork down; glances at Baby Seal who has been watching this go down (Ace and Deuce still in the cafeteria line). “Guess I’ll just have to wait to taste Shrimpy’s cookin’ on Sunday, hehe. Caaan’t wait!”

“What’s on Sunday? –”

“I suppose you will. Bye for now, Floyd,” you interrupt Grim.

“See ya, Shrimpy.” He leaves you with a peace-sign.

Slowly, the feeling of being slobbered on like a squeak-toy in a dog’s mouth ebbs. The indent of teeth loosen with each step that Floyd takes, rejoining Jade and Azul outside the cafeteria entrance. When Ace asks what that is all about, you threaten him too with your plastic fork. Sometimes, a girl has business of her own to take care of, your fork emphasizes to the trio. Thus, you manage to keep it secret despite hiccups.

Eventually, Floyd’s statement does come to fruition. Because like you said, a week has passed. On Sunday, he gets to taste your cooking because: “I didn’t know you two were the other judges.”

“Aw, not excited to see us,” Floyd asks with a fake frown. He is leaning over your shoulder, hands in his pockets, and looking far too much like a vulture.

“Did you honestly expect someone else,” Jade asks, following you inside.

Despite the fact they were assigned to guide you in, you take up the front and walk with purpose into the stomach. Mostro Lounge has finally closed and you trudge into it, yawning. Sections of blue lighting twist up the ceiling like a tunneling rib-cage. When blue gleams on Jade’s smile, more importantly on his teeth, you think of viscera.

Rolling your shoulder, you reply, “Guess I didn’t put much thought into it.”

“At least, you came prepared with some strategy. I imagine that must have taken up priority in your mind.”

“Not at all.” The toothpick clenched in your teeth wobbles with your words. Floyd giggles happily; his contagious high-pitched giggle has you fighting back a smile. You manage to knock the mirth away when yours and Azul’s eyes collide. “You two will just have to see if I’m as good as he claims. Isn’t that right, Azul?”

“Seriously, Prefect, did you come here with zero preparation?”

“I was busy with schoolwork. Piss off.”

Azul lets out a tired sigh. You shuffle in front of him, body like the condiments in a sandwich between six-foot-one eel-mer-shaped bread. “So, I’m assuming this is going to be more or less like the Culinary Crucible. I’ll cook, you three will judge. Sounds simple enough.”

“Yes, that is the gist of it. Floyd, if you will.”

“Here ya go, Shrimpy.”

In front of you is Floyd’s hat turned upside down like a beached turtle. Inside lie about twenty or so folded slips of paper. The eel-mer uses the proximity to touch his bicep to yours. So moving that hand off the point of contact, you reach in. “Cioppino with mussels,” you read from the paper. “That’s relatively an easy meal … Give me another slip of paper.”

“But, why?” Azul questions.

“But I’m not going to cook unless I have a challenge,” you say. Over your shoulders, Floyd grins wide at your words almost as if in agreement.

“Now,” Jade pushes your hand back into the hat before you can unfold the second slip of paper. “While I may understand your reasoning, it is quite late. We delegated to write down meals that could be cooked in under an hour. All of them are easy.”

“C’mon, let Shrimpy pick another, Jade.”

“Floyd.”

“Fiiine.”

“Fiiine,” you whine in a matching tone, looking at the Nunito font spelling out the meal you have to make. You frown when realizing you and Floyd accidentally matched up. Before anything can be said, you direct a question at Azul, “Can I listen to music? They didn’t let me at the Culinary Crucible.”

“Of course. However you wish to go about artistic expression, don’t let me stop that.”

“Thanks.”

From the closed door, the sound of guitar that more closely resembles the sound of a chainsaw starts up, horridly grating. Like a surgeon orchestrating with his tools of carnage. Commencing this operatic butchery of a feast. Body and blood.

Loitering, you start to thumb an unheard beat on the bakery box in hand. In your mouth, a toothpick swings up and down and tumbles left to right like a gymnast. Students file past you to enter the classroom you are waiting by and … ugh, why is this taking so long!

Quickly and a bit peeved, you check your phone. You and him agreed upon this time before Defense Magic class could start. The bell should ring in about five minutes and he should have been here five minutes ago.

Glancing into the open doorway where a long fighting platform and multiple seats await, you consider just leaving it on his desk. If you do that then you can still make it to your next class … you are just about to jump in to fluidly join the swimming crowd walking in the class when —

“SHRIMPY!!!”

The toothpick in your mouth breaks into splinters, guillotined by your teeth.

Cradling fallen wooden bits in your hand, you look up at Floyd with an expression that is beyond peeved. It does little to deter him. Hands in his pockets and brother shoulder to shoulder with him, Floyd stalks over to you energetically, grinning wide.

“Hello Prefect.”

“You switchin’ to a second year class, little shrimp? Defense Magic gets a bit rowdy, hehe.”

“Hi Jade. Hi Floyd. No, I’m waiting for someone right now.”

“Aw, Shrimpy, ya miss me that much?”

“If you were so eager to see us before your first day at the Lounge, you only need to say so, Prefect.”

Oh, backtracking, you got the job. Another perfect score of thirty. You start later this afternoon … that is all normal and expected.

There is this odd thing that has been bugging you though. After you had presented the dishes, toweling down your hands and asking for a smoke break, you came back to see: Jade ate the entire meal, scraping the plate clean like a suctioning tube; Azul ate but left a reasonable amount of leftovers that were both alternatively acceptable to trash or save; Floyd took a few careful nibbles then left the rest untouched. Guess I’ll just have to wait to taste Shrimpy’s cookin’ on Sunday, hehe. Caaan’t wait! Such untrue words. Why even say something like that if he would just pick at it like a finicky child?

It seems Floyd never has a long-lasting objective.

Holding the bakery box with one hand, you reach in your pocket to discard your broken toothpick and grab a new one. As you do, Floyd folds cursory arms over your head, leaning over you like a bar-table to talk to his brother.

“Caaan’t believe it; Shrimpy’s big day in the ocean blue starts today.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will be quite interesting.”

“All that delicious food … I should show her how to make takoyaki.”

“Now, Floyd, she must follow along with the orders placed.”

“Aw, boooring.”

“Who's gonna be training me?”

“I believe Azul designated the job to Floyd.”

“Aha ha, hear that Shrimpy? We get to hang out all night tonight~” Floyd leans in a way that you can see his wide, visceral grin.

A human has a set of thirty-two made of enamel and root cementum. Omnivorous with molars in the back for plants along with incisors and canines in the front for meat. Floyd has a set of forty-two teeth. Quite unlike humans, his teeth are made of cartilage – a human body could never adapt to safely chew with cartilage-made teeth. Floyd’s teeth shine in a glass-esque glow.

And: “you got something in your teeth” you say to him, pointing to your own mouth. Because there is a medium-sized piece of something wedged between his glimmering teeth.

“Huh?”

You watch him momentarily jam a fingernail in his mouth, trying to find whatever you are pointing out. And completely missing the mark too. He is so annoying. It is on the bottom row of teeth, not the top, you seethe.

“Ugh, let me.”

Downward, the bakery box finds the floor. Instead of just one, you shake two bamboo toothpicks out of your pack. One flips easily into your mouth and the other pirouettes between middle and index. By the lapel of his incorrectly put on jacket, you pull Floyd down to your height. “It’s not even in your top row of teeth,” you scold. “Open.”

Your command is ignored. It surprisingly seems like Floyd will never open his mouth again. Tight-lipped and staring, his mismatched eyes look at you like you have suddenly grown an extra head. Then, a slow mounting blush grows on his face that peaks at crimson. Hell, the whites of his eyes almost glow when backdropped by the flush on his face.

Did the temperature spike or something? You are at a comfortable temperature. It is certainly odd – your train of thought ends when Jade chuckles behind you, “My, how scandalous. And right in the middle of the hallway too. I never thought of you as such an audacious person, (Name).”

“Huh?” You raise an unamused eyebrow at Jade. Your own toothpick in mouth tilts down in ire. “You know what, forget it. Look stupid the rest of the day.”

Serves you right for trying to help … stupid twins.

“Wh – Wait! I’ll open my mouth!” Floyd’s tongue lolls out.

Ah, it seems the temperature has spiked. This is why you try not to interact with Octavinelle and all their consuming ways. And because! “Your fucking teeth! Dude, I just need to see your teeth!” Jade’s laughter grows in volume.

Eventually, a bit pissy that this has become a whole ordeal, you manage to get the piece out of Floyd’s teeth. Both of you share a bit of warmth on your faces.

The toothpick is flicked into the trash inside the Defense Magic classroom. You want to forget all about this interaction already.

“Thanks Shrimpy. You’re a lifesaver!” Floyd gives a big, boyish grin, all forty-two of his teeth cleaned. Pink is still a sandstorm dusting on his cheeks.

You look away from Floyd with a twitch in your cheek. Finally – “Ruggie!” The hyena’s ears twitch on the top of his head. You pick up the bakery box of donuts from the ground and meet him halfway. “You’re late,” but you scold Ruggie with a smile rather than a frown.

“Sorry, Leona had me running an impromptu errand. Work never ends.”

“Oh, I know what you mean.”

And you and Ruggie share a bone-deep sigh, despite smiling, that only Leona’s and Crowley’s errand-runner could possibly sympathize with on equal footing.

“Well, payment as arranged,” you say, going to hand Ruggie his payment when – “Jade!”

“Oya, was this the person you were waiting for, Prefect?”

