#i hate living like this. why do i not have anything better to do at this age.

[sidekick-hero]

“You think I should bring some roses to the date?”

Steve looks beautiful in his moss-green button-up, and Eddie wants to scream into a pillow. Not just because he can correctly name the color of Steve’s clothes now, but because the man he’s been crushing on for months is about to go on a date with someone who isn’t him.

And of course, it has to be today. Valentine’s Day.

Steve’s first date since Nancy, his long-time girlfriend, broke up with him. Eddie had wanted to wait before asking him out himself—afraid it was too soon, that Steve was still hurting. That he’d be the rebound at best.

And now, Steve was going out with Spencer. On Valentine’s Day.

God, he hates everything about it. But he loves Steve, more than he’s in love with him. So—

“He’s not going to know what hit him when he sees you, Stevie. You don’t need flowers when he won’t be able to look at anything but you.”

The brilliant, sunshine smile Eddie gets in return is worth the aching in his heart.

“Thanks, Eds. I’d better get going, don’t wanna be late. I’ll see you tomorrow—if everything goes like I planned.” Steve winks, all confidence and charm, and Eddie swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s glad to see Steve like this again. He just wishes it was for him, not some random guy who doesn’t even know that Steve always leaves a tiny sip in all his cups and glasses.

He forces himself to wish Steve fun and good luck. As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, he calls Robin.

“Uggghhhhh,” he groans into the phone as soon as she picks up.

Robin, the traitor, laughs. “Get a grip, Bambi. I already told you—man up and tell Steve how you feel. Stop whining at me.”

“You’re mean.”

“And you’re pathetic. Seriously, why can’t you just tell him? You’ve been head-over-heels for him since the day I met you.”

Eddie groans again, rubbing a hand over his face. “Because I love him, Robs. I want him to be happy.”

Robin’s voice softens. “You make him happy, you idiot. You always have. I was really worried about him after Nancy, but you pulled him out of his slump. The first time he smiled again after the breakup? That was because of you.”

Eddie doesn’t reply, because honestly, what’s there to say to that?

Robin sighs. “Just think about it, Eddie. We both love him. We both want him to be happy. I believe you can make that happen. Do you?”

After they hang up, Eddie sits in silence, Robin’s words echoing in his head. We both love him. We both want him to be happy.

Was she right? Could he make Steve happy?

No. No, he can’t. Eddie’s never had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks. And Steve deserves better. He deserves someone worthy of the wonderful man he is. Someone who loves him loudly, carries him on their hands. Someone who knows Steve hates his birthday because he was always alone on them as a kid. Someone who doesn’t just tolerate his weird habits but loves them, because they make him Steve.

Steve deserves someone who isn’t afraid of commitment. Someone successful and put-together. Not a guy who still lives with two roommates, slings drinks at a bar, and clings to the dream that his band might one day make it.

The beeping of his phone startles him out of his thoughts. He sighs, expecting Robin, but—

It’s Steve.

Spencer’s still not here. You think he stood me up?

Eddie’s entire body tenses. That stupid son of a bitch.

If he did, he’s even stupider than his name. He types while yanking open his closet, grabbing for the one good shirt he owns. You want me to come get you?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Fine. That’s fine. It gives Eddie time to throw the shirt on, shove his feet into his boots, and grab his keys.

Finally, Steve’s reply pops up.

No, it’s fine. I’ll wait some more. You know how traffic can be.

Eddie clenches his jaw. He can practically hear Steve making excuses, trying to be understanding. Trying to believe in someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Screw this.

Eddie doesn’t think. He just moves.

Keys in hand, he’s already out the door.

Good thing he knows what fancy restaurant Steve wanted to take his date to. If it were him, he'd take Steve to their favorite Italian restaurant, the one with the handmade pasta and the handmade tiramisu.

Maybe they can still go there.

The second Eddie pushes through the restaurant doors, his eyes land on Steve immediately.

He’s sitting at a small table by the window, drumming his fingers against the stem of his untouched water glass, his lips pressed into a tight line. His date is nowhere to be seen.

Eddie strides over like he should be here—because, honestly? He does.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, dropping into the chair across from Steve like this is their date. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic, you know how it is.”

Steve startles, blinking up at him. “What—Eddie? What are you—?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Eddie lies easily, tossing his keys onto the table. “Figured you were either kidnapped or too nice to walk out on that douchebag, so here I am. Your knight in shining leather.”

Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but there’s something soft in his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you look way too good to be sitting here alone.” Eddie leans back, eyes sweeping over him, exaggerating his admiration. “I mean, damn, Stevie. If I’d known you’d clean up this nice, I would’ve asked you out ages ago.”

He means it as a joke. Mostly. But something shifts in Steve’s expression—his fingers tightening slightly around the glass, his smile faltering just a little.

“…You’re serious.”

Eddie swallows. Shrugs. “I mean… yeah?”

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head again, but this time, he’s smiling. A real one. One that makes Eddie’s chest feel too tight.

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve mutters, reaching for his jacket. “Come on, if you’re crashing my Valentine’s Day, you’re at least buying me dinner. At our restaurant.”

Eddie grins, hopping to his feet. “Now we’re talking. Babe, you know I’m the cheapest date in town.”

Steve snorts, bumping their shoulders as they head for the door. And yeah, okay—maybe Robin was right.

Because Steve looks happy. And Eddie could get used to that.

[sunflower1experiment]

The Doctor, will See You

Risk

It was quiet, you were quiet, it made him uncomfortable when you would acknowledge him with a nod and then walk past. Tending to the children, was it the fact that you lost this child or maybe you had finally accepted your fate. Whatever the plan was it was also affecting the toys too, Leith was less strict and more patient but the knowledge that you weren't actively seeking any forms of social bond made him worry. "Can you talk to me?"

Stella begs while holding your hand, you chuckle sadly. "No, stop trying and just work. Please."

Work, silence, feed, care, work, silence.....feed...?

Doey's neck stretches across his cell and ate some of the fruit you placed down, "You're feeding us? Why?" This was Kevin talking, the children were weary. You simply shake your head, "I'm doing this to tell you to live, keep rebelling, you're all smart and I...I'm doing what I can before I accept everything."

The boys stare at you through Doey, "What do you mean? Your voice isn't gentle, so why?"

"Kevin, Matthew, Jack...Doey. I don't think Harley or Prototype are good. So, I want you to take care of the children if things get...tense, you don't have to do it if you don't want to. Every choice you make. Make sure to forgive yourself, okay? You're good kids." Doey flinches when you place one more food into his hand.

It was, colorful, like him a pretty fruit with colors and a variety of different tastes. "Peach..." He ate it curiously, relishing the different essences of sweetness.

Catnap was well difficult to speak with, you knew he held high expectations for Prototype and also didn't see you as anything other than a scientist, an adult. One that betrayed him, the food placed down was smacked away, "It's okay. You have every right to be angry."

He sneers at your words, just because you were "one of the good ones"

"You are no better, you are a scientist, you still stood beside him." Nodding at his words you sigh sadly.

"Maybe that was a signal, loving him and then getting attached to you all. That no matter how hard I try, I was more loyal to playtime than I was myself. I so badly wish to take your pain away. Sadly, the only thing I can do is this."

What did you mean!? Catnap watches you leave, Dogday stares in horror, "Catnap, did Prototype...." No, what did you mean!?

Were you leaving? No, you had a plan, something they wouldn't know about. Mommy places the fruits and vegetables aside when you returned. After everything, the truth, and now you and Harley were no more. What were you planning to do exactly? "Is there a reason you're so, quiet, planning in silence?"

"The plan is to give you all strength, and then, gather evidence." Mommy's eyes widen, she slinks over with a curious grin. "Evidence?"

"You are evidence, but the files are too." So that is why you were quiet and so obediently tame, of course this is merely as scary as any job with a corrupt background but to be on top and stay while hitting rock bottom. Yet here you are, giving food while ignoring Harley's calls.

Huggy leans in when your phone rings for the third time, you hold his cheek so he could remain still. His sharp teeth chew on the pears you feed him, sometimes he'd stand guard while you worked. Listening to the apologies or gentle words he wished to hear, when the experimentations happened. Did you even know of the pain? the anguish? The suffering everyone experienced at the hands of Harley, Eddie and Leith?

He could only smile while staring at you, your apologies meant something but in terms of actioner it would fall flat.

"tHe hOur oF jOy....yOu sHoUlD join..."

"I can't...I have to give the evidence to the public, you understand...I'm not sure what this hour will be but if you all plan to escape then I'll do everything I can to help."

Prototype envies your determined futility; him and Harley were alike that way. Harley loves your bleeding heart while Prototype's plan was meant to break you, turn you to hate humanity and maybe just maybe you could collaborate with him. Not out of love, or concern to commemorate you and him becoming allies, but because he needed eyes, ears, hands, and the ability to touch.

He then notes the ringing phone, that was once again in voicemail. Harley was growing more desperate.

Each one went straight to voicemail, or he'd find you in your office. Expecting coffee from you or a small smile of assurance, where did he go wrong? The day he truly went wrong was probably the last time you and him would share such warm embrace.

What happened? The files were placed down, evidence upon evidence and a video file to upload the truth to the world. Now all there is the door, but it was locked. Your body tenses, and in the back of your mind you prayed it wasn't what you thought it'd be. Whether you loved him or not, it was still...

It starts with a crash, a gunshot, yelling, what did Prototype do, words of who will cover this up fill your ears. How will he cover it up, then you ran in and knelt to Harley's side, holding him by the face.

Whether Harley wanted to or not, that was what made Leith, and you clash, he was usually bemused with your interaction with the toys.

Yet nothing bemused him more than seeing your teary-eyed face standing before him.

TW// Blood, gunshot, (Here we see his perspective of what happened. Meanwhile Leith gets his perception while the hour of joy is its own chapter), cursing, gore minors do not interact if you get weary at the mention of blood

Harley, Harley Sawyer, head scientist of the projects, facing betrayal, curiosity, discovery, love, failure, and isolation. Holding no sorts of humility and discipline as stated by Elliot, he struggles to reach the top of the ranks in playtime co. Striding to become better than those nobodies he called coworkers, the ones with bleeding hearts, soft like Elliot or not even capable to reach his intellect.

Many experiments, failure or not he knew he was the one carrying this company to success, then it was Quinn...

Quinn, he should've listened when he knew someone was opting to take this child in. Experiment 1166, aka Yarnaby. The obedience it displays....or he displays, was enough to make Sawyer "take" him in. That was his first mistake, "That boy Quinn, I really want to adopt him."

In one ear and out the other, this man was foolish. To even form a relationship with someone who held more humility, more humanity than him. How dare he ruin the concept of enamor for his partner to be or to not be.

He loved you, of course he did, that's why he kept you close. Someone needed to keep this family together, Harley, Quinn Yarnaby, you. His mind wanders to the baby, two months in...and to see your locked door the fetus, the man wanted to yell at the scientist for not saving it. It could be of potential: What a sick twisted thought to have about your own child!

Harley breaths as he scraps the paperwork on the prototype, "sOmethiNg thE mATTER? DoCtor?"

"No, you and I both know that....So anything else you wish to express?" It chuckles, then taps the metallic fingers on the table. "You both loved each other so dearly, and you simply had to turn that boy into a toy....Criminals, sick, dying...Right? Potential toys. Or better yet Some sedation."

"Don't you ever use that voice against me! Damn it!" Harley slams his hands on the table, he hated that voice, because it belonged to you. Except you were crying, hugging his frame while he couldn't bear to see you making that pathetic sound. Even when the doctor had the audacity to find some sick amusement at Yarnaby's sounds....you were different.

It absolutely annoys Harley's soul knowing Stella held some form of kinship to you, the flowers expressed so many words. So, he tried as well, first it was a Clematis Jackmanii, you were enthralled by such beauty. Next the Iris, you returned this exchange with a Rosemary, so he got bolder, and he was before your office with a Tuberose. Your wide eyes and slightly startled demeanor rub him the wrong way until you show him a beautiful pink poppy. He holds it, silent....

That flower was now wilted, he was heartbroken or maybe he needed to try again. So, he foolishly offers a poppy flower. Your demeanor is unchanging, and your silence spoke so many words to him, truly the indifference you held to the doctor hurt more than any form of hatred.

All these puzzles and shifts to try and win you over again he simply moves onto work like you but not the way he'd expect. The incident, he simply had Boxy Boo cover his tracks, and he'd leave while everyone else was already home. Until he saw you, your eyes were wide the crashing, gunshots, what happened!?

But he could only focus on you, he tries to speak, then stops when you walk forward. Harley practically drops everything to hold you but then his eyes widen. There was blood on the floor, sounds of shouting and Leith's angry yelling while guards start to seize you.

"Harley! What did you bastards do!? What was that!?" Your voice fades as the guards move you towards the hallways, "Harley!!!"

Harley's breathing shortens, too much blood loss...he felt it track over his lab coat. It reminded him of your warmth, your lips and tender touch.

"Start the procedure."

Then the doctor awoke, calling for you, it made Leith tense with anger, Dr. Bruno White clears his throat. "Procedure complete....how, are you feeling?"

"White!? Where, what happened...I...Something is wrong, what did you do!? Which one of you higher up backstabbing traitors..."

"I gave the order." Leith cuts Sawyer off from his angry tangent, he sighs. "After so many chances and even a failed attempt of us nearly getting exposed. You really know how to handle your screw ups."

"Enough with your idle talk, why would we even get exposed?" Sawyer snarls at him, his patience wearing thin.

"Your partner had evidence, upon evidence! Everything was recorded, everything! You simply couldn't just leave it alone..." Leith sighs, "Luckily we dealt with him as per needed.

"You have no idea what you all are doing, you all need mine and my dear's intellect!"

"That is the exact reason why you're here and not food for Boxy Boo." Leith retorts while he looks at Leith's now isolated form. "Here's how we'll do this, you will give the other scientists answers when they need them, and to perform procedures as directed."

"You'll die for this Pierre! When I get my hands on you. You're a DEAD MAN!"

Harley wouldn't accept this, not when you were trapped somewhere, being treated with the same pain. Leith Pierre maybe, a greedy bastard but...would he hurt you.

He had to know, it was as if the world was against him for the final time. How many months went by is what he'd ask but he knew time was only relative in the eyes of the beholder.

That's when he hears him again, "Open the door!" Leith's angry voice fills his ears, you take some steps back. Holding your chest, he watches through the camera tapping on the screen. Anything to get your attention, Stella's cries fill his head. Why was everyone do damn loud!?

"I failed, for the final time." Your voice begins, he assumed you were crying, and he desperately hopes it was true. Yet when no tears shed, he was angry. At himself, those fools, you!

He notices you grabbing the lever, to release everyone, everything, even him. But that meant you would die too, "No matter how much I try to look, I was no better…if they kill me, I hope I can ease their pain…I’m so sorry children."

You can't be serious!? This had to be prototype's doing! Why didn't he see the signs sooner, damn it, damn everything to hell it was his fault! He held the blame, Leith Pierre held the blame, Stella, all of these scientists. Innocent, guilty....

"I really did love him." Harley stops moping with self-loath when you say those words, "I just wanted him to see that those orphans, the children. They were smarter than people realize..."

You pull the lever; closing the gate that guards the workers in the higher grounds. "Prototype wanted us to die but, not everyone deserves it. I tried to convince him and Sawyer..."

The doctor watches your determined glare towards the others, "I'm doing this for the sake of the children and the innocent. I don't care if this seems like some moral power play, it isn't I'm no better."

Everything played out so slowly, the gates were vain as they transported Huggy to the upper floor. Killing everyone, Mommy long legs follow afterwards in the train station playground, death, blood, bodies. The sick sounds of someone's body being torn apart, it made Harley watch in awe how they practically turn this play to hell..

Because of him and those backstabbing scientists, what exactly did you do? Right, you never did them, you were the one who interrogated the children and toys.

Always being sweet, and caring for them, feeding those damned beasts. That was your downfall and biggest flaw, you had that bleeding heart...

"....Hello old friend." The prototype says in a mocking manner, "I see even after everything, your love for that scientist has not changed. So, will the doctor be seeing them?"

Harley chuckles bitterly at its words of mockery and amusement, those fools lost control god knows how much later after he was turned. Now this "Hour of Joy" happens, all of his work in shambles..

But you, his perfect experiment. You weren't in shambles, not yet that is, maybe if he made you into something like him the toys would be more accepting. Unlike that Thomas Clarke fellow, he could make you his perfect experiment, the perfect partner. Without that awful bleeding heart, he came to adore so much, you'd be safe from manipulation. From Prototype, he sighs once more as he finally clears his head, "Make sure my dear partner doesn't die.."

Your fate was sealed that day.

[morgana-larkin]

Here it is, the next chapter! Now for this one, Joe is back for half the chapter and you might all hate this chapter but I don’t really care. Not edited in the slightest and I hope you like it!

On another note: I just want to say Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone! I was able to write a chapter today but I’m going on a date tomorrow so I won’t have a lot of time to write a chapter but I’ll see if I can write one quickly.

Just Tired - Part 8

Warnings: manipulative relationship, Upset Mel (you’ve been warned)

Words: 2.7k

You and Melissa get to your place. You let the both of you in and then you take your shoes off while Melissa looks around.

“If you’re looking for my roommate, she won’t get here for another hour.” You tell her and she nods. “Do you want to text Joe? Just to get it over with, and you’re not home so there’s no way he can get to you. I’m not pressuring you but I’m guessing it’s something on your mind.” You tell her and she nods.

“I want to end it but… I don’t know, I’m just scared.” She says and she goes to sit on the couch and you follow her.

“What are you scared about?”

“I’ve been with Joe since I was 23, I’ve been with him for most of my life and now I’m letting him go.” She tells you. “I get he’s a manipulator, but there’s some part of me that wants to stay with him as he’s all I’ve known for 25 years.” She tells you and you hum. She then gets a text and she goes to read it before she groans.

“What is it?”

“Joe said he wants to know when I’m coming home so we can talk about what happened.” She tells you and you look at the text.

“You don’t have to go see him in person, you can tell him right now that it’s over.”

“No, I think it’s better if I tell him in person. I think it's better for me, so my brain understands that it’ll actually be over.” She says and you nod.

“Want me to drive you over?” You ask her and she nods.

“Please.” She says softly and you take her hand.

You drive her to her place where Joe walks out of the house as soon as he hears the car pull in. You see a white bandage over his nose and think that Melissa got him good. Melissa takes a deep breath and then gets out of the car.

“Melissa where have you been? You haven’t been home since yesterday afternoon.” He asks her and then sees you. “What is your coworker doing here and driving your car?”

“That doesn’t matter.” She tells him and then you slightly roll down the window, enough so you can hear but they don’t notice that it’s open. “I wanted to come here to tell you that it’s over between us, I want a divorce.” She firmly states.

“Oh come on Melissa, you’re just overreacting.” Joe tells her. “Look I know you’re sorry about breaking my nose, so just come inside.” He says and she shakes her head.

“No, I’m telling you that I’m really asking for a divorce.” She says and walks a few steps towards him. “I’m going to file for one and I want to make sure that you’ll sign the papers.”

“I’m not going to sign them. I’m not signing anything because of some hissy fit.” He tells her and crosses his arms.

“You have been manipulating me this entire time, the entire time we’ve been together. I think the least you can do is sign the damn papers.” She admits to him and he widens his eyes slightly.

“I haven’t been manipulating you. I don’t know what’s going on in your mind or what your coworkers have been drilling into your head, but let’s just continue our normal lives as husband and wife.” He says and offers her a hand for her to take.

“They haven’t been telling me anything, I found out on my own.” She says and Joe looks at you.

“Has she been spewing nonsense at you. I saw how she looked at you at the bar, she has a crush on you.” He says, blaming everything on you. “I bet she’s been feeding you lies about me, about us. She wants this to happen, she wants to be with you so she’s sabotaging our marriage.” He says to her and she’s shaking her head.

“No, she’s not.” Melissa tells him and walks closer to him. “I haven’t been happy in a long time and I never knew why until yesterday.” She admits and he looks at her.

“Do you think you can find someone else? Someone who will love you better than me?” He asks her as she steps toward her. “Face it, I’m your best chance.” He says with anger and points a finger at her.