“Yes, now give that back.”

“You said this was payment? What an unusual transaction. I wonder what it could be for.” He opens up the bakery box. Six different types of donuts stare back at him.

You stare right alongside them. You would rather not have him or his brother knowing that you get study guides from Ruggie. In exchange for them, you bake Ruggie donuts and other sweets. Information like that would be valuable to Azul. You remember Deuce, Grim, and Ace taking study guides from Azul in November; you are smart enough to make deals with less odious individuals.

You can even imagine what Jade would say upon learning you require help in your classes, “My brother and I would be happy to tutor you, Prefect.” Why Jade includes his brother when trying to interact with you, you will never know. You doubt Floyd could sit still for one math equation.

“Keep wondering,” then, you retrieve the bakery box from Jade with a huffing puff.

Yet before you can even give Ruggie his payment, an arm hooks around your neck in a chokehold. Gasping startled, you look up to see Floyd’s fluorescent smile hanging above you like the moon on a riverbank. Yet when he speaks, he does not look at you.

“See ya tonight, Shrimpy?”

“Um … yeah.”

“‘Kay Shrimpy! Hehehe!”

As you walk off, you rub your neck wondering what that was all about.

You are prepared like someone might put the finishing touches on a cake. Azul gives you your Octavinelle hat and apron while Jade explains how they go about business. A slip of paper from Jade tells you the connection between abbreviations and meals.

“But if you have any questions on what a certain abbreviation stands for, Floyd will assist you.” You then asked why you would need help; they all personally tasted how capable you were at making meals. Abbreviations are relatively easy to understand too. Jade simply laughed before opening two swinging doors to the kitchen. A tongue lolls out and on the beastly carpet, Floyd stands, dressed up in cooking attire rather than waiter attire.

“Have fun you two,” are the words Jade leaves you with an hour or so ago, standing in the whale’s guts. Fun? You think Floyd is having the most fun out of the two of you because –

Blood hits the floor and soaks into the linoleum. Little stardust sprinkles of red between both of your awestruck bodies. Each droplet holds such a weight that you are almost surprised that the red splatter does not start burning holes through the floor like stomach acid.

Floyd is bent over like he has chronic stomach pain. Teal hair covers his face as he shudders. Backtracking, he was looking at you a minute ago. Pestering you, he had tried to change what you were making. You were not dealing with that. (A knife suddenly falls in the path of Floyd’s hand.

“Please keep your filthy hand to your side of the kitchen.”

“That just makes me wanna touch your side more, Shrimpy.”

“Then, you must also not be fond of your fingers. Unexpected but nothing I cannot work with. A pinch of seasoning and I’m sure even you will be easy to swallow.”

“I have something else you could – FUCK!”)

Now, Floyd is bleeding all over the floor. The metallic stench has you squirming.

Oh, I am getting fired. Or, squeezed. Or, Ace and Deuce are going to find my drowned dead body. The dumpster fire of thought explodes like an atomic bomb when Floyd’s head lifts up. The grin on his face splits from ear to ear. All forty-two teeth catching the light a certain way. Forget all that! I’m going to be eaten alive!! The thought runs a strangely pleasant shiver up your spine.

Is money worth this stress? Because you are dealing with parts of yourself that you do not want to address.

It is the day after and Floyd is staring enraptured at his palm.

Perhaps English language cannot house the absolute devotion that Floyd stares at his palm with; however, Jade believes enraptured is one-fourth close enough given language’s constrictions. His twin brother looks at the innards of his hand with the same expression when he saw fireworks for the first time or experienced the sight of red for the first time. Looking at it like it is the first time he has seen his palm. It is because something new lies on his palm. A new difference between Floyd and himself as identical twins.

Scheming, Jade decides he wants to poke at that wound. So, tearing paper off his notepad, he leaves the pending order with one of the kitchen staff and does not pick up the tray designated for him. Pocketing work, Jade slithers over to the bar.

With his non-dominant right hand, Floyd starts to trace the innard of his palm. That look of enrapturement is so strong now. As if he is only happy when observing that plane of skin. It even changes his eyes, speckles of their natural bioluminescence floating in them. Enraptured so deeply like black-hole is sucking him in.

“Did you happen to forget you have five fingers?” That does not work. Still leaning on the countertop, Floyd glides his hand contently on his palm. “Happen to be missing home?”

That knocks Floyd out of his stupor. “Huh?” On the other side of the countertop, Jade stands at the most empty bar, because customers seem to recognize they aren’t going to get a drink from such a distracted Floyd. Jade smiles politely.

“You are staring at your hand as if you’re trying to will your fins back.”

Jade suspects there is more to it. And he is proven correct when Floyd tights his dominant hand into a fist. The blood-lamp in his eyes dim just a bit, growing timid … no, his brother is acting shy right now? Mumbled into Floyd’s shoulder when he turns away: “I’s nothin’.”

Oh, this is going to be fun. Teeth on display, Jade interrogates, “With that look, I wholeheartedly doubt such a statement. And you are retreating like a pitiful hermit crab right now.”

“Fuck off.”

“(Name) happens to have the day off. I happen to wonder if that has any correlation, with this sudden hand-staring. Did your hands happen to touch, going for the same ingredient?”

“I happen to wonder how many punches it’ll take till ya have a black eye.”

“Fufufufu. To think that all your efforts to get her attention and employed here; and she ends up cutting you on her first day.”

Floyd’s mood lightens. A lovey-dovey sigh escapes him. “I know. Ain’t she perfect~”

You found out only two weeks into your employment that you were getting paid more than ninety percent of the staff.

(One of your fellow line-cooks spit out of his drink when he heard you mumble under your breath during lunch rush, “twenty-eight dollars per hour, twenty-eight dollars per hour, twenty-eight –” like a momentary mantra to convince yourself to not stress too much. Apparently you are getting paid forteen more dollars than the average kitchen staff. You do not get to speculate with him why. Azul comes rushing in, scolding anyone who does not have a hundred and one percent of their attention on their work station.

When you ask Floyd about it, he becomes uncharacteristically less fidgety than normal. How juxtaposing. People that are put-off usually squirm but Floyd goes comatose-like when bothered.) You have decided to drop it since then; why look a gifted horse in the mouth?

The money is such a darling incentive to come into work that you have yet to miss a single shift. At least, it is never boring. Not that you think Floyd would allow you to wilt in the industrial-ness of cooking in a restaurant instead of tender, domestic cooking. You two manage to have this weird mixture of fun and prodding.

And when a customer puts in an order for lobsters, you are not going to waste the opportunity.

“I’ll think I’ll name him Floyd 2,” you say, holding up the crustacean. Twitching antennas wave at you when his rubber-band claws cannot. Floyd glances at you out of the corner of his eye, golden iris like a supernova star. Just as he goes to talk, you drop Floyd 2 into the pot of boiling water. “Whoops.”

“Shrimpyyy.”

“My hand slipped,” you smile.

“Why’s Shrimpy so callous all the time? Ya got a hard shell just like this lobster. Look.” A blackish-orange, uncooked lobster is shoved in your face as you laugh.

“What do you even mean?”

“You’re a real serious type like Azul. But you were all giggles when you and Sea Otter were riding on my back over Winter Break. You danced really funny at the banquet.”

“I dance funny?”

“Yeah, like this,” Floyd starts to shimmy the lobster back and forth. You take it from him with a smile, dropping it into your pot. All four lobsters boiling, you switch your attention to cutting up the appetizer salads by your station. “Ya doing anything after work, Shrimpy?”

“Just going to Ruggie’s Spelldrive practice tonight.”

“You should come to one of my practices, Shrimpy. Way cooler than Spelldrive.”

Your knife falls on the midpoint of five or so slices of washed lettuce. Glancing up, you see as Floyd washes the rest of the vegetables, he is oddly still. His bandaged left hand clenches around the handle. Usually, he taps a rhythm to the side of the sieve.

That is really odd because his voice is so light and carefree. But you can dissect his body language.

“No way, Spelldrive is so cool. You used magic to control the disc but it’s exactly like football.” Your world already had basketball, but Spelldrive is an entirely new thing.

“What’s football?”

“Ah, nevermind,” but Floyd presses for more answers with a smile. “It’s the same as the rules of Spelldrive. Instead of using brooms, you run. And, the control that the players have on their magic plus the second and third years who ride brooms are super impressive. The level of mastery is … on another level!”

Floyd’s face twists at that. “It’s just ridin’ a broom. Ain’t so hard.”

“I thought you, your brother, and Azul were bad at riding brooms. Y’know, sea legs and all that.”

“I’m waaay better than those two.”

“Whatever you say,” you dismiss the conversation just as you slide the cut lettuce into two bowls. You want to drop the conversation and work on the next entree. Floyd does not share that sentiment.

Shaking water out of the sieve, he whines, “Spelldrive’s so boooring. It just a bunch of guys throwin’ around a disk.”

“And basketball is just a bunch of guys passing around a ball.”

“C’mon Shrimpyyy.”

“I guess I could make the time to attend one practice.” Floyd lights up at that. Evangelical light shines in his mouth. Something boils over in you like the stove’s temperature has been turned up.

You are being eaten alive. It is not so bad.

However, backtracking, it starts with kisses.

Whoever is kissing you – crowding above you like a nebulous night sky and draping each warm star finger on the cold surface of your face, mandible to cheekbone – has never kissed anyone before. And it is surprisingly endearing to you. Having to guide the night to properly understand kissing is not biting. Tentatively having to pinch or pull hair when a tongue ventures too far down your throat or a pair of needle teeth bite too hard on your lips. This is how it starts.

Happiness is like the calcium in your bones. You are awfully pleased to be kissing this pair of midnight lips. Speed of kissing escalates and deescalates in intervals; sometimes, the two of you press into each other like you are afraid one of you will leave come morning before falling into slow pecks like time has suddenly become infinite.

In this anonymous kissing, you lie happy on some hard, uncomfortable surface. But with how elevated you feel, it feels like a cloud is cradling your body. Euphoria is a well-versed painkiller.

Peppermint burns your nostrils as the face above you gasps. Ah, despite how you had been chiding off teeth on your lips, you are the one that actually breaks skin. Three pupils of blood fall on your closed lips. Your sheepish tongue pokes out and licks red rain away. Blood falls into the sizzling grill of your mouth and you gasp in response.

Taste is categorized into five groups. This tastes like a sixth. Suddenly, all other tastes pale in comparison. The revelation makes you shudder, each bone vibrating.

You never want to taste anything else. You will never pick up a cigarette if you get to taste this again.

The taste gradually dims when the face finally pulls away, revealing who you are kissing. “Floyd?” Spherical blood sits, a tiny cherry, on the middle of his bottom lip. He blushes like he is sunburnt by your attentive eyes. Before you can ask why he is kissing you, Floyd leans back, sitting on his haunches.

You two are laid on a table. The table stretches so far out into the distance that it enters a void. Behind Floyd, it shrinks down until it blurs away; when you tilt your head back, it fades due to distance. The range of your eyesight cannot comprehend the length of the surface.

Everything else is swallowed and lost to the chewing void. When you tilt your head left and right, tenebrous ebon greets you like a wall. Your eyes are magnetized to the only light source now that Floyd’s lips are too far away to kiss.

Held in Floyd’s hand is a single fish fork. It incandesces like a lamp, and when you blink, the contour is burnt on your inner eyelids.

Puffy, swollen lips move to speak but Floyd beats you to the punch. Out of his mouth falls an even sweeter palate beyond his blood. Your real name – in his voice, nasally, a bit lightfully high-pitched, a bit annoying and a bit liberating – on his tongue, pronounced and said with a hefty weight.

“(Name).”

“Yeah?” You answer, breathless from kisses and that word.

“Can I taste you?”

You think back to how each of you were feasting on each other in your liplock, a sudden amorous meal.

“Yeah.”

Instead of him leaning down, the fish fork in Floyd’s hand starts to move. Your eyes track it with intrigue. Beyond the valley of your chest, you are caught off guard seeing your button-up undone and open like wings. Into an abyss known as the midline sternotomy, Floyd’s fish fork digs in.

A dog-esque whimper falls from your lips. The toes of your right foot curl behind Floyd when you feel a fork scraping past rib bones. Three prongs pierce convulsing muscle tissue. Lithe fingers twist the utensil. Arousal coats like goosebumps on your flesh as a section of you is taken. Eyelids half mast, you watch Floyd bring the red fork to his lips. A section of still-beating, still-drumming muscle disappears into his mouth.

This is more intense than the kissing, that you wake up on fire.

The fire is metaphorical but the engrossing heat that blankets your entire body is not. In Ramshackle’s bed, you kick awake breathlessly. The pillow you were squeezing gives a wheeze of pain when you hug it to yourself tighter. Propping yourself on your elbows, blinking away a dream, you groan. “Oh fuuuck no.” In your chest, your tell-tale heart pounds.

You fall right back on the embrace of your pillow as it mimics the feel of a lover’s chest. Silk and the fire in your face collide in a burn. As chunks of your dream expand or delete away, you consider the heavy weight of … everything.

Floyd.

Floyd was eating your heart. Your face smolders on your pillow – you refuse to dwell on the implications of that.

You dwell on the implications, almost ruminating. In your quad-'apartment stomach, the rumen and reticulum digests the dream, the omasum allows the dream to filter into your bloodstream, and the abomasum finishes up your dream analysis. You metaphorically puke in your own mouth the entire morning, ruminating.

When the taste becomes too much, you hunt down Jade.

Stalking halls with eyes and nose trained for locating only him. And when you do, you do not busy yourself with the subtlety of a prowl. You launch right in on the attack. Stabbing him with a question even though he has a forkful of something in his mouth, “What’s Floyd’s deal?”

Caught off guard, Jade blinks at you. It is rare for such a blank look to cross his face that you are almost unnerved. Then, he pulls the fork from his mouth, chewing and dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean. My brother and Azul are not under contract.”

“Not a real deal – ugh, Jade, you know what I mean.”

Sharpened teeth make a beastly smile. A shiver tiptoes up your spine like a spider.

Turning back to his meal, Jade brushes off your response with, “Vagueness is one step away from misunderstanding. You should clarify for your own sake.”

He lifts up his fork and your eyes fall to the cafeteria table. Right now, you are on a fake bathroom break during astrology. Azul and Floyd have lunch together while Jade has a separate lunch. It is the perfect time to strangle information out of him, and, like a good predator, you should not waste time on prowling or stalking but –

“I don’t understand how you can eat like that and remain that skinny.”

As a cook, you are well-versed in the balancing of meals. To be frank, Jade’s lunch probably has the most optimal nutrition in terms of carbohydrates, protein, and vegetables. However, lunches are standardly medium-sized. In front of him lies a caesar salad stuffed with chicken, BLT sandwich, and an egg salad lettuce wrap. He’s three-fourth done with the caesar salad and sure to dig into the rest.

“Metabolism is a fascinating genetic function.”

“If I can convince Crewel to make a body-swapping potion, how about a quick switch for a day?” You can only imagine how cultured Jade’s tongue is.

“You in my body and I in yours. Floyd would have a field day with that.”

“Oh my god, what does that mean!”

Jade chuckles at your boiling worry. One hundred and one spine-chilling scenarios flash in your head. Backtracking, you vow to never give your autonomy to Jade Leech of all people. It will only end in misfortune for you. Scolding, you seethe, “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. Your smile’s too creepy.”

“I’m not thinking about anything in particular. I’ll let you ruminate on it however. I’m sure you can think of much more than I can.”

“You’re the worst.”

Jade gives a musical hum and forks the last bit of his salad into his mouth. “You know, I could ask the same question: What’s your deal?” His yellow left eye sharpens, taking in the space where you disrupt the atmosphere. Remembering what that evil star could reel out your throat (truth, awful truths you have not made peace with), you scoot back on the table’s seat.

The mental image is odious. Jade’s hand hovering over your salivating mouth with the other holds your chin skyward; his fist clenches around a fishing line, yanking; he scoops up everything you keep concealed as you cough up blood like a weak geyser. A violent image. Yet, violence absent of any amatory intent. (So unlike your dream with Floyd.)

Putting distance between you two like a panicked crab, you mutter, “What do you mean?”

“You are good friends with Riddle Rosehearts, yes? You should know that he never indulges Floyd’s whims; he would never agree to working in the same Lounge as Floyd either. Yet, the two of you have gotten quite cozy.”

“I never voluntarily approach him. I work there for the cash.”

“Hm, perhaps. However, you do not shy away when he approaches you. Why is that? What is your deal?”

“We’re supposed to be talking about Floyd’s deal.”

“Alright. Then, let us talk about it.”

“Lets!”

“How do you find his disposition? Too wholesome, too loathsome? You two seem to be becoming fast friends … ah, but that is just my humble, little opinion. No need to look so upset.”

“Floyd is … Floyd … he’s viscera.”

“I assure you my brother has other anatomy beyond his stomach.” As Jade says, he unwraps his egg salad lettuce wrap. The smell burns your nose. You get the egg-scented message that such a description could match Jade with his bottomless stomach.

“No, it’s not literal. It’s – Being around him feels like being in the belly of the beast.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why don't you give me an example?”

“You know what? Okay.” You contemplate for a moment, thumbing through the notecards of your memory. Finally getting it, you snap your fingers. “Okay! Okay. Last week, Tuesday, during my shift. He stood behind me the entire four hours of my shift. Like I mean, stood there. Just breathing down my neck, all pissed off. I thought he was going to take a bite out of me, Jade!”

Ah, Jade remembers that day well. It was the day you had a laundry mishap, procrastinating on the chore to the point where you had no clean slacks. Nothing too interesting – so what you forgot to do laundry, that happens in the life of a busy Prefect! The only thing is:

(“Shrimpy’s wearing leggings! Shrimpy’s – fuck!”

Jade looks up from his paperwork, hovering over Azul’s shoulder. Holed up in the VIP room, he and Azul are going over the month’s numbers of hours delegated to the staff. Measuring punchcard times and figuring where to subtract or add hours for each staff member. Numbers on papers become quite boring when Jade sees the state his brother is in.

“Floyd. Do not knock over the table.” Strife laces Azul’s voice.

Sprawled on the ground, Floyd half-sits and half-kneels on the violet carpet. In his excitement, he had bumped into the table set between the two couches. Pushing himself up, the grin on Floyd’s face is mammoth and energized. “Shrimpy’s wearing leggings!”

So it seems you were, Jade would find out later. Skin-tight leggings; black with flared bottoms. You had walked in with your button-up untucked to hide what Floyd cites is the prettiest ass he has ever seen. That particular article of clothing left little to the imagination – snug so tightly on each tantalizing curve of yours.