“No, no you’re not.” She says and looks down quickly before looking back up with a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Now you’re crying? You’re so sensitive, woman.” He tells her.

“It’s ok to have emotions, it’s ok for me to cry.” She defends herself. “You just never wanted me to cry because you wanted me to just stay clueless about what you were doing to me.” She tells him and then he grabs both her wrists. “Let me go!” She tells him.

“I haven’t been doing anything to you, it’s you that’s clearly flying off the rails. If you leave me then you’ll be alone for the rest of your life.” He says to her. “It’s obvious you’re not feeling well right now, so just calm down and I’ll bring you to bed.”

“No, just let me go.” She says softly as a few more tears stream down her face. He then is able to hold both her wrists in one hand and he grabs her chin with his free hand.

“Melissa, come on and think about it. We’ve been together for 25 years and we love each other, shouldn’t that be enough for you?” He tells her and she shakes her head. “So you want to be alone for the rest of your life? Cause that’s what you'll be if you let me go.”

“You should let her go.” You tell him and he turns his head to see you there holding a bat, ready to swing. “Let her go, she said she wants a divorce.” You add.

“You’re probably feeding her nonsense, trying to ruin a perfectly good marriage so you can have her.” He says to you and you shake your head.

“I haven’t done a thing except helping Melissa yesterday after she left you.” You tell him. “Now let her go or I won’t hesitate to use this.” You say and he thinks about it for a few seconds before he lets her go.

“You’ll regret this Melissa, and you’ll come crawling back to me.” He tells her before he walks back inside the house.

You lower the bat before you run up to Melissa, who’s full on crying right now. You wrap your arms around her and she lays her head on your chest while she just cries it out. After about a minute you gently stroke her head and she wraps her arms around your waist. You feel her pull the both of you down so you lower yourself, with her, to your knees. After a couple minutes, you feel her sniffle and her tears subside.

“Can you take me to your place?” She says softly and you nod.

“I can definitely do that.” You tell her and you help her stand up and then bring her to the passenger seat. You put the bat back in the backseat and then you drive the both of you to your place.

“Can we go to your room and cuddle?” She asks you and you nod. She walks to your room without any help from you and you see her wrap her arms around herself and she’s looking down. You quickly get a box of chocolates from the cupboard and bring it upstairs to your room where she’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“None of what he told you was true.” You tell her and she looks up at you. “I heard everything.” You admit and she brings her knees to her chest and hugs herself. “Were you wanting to cuddle on the edge of the bed?” You ask her and she shakes her head.

You go up to the headboard, place the chocolates on the nightstand and sit down and she takes a deep breath before she crawls up to you and places her head on your lap. You gently stroke her hair and she wraps one of her arms around your legs. You then start humming a lullaby that your mom used to sing to you and you feel some of her tension leave.

“Something he did say was true.” She tells you.

“What are you referring to?” You ask.

“You did help ruin the marriage.” She says softly and you look at her and freeze in your stroking. “But that’s not a bad thing.” She adds. “I’m glad you got involved, that you overstepped.” She says and you resume stroking her head.

“Ya?”

“Ya, I knew I was unhappy but I couldn’t figure out why. Until you got involved.” She tells you and you hum. “I have something to confess.”

“And what would that be?”

“Barb’s guest bedroom is always ready to be used, she didn’t have to get it ready.” She admits. “If I’m being honest, it felt nice to be held like how you held me last night and I wanted that again.”

“Melissa, you could have told me that and I still would have said you can stay here again.” You tell her.

“I know but I just didn’t want to admit it, out loud.” She tells you and a thought pops into your head.

“Melissa?” You ask her and she hums. “Did you know you might be into women?” You ask her.

“No, but last week I realised that I’ve been attracted to women before without knowing.” She confesses.

“Are you comfortable going to a bar where women will definitely hit on you?”

“Ya, I think that’s something that will make me feel better. Explore more of myself and kiss some people.” She says.

“It’s a gay bar, so there’ll be lesbians, bisexual women and men.” You tell her. “But mostly lesbians and bisexual women hang out there. And I see most of them hit on older women. So they’ll be all over you.” You add and she hums.

“That sounds nice.” She says with a yawn and then she falls asleep on your lap. You then get your phone out and you text Barb what happened and that Melissa is now asleep on your lap.

Melissa opens her eyes and sees that she’s been tucked in your bed and her head is on one of your pillows. She’s pretty sure she was just laying on your lap a few seconds ago. She then hears some noise downstairs so she gets out of bed and makes her way to the stairs. She then hears some voices in the kitchen and realises that you and Barb are talking.

“You’re doing an excellent job at helping her dear.” Barb tells you.

“I just feel like I’m not doing enough.” You say to her.

“You’re listening to what she needs and making sure she gets exactly what she needs to help. I mean you did a combined class all day because she needed you at the last minute.” Barb says.

“Ok.” You say. “Will this really help her feel better?” You then ask.

“It’s a comfort meal of hers that I made her after she had a fight with Joe and I made it every time she stayed at my place overnight.” Barb explains to you. At that moment Melissa decides to go downstairs and you look up and smile at her.

“Hey, you’re awake.” You tell her. “Feel any better?” You ask and she nods.

“I’m pretty sure I fell asleep on your lap though.” She says and you nod.

“You did, but Barb came over and I had to open the door for her.” You tell her and she hums. “She made your favourite comfort food.” You add and she looks at Barb putting it on 3 plates.

“Y/n told me everything.” Barb tells Melissa.

“You warned me about him 15 years ago and I should have listened to you.” Melissa tells Barb.

“Melissa, sometimes people in this situation aren’t aware for a while and they have to figure it out themselves. Even though Y/n and I both told you, you had to figure it out yourself to actually understand what was happening.” She tells Melissa and you see how Melissa nods with watery eyes. You go up to Melissa with a plate and you gently hand it to her while also rubbing her arm.

“Eating might make you feel better.” You tell her softly and she nods as she takes the plate and heads over to the couch. Barb hands you one of the plates and you both follow Melissa to the couch. You end up sitting on the floor across from them and Melissa looks at you.

“Where are you eating on the floor?” She asks you.

“It really only fits 2 people comfortably.” You tell her. She then looks at the empty spot on the couch and then at you. Barb gets the hint and goes to the side of the couch before Melissa pats the now empty spot beside her. “I mean it, it’s really only comfortable for 2.” You repeat and she raises her eyebrows at you before you get up and join them on the couch. Melissa gets you to sit down as close to her as possible so that at least your legs are touching hers.

All 3 of you eat dinner and talk for about an hour before Barb heads back to her place and you’re left alone with Melissa again. Melissa then goes to cuddle you on the couch. You lean back on the couch and she wraps an arm around your waist and places her head on your chest. You wrap an arm around her and she lets out a content sigh. She stays like through the entire movie that you let her pick.

“I should go have a shower before bed.” You tell her and she sighs.

“No.” She complains and wraps her arm tighter around you.

“Melissa, we can cuddle in bed after I’m done.” You tell her and she still doesn’t let you go. “Melissa, I promise we can cuddle in bed after I’m finished or you can swing that bat at my head.” You tell her and she thinks about it before she sighs and lets you go. “I’ll be quick.” You tell her and then you go have a quick shower while she goes upstairs and gets changed in some pjs.

You come out in a towel and hair wet and Melissa freezes at the sight and her cheeks turn the same colour as her hair. You miss her reaction as you went right to your dresser to get some pjs.

“I keep forgetting to bring pjs with me.” You say as you get some out. Melissa snaps out of her trance before you turn around and she swallows the extra saliva she got from drooling over you.

“That’s ok. I’ll just finish getting ready for bed in the bathroom.” Melissa says and then bolts to the bathroom.

She comes out a few minutes later and you’re in bed on your phone. She crawls into bed beside you and you set your alarms before you put your phone down and look at her.

“I called Ava and told her I’m not going into work tomorrow.” She tells you and you nod.

“That’s a good idea.” You say to her.

Melissa looks into your eyes and sees the care you have for her and she feels a slight flutter in her stomach. In a moment of confidence she goes to give you a kiss on your cheek as a thank you. You happen to turn your head right before and she ends up kissing your lips. She quickly pulls away and you both are looking at each other with wide eyes as the realisation kicks in. Melissa licks her lips and looks at yours before she kisses you again.

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[rosenclaws]

Do Mutants Dream of Two-Headed Sheep? Chapter 1 || Logan x Cyborg!Reader

Summary: You find yourself in a strange place after being rescued and you don't feel very welcome here.

Warnings: Body horror, angst, blood, medical stuff, injury, angry reader, defensive Logan, reader has a panic attack

wc: 2.2k

a/n: Here's the first chapter! Its mostly set up with a lot of angst but I'm excited to take this story and explore more about both Logan and the reader.

Series Masterlist

They were called the X-Men. They’re mutants. Just like you. You didn’t know anything. They asked you a million questions. Hooked you up to machines. Took X-Rays. Ran tests. Their scientist. Beast. Hank as he asked you to call him. He poked and prodded you for hours.

You hated every moment of it. You were a fucked up creation. He apologized but you paid him no mind. All you could stare at was your new robotic body. What did they turn you into? Hank starts talking.

The people who did this to you, they replaced half of your body with machine parts. But it was incomplete. They meant to turn you fully into a robot, a heartless, cold dead weapon who would listen to their every command. But by the time the X-men had gotten there they had only gotten half way through.

“It’s incredible really.” Hank mumbles and your head whips to the side.

“Incredible? You call being torn apart and replaced by metal incredible?” You spit. His eyes widen as he starts to back peddle, apologizing for his insensitive language but you don’t want to fucking hear it.

“Leave me alone. I’m done being your little show pony.” You snarl.

“I…I’ll be back later to check on you.” Hank offers you a small smile but you just stare ahead of you.

You look at your hands, your arms, your legs. You can barely differentiate between your new body and the medical IV’s that Hank and stuck in you. You had no memories, no clue who you were, how you got there in the first place. The only thing you remember is pain. Only pain.

You hated it. In a fit of rage you grab the IV wires and rip them out of your arm. You watch as blood drips down your arm. The only reminder you have that you’re still made of flesh. 

Upstairs Charles had called a team meeting. All of them for the lack of a better term were unsettled. They’re mutants. They’ve seen a lot of things in their life. People who don’t look human or have some mutation that changes their physical appearance. But this. This was utterly new and horribly cruel. 

“According to the files we extracted from their computer, the mutant you found is known as Project G.H.O.S.T.” Charles sets down the files on his desk.

“Doctor Peter Crane is the lead scientist hired by Section K. Unfortunately, we were unable to capture him or the leader of a mutant experimentation group. But we were able to get their information and future plans all while destroying their current base of operations.” Scott follows while skimming through the amount of information gathered on the mission.

“Who are they? Why did Crane want them?” Storm asks as she looks at the folder with all your information.

“We don’t know. Most of the information had already been destroyed, not even a name. But from what…” Scott trails off, unsure of how to phrase it. He glances at Logan for just a second before turning back to Charles.

“What we do have, we think they were planning on turning them into a living weapon. Strip them of their humanity and turn them into a puppet.” That struck a chord with Logan. Living weapon, yeah he’s heard that one before. He was one before.

“Did they?” Logan asks gruffly.

“We don’t know. It looks like they only got half way through before we found them.” Scott replies.

Logan grunts in response. He stops listening to Scott once he moves on, something about plans or whatever. He doesn’t care. His thoughts drift back to you. Just what are you? Charles didn’t mention anything about a mutant like you. Half machine. Logan was the one to save you, to cut you free and try to get you out but now he’s wondering if it was a mistake.

What if they had turned you already? Destroyed your humanity and they brought you right into the heart of the X-Men. Are you dangerous? He knows what it’s like to be experimented on, to be turned into a puppet for the masters to play with.

Anyone else would feel a connection, a level of understanding. But Logan, he can’t trust that easily. This is his home and the people living in this mansion are his family. He knows what you could possibly be.

And he doesn’t trust it one bit.

“You’re all dismissed, we’ll try and find out more and plan for next week.” Charles says. He turns his head to stare directly at Logan.

“Logan. Come with me.” Logan grumbles as he gets out of his chair and follows the professor through the halls.

“I know you’re distrustful of our new guest,” Charles starts making Logan scoff.

“Your thoughts are louder than you think Logan. I would have assumed you would be more…understanding.” Charles says carefully. Understanding isn’t exactly the word anyone would use to describe Logan but it was the best choice.

“I understand how dangerous people like us can be.” Logan states plainly. The destruction he caused as Weapon X, he doesn’t remember most of it but he can still smell the blood and sometimes he catches glimpses in his nightmares.

“I see.”

Logan steps in the elevator with Charles and stays quiet as it brings them down to the laboratory. When they enter your room they just see you sitting on the bed. Your eyes staring at the small TV in front of you. The channels flipping back and forth rapidly.

“Hello my dear, my name is Charles Xavier.” You glance at him, then at Logan before turning your attention back to the TV.

“I know this is a lot to process but I promise you we’re here to help you.” Still silent.

“When you’re ready, we have a room ready and we’d like to ask you some questions.” Still nothing. Logan grows irritated at your lack of response.

“Hey. He’s talking to you bub.” Logan snaps, the words tumbling out of his mouth without even thinking. You glare at him as he slams his hand against the TV, shutting it off. With a flick of your wrist it turns right back on.

“Technopathy, a rare mutation indeed.” Charles notes.

“Logan, show them to their dorm room. I think they’ve spent enough time down here.” Charles leaves, stranding you alone with Logan.

He’s the one who found you. You recognize his voice. Though this time he’s much angrier than he was before. He’s hostile and it looks like he might claw you right where you sit.

“Alright kid-”

“I’m not a kid.” You snap. Your robotic hand clenching around the rails of the bed, crushing the metal with ease.

“Fine. I want to know exactly what they did to you. Give me one reason I should let you near any of those kids up there.” Logan growls. You just laugh at his audacity, he doesn’t scare you for a second.

“Aren’t you a warm welcome? Is this typical X-Men hospitality? Stick needles and threaten my life? ” You spit and Logan’s claws come out instantly.

“Listen bub, I know their plans and I want to make sure you aren’t already the weapon they wanted to create.”

“What if I am Logan? A trojan horse to spy on your little friends.” You’re not, you have control but he was pissing you off. If he was going to treat you like a threat you sure as hell weren’t going to spare him any real explanation.

“Then I’ll slice you to pieces in a heartbeat.” He says, brandishing his claws.

Without thinking you flinch just seeing them. They remind you of the blades, the pain as you went in and out of consciousness. Your heart starts to race as flashes of broken memories. The pain shoots through your body, both sides. You don’t understand. You push yourself off the bed and flee to the corner of the room. Logan’s eyes widen as you start to mumble. Your fingers digging into your hair as you try and calm yourself down.

“Hey kid I-” Logan’s cut off by the TV exploding next to him.

“Fuck!” Logan hisses as the parts of the screen dig into his skin.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t mean it.” You cry.

Logan reaches out but the sight of his claws send you deeper into your spiral. With your right hand you push him into the wall and run.

You hear him shouting but you keep running. Grabbing a jacket from one of the lockers you hurry into the elevator, putting it around you and hoping it covers some of your robotic body. When the doors open you leap out of sight, maneuvering your way through the halls as you hear the sound of children laughing and footsteps getting too close. You can’t think straight, you want to leave. You don’t want to be here anymore, you just want to go home.

What even was home? Did you have one? Did you have a family? You see a group of kids approaching your hiding spot and you bolt. You see a large open door and throw it open, slamming it shut and leaning against it. Closing your eyes you try to focus on your breathing. Your lungs had been replaced too, with each breath you hear the turning of the gears and the squeaking of the air pump.

“I may owe you an apology my dear, perhaps Logan was not the right person to leave you with.” You open your eyes to see Charles at this desk. Fuck the room you went into was his office.

“You think?” You bite back, though you feel yourself a little more relaxed around this man. He chuckles and beckons you over to sit.

“I apologize. You see, you and Logan share more than you may think.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything about it.

“He thinks I’m a threat.” You close the jacket tighter around you. Charles stares at you and you feel something off in your head.

“Please don’t read my mind.” You mumble, trying to shut him out. To his surprise you do.

“I’m sorry, your thoughts are just very loud.” From Hank's scans Charles had discovered that your body was an odd mix of human and machine.

Your heart and lungs had been replaced but your brain remained intact. The neurons that controlled your bodily movements had been expertly attached and morphed with the wires that ran through the right side, the robotic side. Your thoughts were loud and clear that even if he tried not to he could still read them.

The conclusion?

You were not an immediate threat, but you could pose danger if you were to give in to your machine side. You carried the capacity for both great good and great evil. Your humanity was out of touch which is exactly what Crane wanted. The doors to his office slam open to reveal a pissed off Logan. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you sitting there, for a moment you swear you saw his eyes. turn soft. But you blink and the softness is gone. Replaced by complete apathy.

“Look, I appreciate the rescue but I think it’s best if I leave.” You say while looking at Logan.

“If you want to leave, I will not stop you. But I believe you would do well here. This is a place to learn how to operate your new self safely. We’ll protect you, take care of you.” Charles offers.

The truth is he wants to keep you here so they can guide you to the right path. The fear is radiating off of you. He doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know that you’re afraid of becoming exactly what they wanted you to be. There’s one question swimming around in your mind, projecting itself to everyone who looks at you.

Are you human? Or are you a weapon? Can those people have truly stripped away your humanity, by taking your heart, your blood, your limbs?

If they were to find you again they could finish what they started. But if Charles could keep you here, he can help you find your humanity again, help you become yourself.

“I know what you fear and we can help. I promise.” Charles whispers.

“It might be too late.” You whisper back. Staring at your hands once again, watching yourself in the reflection of your metal hand.

“Nonsense my dear, you’re not the first person who’s come here with a past like yours.” Charles says while looking at Logan.

Logan shifts on his feet, there is guilt for sending you into panic but he doesn’t trust you fully yet. But if Charles does, he’ll at least stay out of your way.

“Give us a month, a month to guide you, to help you and I promise the team will do everything in our power to find the people who did this.” You think for a moment.

There’s so much of your life missing and there’s a desperate need to know growing inside of you. If he’s telling the truth, if he can really help you. Then you don’t have a choice.

“Deal.” Charles smiles and places a hand atop your metal one.

“Welcome to the X-Men.” 

[merakiui]

HALLOWEENIE. [3]

skully j. graves x (female) reader cw: nsfw, retail au, smoking, modern au (no magic), cheesy workplace romance, may be ooc (some creative liberties were taken for various aspects of skully's character and may not align with characteristics shown in tnbc event), characters written as 18+ note - skully returns for another season of work at fellow honest's halloween store. is this the year he finally musters the courage to confess to his cherished coworker, or is it going to be another year spent with his nose buried in his poetry journal? // split into three parts due to size. read part one and part two.

Fellow saves everyone from the nail-biting tension by not scheduling you and Skully together, which takes the duo out of his prized Dynamic Duo. Now you’re just a disaster. Skully doesn’t fade into obscurity, though. Rather, he’s ever-present in your thoughts. You think about him when you drag yourself down the halls at school, occasionally sticking your head into the drama club or the music room in hopes of spotting him. You’re not sure why. You’ve never had anything to do with either of those spaces, but now you’re haunting them like a pesky poltergeist in search of something just out of your grasp.

That’s what it feels like to have this cavern open up between you and him. As if you’re confined to separate worlds. You dwell in the realm of the dead and Skully exists in flesh. It’s impossible to cross paths like this.

No one seems to know of him either, which makes him seem more cryptid than he actually is. When you interrupt a drama club meeting with, “Which one of you nerds knows Skully J. Graves?” they blink owlishly at you.

You’re beginning to think he really is the ghost and you’re actually the living person.

You’ve considered visiting him during one of his shifts, but then you’d be no better than Salad Fingers.

This is so lame. Why do I care so much? I shouldn’t, you think, scrolling on your phone while Rollo does inventory for Fellow. You search for Skully’s number before remembering you never exchanged contact information.

“Your moping is bringing sales down.” Fellow raps his cane against the linoleum to get your attention.

“I’d argue it’s bringing in more business. Not often the customers get to see me without my usual swag.”

“That’s what she’s calling it?” Rollo mutters from behind his clipboard.