“Is that so,” Jade asks, having yet to see you during your shift. Looking at the clock, he notices that you have only been clocked in for about three minutes.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” Floyd breathes starstruck, hand clutched to his wrinkled shirt.

With that, an evil thought comes into Jade’s head.

“I am sure today will be an equally blissful day for the staff of Mostro Lounge.”

“Huh? What ya mean?”

“I mean, she is not invisible. Obviously, if she is such a sight to behold, the staff will be looking as well.”

Jade puts his own hand up to his heart, polite smile on his lips, and closes his eyes. He reopens them when the VIP room door slams shut – the wind carrying Floyd’s worsening mood and threats against the entire staff. The clock shows you are only four minutes into your four hour shift. The politeness of his smile morphs into something sinisterly serene as if a cunning plan of his has come to fruition. And it has, in just a few small minutes.

Ah, what an unfortunate start to your shift it seems. Fufufu.)

But it was far from unfortunate for Jade, who chuckled every time he opened the kitchen door to see Floyd standing protectively behind you, crowding around you to cover you up while refusing to let you reach for anything on a high shelf. He would bare his teeth at whoever glanced in your direction for mere seconds.

“I doubt he would have bitten you,” Jade placates, not wanting you to misread Floyd’s intent.

Emphasizing each word, you seethe, “He was breathing down my neck. He sounded one breath away from tearing apart my jugular!” Even though Jade seems to be reminiscing, he is obviously looking back through with a damaged pair of glasses – one temple broken off and one lens cracked.

You remember it much better: the wind-chill of a predator’s breath kissing your cervical; the uneven, spontaneous growls that would bloom behind your ear and have you pressing tighter to the stove; the intimate fear pierced into your spine through the morbid surgery of Floyd’s presence. You still wonder what you did to upset him so badly that he felt the need to monitor you for your entire shift.

“Listen,” your face pulls into a frown as you stare down Jade. “Your brother has life sorted into two categories: fun and boring. I’m in a category I don’t want to be in. Just tell me what I need to do to make myself unappetizing to him.”

So I don’t have another dream like that ever again.

“Ah,” Jade puts on a mask like he is going to tell you devastating news. “I’m afraid you’re quite a delicacy to him. Floyd has always been known to hold on tight to his food and eat in painful little bites. How unfortunate for you~”

You hang your head like the strife of Floyd is a guillotine snapping the cervical bones in your neck. To be so consumed by him like this mentally … it’s tearing you up inside.

“If I may pry, why are you so insistent on knowing about my brother? I sincerely hope it is not for ill intents, dear Prefect.” You are starting to catch onto the theme that most of Jade’s smiles are just threatening.

Insistent? Out of the two of you, Floyd is the insistent one, binding himself tight around you. But – you still Jade’s words linger in your mind. Why were you so insistent … You imagine a fake reality where you answer his question with, ‘because I burnt food for the first time in my entire life this morning. Because this morning, I ate overdone scrambled eggs that crunched in my mouth like pretzels. Because I think I’ve unknowingly developed a crush on him and it hit me so hard this morning that Ramshackle would have gone up in smoke if Grim and the ghosts took a minute longer to notice the burning stove.’

Instead, you answer, “Just want my peace of mind back.”

It is a partial truth that Jade does not have to use hooks to create red, wet aqueducts in your throat to get the answer. No need to use magic like Shock the Heart on you; you have already had your heart-attack this morning!

“I sincerely think there is more to it than that.”

“I promise that is it. I want to know Floyd’s deal to get him off my back.”

“See, but you’re acting in such a contradictory way, Prefect. Perhaps I should use something to loosen your tongue. Holding so many barnacles of thoughts in your head must be tiring.” His left eye starts to fluctuate with pulsing gleams.

“OH! Would you look at the time! My bathroom break – it’s uh! I’m gonna be late for class! Bye Jade!!” You race off mouse-esque.

You have not seen Floyd today … which is admittedly very nice.

At least I only had to put up with one fake eel and one real eel today. Two real eels is too many, you think as you pluck a tender cigarette from the package. Despite having a closing shift, you have yet to see Floyd since he invaded your dreams. A beady eye of red is born as you pocket your lighter. Breathing in, you contemplate on this slight blessing.

Apparently, Floyd has been neglecting schoolwork for the past week.

Whenever he was on his laptop, Jade mistakenly thought Floyd was doing his assignments. Turns out for seven nights he had been browsing GOAT for shoes and organizing each one on documents – so his typing mimicked the sound of doing assignments. Caring in a far too sinister way, Jade has locked Floyd in their room with a spell too advanced for it to be broken by one mage.

(“I don’t quite understand why he even would look at shoes; you see, he’s low on cash at the moment. Oh, but I am truly sorry to have to separate you two tonight.” Jade apologizes as if you are upset over the matter. Your deadpan look is far from mournful.

“However, I told him I would let him out when he has at least completed three-fourths. I believe he should be successful as long as he can find the correct playlist.” Jade’s yellow eye gleams at you, almost winking. “Plus, he has proper motivation to finish up sooner.”

“The hell –? I just asked if I could go on my smoke break.”

“Yes, but your constipated expression told me that you had more on your mind. Besides, isn’t this part of Floyd’s ‘deal’? His day to day – I thought I’d graciously keep you updated.”

You flip him off as you walk out the backroom.) Now here you sit, a wall embracing your back.

Usually, you would stand but you think you might mistakenly pour cement in your shoes. Soreness is like molten lead in your bloodstream, weighing you down. You have never felt such agony in your hamstrings and thighs. Thus, you sit on an awful, treacherous thought.

Would Floyd accept any study-guides you get from Ruggie?

There are multiple faucets to why this is a cretinous thought. Wouldn’t Azul have study-guides for the twins; would Floyd swallow his pride to accept anything; did Ruggie even have the topics that Floyd was struggling with – because you have no idea which schoolwork Floyd is skimping out on! Like you said, it is a cretinous thought. For some reason though, you would really like to help Floyd – paying back nothing yet paying back everything too.

Your blooming cloud of smoke asks Why am I acting so selfless for a selfish eel before it evaporates slowly into the oceanic air. There is not really any sensible answer hidden in your soul.

Twisted Wonderland is without a doubt as senseless as your soul. Even now, where you sit smoking is so world-shatteringly different from the typical ‘go out back and smoke’ area. The Octavinelle dorm is enveloped in water. The night sky outside of Mostro Lounge is a unique pocket that isn’t really a pocket at all. In a bubble, on the edge of a cliff that dips down into black, you sit staring at the swimming stars of fish.

Even the classes are an oddity. The two classes you share with Floyd are Art and History of Magic. As far as you have observed, he does well in both of those subjects. So, you doubt he needs a study-guide for either.

Which subject could it be: Astrology, Magic Analysis, Ancient Curses –

A pair of arms wrap serpentine around your shoulders. The anaconda has bound around his unexpecting prey. As a passenger to your train of thoughts, your mind goes blissfully blank. It is an odd sensation: to have been ruminating the entire day over a dream and when confronted with the only corporal part of the dream, you feel at peace..

You breathe out a dragon’s breath and a greeting, “Hi Floyd.”

Mmmmmmph. Is the response spoken into your right shoulder. Reaching behind, you take the hand still pinching your cigarette and stiffly pat the top of Floyd’s head, sharing his tired-tinted sentiment.

You have been eating your heart out, and puking in your mouth all morning. It is an exhausting activity, anguishing yourself over a silly dream, over your dream. “Did you get all your work done?” You stop petting teal hair to return your cigarette between your lips.

Mmmmmph! Anaconda-esque embrace squeezing tighter and tighter, you are really unsure of how you should take that sentiment. It sounds more frustrated than anything – can you share in Floyd’s frustration? Heartbeat lines of waves fall over you two from the overhanging light. No, you have transferred all your strife out of like the emotion is but a colony of bees smoked out of a hive.

When tobacco and paper wrapping has burnt away to about halfway, you receive a clearer insight to Floyd’s misery. “I’m never lookin’ at stars again.”

“Ah, astrology.”

“Mmmguuuh.”

Throat-held vibrations tickle against your shoulder. Floyd depresses his face on the ledge of your collarbone, weight so crushing like he wants to melt into you. Pinioned up in his grip, you just accept the heat of his cheek and the rhythm of his groans.

Pretending to hold an intelligent conversation: “Totally agree with you there. Stupid scorpion.” Ash is tapped off the side of your steel-toed work boots. “I’m a –” then you tell Floyd which animal/symbol aligns up with your Zodiac.

The weight on your shoulder ebbs slowly as Floyd lifts himself up. Then, his bony chin digs into your shoulder causing you to squirm. Arms tighten to stop your earthworm motions and Floyd remarks sleepily, “Mmm, I like shrimps better.”

“You know I can never wrap my head around that nickname. I get why Grim’s a seal because he’s shaped similarly. I don’t get mine. Eels eat shrimp or something?”

“ – Or something.”

“That’s vague.”

“What? Ya want me to eat ya, Shrimpy?”

In cartoons, when a character is punched in the face, stars start to prance and bounce around their head. Floyd’s words are equivalent to a face-impacting wallop. Words crash into you with all the grace of a burning space-shuttle ripping through air. BANG! Bunny-esque stars start to dance around your head, reeling as if all those letters had condensed into a fist.

Lightning of pain branches across your face, and you only get to save yourself by doing one thing. You turn your head to where Floyd’s chin perches and blow smoke into his face. As he falls back, coughing up a storm, you quickly work to get control of the weather inside you.

The turbulent sea of a crush is something calamitous. Lunar shadow-waves tilt across Floyd’s body as you breathe in more smoke. Still coughing, Floyd grumbles, “Why do - ack - ya do that? Smells funky.”

“No asking questions if you don’t answer questions.”

Elbow protecting his nose and eyes seething, he grumbles again, “I told ya, or something.”

“Not good enough. I don’t like roundabout answers.”

“Shrimpyyy.”

“Hey, no calling me that if you can’t tell me why.”

Floyd avoids eye-contact. Not blushing but with all his grimacing teeth on display, he whines, “But it’s embarrassing.”

“Now you have to tell me.”

And he really does because Floyd being embarrassed is alien. You go to deal your own physical blow on Floyd. Aiming a hit that is intercepted, you gloat, “Or this little shrimp is going to take down a big eel.”

When Floyd interlocks your fingers together, you fight back. You fight back through depressing pressure on it; you do not fight the borderline amatory gesture. His hand feels nice in yours. The lighting-shaped lesion in his inner palm that you created feels so warm.

Your mark, your heart sings. Killing that melody, you start to wrestle slightly with Floyd. Horseplaying, your joint hands press against one another, moving back and forth with each playful jab you throw at one another.

“No waaaay, you’re too weak.”

“Says the person about to be beat.”

“I’m fending you off with one hand!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Ack - ak! That’s – uuk – cheating!”

“Why am I called Shrimpy!”

“Because I’mma squeeze you like a Shrimpy!”

“Oh my God,” you laugh. “That’s an even bullshit-er answer than ‘or something’!”

“It’s true! Come here!”

“Ahahaha!”

Sportive laughter blooms from you. Pouncing like a dog seeing its owner after a week long vacation, Floyd pushes you down onto the ground. You squeal breathlessly, “Oh my God!” The back of your head collides with his other protective palm rather than ground. You two are still entwined at the hands – his left and your right. You slap and wrench your left hand this way and that. Floyd follows with his right, trying to grab that too. A foot scuffles up to his lower stomach, pushing. No way are you going to accept a Leech squeeze without a proper fight. You two twist and squirm on the floor, laughing together.

All the while, the caress between your right hand and his left hand remains an independent variable. Unchangeable in this discord of rapid-moving limbs. A caress of interlocked fingers.

“Shrimpy’s gonna – AH HAHA – Shrimpy’s gonna get squeezed!” A mouthful of sharp piscine teeth gleams over your face. You kick at Floyd’s intestines hard enough where his mouth goes circular instead of being crescent.

“Nuh – hahaha – no way!” Floyd makes another grab at your left arm. You twist on your side, crushing his grip on the cement below you, as your heart pounds in your eardrums. You arch in a giggling shriek when Floyd tickles your side, exposing your left arm.

“Aha!” Floyd shouts victorious when he manages a squeeze to your bicep.

Yet, before a shrimp can be squeezed, a door opens. “(Name), your break has been over – oh.”

Jade drinks in the sight of you and his brother like it is a recherché tea blend he has never seen before. A gloved hand covers the uniform pressed over Jade’s chest. Well, this is his first time seeing his twin have a crush so: “Oh, I am so glad to see Floyd getting along with his little shrimp. Warms my brotherly heart.”

Frozen on the ground, you and Floyd show Jade your teeth in matching, disgruntled, and cringing grimaces. All thirty-two square enamels of yours; all forty-two triangle enamels of Floyd’s.

“My, what sour expressions! Fufufu!”

“Why are you making that face!”

“I’m gonna shove this down your throat so you stop saying such stupid shit,” your fork moves with each word you say.

“All I said was –”

“I heard you. Do not repeat it.”

Oh, how you heard Ace, loud and clear. With all the agonizing clarity of a centipede squirming in your ear, his words made an invasion in your body. Not even a full minute ago, Ace had commented, “you and Floyd seem pretty close now.” Those words got you to instantly drop your waving hand, Floyd’s scarred palm still up and waving buh-bye to you, before you rounded on Ace with your fork.

More frequently, between class breaks, Floyd has been visiting you during the time you and your trio have lunch. It is nothing eccentrically different. Floyd has been a persistent leech on you since Jamil Viper’s overblot … but you never reciprocated in conversation until now. Which is probably why Ace brings up the one basketball practice you attended fourteen days ago:

“You know that one time you came to our practice, I think he played the best he has in – FUCK!”

As Ace nurses the four indents on his throat, you fake a moue, “Oh, what was that? You have to speak clearly Ace.”

The sound of your best friend’s hacking and your other best friends’ laughter is a tranquil balm. Enough to where you can stop stressing over the lack of distance now between (Name) (Last Name) and Floyd Leech.

Okay, maybe you never stop thinking about the lack of distance. You are a person who always backtracks into previous thoughts. Reversing time in your mind and puking in your own mouth is perpetual. Therefore, you end up stewing away in your mind, moving a spoon through a bowl of wet rice. Ah … closeness is such a flimsy concept.

You and Floyd seem pretty close now? Perhaps.

‘Cannibalism Cooking’ is a teaching segment on how to erase the distance between self and other? Perhaps.

You think too much? Yes.

Despite your ire, there has been a shift. It is could be in something small like how instead of cooking alive lobsters you name Floyd 1, Floyd 2, Floyd 3, etcetera; you have taken to making stories up for each lobster with Floyd, humanizing them in jest like one does with Barbie dolls, as Floyd’s lobster mourns the death of your lobster who fell into the boiling pot. It could be something large like how you will look at Floyd at times and think of how you want to devour him down to the bones — cooking him on the very stove in Mostro Lounge that you work, your own lai d'ignaure.

Stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking, you repeat to yourself in threes. You try to focus on the preparation of rice.

For almost three months you have worked at Mostro Lounge and it has gone on without a hitch. Which is odd because backtracking … you think back on Ruggie and the Intra-School Competition. You have yet to see Floyd in a bad mood, and that cannot last forever.

Eventually, the thing Ruggie foretold comes to pass. Three days later. It is like a weatherman reporting a category four hurricane, an inevitable part of the atmosphere that cannot be avoided. Floyd has fallen into one of his bad moods. And it is worse than any natural disaster.

Double swinging doors open like a maw of roaring teeth. One door happens to smack the tray out of an employee’s hand, just about to exit to the dining hall. That is what causes your eyes to flicker up. Calamity comes in the sound of crackling porcelain and squishing food. Two dishes have clattered to the floor, food wasted. Your eyes flicker up from the discord of pasta, seafood, and vegetables to see the criminal of the crime. Floyd Leech who has the meanest maw that would put any apex predator to shame.

That monstrous look? You guarantee that the credit for crafting it belongs to the sauce splattered on Floyd’s slacks and shoes. Shadows settle over the eel-mer’s face. His hand comes up to hold his own shoulder in an iron grip.

Besides you, a line-cook bemoans, “Well, it was nice knowing him.”

Every employee is aware of the rules: if one of the employees is not following the rules, squeezing is permitted. One of the unspoken rules: do not piss off Floyd Leech. Ruining his shoes is a swift way to get his mood down.

You and your fellow line-cook share a grimace. The employee – you think he might be a Scarabia or Savanaclaw student, too far away to tell the color of his arm-band – is shaking in Floyd’s presence. Watching Floyd’s mouth and eyebrows twitch and the student’s hands move in apologetic measures, you consider something heavy on your tongue.

I really don’t have to go out of my way to help that nameless student, you think just as your mouth opens. Really, though, you only think that because you do not want to confront the reality of who you are helping. “Hey!” The kitchen staff switches their attention from the scene to you. Ugh.

“Which table was that for?”

The Scarabia/Savanaclaw student almost looks ready to fall to his knees in gratitude. Shaking, he replies, “It wa-was for Table N-Nuh-Nine.”

“Well, clean up Table Nine’s mess. Mop’s in the supply closet,” you hope the student is sharp enough to pick up the message: stay there until Floyd is calm. “Then, get out on the floor and offer Table Nine complimentary drinks because of the delay. Move it.”

“Yes, right away!” You think he might be Savanaclaw because you have never seen a person run that fast before.

It is like those stare-down between two predators on nature documentaries. You and Floyd size each other, him pissed that you let his punching bag escape and you pissed that he caused perfectly fine food to spoil. Eye contact locks in place; confrontation like a rumbling storm cloud separates you two. Whoever yields is going to have the face and accept the bite of the other. It comes as a surprise to the kitchen staff when you look right into the sun, challenging that mean eye. Lips pulling back to grimace, it comes to an even greater shock to everyone when Floyd looks away first. When his sheepish eyes glance back up, you move a finger in a ‘come here’ motion.

It would be ideal if he could move without kicking a wad of spaghetti across the vinyl floor … but you take what you can get.

“Hand me that stool,” you say. Refusing to take your eyes off Floyd, you hold your open fingers out behind your back towards your fellow line-cook who has a stool by his oven. When Floyd passes some cooks, they press their stomachs up to the burning stove-plates, dangerously leaning inward to avoid the immediate danger of a grumpy eel. Still, you two look daggers at each other.

The stool finds your hand and you set it down in front of you – right by your own designated stove .

“Sit,” you instruct and he wordlessly obeys.

Even while listening, he is glaring at you. A sculptor named Animosity has molded his features; he looks at you like he wants your head to fly off, probably thinking you are going to scold him like Azul and Jade do. Instead, you turn on a third burner (bottom right) and look around for a frying pan.