“Miss (Name), it pains me to see you in such a tizzy. Skully hasn’t been any better, I assure you.”

You perk up at the mention of him. “What does he say? Does he talk about me? Does he hate me? Should I disappear forever and never return to this town?”

“Whoa, whoa! Where is this coming from? Honestly, the youth are so complicated nowadays.” It’s a whack from Gidel’s hammer that sets Fellow straight. “Ahem! Right. What I meant to say was that it’s obvious this situation is causing a fair bit of trouble for both of you. These conditions limit your ability to work as you normally would. As your boss, I should only intervene when it’s truly detrimental, but as someone with a brain I think we’d all benefit from a quick solution to this mess.”

“Believe me—if I could wave my magic wand and fix this, I would. But we can’t just kiss and make up. I hurt his feelings.” You run your finger over your phone and catch your shattered expression in the cracked screen. “No amount of apologizing can undo that.”

“You ought to know he asks after you.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“It’s true,” Rollo adds. “Incessantly.”

“Why?” When all three of them look at you like it couldn’t be more obvious, you throw your arms up. “No one answer that. I’ll take you out back and curb you if you do.”

“I won’t speak on Skully’s behalf, but I believe it’s rational to assume he would never want you to disappear.”

“And he certainly wouldn’t hate you. Goodness, I don’t think that boy has the heart to harbor hate.”

“No, he does. He definitely does,” comes your and Rollo’s swift correction.

Gidel opens to a page in his notebook, where he’s doodled you and Skully holding hands in a heart. It reminds you of the flower wreath, which still resides on your desk even though the flowers are beginning to curl up and wilt.

You groan and slump in your chair, arms hanging limply at your sides. “Halloween’s in two weeks! If I can’t find some way to make it up to him, he’s gonna spend his favorite holiday sad and miserable.”

“Heartbreak isn’t something you can simply mend with goodwill. It’s a process. You heal over time.” Melancholy descends on Rollo’s face. You get the feeling he’s weathered the woes of a broken heart before. If anyone understands loss, it’s Rollo Flamme.

He loves me and I crushed him.

“You don’t think I gave him false hope, do you?”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Even though it was as clear as glass to anyone looking in,” Fellow murmurs, and you choose to ignore that. “Well, what’s done is done. Cliché as it sounds, you can only move forward from here.”

You lift yourself off the chair and stretch. “I’ll grab the broom and get to sweeping.”

“Don’t bother. We won’t do all of that tonight.”

“Ooh, looks like someone was bitten by the bug of benevolence. How sweet.”

Fellow chuckles and collects the completed inventory from Rollo. “You’re free to go. I’ll see you tomorrow. And, Miss (Name), try to get some sleep.”

Immediately, you open the camera on your phone to check for any noticeable signs of sleep deprivation. Finding none, you scowl at Fellow.

“Not funny. I actually thought you were being serious.”

“But you checked.”

“That she did,” Rollo notes with a small grin.

“Because you—ugh. You could’ve just said my shoes are untied.” You click past the both of them in your Mary Jane pumps. “What does it matter if I’m losing sleep?”

“Are you?” 

“I’m not. Shut up.”

You’ll bury yourself alongside the worms and maggots before you confide in them about your recent sleepless nights, each one punctuated with a replay of your fight with Skully and all the ways it could’ve gone differently had you just been honest.

There are two sides to your honesty: the lies that can pass as the truth and the actual truth—the truth you were keen to shelve ever since it cropped up.

The truth that feels a little like the onset of…

You won’t dwell on it or the profound consequence it has on tonight’s dreams.

You’d praise the convenience that is small town logic if it applied to Skully. In this foothill town enshrouded in trees and mountain peaks, everyone knows everyone. Students only have one choice for university, and it’s a dinosaur-aged institution that’s probably seen every era and more with countless graduating classes having been fostered in its brick walls. If you’re searching for someone, you shouldn’t have to look very far. Inevitably, you’ll stumble upon someone who knows someone who knows someone who can get you into contact with that person. Everyone’s stapled into the paper chain here.

Everyone except Skully, apparently. 

It continues to baffle you that no one—not even any of the students in his classes or club—knows of his existence.

“Skully J. Graves,” you stress to the head of the drama club, who stares absently in reply. “He’s literally in your club. White hair, glasses, tall, kinda nerdy but overall really sweet. Does any of that ring a bell?”

When you’re met with silence from him and the rest of the club, you smack your hand against your face and groan. “Jack Skellington.”

A murmur of collective consideration sweeps through the group.

“You mean that weird guy who keeps to himself?” a girl pipes up.

You give her a censorious look. “You’re gonna hafta be more specific, girlfriend. You’re naming, like, a decent chunk of the school’s population.” 

“Always has his face in his books,” another offers. “Not really friendly, that one. Definitely on the quiet side.”

“And he’s usually scribbling stuff in a journal during club meetings, right?” a third student asks.

“Yes!” You clap. “That’s my guy!”

“Ohh, you’re talking about Halloweenie,” the head of the drama club says, snapping his  fingers once the descriptions finally click.

Halloweenie?

You’ve known Skully to go by all kinds of nicknames at the shop: Skulls, Skeleton, my boy, and (from snotty Salad Fingers), Prince of Darkness. This one, however, is brand-new. You don’t need a thesaurus to get the general gist of the meaning behind that self-explanatory name.

“What do you want with him?”

Apple-red lips curl up into an impish grin, and you lift your finger in shush. “It’s a secret.”

“Well, good luck finding him,” he says with a snort. “Halloweenie’s practically a ghost when he isn’t working on props for the shows. He could be anywhere on campus.”

The rest of the club confirm this with mechanical nods. It’s so synced it’s almost like they’re a group of mind-controlled marionettes.

I can’t believe none of these losers know where Skulls is.

You remember browsing the drama club’s website with Rollo. Skully was noted as an ordinary stagehand there. Once more, it seems like fate is having a grand time keeping the two of you apart. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe you don’t deserve a friend like Skully.

Before you can sink into self-deprecation, you whirl towards the door. 

“You come by looking for Halloweenie a lot, y’know,” a member accuses, arms folded like some hard-boiled detective. “You into him?”

What the fuck? Why is everyone assuming that?

“Nooo—oh, hey! What’s this?” You point to the poster pasted on the door. The words Drama Club Presents: A Thrilling Tale of Treacherous Love and Music! are printed in fancy font above an infamous mask. “Is this what you’re putting on for this year?”

“For Christmas, yes. It was either that or an actual Christmas play. Like ‘A Christmas Carol’ or something equally festive. Majority wanted the charming and dangerous Opera Ghost.”

“Good taste. So where can I audition?”

“Can you sing?”

“In the shower.”

“Can you act?”

“What is life if not the stage we play on?” you counter, stealing a philosophical page from your boss’s book of esoteric wisdom.

The head of the drama club isn’t impressed. To be honest, you’re not either. An actor’s life is not for you.

“Why? No offense, (Name), but you’ve never been interested in us or the work we do. You’ve gotta have passion and soul to put yourself on that stage—something you so clearly lack. If you’re only doing it for Halloweenie—”

“That stings, Prez. And here I was ready to dazzle my way to stardom.”

“Sure.” He rolls his eyes. “If you have no other business with us, have a good day.”

Are all the presidents in this school hard-asses?

Sensing your presence is no longer welcome, you wink and take your leave.

Now left to aimlessly wander the halls, you think back on Skully’s lamentations from before: I was all alone before you moved here—nothing more than a quiet, transparent existence.

You know what that’s like because that’s exactly how you lived when you were growing up. There is no trick to surviving the devils of childhood. You just have to hope that if you’re silent enough they’ll leave you alone. Because hiding beneath the covers only works when they’re figments of your imagination. When they’re very real and oh-so-tangible, they can dismantle the seemingly impenetrable blanket fortress you put so much faith in.

If you lived as a ghost back there, then this dreary town was your resurrection.

Perhaps she, sitting solitary on her throne, is lonely just like me.

Skully was right. As it happens there is no truth in being accessible to everyone in your infamously obnoxious, effervescent way. You’ve built yourself up on flowery lies—a faux Spider Queen who isn’t so venomous as she’d like everything to believe. The (Name) who smiles and flirts, who holds every bed partner at arm’s length because she’s too scared to let them into her embrace, is a phony.

The Spider Queen is scared of loving and being loved.

That’s why she strings everyone up in her web, never letting them know what hides beyond gossamer strands woven so meticulously thick.

Because once they start to disassemble her messy masterpiece they’ll see its flaws and insecurities woven into unmistakable patterns.

Get it together, (Name). No way were you about to throw yourself into a school play all for some guy! Be more swag and less dramatic.

But just as you admonish yourself with that, a discordant note rings out. You failed to realize you were traversing random halls until now, where you find yourself in a desolate corner of the building, just outside the music room. Shaken from your self-doubt, you peek into the room out of plain curiosity…and immediately come to regret it when you spot a familiar head of white hair.

His back is turned to you, head bowed, and he plays according to the sheet music propped in front of him. You linger in the doorway to listen and it hits you then—what he’s playing.

A piano rendition of “The Music of The Night.”

Transfixed, you allow yourself to creep in closer. The soft, soulful melody lulls you into a state of serenity. Watching him and his fingers waltz along the keys, you can’t help but feel like you’ve missed your chance. What that chance might’ve been, you don’t have the guts to name.

Just when he’s about to reach the chorus, he misses a chord and the entire piece falls apart.

“Consarn it!” He slams his hands down on the keys.

You wince at the strident smash that echoes through the room, but nothing is more jarring than his language. You’ve never heard Skully, the quintessence of chivalry, curse so openly, even if it’s very 1800s. But after your argument with him, you’ve acquainted yourself with his temper and all that boils within it.

“It needs to sound just like the song.” The sound of shuffling sheet music follows. “If I can’t get past this chord…” He sighs and taps a few keys in random succession. “My dear will never be impressed with my lousy performance.”

Your heart flips over in your chest, knots itself like Ouroboros, and then collapses into your stomach. Any confidence you had in approaching Skully vanishes in a blip. Of course he’s still into you. Why wouldn’t he be? Rejection and a few weeks of separation aren’t going to undo years of infatuation. Silently cursing the world, you press the heels of your palms into your eyes, realize you’ve just ruined your eyeliner, and drag them away with an aggravated breath.

“Is someone there?”

Skully turns on the bench right as you stumble out of sight. Your sneakers squeak on the tiles as you make your escape, darting around a corridor just in time to avoid the confrontation. That’s all you’re good at. Salad Fingers’s criticisms play in loops. You hasten your steps. Running away.

Rollo’s slender fingers work deftly to lace up your corset. In the background, faintly pouring in from the kitchenette, Halloween music plays. 

“Tighter,” you hiss at him, bracing yourself on the edge of your vanity desk, hips jutted out and ass raised high. “Make it so I can’t breathe—like I’m getting disrespectfully choked by the latex. None of that ‘Love Me Tender’ shit. I need to be fighting for my life in this fit.”

“This is foolish. You should prioritize your comfort over…whatever this is.”

“Aww. You really are an angel, looking out for me and my lungs.”

In retaliation he yanks on the ribbons and the corset cinches around your ribs, effectively stealing your breath. You crumple against the desk with a wheeze.

“Is that tight enough for Her Majesty?” he asks, smirking at you in the mirror. 

“P-Perfect…” You raise a weak thumbs-up. “Thanks, Uriel.”

Rollo rolls his eyes. He looks every bit the modest angel in pure-white robes with accompanying gold accents. The look is finished off with feathery wings, a halo headband, and a pair of open-toed sandals. He adjusts one of the aureate cuffs around his wrist and scrutinizes his reflection in the cheap material. Conversely, you’re dressed as a sexy succubus, all red, tight-fitting, skimpy latex and matching thigh-high stockings. The costume came with horn hair clips, an attachable tail, and a pitchfork. It was your creative idea to accessorize with a black choker, sheer, lacy gloves, and suede knee-high heeled boots. You even got your nails done for the occasion, and they drip in grisly patterns of blood splatter.

“It’s missing something.” You pull Rollo against your hip so he can see what you’re attempting to visualize.

“Your makeup looks fine, (Name).”

“Not that.” Your blunt-toothed, smiling reflection peers back at you. “Oh, I know!” 

You rifle through your makeup box to find them: the packaged fangs you swiped from Fellow’s store just the other day. Your boss graciously gave you and Rollo the day off after it became clear he wasn’t very willing to shell out holiday pay. Knowing your erudite roommate, he would’ve debated Fellow into his grave until he budged. Day off or holiday pay? It would’ve been his losing battle no matter which side of the argument he fell on. 

Gleefully, like a cannibal ripping into a corpse, you tear open the plastic and fit the fangs on over your teeth. 

“What do you think?” you ask, flashing a wicked grin at Rollo. 

“Appropriately hellish. Anymore and the Devil might come up here to give you his regards.”

“Aren’t I just the luckiest girl?” You giggle and nudge him. “You’re not half bad yourself, Bible Study.”

“High praise coming from Satan’s Sweetheart.”

“The Devil wears imitation Prada.”

“‘By all means,’” he quotes, draping a fuzzy jacket over your shoulders, “‘move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.’”

With a snicker you follow him out the door, playfully poking at his back with the pronged pitchfork to hurry him along. He swipes the car keys on his way.

Paper lanterns and strands of amber-hued lights are strung up on low-hanging branches. In the very center, hollowed out into the ground and circled with sizable stones, is a bonfire pit. The flames lick towards the stars, wavering in time with the bass thumping through the trees. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the swaying silhouettes were monstrous fiends gathered for Halloween night.

Having left your jacket in the car, you’re quick to pull Rollo towards the refreshments. You’re desperate to warm yourself with a few drinks before you make your way towards the fire and the throng of bodies. Rollo, while not the partying type, is very particular with his preferences, so you don’t expect him to jump at the sight of beer. It does, however, startle you when he slides the cloth covering away from the basket draped on his arm to reveal a bottle of sacramental altar wine.

Sometimes you forget your roommate can be cool.

“You’re the best.” You pull him against your side in another hug. He doesn’t fight it. The yellow-orange glow casts shadows on his face, obscuring his pleased smirk. “I cherish you, you know that?”

“Yes, well, I can’t allow you to indulge in this party slop.”

“Amen!”

You squeeze him once before releasing him from your constriction to grab two cheap chalices. After checking to make sure they’re clean and haven’t been tampered with, you stride over to Rollo. You notice he’s eyeing the pit warily, his haunted expression looking much more cadaverous in the firelight. Gently, you shake his shoulder and step in front to intersect his view of the fire.

“Hey, you okay?”

Rollo shakes himself out of his head and loosens his grip on the bottle. “Yes… Yes, I’m fine.”

You want to trust him, so you hold out the cups. “Wanna say our prayers and indulge in the Body of Christ?”

He taps your head with his fist, features drawn in a humorless lour. “Bread is the body. Wine is the blood.”

“My bad, Father.” You pout at him. “Forgive me for my sins and transgressions and everything else. I’m just sooo unholy.”

He spends a quiet moment staring at you—long enough that it has a smile spreading on his lips. He breathes a soft laugh. “What a peculiar choice of words for a demon.”

“Even more peculiar for an angel to be drinking on the job.”

“I suppose that makes us even.” He unscrews the cap and pours a generous amount in both cups. You watch the scarlet liquid slosh within. Capping the bottle, he tucks it away in the basket and takes the cup from you. “Merci.”

“A happy Halloween to us.” You raise your cup and his bumps against yours in toast. “Are you ready to be dead on your feet for tomorrow’s shift?”

“Only undead,” he replies, following you to a fallen tree. “I’m driving, so I mustn’t become too much of a zombie.”

“Who cares about coherency? Live it up tonight! We can sleep in the car. I’ve got pillows and blankets in there.”

“Mhm,” he hums around the plastic rim.

You plop down on the tree trunk and take a gulp, smacking your lips in approval. “If it’s cold, we can just cuddle.” You bump shoulders with him.

“I’ll pass. The last thing I need to earn is more of Skully’s frosty envy. I’d like for my plants to survive winter, if possible.”

“Ugh, right.” Your gaze drifts to your pitchfork propped against the tree. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I mean, I almost joined the school play for him. That’s bonkers even by my standards.”

“As if the club would allow that.”

“They hate me for my potential.” You click your tongue. “How can I make this…not worse? Because it feels like all I’ve been doing is making it significantly worse.”

“You should have a proper conversation. One that isn’t senseless screaming.”

“He was inside me, Rollo. How the hell am I going to have a ‘proper conversation’ when that’s our history?”

He peers into his chalice, contemplation burning behind his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you to lay with him. ‘Disprove his alleged crush,’ she said and then proceeded to do the exact opposite.”

“I mean, I don’t want him to think I hate him or that he has to avoid me. That’s not it. And I wasn’t trying to sound so cruel that day. Stuff just slipped out unchecked and he wasn’t listening. It’s not like we can go back to being friends with this whole cloud of unrequited romance hanging over our heads.” Sighing, you draw circles into the leaf-strewn ground with the tip of your boot. “I wish things weren’t so complicated. It’d be easier if he was terrible through and through, but he’s not.”

“What makes it so complicated?”

“His feelings.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

You narrow your eyes at him, perplexed. “Why? Is there supposed to be something else?”

“What about yourself?”

You chug the rest of the wine in your cup. It burns the back of your throat and straightens out your thoughts. Not so much your heart, though. Rollo takes his time pouring to give you a moment. He even offers you half of a baguette from the depths of his basket, which draws a snort from you.

“What? You can’t drink on an empty stomach. Last time you did that, you sullied the car with your vomit. It took days to clean and freshen up the interior.”

“At least it was pink! That’s much prettier than non-pink barf.” You shake your head, unwilling to argue old news. “Thanks for your concern, Little Red Riding Rollo, but I’m not hungry.”

“I’ve brought an assortment of jams and cheese.”

“Oh, my gosh,” you say around a high cackle. Rollo doesn’t see the humor in any of this, but he still manages a pinched smile. “You’re amazing. The best roomie I’ve ever had.”

“I try.”

“Okay, Father, I yield. Break the bread and let’s give thanks.”

Between sips of altar wine, you and Rollo munch on pieces of baguette spread and topped with strawberry jam and nettle cheese. 

“Why me?” you ask around a mouthful of bread. “I know Skulls isn’t sociable at school—drama club told me all about the unlikable Halloweenie—but I’m sure there are better candidates for him to crush on. I’m a mess. I can’t garden or look after houseplants like you do. I can’t do any of that cute shit girls do on their socials—like live aesthetically or be effortlessly adorable. I don’t think I’m Skulls’s type.”

“Hmm.”

“He said I’m the only one who’s ever understood him, but isn’t that what friends do? You and I understand each other and we’re friends.”

“Somehow that’s different.”

“How? What makes it different?”

Rollo shrugs. He looks like a mouse as he nibbles at his bread and cheese. “Perhaps it’s because my relationship with you is nothing like the one you have with Skully.”

You scowl at the crowd of dancing, costumed partygoers. It’s only different because of love and sex.

“Putting that aside, what makes you think you’re not his type? Have you ever considered what his type might be?”

You hadn’t given it much thought. Skully has never mentioned love and its variations at work. That’s your job—to complain about and commend all of your flings and situationships whenever it’s necessary. To flirt with customers who look wealthy, attractive, or like they’d be good in bed. To aim for a phone number or an exchange of socials when they’re funny, sweet, or just annoying enough to seem charming. Your list of past lovers is as long as a photo spread in a wallet.

“If we consider his poetry,” Rollo says, as if pushing you towards a cliff you don’t want to jump from, “his preferences aren’t so elusive.”

Even though there’s no reason for it, you feel an unusual warmth climbing up to settle under your cheeks. You hurry to tilt your cup back, putting your mouth on the same lipstick stain from earlier.

“So what sort of type is the Spider Queen?”

“She’s meant to be you, is she not?”

But you’re not sure what he sees in you—in the Spider Queen. You annoyed him during the first real conversation you had, back when he was just fifteen and you were an angsty eighteen-year-old trying to look like she hadn’t just gotten disowned by her family. What changed in the four years since then? You remember he absolutely hated the Halloween party and spent the entire time scribbling in a journal. You wouldn’t be surprised if the entry about his first impression of you was written that very night. He has every right to despise you for your rowdy spirit. What he sees in you, you clearly can’t see in yourself. Maybe you’d feel less guilty about the situation if he hated your guts, but that’s not the case.