You were warned by Jade and Azul around the first week of your employment, Azul’s words far-off yet intimately close too: We tell all long-lasting staff but I ask that you heed this more than the others, Prefect. It is better to leave Floyd alone when he is in a bad mood.

Floyd is silent as he watches. His lilac vest and white button-up is wrinkled with his slouched posture. Tie still undone. No hat this time around. Sitting and slouching, he still comes up to about your elbow. On the stool’s footrest, he hooks his shoes on them, just glaring and glaring at you.

No matter, you think, retrieving slices of bread. I can deal with a childish glare. You start to lather up the slices with garlic Parmesan butter as the pan heats up gradually. But – you have to go to the refrigerator to retrieve two ingredients you do not have on hand.

Just as you go to ask your fellow line-cook to fetch those ingredients that you needed, a hand grabs your slacks. Mild surprise seasons your face as you look down. Burying itself into your black slacks is Floyd’s left hand.

“Why aren’t ya yellin’ at me?”

“Would you like me to?”

Floyd shows you all forty-two of his teeth in a disgusted grimace. Like the mere notion of you yelling at him leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Don’t ask for it then,” you scold lightheartedly before finally asking yet another favor of your co-worker. Floyd remains silent but keeps his hand attached to you.

You are baking something quick because you need Floyd’s spirits lifted before that student comes back with the mop. Heat kisses on the plain of your forearm skin as you put the bread slices on the pan. Dial up to eight, a perfect temperature for this little meal. When you get the other ingredients you need, you quickly assemble Floyd’s sandwich.

While you cook each side for four minutes, Floyd bounces his left leg in dismay. His eyes trace over your countertop surface where all your preparation lies but you make sure to keep his eyes away from the stove. His hand is content on your pant leg.

“Here,” you say, holding a sea-turtle green plate out to Floyd. You set it down on the countertop. He eyes it with disinterest yet stops slouching. Quickly turning off the third burner, you move the frying pan to the top right to cool off.

“Grilled cheese?”

“Oh, please, I would never make something so boring.”

Foyd’s eyes glow a bit when he is intrigued. Right now, his eyes are pricked with little firefly holes of light because of your words. That sentence motivates Floyd to pick it up.

Which you only really consider a success when he looks at you wide-eyed, chewing on his first bite. “Tis so goe.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I can’t understand a word.”

“This is so good.”

Oh.

Why does your chest hurt right now?

“Damn Shrimpy, this is really something!” Floyd praises as he takes another bite, uncaring of the heat.

Oh your bittersweet organ pounds. Maybe – just maybe – because it is Floyd, that praise settles on you a little differently than previous praise. Not that you are unappreciative of those that eat your food. As Grim really thinks anything you make tastes great, as Ace or Deuce did not come from a lineage of highly sophisticated and picky taste-buds, Floyd’s praise is different. Floyd is not as easy to please as he seems. The glaring fact that your food has brought a smile to his face causes your heart to pound in an alternative rhythm that you have never felt before.

Before you can start thinking about that more, you explain what makes the grilled cheese so different: “It’s a combination of grilled cheese, pizza, and garlic bread. The pepperoni and garlic butter add a punch, while it really just looks like a normal grilled cheese. Figured you’d like it.”

He really does like it. It is evident as he takes a gigantic bite, listening to you explain your mixture of three types of bread-based foods combined into one. Stringy cheese connects from his lips to his food. It is a little distracting how fluidly he gathers up the flexible intestines of your grilled pepperoni sandwich. His tongue and teeth are inhuman after all.

Hell, should you turn down one of the burners? Why are you feeling so hot? You watch a slice of pepperoni disappear into Floyd’s chipmunk cheeks before he says:

“Shrimpy’s a real good cook.”

“Of course, it was why I was hired here. But … Thank you. That’s very nice to hear from you.”

“And ya made it especially for little me.”

“Hm?”

“Shrimpy cooked just for me.”

“Uuk –” Caught just like that. You were hoping he would somehow overlook it, either because of his bad mood or his admiration towards the food. Before you can open your mouth to embarrass yourself with pointless retorts, another calamity steals your attention.

You look towards the noise by the double doors, and before you lies the best sight you have ever seen at Night Raven College. Azul. Flat on his ass, having slipped because of where that student mopped. The octo-mer’s glasses are tilted and blue paints his cheeks. “HAHAHAHA!” You quickly slap a hand over your mouth so you do not join Floyd’s laughter. Though, your shoulders shake quite a bit.

It is also the best sight in Night Raven College because it allows you to procrastinate on the philosophy of how love, to you, is finding people to be in the kitchen with.

But, mostly, it is the best because it is Azul having slipped on his ass. “Hehehe.”

Eggs in a carton. That is what they look like. Eyes in a mask of skin. A twin set of eggs, turned sideways and unblemished. Staring up at you, those eggs remain open and bulge from the concave carton made of skin. One yolk is yellow and the other is a plain olive-rust.

There is a third part to your philosophies – the idea of Heaven that I see is a slice of you staring up at me. If love is an ingredient then the body full of love is a banquet hall.

A dish acts as his pillow. His locks are combed back with gravity, teal and black angel hair seasoning the meal. What you have on your plate is Floyd’s upside-down head which unblinkingly stares at you. He looks coherent. You are not sure if that makes it better or worse … because it means he can hear (along with you) the words Azul is saying:

“Unadon is just one of the many delicacies made from eel. The average chef knows about nine ways to prepare eel into different meals – braised or stewed or fried or grilled. Today, the Culinary Crucible asks that you prepare this catch with your heart as the writer of the recipe.”

And what awful words they are.

Timid, you look up at Azul while he walks the length of the room. He is dressed in his Culinary Crucible uniform; hair tucked behind his ear, cotton table cloth on his hip, sleeves of the double-breasted jacket rolled up to his elbows. He is reading off a clipboard. His glasses steal in the limited light, glowing like a kitchen knife, each motion of those lenses keen as a stab. Each step of his is perfumed with the scent of viscera.

It only makes sense because you are in the belly of the beast.

“Cooking eels is particularly challenging. Unlike other finfish, the skin needs to be removed as soon as the eel is dead due to the slippery consistency. On average, a chef invests a number of years into mastering and perfecting the craft of making a mouth-watering meal.”

Reddish-mauve muscle layers drape across the wall like curtains. Hardly noticeable but the walls shudder with digestion. Incurvate muscle layers are connected together by towering bone pillars. In the thinner layers, between this fusion of stomach and rib-cage, reddish-mauve turns a reddish-orange with light.

Food acts as the flooring. A runny egg yolk about the size of pillow nestles into a crimson tomato that is equal to the size of a beanbag chair. Juicy ribs decorate the floor like carpeting. Baguettes underfoot crunchy softly with each step Azul takes. You look down at what is holding yourself and your chair up.

Underneath your feet is a cucumber. Kaleidoscope-esque seeds are arranged in the shape of a sun. Foamy white-green has a moist caress on you, and, when you test it with your toes, white plasma froths up with the pressure.

“Harriet Van Horne was an American newspaper colonist with her career starting in 1940’s. In 1956, she wrote an article titled ‘Not for Jiffy Cooks’ and, in it, she wrote the following words: Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all. Chefs. (Name). The Culinary Crucible asks that you enter with this love. Or never cook again. Please begin.”

Begin?

There is such a momentous weight before starting. Not limited to cooking, there is always a kind of second breath curled up in the first breath before one starts a new task. Breathing with more effort to steady yourself in your resolve.

The breath you take suctions in a perfume, aligned with the floral notes of sweetness found in sugar-peppered churros, sourness found in slobbering grapefruit, saltiness found in prickling flakes on fries, bitterness found in melting dark chocolate, and savoriness found in – you don’t know yet.

Cooking is like love, you reflect amorously. You maneuver with a careful approach, gently moving the plate closer to you. Keeping him upside down, you take the hook of his mandible between your thumb and index. Dentist-like, you open his mouth. Paralyzed with an active consciousness, Floyd’s tongue hangs in his mouth like a stillborn, pink mole rat.

It stretches. Stretching like taffy with cheesy elasticity, you tug it between your dull square enamels. Pulling inch by inch, you hold Floyd’s tongue with tongs made of teeth. When it disconnects from his buccal cavity with a wet, ripping sound – spuuuul-ck! – evangelical light burns from your mouth to your retinas.

My – My bedroom. I’m in my bedroom. Gently, your teeth move off the object you were biting down in a violent grip. Salvia soaken into your pillowcase, you let out a quiet groan. You fall back down on the pillow, finding a dry patch to rest your cheek on, having just woken up.

Not good … Not fucking good at all.

That stupid eel; will you ever get a goodnight sleep again because of him … him and stupid sweet laughter, sour eyes, salty lips, bitter touch, and savory kiss. Kiss? Kiss! You blink and reel yourself from the image your brain was starting to paint.

“No way,” you breathe flustered. “I don’t want to kiss Floyd.” You hold that thought on your tongue like a cough drop. The flavor seeps in and – “Fuck, I want to kiss Floyd.”

Grim, who sleeps belly-up, gives a little kick next to the cradle your left thigh has on him. Quieting down, you think of a conversation you and Floyd had about a month ago. You still need to answer that question – “You know I can never wrap my head around that nickname. I get why Grim’s a seal because he’s shaped similarly. I don’t get mine. Eels eat shrimp or something?” / “ – Or something.” / “That’s vague.” / “What? Ya want me to eat ya, Shrimpy?”