“I don’t know!” You groan. “Maybe he’s in love with the character he’s created and not me.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Do you have candy in there? I need something that’ll mess me up and make me forget all about this.”

I need to stop running away and face reality.

“I’m certain the alcohol will do the trick.”

And it is. You haven’t kept count of how many chalice-sized drinks you’ve had, and at some point you’ve even swiped the bottle from Rollo’s basket. 

“Shall we address the facts?” he tries again, and you’re tempted to listen because he’s logical enough to sort through the emotions. “Skully is in love with you, a truth too blinding for you to notice, but we were all wearing sunglasses.” You smack him for that and he clears his throat. “Right. The two of you went on a ‘date’ and it ended in bed. You’ve told him you don’t love him. Really, (Name), if your feelings don’t match his, I see no other reason to stump yourself.”

And isn’t that the truth?

But there’s a niggling sense of something more that you can’t confront. You push it down to make room for the wine.

“I need a cigarette.”

“From one vice to the next. Very clever.”

Your acrylics tap anxious pitter-patters against the glass bottle. A distraction would suffice—anything to take your mind off of Skully. If you could saunter into the crowd and fall into the arms of a temporary thrill, you would. It’s what you plan to do as your eyes survey the crowd, cherry-picking faces from the firelight. And then, just past the flickering flames and undulating ghouls, you see him.

“Erik!”

You stand up so quickly that you lurch forward. The bottle almost slips from your grasp. Rollo catches your arm before you can fall.

“What?” Rollo blinks up at you in bewilderment. “(Name), sit down. You’re drunk.”

“Piss off. I know what I saw. Someone’s come as the Phantom.” You throw your head back to suck down the rest of the wine. “And it takes more than that to get me tipsy.”

“Congratulations. How’s the liver?”

“Ha-ha-ha,” you snap, sarcastic. “Unlike you, I’m about to tongue it with the Phantom. Not many can say they did that on Halloween night. Be back soon!”

“No one else is trying to accomplish that!” he calls after you, but you only catch part of it as you beeline for the fray.

Pitchfork in hand, you weave around kissing couples and clusters of friends. You have your sights set on the mysterious Phantom, his back turned to you. You call out to him: “Hey, you!” but your voice is lost in the deafening beats and the ecstatic, tipsy whoops from the partygoers.

“Excuse me! Pardon,” you hiss, pushing past a witch and a knight. “Move.”

You’re nearly there. But then someone knocks into you, and you stumble into another person. He catches you with a whistle, his palms strangely slimy.

“Hey there, little lady. Looks like it’s my lucky night. You sure you’re not actually an angel in disguise?”

You scrunch your face, looking past him. The Phantom is gone. “Fuck!”

“At least introduce yourself.” He laughs and spit speckles your cheek. “Then we can get there, yeah?”

“You want an introduction?” You slam your heel on his foot and are quite pleased when he draws back with a curse. “How’s that for angelic? Happy Halloween, asshole.”

Equipped with a mission, you disappear into the darkness. Stapled to your feet, your shadow stretches into the trees behind you. In hopes of locating the familiar mask or cape, you whirl to and fro. It seems like you’ll never find them, and for a second you wonder if they’re a hallucination birthed from your tumultuous feelings. Of course you’d be imagining the Phantom after that day in the bookstore with Skully. It’s like he’s everyone you look. How could he not be? Halloween is his day.

You hope he’s happy, even if it’s only for tonight.

This is a waste of time. I’m going back.

You pivot on your heel…and there he is. The Phantom of the Opera, hunched over between the trees, his gloved fingers splayed against the rough bark. The exact opposite of graceful and mystifying. More of a mess than a graceful, gothic beauty. Your mouth drops open, and then you cringe when you hear a not-so-musical retch.

Oh.

He’s sick.

“Uh, hi…” You inch closer. “I recognized your costume. You’re supposed to be Erik, right? The Phantom. You know—that guy from the opera?”

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and turns to look at you, woozy and mechanical. Your heart rushes into a gallop when those infamous orange eyes fall upon you. Even with the mask hiding half of his face, you know it’s him. You think he’s worked out your identity as well because he straightens to his full height on unsteady feet, as if he’s been slapped sober. The only indication he’s inebriated is the way he sways like a spinning top on the verge of falling over. 

“Skulls—”

“(Name)—”

“Ah, um. My apologies. You should go first.”

“No, it’s nothing.” You wring your hands around the length of the pitchfork. “Um. You… You came.”

“I was looking for you.” He gestures to the crumpled can at his feet, sheepish. “Found that instead.”

“Why?”

Skully twists the hem of his cloak in his fists. “I wanted to wish you a happy Halloween and show you my costume.”

His costume? You remember he told you and Rollo he was going to dress up as something scary, and while the Phantom is technically a fearsome villain… It’s not the first thing you’d think Skully would go for. Did he dress up for my sake? What if he had another costume planned but changed his mind after—stop that. Don’t go down that rabbit hole.

“But you hate parties.” You poke at the can with your pitchfork. “And you don’t drink.”

His eyes glaze over. You watch his lip tremble. “I’m sorry. I… I thought that if I… If I could just—” He inhales a rattling breath. “If I was more like you—like Mr. Rollo or any of your partners—you might… Y-You might want to—” He breaks off from that sentence with a choked cry and sinks to his knees.

“Skulls…” Lowering to his height, you reach out for him, hesitate for a strained breath, and then gingerly peel the mask away to reveal his teary, snotty face. 

“I’m so s-sorry,” he continues, his voice breaking more and more. “I yelled at you. I wouldn’t listen. I pushed you into a corner and provoked you, and that wasn’t right. I was no better than Salad Fingers.” He places his palms on the ground to steady himself. A sob shudders through his body. Salty globs pool along his lash line and slide down to his chin, landing in steady drops on the leaves below. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair, not fair, not fair! All of those undeserving people who get to behold you! Those… Those foolish, idiotic bastards—none of them are worthy of you. I don’t understand. They never see you. They’re so attached to flimsy, vapid pleasure that they don’t even cherish you properly. Why?”

You manage to find your voice then. “I don’t care about them. I mean, I did. I always care. Just not like…that.”

“So then why? Why do you let them—why won’t you let me—”

Love you?

“Skully, you’re drunk.” Hardening your heart, you stagger to your feet. “Now’s not the time for this.”

Running away again. Typical, Salad Fingers jeers. She’ll eat your heart if you aren’t careful. Save yourself while you can.

You swat his influence away.

A twig snaps behind you. You almost don’t hear it over Skully’s sniveling.

“Do you know how many fools have been pointing me to ‘Grandmother’s House’ whenever I ask after you?” comes Rollo’s voice, every accented syllable threaded through with annoyance. “I’m sick of this asinine nonsense. It’s not even funny. I’m very clearly an angel, and yet everyone thinks I’m on my way to see—oh, Skully’s here. Ahem. Pardon me.”

“It’s just not fair,” he’s mumbling to himself, over and over, like a broken record. He doesn’t even acknowledge Rollo’s arrival or greeting. “Not fair, not fair, not fair.”

“Is he…all right?”

“Does that look ‘all right’ to you, brainiac?” You knock Rollo upside the head with your plastic pitchfork, and he rounds on you with an indignant glare.

“You tell me! I only just found you.” Rollo can’t hide behind his handkerchief, so his frustration is on full display. It twists his features into something loathsome.

“He’s drunk.”

“Clearly.” Sighing, Rollo stoops over him. “Skully, can you hear me? How did you get here?”

He pans his bleary gaze over to him and sniffs. “What’re you supposed to be?”

“God’s little lamb.”

“That’s not terrifying at all.”

“It is if you carry the guilt.” He takes a harsh elbow to the ribs for that, one he begrudgingly accepts with a scoff. “You should go home, Skully.”

“Did someone bring you here?” you ask, peering into his face. It’s hard to imagine him willingly coming with a friend or classmate.

Actually, it’s hard to imagine he came here at all.

He lifts an unsteady arm and gestures in a general direction. “Bicycle,” he says.

A silent debate mushrooms between you Rollo, wedged in the space where your eyes meet.

“He’s a liability,” you whisper after pulling him aside.

“A liability to your love life, maybe, but we can’t just leave him here.”

“I wasn’t saying we should! I just don’t think it’s gonna help if he comes home with us. He’s not thinking straight. And last time he was there…”

“So we drop him off at home and his parents can handle it. I know the way.”

“They’ll kill us. Are you looking to be lectured tonight?”

“He’s nineteen.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s their baby—all two-hundred-something centimeters of him—and he’s drunk off his ass on Halloween night.”

“He risked a scolding all for you, didn’t he?”

“He…” You groan, unsure of what to say. “I’ve never met a guy like him. He’s in another league of his own.”

“And I don’t suppose he’s ever met a girl quite like you.” Smiling, Rollo cocks his head playfully. “You’re meant to be.”

“I’m meant to punch you in the mouth if you keep talking stupid. Just—ugh, fine, whatever! You carry him back to the car. I’ll get his bike. He can crash with us tonight. A slumbie is safer than getting him and ourselves in trouble with his parents.”

“So the demon’s secretly a good girl.”

“All that altar wine’s going to your head and making you cheeky, ‘God’s little lamb’. I guess you do care for your friends after all.”

Index pressed to his lips, he hushes you. It takes a few minutes of coaxing and “Lift your head, Skully. How else are you going to look up to Jack Skellington?” before Rollo manages to get him to his feet. He’s all gangly limbs as he drapes himself over your roommate, clinging like mildew to a damp corner. Grunting with the effort, Rollo hoists his arm over his shoulders and Skully flops against him like a worm.

Before the two of them begin the hobble to the car, Rollo asks, “Will you be okay on your own?”

“I’m the Devil. There’s nothing I can’t do!” You wave your pitchfork around and flash a fanged smirk. “They don’t call me God’s strongest soldier for nothing.”

“Uh-huh. Well, be safe. If you’re not at the car in the next five minutes…”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll exorcise me on the spot. I hear ya.”

Rollo turns away then. “Could you be any more boneless, Skully?”

“Why, of course I can! Does this help?”

“Wha—hey! Don’t go limp! Stand up straight!”

After locating his bike and wheeling it through the woods to the car, where you and Rollo work together to load it in the back, you both head for the driver’s side.

“I’m driving.”

“No, you’re not. I am.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you merrily sipping your little God juice like a sailor.”

“You had more than me, and it’s not ‘God juice’. It’s sacramental altar wine, sourced from the finest—”

“Blah, blah, blah. My name is Rollo Flamme and I—”

“My wonderful, spectacular, amazing…deeeaaarss,” comes Skully’s slurred voice. He pokes his head out from the back, half-leaning out the open door. “I can drive.”

Rollo stares blankly at the very inebriated Skully.

“Yeah, go on, Rollo. Let the Phantom drive. I trust him with my life.” You stick your arm out and present him with a cheerful thumbs-up.

“Skully, sit back down. And don’t even think of getting sick in the car.”

“Yes, sir.” You hear the click of a buckle and then, miraculously, he passes out.

“Walk a straight line and I’ll let you drive.”

“I got this. Watch.”

You shove your pitchfork at his chest and, looking to make sure he’s observing, walk along the strip that divides the road from the forest. It doesn’t feel like you’re doing it right, your feet blurring and crossing over each other clumsily, but somehow you think it must look straight to Rollo. Once you’re thirty paces from the car, you whip around to hear the verdict.

“Well? Straighter than straight, yeah?”

“About as straight as a rainbow. Now get in.” He opens the passenger side for you and tosses the pitchfork in the back next to a snoring Skully.

Wordlessly, you perform your staggering walk of shame back to the car. The drive home is punctuated by the sophisticated notes of Indila’s Mini World album. The song’s instrumental—the one where you can only parse the lyrics love story—reminds you of a music box. You sink into the worn polyester seat and paint yourself as a princess in a grand, glittering palace. Waiting for you in the gardens, haunting your head like your very own gothic ghost, is the too-tall, dorky Phantom of the Opera.

Maybe it’s the alcohol—it’s definitely more than just the alcohol—but you feel warm thinking about him. So warm you forget you’re not wearing your jacket.

Fuck. This altar wine is really hitting. How are they not partying during every sermon? Oh, wait, they only drink a pinky’s worth. Laaaame.

“I think, if I were to murder someone, I’d get your help getting rid of the body.”

“Please don’t,” Rollo mutters, awkwardly lifting Skully out of the car with your aid.

“Don’t ask for help or…?”

“Don’t make me accomplice to a crime and don’t murder anyone.”

By the time you’ve carried Skully up the stairs to your door, you feel the mawkish beginnings of affection weighing on your shoulders. That, and Skully’s arm.

“Hey, Rollo?”

“Mhm?”

“Thanks.”

“What for?” He fiddles with the keys in the dimness, half-listening.

For being my friend. For never getting tired of me even when I’m nothing but trouble.

“For being my roomie.”

His hand stills. “Don’t be foolish,” he says, clicking his tongue in chastisement. The key twists in the lock. He pushes the door open with his foot, revealing an apartment cloaked in shadow. “You said it yourself. We’re a team. We need to stick together.”

“How else is rent going to be paid?”

He exhales a short, authentic laugh. “That’s the million madol question.”

Skully is deposited on the sofa, snoozing away like it’s the middle of winter and he’s hibernating. After locking the door and flicking on the lights, where you then proceed to hiss like vampires as said lights burn holes into your eyes, you and Rollo roll your stiff shoulders.

“We should stay indoors next Halloween.”

“Agreed. Maybe introverts know what they’re doing. This was exhausting.” Plopping down on a nearby stool, you work to remove your heels. It’s more challenging than it seems, what with alcohol muddling your motor skills. “My feet are killing me.”

Rollo pulls the fridge open and pokes his head inside for mindless inspection. “Hmm. Whose turn is it to buy groceries?” 

“Mine, probably.” You toss your boots across the room and flex your toes. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“We can survive a little longer. At least until the middle of the week.”

You snort. “So are we leaving Skully out here? Should we call his parents?”

“I doubt they’re worried. Not truly.” Rollo shuts the fridge and comes to stand on the other side of the kitchenette peninsula. “It’s a small town with a middling population, and the majority are harmless elders.”

“But what if they think he got murdered?”

“Because someone’s itching to put Halloweenie in his grave. Sure.”

“Okay, fair point.” You glance over your shoulder at Skully, his legs hanging over the end of the armrest. “He’d make for a difficult corpse.”

“If two of us struggled to drag him back here, imagine how much more burdensome he’d be undead.”

“Ooh, a zombie. Something tells me he’d rather be bones than rotting flesh. Just like Jack.”

“Somehow—“ Rollo drums his fingers along the countertop— “I feel it’s poor manners to talk so morbidly of our very alive and well coworker.”

“Mm, probably.” You swivel in your seat. “More importantly, where’s he gonna sleep?”

“I’m keen to leave him here. We’ll dim the lights.”

“Kinda rude to make him sleep on the most uncomfortable couch in the world.”

“It could be worse.” Rollo walks around to the wall opposite of you to lower the switch. The lights lessen in their intensity, from searing to merciful. “Besides, where else is he going to sleep? There isn’t room on my bed.”

“He can sleep in mine,” you say without thinking, and you really aren’t because he looks at you like he can’t believe he’s hearing you right now. “He deserves a comfy bed, at the very least… It’s not gonna mend heartbreak, but it won’t give him stiff joints in the morning.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“On the floor.”

Rollo raises a dark brow. “The (Name) I know would never sacrifice her comfort for someone else.”

“For flings, fuck no. But he’s a friend.”

“All right,” he concedes. “Let’s get him to your room. He’s staying there, though. I’m not going to move him anywhere else.”

“Roger that, roomie.”

Like before, the both of you lift him from the sofa and, taking care not to disturb his slumber, transport him to your room. He’s lowered onto your unmade bed. You move with absolute precision, undoing the clasp around his neck to pull his cape from his person so it won’t tangle around him in sleep. And then you drag a fluffy quilt over him. His fringe falls over his face in a way that reminds you of Sleeping Beauty…only if she had been pie-eyed and prone to vomiting in the hours before her eternal slumber. He looks less of a prince and more of a pale monster.

Sleeping Liability.

You wince. That sounds a lot like something Fellow would say. You’re too young to start thinking and speaking like your boss.

It’s then when you realize you’ve been staring at him like you’re about to lean in for true love’s kiss.

“Are you going to bed?”

“No, I’ll be up.” Rollo rubs his tired eyes and stifles a yawn.

“Try to get some sleep. I’d say let’s watch a movie, but I don’t think I can stay awake for another hour.”

“Don’t force yourself. We all need the sleep for tomorrow’s shift,” he says, but you suspect he’ll be up late into the night and he’ll wake just as early.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. I guarantee Fellow’s gonna be just as sleep-deprived as we are. Gidel probably kept him out as late as he could for trick-or-treating.”

Shaking your head, you begin to pick off pieces of your costume. The detachable tail, the horns, the little fangs. You prop your pitchfork against the vanity desk.

“So we all have valid reasons to complain.”

“I’m always ready to be a hater. No fair we have to go into work after a fun night. Why couldn’t he be nice and give us tomorrow off as well?”

“One can hope.”

“And one does.” You open your closet and retrieve a few spare blankets from within. “Good night, Rollo.”

“Yes. Good night to you as well.”

His footsteps pad down the hall to his room and then you hear him ease the door shut. It’s not even a minute later when your thoughts begin to buzz in your ears. You busy yourself with spreading out the blankets and creating a comfortable place for yourself on the floor, listening to the low hum of a fan in place of soothing music. The fairy lights strung around your bed shine soft light on the snoozing Phantom, who’s curled into your bed like it’s to become the chrysalis that envelops the squishy, vulnerable pupa that is Skully.

You don’t want to think about it. About why he was here tonight and why he came dressed as one of your favorite characters. And the last time he was on your bed was when…

Blotting that memory out, you snuggle into the blankets and rest your head on a sizable plush you’ve swiped from the end of your bed. If you can sleep all of this mess off, you’ll have a better time making sense of it once morning dawns.

That was your plan, but now that you’re in the position for sleep, eyes closed and mind racing, you find yourself unable to settle down. You turn one way and spend the next few minutes in your own head, tossing around Skully’s motives and what everything means. Maybe you’d sink into slumber if you were contemplating brain-bruising philosophy, but when every route leads back to that complex, confounding feeling it leaves your body crackling with nerves.

Shifting over on your back, you gaze up at the ceiling. “I’m sorry, Skully,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. “Salad Fingers was right. I’m only good at running away. I’m the best at being the worst. I’m, like, super, pathetically, abysmally bad at romance. I don’t know how to do it or what it means to feel it. I… I’ve never given myself that chance.”

I’ve spent too long pushing everyone who’s ever tried to love me away. 

You feel around blindly for your goat plush and hug it to your chest. His name is Mini Rollo.

“The truth is that my worst fear isn’t even thunderstorms. I hate those, too, yeah, but it’s love that scares me the most. Which probably sounds really silly to you because you’re so…full of it. Full of love, I mean. And I was afraid. Afraid that you’d found something about me that’s worth loving. I mean, you kinda saw through me from the very beginning and not many people do that. It made me feel so itchy. Like, what the hell? Who does this guy think he is, solving me like I’m some lousy cube puzzle? How’d you do that?”

A weak laugh tumbles out of you then. You’re not sure where the humor is in any of this. Maybe you’re just laughing at yourself.

“What scared me most, though… I caught myself considering it. It’s all I’ve been able to think about, actually.” You bury your face in Mini Rollo to save yourself the embarrassment of addressing a dim room with an unconscious audience. “I really don’t know how you do it. You’re like an infection. Or, uh—hold on. That came out wrong. Ugh. Just as bad as the lice poem. What I meant to say is that you’re so good at making me feel happy. So I guess that means your energy is infectious?”

Sighing, you shut your eyes and place yourself in the memory of that day, swapping cruel cowardice for a real confession. Mini Rollo’s soft head is tucked beneath your chin. “No one’s ever danced in the rain with me before to chase away my anxiety. And they’ve never made me their muse or written pages and pages of poems about me. They’ve never made me smile and laugh as much as you do. They certainly didn’t come to my door to give me an entire handmade flower wreath. That’s the stuff you’d only find in romance novels. You’re seriously one of a kind.” You force another sad, pitiful laugh. “I don’t deserve you or your love. If anything, you’re the cool one. Definitely way more than a fly.”

You’re my Pumpkin King.

“Never mind. What am I saying? Ew, ew. Gross. This is so…yuck.”

Stop talking. You’re making it worse, (Name).

You yank the blanket over your head and stuff down whatever else is threatening to spill out in this moment of alcohol-addled vulnerability. Although you’re not sure how much of that was liquid courage.

Is love supposed to feel so…itchy?

Like a sweater woven from coarse wool. Like an irritating bug bite that’s just out of reach. Like an allergic reaction. 

But then that same love is also so welcoming—a blanket fresh from the dryer, a flattering poem penned from the heart, a dance in the rain. A distinctly Skully-shaped love, one that’s cradled in the cobwebbed confines of his heart. 

You don’t want to run away from that—from him.

Warmed by these revelations, made weightless from the truth, you drift away on a stream of waning consciousness.

Good night, Skully.

Morning trickles through the mountains, bringing with it strips of sun that shine through the thin part of ratty curtains.

Your body is strangely light when it should be heavy with a skull-crushing hangover. Even your mind, which is normally fuzzy and filled with an unshakeable pressure in the dawn of last night’s chaos, is the shape of a Zen garden. You think you hear movement in the kitchen, but your sixth sense tells you it’s still too early and so you roll over in search of Mini Roll, who somehow slipped from your embrace during the night.

You find Skully instead.

He’s squished in the space between your bed and the nest of blankets piled around you, and it leaves you wondering how he managed to get down here. From how soundly he slept last night, you didn’t take him for a restless sleeper. You realize then that his eyes are open, watching you, and suddenly nothing else matters.

Oh.

“H-Hey,” you whisper, cringing at the roughness in your voice.

“Hi.” His voice is no better. More of a crow’s call than fluttery birdsong. “Good morning.”

You’re not sure what to think at first. Is this real? How did he get on your floor? Why is he here? Where’s Rollo? Where’s Mini Rollo?

You reach out; your palm hovers over his head. To save you the trouble, he leans into your hand. He feels real. He looks real.

“There’s only 365 days left until next Halloween,” you blurt.

Skully blinks at you. “364.”

You start to smile. He follows your lead.

He’s real. It wasn’t a dream.

“Um… So,” you start, but he reels back before you can get the rest out. 

“S-Sorry! I’m sorry! I’m much too close.” He scrambles to sit up, but the sudden change in position has him gripping his head. “Spinning… Oh, I feel ill… Please give me a moment and then I assure you I’ll be out of your hair.”

You bare your teeth in an awkward, sympathetic simper. Welcome to hangover hell.

“Why were you on the floor anyway?” you venture, sitting up with him, and then the shitty feelings descend. You hiss out a colorful word.

You realize you’re still wearing your costume from last night and, even though you think you should wrap yourself in a blanket, it’s nothing Skully hasn’t seen before. He’s seen all of you, as a matter of fact, and the knowledge of that sends a timid tremor ricocheting through your veins. You feel like you need to cover up now, as if you’re somehow exposed in your skimpy latex and sheer stockings, and it’s a ridiculous thought. The time for diffidence and modesty has long since passed.

Skully refuses to meet your stare, opting to gaze at a boring corner of your room instead. “I…” He sighs. “I heard you last night. And shortly after you retired… Well, I was struck with a jubilation like no other and I…”

“Rolled right off the bed?”

You picture it then: a squealing Skully squeezing the pillows and kicking his legs out, tangling himself in the sheets, every nerve alight with celebration.

“I’m sorry. I would’ve moved, but I feared I’d wake you if I wasn’t careful. You looked so relaxed… I couldn’t bring myself to risk it, so I remained there until now. Oh, but I promise I didn’t do anything untoward while you slept! I’d never!”

You exhale through your nose. “I trust you, Skulls.” And then you stiffen. “Wait. You heard me? H-How much?”

“All of it?”

You flop back onto the floor and muffle your groan in your hands. Not how you’d been hoping to start your morning. The hangover, you can handle. No problem. Whatever’s going on between you and Skully? Big problem. Massively heart-sized problem.

But you’re not going to tuck your tail and flee. Not this time. You’re better than that.

“I think…” Skully hesitates around the mouthful perched on his tongue. “I acted rashly last night. You saw such a terrible, immature side of me—and on Halloween, no less! There are no words in the dictionary to describe my shame.”

You remember his drunken meltdown. It’s not the prettiest image, but there’s no one else in this world you know of who’d go to such lengths for you. 

“You’re upset. I get it. Alcohol will do that to you. Makes you ten times more of an emotional wreck than you already are. I would know.” You’re not sure where you’re going with this, but you peek through your fingers at him and hope the tenderness in your tone hits its mark. “What I’m trying to say is that I’d like to try. If you don’t mind. If you’ll have me.”

I think I understand now—what I want.

“Try?”

“This. Us.”

He stares at you with dinner plates for eyes. A few seconds of silence bloom between you, and all throughout it he’s growing more pink-cheeked.

“We don’t have to! I mean… I completely understand if you don’t want to after everything. I’m a mess and I haven’t treated this situation very well, but I’m willing to give it my best shot. Fellow always says there’s only one way out of a ditch and maybe—”

Skully’s outstretched arm is in your face next. You follow the length of it to find his encouraging expression. Tentatively, you place your palm in his and allow him to help you up from the floor. You sit in front of him on your bed, and it’s as if you’re the last two humans on the planet.

This is new. The anxiety and the nervous sweats. The rushing blood in your ears. You’ve never felt this way before.

Then again, you’ve also never done any of this before. It’s all instinct; you’re treading the path projected by your heart this time. It’s every bit the terror you imagined it to be, but it’s exhilarating and refreshing all the same.

He’s still holding your hand. When you look down, you notice it’s shaking. You can’t tell if that’s from you or him, but it settles once your fingers interlock. 

And then, before you can prepare yourself, he’s yanking you towards him. The force of his pull has you falling, and your arm shoots out to prop yourself above him. 

“MayIkissyou?” he babbles, hurrying through the question so it’s pronounced like one gasping breath. And then he catches himself. “Forgive me. I’m just…so relieved! Oh, I was terrified you’d hate me and think I was a rotten person.” He’s tearing up, but you surmise these are happy tears. “I thought we’d never end up together. Like in ‘Sally’s Song’! I thought we were doomed. I thought I wasn’t the one for you…”

“No, I couldn’t ever hate you! You’re not a rotten person. Never. I—” think I’m falling for you— “I’m feeling things for you. Like in-my-heart things. Good things. That’s a horrible way to put it, I know, but I promise I mean every word. I’m just not as eloquent when it comes to these things. Compared to your poetry, I probably sound so dumb and—whoa!” 

His arms wind around you, and he traps you in a tight embrace.

“(Name)… My darling.”

“Y-Yes?” 

He sounds so serious… Wait, wait. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit! Don’t tell me he’s gonna say it? The L word! I don’t know if my heart’s ready. It wasn’t the first time he said it. Will I be okay? This is fine, right? It’s normal. It’s just…love. Aaahhhh!

“I’m pleased we’re so close.”

“Uh, yeah. Me too.”

“Without my glasses, I can scarcely see anything. You’d be nothing more than an indistinguishable, blurry shape. A beautiful shape, of course, but still impossible to discern!”

“Oh.”

Never fucking mind.

Hand in hand, you emerge from your room as more than friends. A couple. Lovers. A pair. So many florid titles you could probably fill the remaining pages in his poetry journal with. You’re not sure which one you should use to describe you and Skully. You’re used to temporary affairs. But this—what you have with him—feels like more than that.

Us. It’s us, you decide, and it’s the cheesiest thing but you’ll be damned if you deny yourself this newfound sweetness. 

Skully’s wrapped you up in his cloak. He’s also still clad in his costume, and he made quite the fuss about yours just moments ago.

“Now that we’re together,” he said with a childish pout, his face burning red-hot, “I don’t want others to see you like this. It’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I want to preserve these lovely sights for myself.”

“It’s just Rollo,” you argued. 

“Especially Mr. Rollo.”

You find his possessiveness endearing. Maybe you’re crazy for thinking that, but it’s addicting to be wanted so robustly and appreciated in full. Honeymoon phase be damned. You want to giggle and blush over everything Skully says and does, even if it’s complete nonsense. He could tell you the moon is made of cheese and you’d turn gooey like fondue. 

“Good morning, you two,” Rollo greets, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. His pale lips quirk up knowingly. “And what a good morning it appears to be. Gidel and I are due for a payout.”

You level him with a glare that could wilt lettuce. “I can’t believe you. Your greed sickens me. Isn’t gambling a sin?”

What happened to being honest examples for the youth, Fellow?!

“When it’s a gamble you have every chance of winning, does it truly count as such?”

“It does if you’re betting money! And even Gidel got in on it? Are you serious?”

“Fellow owes him new art supplies. The fancy kind.” 

“Well, if it gets the kid his crayons…”

“Might I ask what the bet was for?” Skully pulls out a barstool for you, ever the winsome gentleman. He seats himself beside you.

“Whether you and (Name) would get together on Halloween or Christmas.”

“In that case, my sincerest congratulations to you and dear Gidel! Isn’t that wonderful, my love?”

“H-How do you know we’re together? You don’t even have evidence to confirm…” You trail off. Skully props his elbows on the countertop, a moony look softening his eyes.

“Surely you’re not as blind as you are dense.” Rollo glances between the both of you, as if asking, Are you seeing this shit?

Before you can snap back with defensive vitriol, he sets a paper bag down. A sugary peace offering awaits. It works a little too well because you forget everything he’s ever done at once.

“Pastry day! You’re the best, Rollo.”

“I’m aware.” 

“It looks and smells divine! Thank you graciously, Mr. Rollo.” Skully fishes something from out of the bag. “Shall we share this croissant, my dear? In honor of our first meal together as a pair of love-doves.”

Whoa. That’s so official. Hearing that is…really nice, actually. Kinda huge and a little scary, but nice.

“Skulls, I’d say let’s do it, but I’m way too hungry to go halfsies.” He’s quick to wither at that, his cuteness a weapon you’re unable to fight. You giggle and lean it to peck his cheek. “How’s that instead?”

“Not even a dozen sugar cubes could compare to how sweet you are.” He clutches his chest, swooning like a fanboy struck down by Cupid. “Aah, I adore you most ardently.”

Rollo fills two mugs with what’s left in the coffee pot. “There’s tea if you’d rather that.”

“It would be rude for me to turn down your hospitality. If it’s not too much trouble, tea would be much appreciated.”

“More for me.” You take hold of both mugs and are instantly soothed by the warmth bleeding through the ceramic. The caffeine will ward off the rest of whatever hangover symptoms might be encroaching.

While Rollo fills the kettle with water, Skully searches through the bag for a pastry that suits his tastes. You’re already licking your fingers clean of croissant crumbs. 

“I must thank you for allowing me to stay here through the night. I apologize if I caused you any trouble.” Skully bows his head. “You must forgive me. I don’t quite remember much of last night’s escapades.” 

“It was nothing. We weren’t gonna leave you in the woods.” 

“We considered it.” Rollo sips idly, unbothered by the now distraught Skully. 

“Don’t listen to him. Rollo’s being morbid on purpose. We’d never do that to you.” You take Skully’s hand beneath the counter and squeeze it. “We almost dropped you off at your house, but we decided against it at the last minute.”

An awkward chuckle rumbles through him. “I owe you more than my gratitude.”

“As long as you’re safe and comfortable, that’s all that matters. Make sure you let your parents know if they’re asking after you.”

“Mr. Rollo… Your kindness precedes you.”

“Rollo has a big heart today,” you tease around a bite of pain au chocolat. “He bought sweets, he made coffee, and he’s so chatty. Must be a lotta money Fellow’s coughing up if you’re in a good mood.”

He rolls his eyes, quietly amused. “We all have reasons to be pleased.”

You suppose that’s true. It’s a happily ever after for each of you.

“Oh, that reminds me!” You turn towards Skully. “Give me your phone. There’s something I owe you.”

He relinquishes it without a second thought, which allows you to input the digits for your number. You should’ve done this a long while ago—back when you first extended your hand in friendship—but as they say there’s no time like the present. You can move forward with this. It’s a stepping stone in a new direction!

You catch a glimpse of his contacts while you make one for yourself. He doesn’t even have ten contacts. Of the few saved, you spot his parents—named Mama and Papa separately—and then Rollo and Fellow. And then there’s the latest addition: you. You’re not sure what to call yourself, so you simply leave it as your name. You’re certain Skully has plenty of contact names in mind already. You won’t veto any of them because you’re positive they’ll stick.

“There.” You hand him the device. “My number’s saved.”

With a gasp, he stares at the screen with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Oh! Oh, how splendid! I will treasure this gift forever.”

“It’s not that special,” you start to say, but the rest of the argument dies in your throat. It is to him. Very special. You don’t want to take that away from him. “Don’t hesitate to text me. I’m always down to chat.”

“I shall text you every morning and night without fail. And every hour between then, too.”

“D-Don’t overdo it!”

“She says that, but she’ll enjoy every second of it,” Rollo cuts in, setting a fresh cup of tea down in front of Skully.

You hide in the ruffles of Skully’s oversized cloak. “I never said I was opposed to it…”

To think I was missing this all along. This warmth… It’s so sweet.

You waste the rest of the morning away with the both of them, laughing about whatever you can remember from last night’s Halloween.

 “It may not have been very successful, and it certainly wasn’t my ideal Halloween,” Skully explains to Fellow and Gidel hours later, both of them rapt, “but it didn’t end in complete disaster.”

“All’s well that ends well,” Rollo applauds.

“Of course you would say that,” Fellow grumbles. “To be loved is to be changed apparently. What a scam.”

“Ah, that’s right. Seeing as our resident lovebirds have taken to the nest, I do recall someone owes me the sum we agreed upon. And Gidel is awaiting his art supplies. It’s only fair, no?”

Gidel, who is brimming with excitement on Skully’s behalf, a supportive mirror image of his joy, snaps over to give Fellow puppy eyes. To really sell it, he digs around in his pockets for a few halves of crayon. Your squirming boss is looking everywhere but at the two of them, sweating from head to toe.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Fellow lifts his arms in timeout. “Why must we let our desires lead us? Shouldn’t we learn to live as minimalists? Repeat after me! Hi-diddle-dee-dee! A minimalist life for me.” When no one follows suit, he drops to his knees in desperate prostration. “Best two out of three? We can bet on whether they’ll stay together long enough to get married or if they’ll split along the way. How does that sound? Just peachy, yes? If we’re in agreement, just name the terms and then we shall see! I’ll double the payout. Gidel, you can have an easel and oil paints. Isn’t that much better than a few measly crayons? And Rollo—my fair friend, surely you’d rather pay rent for the next five months rather than just one?”

That was fast. He really has mastered the art of begging like a bitch baby, you think, folding your arms over your chest. A few customers glance at the spectacle, curiously attracted to the obnoxious whines of a grown man.

“You made a bet and you lost. I’m merely here to collect my promised payment, as is Gidel.”

“How’s about you get yourself something from the store? It’s on me!”

Rollo surveys the store and the major half-off sale that has descended over what’s left of this year’s stock. “I don’t celebrate Halloween.”

Gidel shoves the broken crayons at him. Neither is going to budge. It’s amusing in the way an old sitcom is, but the way they interact with each other makes them look more like puppets than people.

“Aaaaghh! You’re unrelenting!”

“Just give Rollo his money and Gidel his art supplies.” You prop your feet up on the counter, your back poised against the wall. Skully nods in agreement. “Begging only makes you look worse, Fellow.”

With a growl, he pushes himself up onto his feet. “Yes, yes. I suppose you have me cornered.” And then with a woeful sigh: “Skully, my boy, couldn’t you have waited until Christmas? The holiday is right around the corner according to every marketing scheme ever. Halloween isn’t even remotely romantic!”

Skully gasps, scandalized. “It is if you’re Lord Jack and Sally! Halloween is the most romantic holiday! Have you never heard of traditional gothic romance?” He huffs and turns his nose up. “You have much to learn, Mr. Honest.”

“You’d be ill-advised to argue Halloween with the Phantom of the Opera,” Rollo says, holding a hand out. He scowls behind his handkerchief. “My money, if you would.”

“All right, fine. Don’t give me any more trouble, you hear?”

“Perhaps next time you should have more faith when placing bets.”

He stuffs a handful of crumpled bills in Rollo’s palm, grumbling all the while. You watch your roommate count each one, double- and triple-checking to ensure it’s the correct amount.

Gidel blinks up at him, hammer raised in threat.

“Yes, Gidel, I’ll get you those supplies. You have my word.” Fellow heaves a withered sigh. “You little devils are so conniving.”

“You love us. Don’t lie.”

“We cherish you, too, Mr. Honest!”

“I suppose you’re not impossible to tolerate. A semi-sensible boss,” Rollo agrees, pocketing his well-earned cash.

Fellow huffs, face tinged pink, and refuses to look at any of you. “You’re all nothing but trouble. I can’t believe I’ve put up with you kids for another year. How many more can I take?”

That’s right. Halloween’s over. The store closes in a week, you realize with a start. It went by so fast, and so much has changed.

You look at your humble work family—because that’s exactly what they’ve become in the time you’ve known them—and feel a smile stretching. These are your people. Misfits who have struggled to find their footing in the world. You watch a smirking Rollo and Gidel playfully push all of Fellow’s buttons, with Skully occasionally chiming in with a comment of his own, and you can’t imagine working minimum wage with anyone else.

If someone told you you’d end this season with love, you’d have laughed in their face. Back then, the mere idea was preposterous! Lust has always been your prerogative—loveless desire placed on a towering pedestal, far enough from the blooms of romance cluttering at the base, desperate to claw their way up into your heart. It’s not a joke or an aversion anymore. It’s real. Your first relationship that isn’t built on intermittent sex.

You wonder if you’re still stuck in last night’s Halloween, drunk off your ass and on the verge of passing out. Maybe you did and this is all a surreal dream—a fantasy spun from the silky strands of your heartstrings.

It’s not. Thank the stars it’s not.

There’s a lot you don’t know about romance and what it takes to maintain a relationship with sentimental stakes. You’re not an expert and neither is Skully. Perhaps no one is. Perhaps there is no such thing as experts and perfection where love is concerned. It’s a mystery—one you won’t be investigating alone.

Glancing at Skully, who’s still without his glasses and has been squinting at things from afar ever since this morning, you realize he looks different like this. In his Halloween costume—something he wore exclusively for you—and with his autumnal eyes uncovered by his trademark shades.

He’s cute.

And he’s all yours.

What a magical thing.

The sticky, sweet smell of sugar cookies and gingerbread umbrellas the apartment, cloying like dew on grassy lands in the first rays of sun. A cinnamon-scented candle mixes with the natural scent of the balsam fir positioned in a corner of the sitting room. It reeks of Christmas in here—of commercialized cheer and festive fun—like Santa Claus crash-landed through the door and spattered against the walls in a smattering of good tidings and season’s greetings.

Rollo was against a real tree at first, grousing over the mess and all the work, but even he couldn’t remain a grouchy Scrooge for long. He always softens around the holidays, which makes it easier to exploit his tender heart. And so together, while blasting a playlist of Christmas tunes at full volume, you hung ornaments and strung lights and garland along the full, fragrant boughs.

“We used to do this a lot,” he told you as he placed the star at the very top, and you turned the speaker down to hear him. “Before my brother… Ahem. My father would lift him onto his shoulders and he’d be the one to put the star on the tree.” He smiled at it, his eyes glazed in reminiscence. “And what a luminous star it is.”

You pulled him in for a reassuring side hug. “It’s gonna be a good holiday. Your brother would love it. He’d like that you’re carrying on the star tradition, too.”

Rollo hummed, and for the next few minutes you stood and admired the tree in peace.