With determination, you reach over your pillow to your bedside table. Hand locked on the phone, your first sight of the morning is a tiny Grim blooming alive on the screen. You coo at the picture of Grim sleeping, tail tucked closed to his body and eyes drawn shut. Cutie, you think, sliding up the screen.

Now back to being a soldier on a mission, you click on Safari and type away. Eels and shrimps. You click search. Not wanting a long hunt, you hit the first website. MORAY EEL and CLEANER SHRIMP writes itself out on a blue webpage. Relief fills you to find the article is only two paragraphs worth of reading.

Okay, Floyd. Time to see what is so embarrassing about a tiny nickname. There is no comprehensible way that his embarrassment could possibly tip your own embarrassment off the scales. Two dreams intimately cannibalistic is much harder to admit than the reason for a silly nickname.

The two paragraphs read:

“There are approximately 200 species of Moray Eel, most of which are exclusively marine although a small number inhabit brackish water and fresh water. Its eyes are small and vision limited, so the eel relies on a sophisticated sense of smell to detect prey, which consists primarily of cephalopods and crustacea. They possess one long dorsal fin that extends from the neck to the anal fin, allowing smooth propulsion through the water. Snake-like in appearance, with wide mouths full of misshapen teeth, the Moray Eel looks ferocious but is in fact a shy, mostly solitary creature living most of its life in burrows and caves.”

Shy? You scoff at the very idea of it. Continuing on, you read the second paragraph.

“For some species, the only regular companions are cleaner shrimp, which live in a symbiotic relationship with the eel. The shrimp congregate in teams called a ‘cleaning station’ and move across the whole body of the eel – including inside the mouth – removing parasites and dead skin, which is their food. This cleaning ensures good health for the eel, so both species benefit.”

Your hands clap over your face as if the pressure can push down the geysering flush that is overriding your skin and hide away all these emotions.

“(Name), could you retrieve something from the walk-in freezer for me?”

It has been a torturous week. Being co-workers with someone you have developed a crush on; you imagine creating a big X with your arms, you do not recommend it. It is such a delicate tight-rope walk across a boiling pot of scalding water.

Even while working without him as a constant leech, he remains there.

On your body and inside your body. Inside your body, it is how he infects your thoughts. On your body though is a bracelet made of teeth (beastman, merman, fae, and human). Floyd made it for in Art; even took the red string and tied it himself around your wrist. (“I don’t have any stuff for an earring so I hadda improvise. I think humans wear shark necklaces sometimes; bracelets are like necklaces for the wrists!”) There might just casually be a tooth from each of the seven dorms on your wrist. You are currently stirring scallops around in an oiled skillet, watching a golden crust form on them and admiring your recently made jewelry.

Floyd’s very odd, you think as you look up from your station. To see who needs you to retrieve something from the walk-in freezer. A pair of heterochromic eyes size you up. “What do you need me to get,” you ask. “I can’t really leave these to burn.”

“It will only be a matter of seconds. Turn the temperature down a bit.”

Lawfully, you decide not to argue against it. Jade is just one ring lower from being your boss. The blue flame lowers slowly. You walk away from the oven, keeping your apron on, and follow after Jade.

“Thank you. I cannot quite carry it all myself.”

“No problem. What are we grabbing?”

“A shipment of veal and fresh beef. Two boxes each.”

You nod your agreement to help. When you two come up upon the steel door, Jade takes the handle in his gloved hand and pulls towards himself to remove it from the first locking mechanism. Cold rushes towards you with a bear-hug-esque strength. You give one hard shiver before falling still. Jade almost seems to smile in the face of frosty air, lips quirked up.

“By the way, have you seen Floyd today? He’s always around on the weekends but I haven’t seen him enter the kitchen yet.”

“Still interested in his day to day?”

“You know what, forget I said anything,” you say, stepping in front of Jade. Like a deflating flower, your toothpick lowers to the ground in disappointment. “I’m sure I’ll see him later.”

“Who knows it might be earlier than expected.”

“Huh?”

Then, Jade gives you a shove hard enough to send you sprawled on the floor inside the walk-in freezer. You almost end up puncturing a hole in your cheek with your toothpick. That bastard!

The thing about freezers is a majority of them have plastic sheeting between the steel door and the inside to keep the temperature below zero. Long, seven inches wide stripes of plastic hang like party streamers from the entrance. Coated in ice, it is extremely difficult to see through, whether in or out.

Which is why you do not notice until you are inside the freezer that Floyd is there too. He looks at you down on your hands and knees, confusion a mere flicker until a flame of rage consumes it. Standing up, Floyd rushes past you. At the hanging plastic and entrance, he screams.

“Jade – you fucking bas – !”

“The human body takes four to six hours to succumb to hypothermia in zero degree weather. So, take however long you need.” And though the difference is not too noticeable, the room grows a bit dimmer. The very noticeable part is the sound of the lock clicking in place.

“Jade!” A fist flies through the icy plastic, banging loud against steel. “Jade, I’m gonna strangle you when I’m out! I’m gonna break your fuckin’ terrariums!” You think you just saw the steel door dent with the force of Floyd’s kick.

A pregnant moment of silence settles between you two. Floyd refuses to turn around. After a few more threats and punches to the door, he still remains spine facing you.

By now, you have picked yourself from the ground, hugging yourself. All you are wearing is a thin unbutton, apron, slacks, and a thin tank top. Your shoes and Octavinelle hat might keep some heat circulating. Four to six hours? That is too generous for what you are wearing; Jade probably got that statistic about people wearing winter gear.

When another shiver races down your vertebrates and Floyd still has not moved, you quietly poke, “Um, Floyd. Do you know what’s up with Jade?”

“Ugh, I told him I had this handled.”

“What handled?”

It seems you were not supposed to hear that because Floyd finally turns around. Droopy eyes give you a fleeting, disinterested once over. Besides his usual fidgeting, he appears unbothered by the cold. Spinning around with a sigh, Floyd aims at his vitriol at you with a glare.

When he stalks toward you like a predator, you straighten up. While not entirely experienced in fights, you are not going to be the squeeze-toy thrown to an angry mongrel to be torn apart until stuffing flies like snow. The fist you were preparing loosens when Floyd simply reclaims his spot on the ground, leaning against the opposite wall. Huh?

“I’mma go to sleep. Wake me up when Jade opens the door.”

Huh!

“Wait, but can’t you get us out with magic?”

“Jade used that spell again; needs two mages to unlock it.”

A curse sizzles under your breath. It grows into a mushroom cloud of air in front of your face, crystalizing. Fuck, it is like a miniature Antartica. Not wanting to display any weakness, you only rub your hand up your left arm instead of rubbing both like you desperately want to. “Well, there’s got to be a reason why. Revenge for slacking off?”

Floyd does not answer you. He just sits with his legs pulled up and chin resting on his knees. “Look, I gotta get out of here. I’ll freeze to death.” At that his eyes grow a bit more alive, flickering up to you. A weak half-smile is aimed at you.

“Well, I don’t want a popsicle Shrimpy.”

“So, you can get the door open? Oh, that’s a relief!”

Turns out Floyd cannot get the door open because all he does is start stripping. HUH! Floyd might be a little too late in stopping you from turning into a popsicle; you remain frozen solid, openly leering with questions. You only unthaw when you see it is just his Octavinelle jacket and scarf he is taking off. Those two items he offers you in an outstretched hold.

“I thought you could get us out of here,” you mourn with a whine.

“Unless you gain magic, I can’t. Here, it’s not going bite –”

You barely let Floyd get out another word before you are throwing on his jacket and mummifying yourself with his scarf. Screw humility, you bet half your salary that this freezer dips into the negatives at times. Oversized, his jacket falls at the midpoint of your thighs. You squeeze yourself in an imaginary embrace, trying to bottle up all your warmth and –

“Why are you holding your hand out still?”

“I don’t really mind the cold. You’re gonna start shiverin’. You should sit.”

“I’m fine.” Your toothpick flies up and down in your mouth, moving to the beat of your full body shivers. “I’ll still be able to move when Jade unlocks the door.”

“C’mon Shrimpy.”

“I’m not going to cuddle up with you for warmth.”

“It’s not cuddlin’, it’s squeezin’.”

“Same thing.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh uh!”

“Nuh uh!”

You end up letting Floyd squeeze you to keep you warm; it is not cuddling.

Sitting between his long legs, accepting his arms which wrap around your waist, letting him rest his sleepy head on your shoulder as the black strand tickles your cheek. It is not cuddling because he holds you with cement arms instead of in soft amatory. Despite that, it is helping with fending off hypothermia.

Floyd’s hands are flushed pink, almost frostbitten. When you look down at where his embrace locks, you see the crimson flesh of his phalanges and your own hands ache from just looking at them. Your hands are tucked in Floyd’s jacket sleeves. Only equipped with a button-up now, there isn’t much to keep him protected from the frigid ventilation.

“Pu-Put your hands under my jacket.” You break a silence that has been stretching on seemingly infinitely. Snotty slugs run down your nose and you sniff them back into their home. “You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’m fiiine,” Floyd mumbles into your shoulder. He has been drifting in and out of sleep for, well, you do not know how long truthfully. He seems to be stewing deep in thought.

It takes only a minute (you counted in your head) to get him to put his hands under your tank-top and all the layers above it. They feel unnaturally hot against your skin. Moderate frostbite. You thank him for listening then go back to counting the number of boxes in the room for a third time.

“There’s got to be some kind of loose screw or like weak area in the magic, right?”