Now you’re weeks into December and basking in the break from school. Normally you’d take this time to catch up on lost sleep, wasting the hours away into late afternoon in a comforting cocoon of blankets, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, but today you’re up plenty early. Excitement buzzes through you, even more so when you sniff the air and come away with all kinds of mouthwatering smells. You jump out of bed at the sound of “Last Christmas” and throw on a slim-fitting white sweater and a red jumper skirt with fur trim. After gliding through your makeup routine, you pucker your ruby-red lips in the mirror and fit a Santa hat on your head. It matches the peppermint patterns on this month’s set of acrylics.

You find Rollo hunched over the counter, wearing an apron and garnishing the Yule log with red currants and fondant mushrooms. He sprinkles icing sugar over the cake to give the impression of snowfall.

“You’ve outdone yourself.” Whistling, you examine the counters crowded with all kinds of dishes—some native to Rollo’s hometown and others from your favorite recipes. “Santa’s Little Helper works so hard. I hope you got some sleep.”

He smacks your hand away when you reach to pluck a berry from the cake. “This is nothing. Besides, I’m almost certain Skully’s going to bring snacks.”

“Probably.” Pouting, you cradle your hand and feign hurt. It’s ineffective against the no-nonsense Rollo Flamme. “You should’ve seen the way his parents lit up when he introduced me last month. You’d think he was telling them about how he won the lottery or something—the way they couldn’t stop gawping. I guarantee they’re sending him over with a tray of something to repay the favor.”

“Good. And I hope that Fellow sticks to his promise of bringing an appetizer.”

“He will. Gidel’ll make sure of it.” You sniff your wrist and frown. “Do I look okay? Am I overdoing it? Too much perfume?”

Rollo glances at you. “It’s Christmas. Everyone overdoes it.”

“I know, I know. But… I dunno. It’s my first major holiday with Skulls and I don’t wanna look like I’m trying too hard.”

Rollo places the glass dome over the cake and sets it off to the side. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

“You’re not helping. Do I look nice, at least?”

“You look very nice.” And then he ducks down to check the cookies in the oven. “Why are you so worried? Skully will appreciate you and your efforts regardless.”

“That’s just it! What if I look just okay? I’m not saying he has to drool over me, but if he shows up looking like a prince and I look like a bog monster—”

A sharp rap at the door shakes you out of your spiraling ramble. You and Rollo look between each other and then at the door. He starts for it and you throw yourself into his path to intercept him. 

“Wait! I’m not ready. Put a different song on—something to hype me up. Like Michael Bublé’s Christmas album! I need his confidence.”

“(Name), you’ll be fine.”

He strides past you, but you race the rest of the way to get to the door before he can. Wrenching it open, your heart sprouts wings like Icarus…and then immediately burns away at the sight of Fellow and Gidel. Temporarily relieved, you usher them in with a welcoming grin.

“Happy holidays!” You bend down to Gidel’s height and ruffle his hair. He beams up at you, his face half-hidden in a scarf that seems to swallow him whole. “Are you excited for Santa, Gidel?”

He nods and, digging through his pockets, pulls out a crumpled list. You read through the shaky misspellings (and the added corrections from Fellow) and your heart melts. It’s so wholesome. He wants art supplies, carrots for the reindeer, a new sewing kit for Fellow, books, a new hat…

“This is a great list! I’m sure you’ll get everything you want and more.”

“Now why can’t there be a Santa for adults?” Fellow huffs. “I’d love for the big man to come down and shovel my walkway or pay my bills. Winter Wonderland, they say, and yet I’m more frozen than the tundra!” He shakes himself out of his coat, which Rollo gracefully hangs on the nearby rack. He takes Gidel’s winter wear next. “Merry Christmas, both of you. I’ve brought apples.” Looking quite proud, he holds out the bag.

“Nice to see you, too, Fellow.” You lean in to embrace him and he returns the gesture merrily. “I hope the winter’s been kind to you and Gidel.”

“You’re too kind, dearie.”

“You didn’t think to do anything with the apples?”

“Now that, my fine friend, is where your imagination comes in! An apple is a very versatile fruit.” Fellow plucks one from the bag and, after shining it on his sweater, takes a greedy bite. “To some, it’s just an apple, but to others it could be candied or turned into pie. Limitless possibilities.”

“Hmm. Well, thank you for this. I’ll wash them and put them out with the rest.”

“Make yourselves comfy,” you add.

“Oh, and by the way… Would you assure (Name) she looks the furthest thing from a bog monster?”

“What’s this about a monster?” Fellow peers at you, incredulous, while he helps Gidel out of his winter boots.

Embarrassment flashes through you. “N-Not important! Don’t listen to Rollo.”

“She’s fretting over her appearance.”

You bark out a sudden laugh. “Who said anything about that? Me, fretting? No way. I’m just…conscious of today and everything. You know how it is.” You wring the hem of your dress. “It has nothing to do with fretting.”

The three of them—yes, even Gidel—look on with mutual disbelief. Fellow’s the first to break the silence.

“You’ve been together for—how long has it been now?—a month or so, and now you’re afraid of these things?”

“It’s been one month, three weeks, and three days, actually, and I’m not afraid.” You scoff. “Christmas is a big deal for couples. At least, I think it is. If the movies are to be trusted—”

“Miss (Name), take it from me—”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“Holiday romance is a scam—ack!” Gidel jabs Fellow in the side for that. He clears his throat before carrying on. “But! But, but, but—I’ll be the first to tell you that that boy loves you more than anything, be it during the holidays or on a regular day. Bog monster or not.”

Nodding quickly, Gidel points at you, poses like Skully, and then forms a heart with his hands. 

“Based on what we saw of his poetry, he’d probably salivate if you became a monster,” Rollo says, and you can’t refute his claim. “So what’s really plaguing you?”

Sometimes you hate how easily Rollo can read you.

“I haven’t told him I love him. We’ve been together all this time and he showers me in it—it’s obvious—but I haven’t been able to say those words myself. I don’t know why.”

You miss the way they all facepalm.

“I don’t want him to think I don’t feel the same—because I do! I love him to bits. Just…how? How to put those three words into a sentence, and how to say that sentence to him?”

“‘I love you, Skully’. Easy. Wouldn’t you agree, Gidel?”

He stalls around a nod.

“If only.” Rollo sighs. “You show your appreciation for him in other ways. I’m sure he understands.”

“But I think he’d like to hear it. Anyone would.”

“Lucky for you, Skully isn’t ‘anyone,’” Fellow remarks, patting you on the shoulder.

Still… It’d be nice to say it.

Just then, a rhythmic knock resounds. You look to Rollo for help, but he, Fellow, and Gidel have retreated to the oven to pull the cookies out. Why it’s a two-man-plus-spectator job, you don’t know.

The door opens to reveal Santa. A much thinner, lankier version, but Santa nonetheless. With a beaming smile and a hearty chortle, Santa Skully announces his arrival.

“Merry Christmas to you, my dear! You look as lovely as always.” He grabs hold of your hands and pulls you in, kissing each of your cheeks in turn. “Simply ravishing.”

You’re hot down to your toes. The cold air from outside helps regulate your temperature, if only for the moment.

We literally went on a date last week and yet I can’t stop myself.

“You look very handsome, as always.” You tug him down to your height to return his smooches with some of your own, placing one directly on his mouth. You linger long enough to leave him reeling with rekindled cravings. “I hope I’m on Sandy Claws’s nice list this year.”

“Let’s see,” he teases in a singsong, pretending to unfurl an imaginary scroll. He scans it for a few seconds and then leans in to whisper, “Sandy Claws says you’re just shy of naughty, but we can arrange a solution.”

“It won’t be an easy fix.”

“Then aren’t I lucky to have a wonderful soul such as yourself to call my own? A little naughtiness never hurts.”

Fuuuuck. I love him.

With a giggle, you release him and pat his suit down. “Everyone’s already here. Let’s get back inside before we freeze.”

“We wouldn’t want you to become Frozen Charlotte. Beautiful as you would be, I quite like you warm and alive.”

“As do I.”

You step aside to let Skully in. He hauls a red sack through the door. “Good day, wonderful people! Happy holidays and Merry Christmas!”

“Skully, my boy, you made it!” Fellow slinks over to shake his hand. “A very merry one to you as well.”

You shut the door to keep the cold out and watch as he takes his turn greeting everyone.

“I’ve brought gifts for everyone, and my parents sent me with a treat for today’s gathering. They send their well wishes and regards, each one baked into this tantalizing treacle tart.” Carefully, he pulls it from the bag, wrapped delicately in foil, and passes it to Rollo. “It’s my mother’s own recipe. I wish I could take the credit, but unfortunately I’m still learning how to bake.”

“I’ll be sure to send them a card to express my thanks.”

“Why, I’m honored, Mr. Rollo! They would love nothing more.”

“Ooh, a tart? Now that sounds scrumptious. What say we tear into the food, Gidel?”

Gidel agrees with two thumbs raised.

“If you fill up on sweets now, you’ll never have the appetite for dinner,” Rollo scolds.

“By the time the food’s done cooking, we’ll be plenty hungry. And we have lots of stuff to do to pass the time.” You make a vague sweeping gesture with your hand. “Decorating cookies, making gingerbread houses, watching movies… It’ll be fine.”

No one’s going to argue with that. And even if they were about to, the delightful Christmas music puts everyone in bright spirits.

While you and Rollo prepare the main courses, Fellow, Skully, and Gidel clear the table to make space for trays of now-cooled cookies and gingerbread. A rainbow of frostings and various toppings are set down next.

“A very smart use of your guests’ labor,” Fellow comments, but he doesn’t have any credibility when he’s clearly putting his soul into crafting a little bow for his gingerbread man. And then he catches Gidel’s arm before his sleeve can drape into one of the bowls. “Be careful! Now what have I told you about rolling up your sleeves when you’re going to be working?”

He sets his cookie down and turns in his chair to help Gidel fold his sleeves back. He’s given a grateful smile in return.

“What do you think of mine so far, dear Gidel? I’m recreating Lord Jack’s terrifying likeness in cookie form! Ooh, are you decorating yours based on Mr. Honest? How darling!”

Skulls, you’re a delight. I hope you know that.

“What is it?” Rollo asks.

“I’m thinking,” you reply absently, gazing at your reflection in the oven. The Christmas ham cooks within. 

“How dangerous.”

“I really like him, Rollo. It’s one thing to show it, but I want to be able to tell him. I want to say it and not feel so…insecure. Yeah, that. That word fits.”

We’ve gone on dates, we kiss, we hold hands, we have sex. He tells me I’m pretty and I melt. I give him all kinds of things because I like spoiling him. I’m going to spend Christmas Day with him and his parents. Everything we do is lovey-dovey, so why can’t I say it? It’s not like it’s a forbidden phrase.

It was for most of your life, though, and that’s the crux of the problem. The phrase has negative connotations. It’s been weaponized in the past, a verbal dagger meant to carve at your chest. Even now, a month into your relationship, you can’t tamp down the surprise whenever Skully lavishes you with that three-word phrase. Over and over, as if it’ll imprint itself on your soul if spoken enough. He means everything he says—each iteration of fondness. You wish you could be so unfaltering in your approach. You wish you could just scream the words because they’re trapped inside your ribs and you desperately want them out. You want Skully to know.

“I’m glad everyone can come together like this,” you say instead, and thankfully Rollo doesn’t press the matter. “We should get together to celebrate the New Year, too.”

“So long as our schedules align.”

“As if Fellow’s gonna be too busy for a free meal.”

For the rest of the day, you decide it isn’t worth it to sweat over the complications of love. You can do that after the holidays. Or later tonight when you’re alone with your thoughts in the shower. Either way, now’s not the time.

I’m too pretty to stress over this.

Somehow it works. You’re beginning to wonder if procrastination (alongside a dusting of delusion) really is the solution to all of life’s issues. Maybe not a long-term fix, but it provides temporary relief from the demons haunting your every thought.

I’ll say it once I’m ready, you catch yourself thinking hours later while Skully feeds you. Mindlessly, you open your mouth to receive another spoonful of whatever’s on his plate. There’s not a time limit on stuff like this. It’s not like I have to say it today or tomorrow or two weeks from now. 

“I really should capitalize on Christmas…” Fellow announces, mostly to himself, as he peers out the snow-frosted window. “This town grows so soft during the holidays. It seems far more profitable than Halloween.”

“We can dress Lord Jack up as Sandy Claws and have him pose in the very front!” Skully suggests, pausing midway to accept a bite from your fork. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

“Hmm. There’s potential.” A flicker of mischief spots Rollo’s green hues. “You could play mall Santa and listen to everyone’s Christmas wishes.”

Fellow laughs and cuts into the slab of glazed ham on his plate. “Sounds to me like someone’s offering to stand in as an elf.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” You slam your hand down on the table. “He’s Santa’s Little Helper! Who’s with me? Gidel?”

Said boy is looking at Rollo with hope painted across his youthful face. Any initial objection Rollo had promptly vanishes at the sight. He sighs loudly behind his napkin.

“Ask me again next year and then we’ll see.”

“I didn’t hear a no! Did you, Skulls?”

“We can all dress up together! How lovely!”

“Then it’s settled. Santa’s Workshop will open for business next holiday season!” Fellow raises his glass in toast, and the rest of you follow suit.

“Cheers to that!”

Some time later, while you and Skully exchange gifts with Gidel, Fellow and Rollo slip out of the room. You don’t realize they’re gone until it’s just the three of you, Skully’s chatter filling the space and tricking you into believing there are more people present. It’s not like them to scheme so collaboratively, and they’re not going to pick at the desserts. Suspicion crawls up your back and spins its web in your chest. Those two are up to something. You’re sure of it.

“This one’s for you.” Skully’s voice draws you back to the present. He hands you a tiny box with a bow. “From dear Gidel.”

“For me? Oh, that’s very kind of you.” You peel the lid back and lift a beaded necklace with an accompanying drawing from inside. It’s of you and Gidel holding hands, happy smiles and flowers all around. “This is beautiful! Did you make this yourself?”

He nods, face flushed with pure happiness. You fasten it around your neck, swelling with pride the whole time.

“It suits you well. An excellent job, dear Gidel! And your art looks exquisite. You’ve captured my darling’s radiant smile.” Skully pushes his gift into Gidel’s hands. “Here—open mine next!”

The packaging remains intact for all of five seconds before it’s shredded to pieces. Inside are an artist’s sketchbook and a how-to art guide. Gidel’s mouth falls open at the sight of them.

“I thought you could use something a little more professional. Notebooks are great to start with, but a real sketchbook suits our budding artist even better!”

He hugs both books to his chest and then, setting them down, throws his arms around Skully. 

“You’re very welcome! I await the masterpieces that shall soon grace these pristine pages.” He places his hat on Gidel’s head. “Nurture that imaginative spirit of yours and never stop creating.”

“Miss (Name), would you be a dear and come here for a second? Rollo needs you for something,” Fellow calls from just down the hall.

And then Rollo, in a hushed hiss: “Fool! You’re supposed to call Skully first!”

“Oh, pish-posh. They may as well be one body, the way those two fawn over each other.”

“Just be quiet!”

These idiots… you think and shake your head, amused with their antics. 

“I’ll be right back.”

You kiss Skully’s cheek and pat Gidel’s head, and then you’re rising to your feet to tromp down the hall towards your bedroom. You’re not sure what to expect when you round the corner and find the both of them there. And nothing’s amiss. Your suspicion triples, and you cast a dubious glance between them.

“Okay, you two, what’re you doing? It’s not like you to plan…whatever’s happening here. Hold on. What is happening?”

“Call it a Christmas miracle, dearie.”

“Or a favor. Whichever is sweeter on the tongue.”

You roll your eyes and that’s when you spot it. The mistletoe hanging from your doorframe.  

“All right, Gidel, you can bring Lover Boy over!”

Right on cue, Gidel drags a sputtering Skully along. 

“What’s this about? Dear Gidel? Mr. Honest? Mr. Rollo?” He looks at each of them. “Is this a surprise? Am I meant to cover my eyes?”

He’s brought in front of you. Gidel grabs both of your hands and forces them together.

“Merry Christmas, you two,” Rollo says as he departs for the sitting room, where a few gifts still linger untouched beneath the tree.

“Three words,” Fellow reminds you with a hum. He mouths them to you as he passes: You got this.

Even Gidel offers you an encouraging thumbs-up before he, too, skips after Fellow.

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“Look up, Skulls.”

He turns his bespectacled gaze skyward and gapes at the mistletoe. “Oh… Ohhh! Did they put this up for us?”

“Seems like it.”

Awkward silence gathers in the hall.

“Should we kiss?”

“We should kiss.”

“Ah, sorry. You first.” You shrink away, but Skully holds firm to your hands. 

“I would be honored to kiss you.” And then he squeals. “Aah, it’s really mistletoe! My first kiss under the mistletoe with my sweetheart!”

He leans in, but you’re not ready. You can’t kiss him until you’ve told him. Until you’ve uttered three magic words.

“Skully, wait!” 

He pauses. “Is… Is something the matter?”

You steel yourself. “I… There’s something I want to tell you.”

“I’m listening. You can tell me anything, my dear. Anything.”

“Okay. Cool. Good.” Where the fuck am I going with this? Words. Love. Right. “I know we haven’t been together very long—I’m hoping we stay together forever—and you’ve always been so expressive about your feelings. Heart on your sleeve and all that. But I… I’m not the best at this and I know it’s painfully evident, but I’m really happy to call you mine because you get it. You get me. And I guess I’m the luckiest girl alive to have someone like you. No, not guess. I know I’m the luckiest. Wait, that’s not the point I’m trying to make. Ugh. This is so rambly. Sorry, sorry. The point I’m trying to make is…”

I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and I need to say it. I need you to know.

Skully’s hand grasps your chin and turns your head back to face him. The contact—his warm palm, soft fingers, gentle, magnetic touch—reminds you of why you feel these things. Tongue-tied, buoyant on a sea of clouds, always strung up in the wonderful web that is romance.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this. I wanted to say it the first day I realized it, but I couldn’t. I was scared and maybe I still am, but I want to tell you.” You inhale a deep breath. “Skully, I… I really, really… Really, really, really—”

He sweeps you against him, his lips on yours for but a breath. “I know,” he murmurs, closing his hand around yours. “I love you, too. And until you feel comfortable saying it out loud, I’ll continue to echo the sentiment. Now and onwards.”

You stare at him. The first tear tracks down your cheek and then another. Before you can stop yourself, you’re crying. He smiles in that sweet, sympathetic, Skully way. It sculpts your heart into a candle, and the wax organ weeps all over your ribs. Messy. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“No fair… You’re too cool and I’m a mess.”

Thumbing your tears away, he cradles your face in both hands like a saint. “The Spider Queen is always cool and so is my darling (Name). I will always think so.”

“Even when I’m a dreadful mess?”

“Especially when you’re a dreadful mess because that, too, is beautiful. Dreadfully beautiful.”

“You’re seriously amazing… I adore you, Skulls.”

Glassy-eyed and sniffling, you yank him in for a starved kiss underneath the mistletoe.

You might not be able to say those three words right now, but this comes close.

It’s love all the same.

[weirdgenetic-fuckup]

Slash x reader where reader is like depressed and shit and no one notices but him

A/n: Kind of not the same thing you wrote but Slash with depressed reader

Warnings: Depression, Slash yelling (if you can picture that, man is soft), if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

"Open the fucking door!" Slash yelled, banging on the front door to your apartment. An older woman who lived by you gave him an odd look as she passed but he couldn't care less. "Answer the fucking door! I know you're in there!"

He'd seen it all happen, it took him too long to realize and he hated himself for it but it didn't matter right now, all that mattered was that you were safe. Of course, he couldn't see you through the door.

You were distancing yourself from him, turning down his invitations to dinner whether it was a restaurant or just ordering pizza. He never found you already in bed when he came home, in fact he found your key he'd given you in the kitchen.

You smiled when you were with him but he'd catch you staring out the window. If you were in bed with him you were on your side and scrolling through your phone.

Slash took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. His yelling was probably scaring you, he never yelled at anyone, let alone at you. He never raised his voice and he didn't bang on doors. Not just because he knew how much bigger he was than you, he just wasn't a violent person.

It didn't stop the doors latch from snapping off when he hit the thing again, making it swing open. He made a quick mental note to pay for it before looking further into your apartment.

There was garbage everywhere, you hadn't cleaned in weeks and you hadn't left your house in days. That's what finally tipped him off, he realized he hadn't heard more than a few texts from you 'good morning' 'goodnight' 'I love you'.

He looked to the kitchen and found you slumped against the fridge. Panic filled him and he raced over to you, kneeling next to you and looking you over. He had no training in anything, he had no idea what he was doing or what he was looking for.

He kept repeating your name and pleading for you to say something, anything while he desperately searched for your pulse. He at least knew where your pulse points were but he wasn't sure what good was supposed to feel like so he kept feeling his own heartbeat, of course he kept getting a shock from his pacemaker.

"Say something." He muttered, turning your head to him. "Anything?" He waited another moment before he picked you up and set you on the counter, unintentionally banging your head on the cupboard above. "Say something, for the love of god!" He yelled, holding you by the shoulders.

You blinked, staring at him blankly. "Why are you here?" You asked, voice raspy and weak.

His hold on you tightened. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He gave you a shake. "Because I fucking love you and you're in here looking half fucking dead, what the hell happened?!"

Tears pricked your eyes, no words formed for you to say. You wanted to apologize, to tell him you were going to try better, to fix yourself. Instead you just leaned forward and fell into him.

He couldn't very well push you off so he wrapped his arms around you and held you tight. "I'm sorry." He whispered. "I'll get this place fixed, alright?"

You shook your head. "I-I'll do it, it's my mess."

"No." He stated firmly, leaving no room for argument. "You're going back home with me, and you're going to stay there because you need someone, you don't get to just fuck off anymore." He pulled you off the counter and carried you out of the apartment.

"The door." You mumbled, looking back at it as it swung sadly.

"No one's going in there, they'll take one look and know nothings worth stealing." He explained. He spoke again before you could say anything. "No one's going to assume you have someone to buy you nice shit, they'll see the place is trashed and figure someone got to it first."

You had to believe him, he used to be a thief so it's not like he was pulling shit out his ass. You also had no energy to fight him, no will to.

He carried you out to his car and buckled you in, kissing your forehead before closing the door and walking around to the drivers side.

While he drove he made a few calls, cleaning services and someone to fix your door, he was getting you your damage deposit back while hinting to you that you were moving in with him.

He wasn't actually going to make you do anything, he walked you right to his room. He had his arm around you but he wanted you to walk.

Slash stopped you from going to the bed and led you to the bathroom instead. "Bath or shower?" He asked.

"Sleep." You mumbled.

"That's not an option right now, bath or shower?" He repeated, hands resting on your hips. "A bath would be warm, smelling salts and all that shit... but a shower would be quick, so pick."

You thought for a long moment, leaning on him because it was easier than forcing yourself to stand. "You'll be in there with me..?" He nodded without hesitation. "Bath..."

He let you slump back on the tiled floor while he went to get you some clothes to change into, a shirt of his and some old shorts, he wasn't sure where they came from but he figured they'd fit you.

The bath was just what you needed. It relaxed your muscles and you melted into Slash. He even placed a facecloth over your eyes so didn't have to look at yourself. He wasn't making you do anything for a while, he'd encourage you and make sure you took care of yourself, but he understood depression to an extent.

You'd sleep with him, he'd say nothing but sweet things to you, he'd make sure you left the bedroom at least once a day even if it was just to move to the couch.

After a week he started waking you up so you could make breakfast together. He set up a chair and move it around for you so you didn't have to worry about standing.

Daily walks, weekly baths that soon turned to every other day, same went for brushing your teeth. This wasn't going away any time soon, he knew that much, but that didn't mean he was just going to sit back and watch you dissolve.

[hrizantemy]

You know what‘s cackling me?

Someone who thinks Nesta and Gwyn are shit friends to Emerie legit said that FEYRE and Emerie would be far better friends as they supposedly have so much in common when it comes to their abuse…

You mean- the high lady that cosplays as Emerie‘s race to have sex in the sky and does absolutely jack shit for the Illyrians, Illyrian women specifically? Never expressed any desires to help them, only talking shit about her race while living in her rich mansions? Don’t make me laugh.

Feyre would eliminate Emerie‘s people in a second if she was to choose between Illyria and Velaris and she‘d do it without any remorse. Just like she had no remorse for the civilians in the spring court because her petty revenge against one person was far more important than the civilians that got slaughtered by Hybern soldiers.

Feyre is mated to the little shit that does absolutely nothing for the Illyrians except trying to draft Illyrian women in his military for wars no one wants to fight in anyway. Where‘s the charity for the Illyrian women? What about the health system? Education? Why do Illyrians live in fucking tents for centuries under Rhys‘s rule? Why not enforcing laws to protect the women instead of just throwing your hands up like „I tried“ and then going about your day? Wing clipping is forbidden, yet you don’t fucking suffer any consequences if still practiced. Where‘s the order?

What has Feyre done for Emerie and her people? What makes them great friends exactly? Because what I imagine is Feyre saying „Aye look at this“, shapeshifts to an Illyrian then flex-flying, looking down at Emerie who can’t fly. Again, this is the same lady that was content to shove the spring court people to their doom (the people she befriended in the first book) for revenge against their high lord.

Emerie would and SHOULD hate Feyre. I’m so tired of the IC boot lickers. That cult is NUTS.

And let’s really break this down—what do Feyre and Emerie actually have in common? Because it sure as hell isn’t shared struggle. Feyre’s “hardships” ended the second she became High Lady, living in her cushy palace with infinite wealth, a doting mate, and an entire court ready to worship her every breath.

Emerie? She’s still fighting for survival. She’s still dealing with the oppression of Illyria, still facing discrimination, still struggling to run her shop while men who see her as lesser try to take everything from her. Feyre would never understand that, and more importantly, she wouldn’t care. Because if she did, she would’ve used her power and influence to do literally anything about it.

And let’s not forget—Emerie is the exact kind of person Feyre and the IC love to ignore.

• She’s an Illyrian woman, the very people Rhysand has left to suffer under a corrupt and brutal system.

• She has no political power, no magic, no benefit to the IC’s inner circle.

• She wasn’t “chosen” by them, and unless it personally benefits them, the IC doesn’t care about people who aren’t in their handpicked Velaris elite.

Like, be serious. What would their “friendship” even look like? Feyre visiting Illyria for five minutes, taking a sad, aesthetic look at the struggling Illyrian women, then going back to her mansion for a wine night, patting herself on the back for caring? Because that’s exactly what she does—acted shocked that Illyria was still awful (as if Rhys hadn’t been ruling for centuries), and then promptly did nothing about it.

And the fact that these people have the audacity to say Nesta and Gwyn are bad friends to Emerie??? Nesta, who trained with Emerie every day, pushed her to believe in herself, and fought alongside her in the Blood Rite? Gwyn, who became family to her, who stood by her side as they all carved out a place where they belonged? Those two are “bad” for Emerie, but Feyre—who has done jack shit for her or her people—would be better? Make it make sense.

Emerie is not some token Illyrian for the IC to collect when it’s convenient. She’s her own person, and she deserves friends who actually see her, who understand her struggles, and who give a damn about Illyria beyond surface-level pity. And that sure as hell isn’t Feyre.

And let’s talk more about the Illyrians—because the way they’re treated in the Night Court is actually disgusting. They are the backbone of Rhysand’s power. His armies? Illyrians. His most trusted warriors? Illyrians. The people he constantly throws into war so he can keep his cushy rule in Velaris? Illyrians.

Yet how does the Night Court treat them?

• They live in tents while Rhys and the IC hoard wealth in palaces.

• They are expected to die for a court that does nothing for them.

• Their women are still abused, clipped, and treated as less than nothing.

• Their “High Lord” gives them zero resources, education, or healthcare, but still demands their loyalty.

And when Illyrian men inevitably rebel or make desperate choices? Rhysand just slaughters them. The same way he did after Amarantha, the same way he did with the rebels. No trials, no attempts to reform, just immediate execution.

And let’s not forget—Rhysand only ever acknowledges Illyria when it’s convenient for him.

• When he needs soldiers? He’s the great Illyrian warrior High Lord.

• When he needs Cassian and Azriel to enforce his will? He embraces his Illyrian side.

• But when Illyrians actually need help? Suddenly, he’s not Illyrian anymore—he’s above them. Suddenly, they’re just brutes and problems he can’t fix.

And let’s be really clear—Illyrians are not just some side faction that Rhys and Feyre can exploit when it suits them and ignore when it doesn’t. They are a foundational part of the Night Court. They are the reason Rhysand has an army. They are the reason he can hold power. They are the reason Velaris has the luxury of being “untouched” by war, because it’s the Illyrians who are sent to die first.

[vaniliens]

Long ass opinions / critiques on milgram under the cut before t3 actually hits

Im not even that mad / hateful of mlgrm at all tbh & I think & hope you can tell that from the fact that my main gripe with it isnt really "This project was awful from start to finish it never should've happened" but rather "There were better (& Arguably easier) ways to tell this story & get the point across"

i understand 100% why they thought, on paper, why this would've been a cool project to work on and It Is!! They did their best, i really love how it takes inspiration from the vocaloid community from the abstract symbolism filled MV's, the deco covers, how theres an interconnected story, and the potential of community guesswork & discussion of what this song and/or MV means. I might be a bit biased bc i got into it after being dissapointed in how lacking the virtual singers / vocaloid [community] feels in project sekai besides the commissioned songs but overall i think its really cute, even if its technically just what art as a whole is about 😭 You know, making you engage & think about The Implications. Getting the inspo from the voca synth community allows the project to stand out bc of how its presented. Its unique, its fresh, it keeps you on your toes.

I love how it (tries) to tackle well known & relevant issues in japan (& tbh the rest of the world), like ableism, misogyny, child abuse, call-out culture, homophobia, the entire prison system, etc. and how the victims and perpetrators react to it. Its very interesting. Its very clearly trying to humanize & sympathize even the "worst of the worst", and i appreciate how its one of the main themes in the story even if some of the audience didnt quite catch it. Its showing how simply punishing people who did wrong isnt the answer. Like theres SOOOO much nuance to unpack both in universe with the crimes & prisoners and in a meta sense through the way the story is presented, the way the audience reacts, the discussions, thoughts, developments, etc. Its so cool. They've clearly put a lot of effort into it.

At its core the Milgram Project has always been less about solving the crimes and more about asking the audience "Why do YOU think X happened?" Its basically a bunch of character studies!! You're peering through their hearts, examining their own version of the truth of their crimes, and drawing your own conclusions based on that raw, intrusive data that the system has given you. Aagh.

Unfortunately in my own humble opinion all these elements combined is exactly why it doesn't work as well as it could've And arguably should've for a project all about seeing the good or at least understanding eachother.

It asks "Why did X did it?" but it doesnt give us a platform to actually state Why they did it in any way, only to answer & play into the prisons b&w thinking, and you cant in any way reverse any of their verdicts once its been casted. And thematically it works. I mean its about a warden in a prison full of people who have taken lives, its doing its job to mirror the reality of real life Innocent (No punishment or otherwise legal consenquence) vs Guilty (Punish) verdicts, legally or non officially, as it should. But idk it doesnt really Help us understand why a character comitted their sin. It only introduces downwards spirals, which only makes the characters less willing to provide their actual motive(s) as time goes on. I get that the main thing its criticizing is the legal & prison system but its getting in the way of sympathizing with "Bad" people. Which again IS the point, thats EXACTLY what the prison system does and why its so harmful, it dehumanizes people to hell and boils down their entire personhood to "Guilty" but like???? It doesnt really provide an Out, or anything more Productive to think about. WHICH IS THE POINT & I KNOW THAT BUT IT KINDA FEELS LIKE IN THE END THERES REALLY NOTHING YOU CAN DO WHICH IS PRETTY NIHILISTIC???

Its like "Theres no point in examining why these people are the way they are bc everyones gonna suffer no matter which button you press in the end!! No you cant gain deeper optional insight either bc we're permanently rolling with THIS now." and what doesnt help are the extra contents like the voice dramas & interrogation questions where the characters themselves add more fuel to the fire by threatening eachothers or the wardens lives??? and it leads to people discussing 'Which Verdicts to Vote [to minimize the in universe damage so these fictional definitely-not-representatives-of-real-life-issues-&-its-consequences characters can be safe]' instead of 'Actual Insightful Character Analysis [to help eachother find our own conclusions no matter what it is & to improve ourselves as a person through examining fictional scenarios]' and it leads to COMPLETELY unproductive discussions and flame wars and its so upsetting to see.

Its fucking tearing itself (& the fandom) apart by making ITSELF perpetuate the black & white "Theres a CORRECT answer to this EXTREMELY morally gray & heavily nuanced situation!!!" thinking for the sake of criticizing (More like making a parody of) the prison system. Like wow who would've thought that the system designed so that literally everyone in it is turned into mere "GOOD" VS "BAD" caricatures of themselves would be a good sytem to EXAMINE PEOPLES COMPLICATED LIVES with. Does that make sense. Like isnt it ironic how what we call "Meta voting" is, in the end, more about these fictional characters lives than it is about us, as the actual living breathing audience who are capable of accepting things outside the dichotomy and are able to self reflect before its too late? us, the humans whos lives are more fragile and thus require more care from eachother than mere 2d drawings? Isnt that so ironic

AND I WANT TO MAKE IT CLEAR I GENUINELY, WITH ALL (or none in this case) OF MY HEART, DON'T AND CAN'T EVEN BLAME ANYONE WHO META VOTES. BECAUSE THE PRISON. THE PROJECT ITSELF. ENCOURAGES IT. AND IN THIS TRIAL AND EVEN THE PREVIOUS ONE WITH KOTOKO'S BEATINGS, PROVES THAT IT HOLDS WATER. MORE THAN ANY CHARACTER ANALYSIS. MORE THAN GENUINELY UNDERSTANDING WHERE THESE CHARACTERS ARE COMING FROM.

And the beautiful thing about it is that theres ALSO a discussion to be made about this, intentional or not, about how our actions weigh more than our thoughts / feelings which is ofc correct. This also ties in it with its theme, of taking people's lives and under what conditions is it considered something "Neutral" (even "Positive / Good") vs "Punishable" and ofc also the punishing & restraining that comes with getting a guilty verdict part, an action that leads to someone else's forced in-action.

Still though, in what way does this really help support the Actual Main Theme, which is understanding eachother / the prisoners, people who youve seen arguably the worst of? Its grappling between wanting to make the audience GENUINELY THINK and self reflect vs a show about people going through hell and you CAN be both but again!! with way milgram is run, because of the active audience participation it needs & encourages & the way it boxes the audience into these 2 choices, it was always going to snowball & sway more to the latter. Its becoming less of a thinkpiece & more just a shocking spectacle where everything is in "Superhell"

"Oh anyone can die in this prison if the audience messes up badly enough" do you think thats a good way to send your message. Just kill off a character whos arc wasnt even finished yet. When their deaths only serve to make things worse and thus more shocking and "High Stakes"? When their deaths are only punishing the audience who wanted to understand everyone in the prison by

1. forever 'Locking' said dead character(s) out of any new developments

2. Possibly make things more muddy & unclear in the trial, as the rest of the characters would be affected by the death(s) and would most likely close themselves off even more to cope with the trauma?

And. Like. Again I cant even get that mad bc can you blame the writers when theyre all forced to write shit on the fly based on OUR unpredictable reactions??? Ex. Did they expect Amane to get a guilty in the 1st trial despite the sympathetic MV which features a child repeatedly being abused?? They also have to choose and try to balance between making the horror of the situation clear while also providing a way for these present horrors to bring out the characters past crime. Its so complicated.

I really really hate how this happened. Please. If milgram had no audience participation and if it was instead just a linear story or 2 this wouldn't have happened.... everything would've been in the writer's control and thus we would've been guaranteed a more fulfilling story even if it lacks the explicit audience complicity to the violence & abuse. See: come on man, THE OFFICIAL PREQUEL NOVELS.

Alternatively, seeing as the trial 3 curtain call is LITERALLY called 'Route: Your [Curtain] Call,' implying that there were other routes we could've went on, it could've been a video game or better yet a visual novel. Then we'd be able to fully explore the characters as much as we want, even if, by resetting the game multiple times to get the routes to FULLY understand these charaters, it lessens the emotional impacts the deaths will have.

I dunno man i just wish it didnt get this complicated I just wish it was presented better....

"So what do you think happened? Was this justified or not?" I dont know man we're busy making sure people dont die so we dont miss out on any new info even though the act of 'making sure people dont die' is making us Waste the opportunities we have to get said new info. WE'RE in storytelling superhell.

[ghostymarni]

aaaahh!! @blackseakraft ✨🤩 tysm for the tag! Its an honor to get to know you, thank you for sharing ☕️

what’s the origin of your blog title: caf enthusiast to express my adoration for my favorite commander. for my username, I was an addictive overwatch player for 9 years since 2016. I’m a support player + a sniper, but during a Halloween event one of the icons was a ghosty pachimari, so I took ghostymari + added a letter for my name <3

OTP + ship name: I have too many

favorite color: black + dark green

favorite game: bioshock, overwatch, elder scrolls online, jedi fallen order, fallout 4 mostly for the music.

song stuck in your head: “if it doesn’t hurt” by nothing more

weirdest habit/trait: idk I’m just weird + chaotically sad?

hobbies: art, photography, home decorating, fashion (when I’m not being lazy), dancing (swing dancing, line dancing, + just going ham in a club dance floor 🦇🖤⛓️)

if you work, what’s your profession: I was hesitant on sharing because being vague makes me feel safe, but was like WHY NOT?! I’m a designer + co-account manager for hot topic at an apparel company. I used to have Spencer’s + Spirit Halloween under my umbrella before the company expanded. If you shop those stores you may have seen my terrifier Spencer’s collection last year ;)

if you could have any job you wish, what would it be? I’d live in the middle of the woods in a house built of stone and wood by the local lumberjack. I’d become a spinster, living off my garden, animals, + survival stock. a witch. I’d be a witch.

something you’re good at: sarcasm + dark humor

something you’re bad at: uuuhhhh taking my own advice

something you love: my kid

something you could talk about for hours, off the cuff: clones, universe conspiracies, you know, normal stuff.

something you hate: people who lack common sense

something you collect: right now it’s star wars in universe home items, mid century 60s-80s vintage + new inspired home decor/furniture

something you forget: everything. adhd is fun.

what’s your love language: acts of service, but mostly anything that doesn’t involve me telling someone to do something. If someone goes out of their way to do something just because they care, I take that so hard. I just don’t ask for anything + I don’t expect anything either.

favorite movie/show: star wars, the munsters, addams family, repo the genetic opera, greatest showman, red vs blue, the office, parks + rec, hubie halloween, sense + sensibility etc

favorite food: sushi mostly, but I just really enjoy asian food

favorite animal: I have a cat, so cat? we used to have ferrets, so I really like those too.

what were you like as a child: too obedient, I grew up in a religious cult; I turned out fine.

favorite subject at school: art. I had everything from extra art classes, photography, + even retook humanities because I loved the history + my favorite teacher was a plus.

least favorite subject at school: math

what’s your best character trait: traumatic sarcasm

what’s your worst character trait: goldfish brain, I promise I just get so distracted or forget stuff. Out of sight out of mind; I work too much.

if you could change any detail of your life right now what would it be? grim truth: I’d want to bring back my late husband but I know better than to mess with time or the balance of the universe. allons-y!!!

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? alan rickman. Idk how, but I’d do it.

@lonewolflupe @eclec-tech @badbatchposts @wings-and-beskargam @returnofthepineapple @jetii @baddest-batchers I’m always down to learn more about everyone if you wanna share. Respect if you don’t <3 vode please feel free to join in if you haven’t been tagged too

Get to know your mutuals!

What's the origin of your blog title? When I was in middle school, someone told me "you dress so goth, but your personality is so happy. You're like a really cheerful grim reaper. A joyful soul collector." And that's been my username for most everything ever since!

OTP(s) + Shipname: Oooh, right now it's Jayvik, and tbh I can't think of another one, this is one of the first ships I've been really really into tbh. Other dynamics focused on my blog have actually been more platonic, like Irondad

Favorite color: Red!

Favorite game: Dungeons and Dragons! Both as a player, and DM!