Frustrated, you pat the steel door, nudging the plastic out of your way with your shoulders. After whittling down so many toothpicks, you start to grow fidgety. You need to go outside and take a smoke break; hell, you would forgo the cigarette just to get a breath of fresh air.

Claustrophobia settling in, you press your frostbitten fingers over the seam of the metal door and wall. Maybe you can use something to push the lock open. “Maybe I can knock something into this spot and unlock the door.”

“Jadio sealed it up with magic. It ain’t gonna open.”

“If you’re not gonna help, zip it.”

“You talked to me first.”

“That’s it! Quiet game starting now!”

You lie on Floyd’s side, sharing his jacket like a blanket, when you murmur, “Floyd, I’m sorry about earlier.”

“... Ya lose the quiet game, Shrimpy.”

“Hehe, damn, you’re right.” You two watch your laughter float up in clouds of cold air.

It takes until Floyd gets the start of deep frostbite and you get the start of superficial frostbite when he admits softly, “I think I know something that might work.”

You look up with shiny eyes. Growing really frustrated, unshed tears have started to cling to your eyelashes. Not that they would really vanish if you ended up crying. The image of tears freezing on your face is much more appropriate.

Poking your mouth out of Floyd’s scarf like a timid turtle, you ask, “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinkin’ –” Floyd trails off, oddly shy. He is already flushed from the chill but you watch crimson spread like an infection. He will not look at you.

His red expression reminds you of the time you took a toothpick to pick food out his teeth … wait, a minute: The shrimp congregate in teams called a ‘cleaning station’ and move across the whole body of the eel – including inside the mouth – removing parasites and dead skin. Now you two definitely match on levels of blushing.

Why do I think of that now; you startle when Floyd’s eyes narrow down at you.

He drinks in each atom and molecule of you with his eyes. Snotty nose, flushed face, shivering tremors all ingredients used to make the messy image that is you at this very moment. Floyd could not ask for a better sight. A little apprehensive at his intense staring, you hide your chin in his lilac scarf. He looks like he wants to take a bite of you –

“Shrimpy, I love you.”

“...

“Huh?”

“You don’t needa say it back or anything.

“Just,” Floyd then pronounces his next words like someone speaking to customer service, making sure each syllable is clear. “Shrimpy. I. Love. You.” Your face creases at his odd tone until you hear it – the click of the steel door being unlocked. Your eyes widen in shock. “There we go,” Floyd says, reaching one hand through the plastic hangers to push open the entrance.

“Ya can just forget this – mmh!”

Reviewing and backtracking, a stomach and intestines is viscera and viscera is a stomach and intestines. Each organ of your own viscera is working itself into this violent kiss. Churning and ruminating like lustful waves. You have to digest each part of Floyd Leech in this kiss or you will starve.

This has marinated long enough.

It is even better than your dreams.

When you take his tongue in your mouth, each nerve on your tongue flares up in a sweet vibration. Warmth melts through your bones as you grasp at Floyd’s hair and he pulls you up by your waist. He is a bit inexperienced but he is surely reacting positively to it.

This savory flavor is unlike anything you have ever tasted. Tagging and twisting tongues, you two devour each other like you are each other’s three star michelin feast. With harsh bites, you two switch flavor profiles with which area that is explored.

Like an inmate on death row, you take care and time with making sure each lick and bite is savored. Peppermint and meat. A laugh huffs into Floyd’s mouth, you were not expecting such a weird combination.

You two break apart momentarily, panting breaths beating out in tiny clouds against the cold. Sharing a moment where you both just want to stare at each other. His olive-brown and gold eyes are like heavenly light. There are sand-flickers of a dozen different hues in each one, all shades deliquescing together to make them glow slightly. He has such a tender look in them.

Five seconds is far too long to pause kissing; you and Floyd both agree, throwing yourself back at each other.

Each part that Floyd touches on you ignites with a hellish fire. Not even the negative temperatures of the freezer can subdue such a flaming sensation. He cradles your organ and skeletal system with such care, moving kidney to lung to lymph nodes, moving ilium to scapula to xiphoid process. Every part of you worshiped.

You are never going to come up for air. You both have waited far too long for this.

I’m gonna fucking bite his lips off, you think with untamed carnivorous desire. It seems Floyd agrees to the sentiment. Because he eagerly follows when you move him by a handful of his hair on the right side, black and teal threading through fierce fingers.

“Aah,” Floyd gasps when you pull.

“Mmmm,” you moan when Floyd squeezes.

“Ah,” Jade squeaks surprised.

You pull away first, head snapping towards the open door. Iron hot warmth burns your lips. You look at Floyd’s twin with horror when you realize you definitely have salvia coated generously on your lips. Mourning that it is not blood on your tongue, you listen as Jade says, “I felt the spell break, but it looks like I made an ill-thought-out decision to check. My apologies; please continue.”

But you cannot because – “my fucking scallops, Jade! If those are burnt, I’m going to break your terrariums!”

“My, what flaming anger. Perhaps another hour in the freezer.”

Both you and Floyd run at Jade just as he unclips his magic pen.

This should not be that big of a deal.

You have done this a hundred times over and will continue to do it a hundred times over. So there is absolutely no rational reason for your hands to be shaking on this avalanche level intensity. Still – looking down at them, clutched around a tiny red coffin – there your hands are … at the end of your wrists … shaking.

There is still time to dispose of the evidence. On both hands you can count the number of people who would be more than grateful to receive this little tomb. Two of them happened to have beast features on the top of their heads, and one of the two already expressed interest in it.

(“How does this smell?”

“Shishishi, smells delicious. I didn’t know today was payday.”

“Wait! Aaah, don’t touch it please – this isn’t payment.”

“Hm,” confusion knits Ruggie’s face. “Then why bother asking?”

You cannot meet his eyes at that moment. Shuffling shoes suddenly seem more interesting as you murmur sheepishly under your breath. “It’s a little embarrassing.” Unable to elaborate further, you open up the red box. Aroma and warmth swims through the air. Ruggie’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight.

“Oh. I get it now.”

You ruminate at that moment, vomiting out all your insecurities. You barely even stop between each word. All of it pulled from you by an imaginary fish hook: “It’s so embarrassing; I’m going to throw it out!!”

“Don’t you dare.” Ruggie yells as you rush off to find a trash-can.) Eventually, Ruggie did manage to convince you to keep it in a very cop-talks-down-a-suicide-jumper with the cop being him and the suicide jumper, the bento box.

Floyd will – backtrack, Floyd is going to laugh at it. You are just stuck on predicting if his high-pitched laughter will be mocking or amused. Perhaps, his dominant hand will come to rest on his right shoulder, miffed beyond sensibility. The bento contains a mini-hot-dog-faced bear sleeping under a blanket of rice, dyed to look like a watermelon, with dreams of corn, cucumbers, and meat floating above his head. Is that amusing or aggravating?

Waking up so early in the morning to make another lunch on top of the ones prepared for yourself and Grim … what illness have you caught, fever turning your hands into fretful shaking limbs … what happens if he hates the bear and would prefer a bunny or panda … you even stressed over picking an aquatic themed bento, but decided it against it because it was too on-the-nose for your tastes.

If a heart is made of meaty worries and anxieties, you put your heart into this meal. Head down, roaming Night Raven’s halls, you blush hard at the thought.

Things have been escalating fast between you two. Floyd’s shyness melted away when you two stumbled out of the walk-in freezer. His body and blood eagerly reveal his own matching hunger. You still remember last night kneading dough at Ramshackle, him nestling you from behind and pressing more and more kisses to your pulse point. Both of you devour each other in lip to lip kisses.

Love, an ingredient in the kitchen.

By the time you have arrived at your destination, your face has thankfully cooled down. There he stands. He is caught up in a conversation with Jade as Azul patiently waits off to the side. I shouldn’t interrupt them, you think and gladly grab onto that detour. If you turn down the left hallway, you can avoid this and pass Ruggie’s D period class. This vulnerability is worse than the vulnerability of being magicless. I should go. They seem busy –

“Shrimpy!” Your heart knocks hard on the muscles of your throat at that nickname. How does he always know when you are around?

Closing the gap, refusing to make eye-contact. You can feel the casual observation of Azul and Jade on you as you display what is in your hands. Stop shaking, you big baby, you scold yourself. “Floyd. This is – um –.”

“Is that for me? Aw, does Shrimpy like me or something? That’s cute — a little shrimp with a little crush.”

You finally look up. An amused, mismatched pair of eyes squint impishly at you. Miles of intestines give a teapot boiling over sound in rage. Okay, two can play at that:

“Jade. How nice to see you! I happened to make extra for my own lunch; I noticed your habit of eating more than one meal at lunch and thought you would enjoy this.”

“My, what a gracious offer. Thank you, (Name). I will be sure to savor every bite.”

What you are offering to Jade is suddenly swiped: “HEY, THAT’S MINE!”

Your lips quirk up, expecting that. His next move you are much less prepared for. Halfhazardlessly, he flips open the box as if to check that Jade has not eaten anything from the tomb. All of his energy drips out of him, bloodletting-esque. He almost appears paler.

His only response is a slow blink directed at you.

“You don’t have to eat it. Grim or Ruggie will – And! And I get it! It’s pretty embarrassing. I totally get –” Your word vomit is swallowed by a pair of lips.

Floyd does not even give you a chance to reciprocate, pulling away with laughter on his tongue. Not mocking or amused. Lovey-dovey laughter.

Love has such a wonderful flavor. Right there, in the belly of the beast.

#floyd leech x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #floyd leech

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