Song stuck in your head: The Challenge - EPIC

Weirdest habit/trait? I download thousands of still frames of tv shows that I love so I can make memes out of them. But I have to sift through and delete all the pictures that are blurry or unnecessary, which takes hours. I think it's super fun because I'm autistic and really enjoy sorting stuff lol

Hobbies: Writing, playing DnD, making memes, and hanging out with my friends!

If you work, what's your profession? Not so much a profession lol, I work at a toy store. It's a part time job while I'm in college, studying to be a radiologist!

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Realistically? Radiologist. But ANY job I wish? Professional DM or Professional DnD player, like the people on Dropout or Critical Role haha

Something you're good at: I'm good at writing stories! I can write them well and write things that make people feel deep emotions, and I like that.

Something you're bad at: Recognizing when someone doesn't want help haha. I tend to try and fix things or help people when they just want to vent, and it ends up frustrating for both of us.

Something you love: I love stories. Any kind, I love so so many

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: My favorite shows and stories, my dnd campaigns and characters, my stories and ideas

Something you hate: Fascism. Bigotry. Willful ignorance. Fearmongering. Propaganda.

Something you collect: Dice!! I'm a dice goblin for sure haha

Something you forget: I often forget chores unfortunately

What's your love language? Physical touch and acts of service

Favorite movie/show: Ooh right now it's definitely Arcane haha

Favorite food: Sushi!

Favorite animal: Cats!

What were you like as a child? In a word? Unwell haha. I'm a good bit better now, still struggling with a lot, but better than I used to do

Favorite subject at school? English, I was always good at that class

Least favorite subject: Chemistry. I hate that shit so much lol

What's your best character trait? I think that I'm kind and willing to stand up for others

What's your worst character trait? I can be disrespectful to some types of spirituality unfortunately. It just doesn't make logical sense to me. I have two friends that are fully convinced that a cursed doll gave some youtuber testicular cancer. And I just can't see the logic or critical thought in that

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? Mmm. All of fascism shit is definitely damaging my calm so I'd love to change that specifically

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? Harry Allen. Google him he's a badass transgender cowboy

Tag as as many mutuals as you want!!

@sb-essebi @glitternightingale @blatterpussbunnyfromhell @captainhollowstories @kydrogendragon @misforvendetta @poetryinmotion-author @bocularteletheric @kai-ovillager @thatoneneuvichiliauthor @4amarcanethoughts @alexspearsxoxo @kotonni @buckybucananbarnes @kakesuwolf @martybaker @patheticjayce @sleepycrowhours @aixabi @up-the-bracket @snoopyviktor @emdashflower @humanshapedstress @hellsalore @juuzousmom @softandslow @fangirlshenanigans04 @batmans-attic @lvrstrsh @bluemoyai @tearexxwrites @bodyofvvater @lifeandeathepub @areesespiece @lancesblueazaleas @monaisme @milkywaysipper @carmendyy @tseecka @heazueken @tophat-69 @velocitychroma @prjctdiva @gremlinofchaos @ourvectorviktor @kenjinx @jxmimac @gh0stedvhampir @voxconcordia @arcaneheraldslawyer

ngl I tried to tag ALL my mutuals that I have, but this was how many it allowed me to do before it made me stop lol so here's as many as I could fit!

[mushroom-words]

Hate Me, Waste Me || Tate Langdon

Fandom: American Horror Story Pairing: Tate Langdon x Fem!Reader Words: 1983 Notes: This has been rewritten and reposted from a previous account. It’s being posted from mobile, so I apologize if the formatting is weird. And, as always, if this sort of content isn’t your thing, simply don’t read it. I put warnings in for a reason, baby. Edit: I fixed the formatting on desktop. Warnings: Non-con. Pre-death!Tate. Loss of virginity. Blood. Reader is bitten, smacked, and spanked one time each. Unprotected. Creampie. Forced orgasm (just the body protecting itself). Tate is a possessive little bastard. I think that’s it, but if I missed any, please let me know. Summary: Tate refuses to share you with anyone else and reminds you that you're his friend—no one else's.

AHS Masterlist 🍄 Ultimate Masterlist

MONSTERS LIVED AMONG humans. They adapted to camouflage themselves—to hide under the pretense of being your teacher, your neighbor, your family, your best friend. It was a hard lesson to learn and not one that ever came easily.

You were an outcast at Westfield High. Maybe that was why you and Tate seemed to gravitate towards each other. He was a loner, but it also seemed to be by choice. Like he detested the social interactions and thus separated himself from them. The only person he bothered with was you.

It never occurred to you that there could be a darker reason behind his attachment. You were just happy to have a friend. Even one that wasn’t particularly fond of sharing you with anyone else.

Kyle Greenwell’s voice drifted over the phone line. “You have some neat ideas. You’re actually pretty smart there, (Y/N).”

A blush broke out over your face at the compliment. You’d been reluctant when you had been partnered with him for a project for your Government class. Kyle was the quarterback for the Westfield Wolverines and had recently received a football scholarship to Georgia Tech. He’d never so much as looked your way before being paired with you, but he was actually a lot nicer than you’d thought he would be.

Kyle Greenwell was the kind of guy who seemed to have it all—fit and athletic, intelligent and handsome, charming and funny. He was the kind of guy who shouldn’t have given you the time of day. But you admittedly had stumbled into the line of girls vying for his attention when he turned out to be the complete opposite of what you had expected.

“You think so?” You cleared your throat delicately, biting your lip against your smile. “Yeah, I mean—thanks. You too,” you rambled.

Kyle chuckled warmly. Heat bloomed beneath your cheeks. You held back a wistful sigh at the sound. But then your smile fell victim to confusion when your doorbell rang. The cordless phone cradled your ear as you started to make your way to the front of your house.

“I’d like to brainstorm some more with you, if that’s okay,” Kyle continued. “We could meet in the library during lunch—or we could always meet up somewhere after, if that’ll be better for you.”

You peeked through the window curtains and saw Tate standing at your door. “Yeah, that sounds good,” you told Kyle. “I’ll see you in the library tomorrow then?”

You unlocked the door and opened it for your friend. He smiled, and you returned it but held up a finger before he could say anything. His smile fell into a frown.

“See you the n, (Y/N). Bye.”

“Bye, Kyle.” The line went dead as you pulled the phone away from your ear and gave Tate your full attention. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Tate’s expression had hardened from what it had been when you’d opened the door. The hairs on the back of your neck bristled. Your smile dropped uncomfortably. Instead of answering, he pushed past you to walk inside.

“So,” he said. “Who’s Kyle?”

“Kyle Greenwell. We’re paired for a project.” You frowned and shut the door. “We’re gonna work on it tomorrow in the library during lunch,” you added, carefully placing the phone back in its cradle.

With your back to him, you missed the flash of anger that crossed his features. You missed how his nostrils flared, the way his eyes darkened from aged hickory to burnt coal. You missed how his body went rigid.

“So you’re leaving me alone.” You didn’t miss the way his voice had tightened, the hint of darkness lacing between the words. Chills skittered up your spine.

Swallowing past the sudden dryness in your mouth, you turned to face him with delicately furrowed brows. “No? We’re just working on a project—”

His hand shot out to grab your chin. The words died out in a startled squeak.

“Stay away from him,” he seethed.

Your eyes rounded. This wasn’t the Tate Langdon you knew. The one you loved like a brother, the one you considered family. You didn’t know who this was.

“Tate—”

“No.” His fingers tightened against your jaw as he yanked your face closer. “Don’t you fucking go near him again. Do you understand me, (Y/N)?”

“You’re hurting me,” you protested. You tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“Fucking say it, (Y/N). Do you understand me?”

As you looked into his eyes, you were looking at an entirely different person. They weren’t the eyes of your best friend. They were black as night, dark as sin—you might as well have been staring into the depths of the devil himself.

Panic started to claw at your chest. You smacked your hands against his chest and shoved him with a desperate cry of, “Let go of me!”

He stumbled back a couple of steps with a swear but was quick to bounce back with what looked to be twice the anger. Tate lunged forward and drew his hand across your face. The sharp impact knocked you to the floor. Your head smacked the corner of the small table against the wall where the phone sat.

Your ears were ringing before the pain settled. Sharp and throbbing and pounding against the inside of your skull. A veil of fog disoriented your head as you blinked heavily through the sludge. You were only vaguely aware of the warmth your blood provided as it trickled from the open wound.

Tate crouched beside you, brushing aside some of the hair that curtained your face. “Y’know, you’re a real fucking bitch sometimes, (Y/N),” he mused.

Your eyes fluttered as you tried to regather your surroundings. His fingers continued to linger against your skin. A touch that once brought you comfort. Even through the daze, you shuddered beneath it now.

He smirked and cocked his head. “You’ve gotta learn, y’know,” he said before abruptly flipping you onto your stomach. His weight settled on you. “You’re mine.”

A quiet groan slipped past your lips in protest of his hips rocking against your backside. Tears slowly began to drip from your eyelashes. Your fingers curled into the polished wooden floor, nails scratching at the finish as you tried to drag yourself away.

Tate laughed again, filled with a twisted joy at having you completely at his mercy. “And where do you think you’re going, baby?” he said, pinning your wrists down by your head.

“Please,” you whimpered. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your damp cheek in what could have been mistaken for affection. The vines of dread tightened around your chest.

He shushed you gently when another whimper fell from your lips. “You have to learn your lesson, (Y/N),” he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose along your cheek. “How will you learn if I don’t teach you?”

Tate lifted up and moved his hands from your wrists to trace the curve of your body. Then your pants and underwear were both ripped down to expose your lower half. You cried out as the cool air brushed against your skin.

Lifting your head, you tried again to pull yourself out from underneath him. You grabbed hold of the panic twisting inside of you to scream out for help. Your voice broke against the rawness of your throat, cracking as it bubbled past your lips.

He chuckled once more and planted his hand against the top of your back to keep you down. His fingers fluttered along the curve of your backside, tapping against the flesh in a taunt to the beat of his own depraved pleasure. Then he promptly lifted his hand and brought it back down in a sharp smack that made her cry out in pain.

Splinters jammed beneath your nails, drawing beads of blood from the sensitive skin underneath. You clawed at the floor when you heard him pull his zipper down. You sobbed, you pleaded, you screamed as loud as you possibly could.

Tate slipped an arm under your waist and lifted your body slightly. He lowered his head until his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, parroting, “You’re mine,” in a snarl that made your heart sink into the pit of your stomach.

Then he was pushing inside of you with no mercy, burying himself completely in a single thrust that utterly ripped you apart. He tore away your innocence like it was nothing. Your mouth popped open in anguish, but the scream that wanted to escape was rendered silent against the burning pain.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted, his hot breath puffing out to paint the side of your face. “You’re so fucking tight. Holy shit.”

Every thrust jerked your body forward. He yanked you back into him each time, his blunt nails imprinting crescents into your flesh. Your silence shifted into raw moans of despair—of disgust, of pain, of heartbreak. They mingled with his grunts and the muttered swears that fell from his tainted mouth.

Your stomach lurched upon hearing how much pleasure he was receiving from your suffering. Snot and tears and saliva coated your face in a display that was both shameful and pathetic. You hadn’t necessarily been saving yourself for anyone, but it was still something you were meant to give away—not have it ripped from your hands.

Tate nipped at the soft flesh between your shoulder and neck. You shuddered as his teeth grazed over the skin. Then he bit down, sinking those teeth into the juncture like a hot knife through warm butter. You cried out as blood—your blood—dripped from the wound. It curved over your skin and splattered in droplets on the floor. It was more than just a bite. It was a mark—a brand on his property.

You were his.

Tate ran his hand along your body and between your thighs. His fingers found your clit. He traced slow circles around it. The gentle touch was a stark contrast to the way his hips slammed against your backside. It wrenched another cry from your throat as you realized your body was reacting to it.

You knew enough about the female body to know that it would do what was necessary for protection. For survival. But feeling the slick between your thighs that did not come from the blood he’d forced from you made you sick to your stomach. You slammed your eyes shut and bit your lip hard to muffle the shameful little moans you felt clawing out of your throat.

Tate took great enjoyment in it. “That’s it, (Y/N),” he encouraged, chuckling breathlessly. “I’m not stopping until you cum. I wanna feel you submit to me.”

He rubbed in tighter circles, applying enough pressure to make your head spin. You sobbed out a pathetic whine as you felt the knot in your lower stomach pulse. It was building up to something strong, something depraved and sinful and wrong—oh, so very, very wrong.

You gritted your teeth against the coiling spring until it snapped. Tendrils of heat erupted from your center and radiated outwards in branches of liquid warmth. It shot through you like streaks of lightning in a stormy sky. Your entire body shuddered beneath him.

His responding groan was guttural, like it had echoed from the deepest depths of his chest. He snapped his hips quicker, harder. The arm barring your waist drew you closer as he stilled. He swore loudly and spilled into you, the new sensation bleeding uncomfortably between your thighs.

Tate slowly let his body relax. He slumped over you, dropping your body back to the floor, where you trembled in the aftershocks of what just happened. The disgust and shame and guilt. It cut you deeper than your spilled blood.

“You’re mine, (Y/N),” Tate panted into your ear, nuzzling your sweaty hair and kissing your cheek. “Fucking mine.”

[uncanny-tranny]

Sometimes, I'm sad about the hobbies I have abandoned or have been too intimidated to pick up. But... what good is it, to just beat myself up over that? My bass is sitting in the corner, patiently waiting, and so is everything else. My life isn't over, and I've got nothing to answer to. I'm wading through a sea of time, and I'll pick up the seashells that interest me, and it's okay to put one back in the sand. The current's waves will bring it back to me if that is to be destiny. I can not hate myself into productivity, so I must swim on.

I think the same can apply to anybody. It's okay if you have dropped something, such as a hobby or passion. Human beings are like that sometimes, it isn't reasonable for you to beat yourself into submission. You, too, can not hate yourself into being a well-rounded person. You must cultivate it like you would a garden - with patience, time, and care.

[dykedvonte]

I beg people in the MW to think very carefully when they talk about mental illness and physical disability cause it’s not as straight forward and easy to diagnose/depict as you think…

[chiangyorange]

the absolute character assasination of mack and brady in teen beach movie 2 was so fucking crazy

[howthesleeplesswander]

To be honest, Finn had no idea how Leo was going to take this whole 'making amends for the past' thing.

It's not like the pair of them had ever been in this situation before. The Finn that Leo knew would never have apologized for anything, least of all when it was most deserved.

Finn watched as Leo's restless energy took on a whole new form as soon as he got sappy. He saw those jitters amp up to the next degree, saw how Leo couldn't look him in the eye, but he kept powering through. What began as a noble endeavor quickly morphed into something selfish: apologizing to someone who didn't want it, ignoring the poor kid's discomfort in a desperate chase after some kind of atonement—if not from Leo, then at least from himself.

No, Leo didn't accept the apology with graciousness or thanks. Finn couldn't blame him. All at once he seemed even more lost than he'd been in their olden days, uncertain and reserved like Finn had never seen. Watching Leo shrink into himself made his heart ache. Ironic that Finn's attempts to be a good person were the cause; it seemed this reunion was letting them both see new sides of each other.

"The way I acted...it was never personal." Which wasn't an excuse, nor was it a reason for Leo to not take it personally, because how could he not? He'd never deserved any of the hostility and cruelty that the old-Finn dished out. "I met plenty of folks on the road to gettin' my act together, and I treated every one of 'em the same way. I hated everybody," he said again, sighing deep before adding, "—myself most of all. And I made it eeeverybody's problem." Finn's mouth twisted with the bitter truth of those words. Even now he hated who he'd been back then, and moments like this were exactly why.

Back then he hadn't cared who he hurt; how kind or undeserving they were. He'd just wanted everyone to hurt just as much as he had been.

"Heh, yeahhh, nothin'll kick ya' right in the teeth like people goin' and changin' on you." Deciding to spare the kid a bit, Finn gazed up at where the firelight cast erratic patterns on the ceiling. "If it makes ya' feel any better, I am still kinda that guy. I'm still the same, just-barely-scrapin'-by street warrior you knew back then...just without the perma-scowl and bad temper." He paused a moment, considering, then huffed a fleeting laugh. "I do still have the knife, too, so if ya' think about it, I'm basically just 'Knife Guy 2.0.'"

But his mirth was short-lived. Finn's expression softened despite still keeping his eyes averted. "But hey, just 'cause I've changed don't mean you have to. You can still move on, if that's what you want. I ain't holdin' you hostage, ya' know; you can leave whenever you want. Hell, you can hate me if you want. How you feel is how you feel. I just never woulda forgave myself if I hadn't tried."

“Listen, Leo” was basically the verbal cue for Leo to not listen and bolt immediately.

And, oh, he felt it. As if he wasn’t already wriggling about like he had ants in his pants (by the way: would not recommend, especially if they’re fire ants), Finn taking on an uncharacteristically soft tone that had to be as painfully earnest as Leo had ever heard him made it nearly impossible to not visibly squirm. He also had to pause before saying anything, like that one “Listen, Leo” wasn’t already blaring alarms in Leo’s head louder than the police who’d chased them so frequently back in the day. . . . Finn dropped those two words, then figured making Leo wait for more was the greatest idea of mankind, and in those few moments where the guy was taking a breath—

Guilty as charged: Leo’s attention definitely darted to the door as if he could make a hasty escape before anything else came.

Of course, spoiler alert, the escape was never accomplished. (For some reason, when Finn was involved, it never was. Heck if Leo ever figured out why, considering the numerous chances he got both then and now.) And so, as the dude had the gall to just pour his heart out like they were on Dr. Phil, Leo had no choice (presumably) than to sit there and take it. (So what if he almost snorted at that thought and how applicable it was to so many other things between them . . . ?)

Finn just talked. And talked. And talked. Maybe he deserved some sort of award for it: both the heartfelt confessions, and his ability to somehow render Leo silent for long enough to get it all out. Though Leo listened, sure as Hephaestus had to be one of the most awkward gods to exist (Thank you for your winning qualities, Dad!), Leo could just as surely not hold eye contact. Finn was making a point to, good for him, but somewhere along the line, and due in part to his feeling like those aforementioned fire ants were crawling up and down his legs, Leo looked down, shuffled in his seat with the stupidest nerves.

Because it was stupid, right? C’mon . . . Finn wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He swallowed what had to be the biggest lump to ever form in his throat, uneasy fingers tugging at the cuffs of his pant legs while he heard the guy out. By the time Finn finally reached an end—which Leo only determined by a silence lasting a bit longer than just “Wait, I’m collecting my thoughts”—Leo assumed it was his turn to say something. He hated that, weirdly. He hated when it was his turn to talk on a subject like this. Give him literally anything else.

But he managed a broken scoff, pinched expression matching it beautifully. “Man, there must be something horribly wrong with you,” he grumbled, but the funniest thing here was that Leo couldn’t be sure if he was talking to Finn or himself. “You can’t just . . . do that, okay? That’s not fair.” Leo yanked a string off his pants, set it up in the quickest flash of fire. “I had, like, a whole vision of you in my head, right? ‘Knife Guy.’ The guy who didn’t take anyone’s shit, who knew his way around the streets, who taught me a few of those tricks . . . ” He hunched his shoulders, feeling a new flood of warmth in his face that he swiftly shook out. “The guy who hated me.”

Leo faced Finn critically. “And that was fine. I mean, I’d accepted it, y’know? That was all just, ‘Haha wow what a crazy past I had! Moving on!’ But then I come across you again, and this . . . ? This is how you are, now?” He glared down at the soup, as if that was the most offensive thing here. “How in the world am I supposed to feel about you? It was easy when I could just . . . ” His knees tucked up to his chest, and Leo blew out a heavy exhale. “I dunno.” Seriously, how dare you suddenly be a decent person.

[doomdoomofdoom]

Every now and again I wonder if maybe all trans people face roughly the same amount of bigotry and one just gets more attention, but then i have to read terf posts and.

wow.

obviously every group of trans identities faces their own struggles and unique oppression but there's this incredibly vitriolic kind of hatred reserved for transfems and its sickening.

[hibernating-stag]

God I still haven't gotten over the gut punch that was Millia saying "God, I hope not."

That ending is seared into my subconscious.