#the only person that could see him was dead

[yandere-romanticaa]

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔰 𝔈𝔠𝔥𝔬. - 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

❝ your soul is haunting me and telling me that everything is fine, but i wish I was dead. ❞ - dark paradise, lana del rey.

yandere! honkai star rail men. (ana's faves edition.)

❦ Just a little post of my faves on why they love you! I've always been a fan of Valentine's Day because I always have, and always will be a proud Lover Girl™!

❧ 𝔧𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔲𝔞𝔫.

The tender eyed general can name a plethora of things that he loves about you... As a matter of fact, he could spend centuries just sitting in his ravishing garden, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of divine blossoms as he lists the qualities that he finds oh so endearing and appealing.

Frankly, that level of lovesick is a smidge maddening to some people. Others find the general's devotion incredibly charming. It's really a matter of perspective when you think about it.

However, all of his endless praise can be summed up to one thing in particular. You give him a sense of peace.

Pray tell, how many centuries of suffering has Jing Yuan endured? Well, it's difficult to pinpoint because the man is beyond adept at keeping his feelings in check, let alone actually revealing what makes him lose sleep at night. Jing Yuan has lost so much. He has endured far, far too much than one man ought to.

He may be a general, a warrior, a leader - but even he had his own dreams. His own ambitions. All of which became lost to time, strife and duty.

And all of his pain, all of the ache he feels in his shoulders simply melts away whenever you sit by his side. He is no better than a massive, spoiled house cat who just wishes to eat fine treats and be spoiled by your endless love and devotion.

If he could pick how he could die, all Jing Yuan would ever want is to be in your arms. His heart would be still, calm... The tranquility is just so heavenly, however could he give up on such a feeling?

❧ 𝔧𝔦𝔞𝔬𝔮𝔦𝔲.

Life is a strange road to trek on. You never really know what sort of perils you could come across. That was what made things so fun, Jiaoqiu would reckon.

Even if he no longer had the ability to actually see that road anymore...

The foxian was at least happy to know that his other senses had not been dulled thanks to his unfortunate predicament. He may be blind but he was not weak. He was too stubborn for that. Jiaoqiu still wished to fulfill his duty until the bitter end, no matter what the cost.

Stubbornness and an iron clad will can only get you so far though, especially if your body fails to cooperate. His spirit may be strong but his body simply is not.

And you would be there to hold his hand to tell him that it was all going to be alright.

As Jiaoqiu would break into massive coughs, his body giving into the horrible pain, he was still so happy to see that even after everything, you were still there for him.

Your loyalty had remained unshaken.

However could he thank you for this?

He was going to do everything he can to protect you, to love you in the way you deserve to be loved. Just thinking about you made his weak heart feel stronger again...

❧ 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔡𝔞𝔶.

To be loved is to be heard. And to be heard is simply the greatest gift in the universe.

For as long as he could remember, that was all Sunday did. He would sit patiently as the person on the other side would tell him their biggest secrets, reveal their darkest sins. He had lost count of how many deplorable and depressing things he has heard throughout the years.

It had never even occurred to him that perhaps, he too needed to unveil his own darkness to another.

Without meaning to, he caved into that weakness. He did not even know that he had such a weakness. It was his job to listen, his job to guide, his job to be true. Even after joining the Astral Express, the least he could do was to hear the crew out on their many woes.

And yet, without any real effort, you had managed to break down his walls. You had shattered him for an evening, allowing him to speak his mind.

For the first time in forever, Sunday had been heard. He choked back the sobs, tried to bite down his despair but it was all pointless. All he had to do was to just look into your eyes and he was just so done. You held him like no one ever had, made him feel so vulnerable and weak but oh so happy.

Can you blame the poor little soul for becoming so attached to you after such an incident?

❧ 𝔭𝔥𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔫.

Everyone wants to be a hero.

In one way or the other, most - if not all - people wish to be acknowledged. They wish to hear the praise of their peers, they wish to know that they're doing good. Besides, being a hero has so many perks. People love you, they trust you.

And that same love is a shackle which you can't break out of.

That was how Phainon felt. He had no right to feel scared, he did not have the luxury of bowing out of a battle. If someone even suggested such an idea to him, Phainon would just let out a hearty laugh, his Adam's apple going up and down as his blue eyes shined bright with determination, the grip on his sword steady and more than ready to strike down his foes.

You knew better than to fall for that trick. Even with all that bravado, you could still sense the tiny quiver in his voice. You could see from the corner of your eye how his thighs shake ever so slightly.

Phainon was afraid. And once you had him cornered, you confronted him. Underneath the bright Okhema sky, you told him that it was alright to be terrified. That it was alright to have second doubts. That it was alright to be angry.

He may be a hero but he was still just a man.

And it was in that moment that Phainon realized that there was no need to keep up his hero facade with you. That he could just... be himself. Naturally, he was still cheerful, goofy and silly - teasing you was just too much fun.

But there was just a certain level of trust he felt. He knew that you would never judge him no matter what he did. Phainon was so happy to know that he had a sanctuary in your arms.

A dark corner of his heart trembled at the thought of losing that sanctuary. May the Titans bless him because he did not know what he would do if he lost you...

[kashverse]

𝒴our first encounter with the 呪術廻戦 men 

⪩⪨ ✶ implied f!reader but can be read otherwise (use of "pretty" in choso's version), strangers to lovers, fluff, featuring ♡ canon! gojo, canon! geto, single dad! toji, modern au! choso, canon! sukuna in a modern au, corporate! nanami ✿ ⪩⪨ tried a new formatting style..! ib my dear @norikuna (∩˃o˂∩)♡

gojo doesn’t see you coming. not because he’s oblivious—though, sure, that’s part of it—but because he’s too busy making himself miserable, listening to some poor bastard on the phone cry about their ex. it’s barely noon, the sun’s out, people are living their lives, and this guy’s talking about how he let “the one” slip through his fingers. “bro, just get another one,” gojo had said, dead-eyed, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. the response was more crying. he sighed, hanging up.

and then he smacked straight into you.

not a polite bump, not even a nudge—full-on body collision, your forehead meeting his chin with a sharp crack. the impact was enough to send you both stumbling, but while gojo’s built like a brick wall, you had all the misfortune of being knocked back a few steps. “ow—what the fuck?!” your voice came first, and then, through the dizzying pain, you saw him. tall, white-haired, stupidly good-looking in an insufferable way, dressed like he was on some model’s off-day. sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, and even through the slight daze, you could see the sharp glint of his blue eyes peering down at you.

“ah, my bad—”

“your bad?” your voice rose, disbelieving. the pain hadn’t even settled yet, but your temper had. “you nearly took my head off!”

gojo blinked. “well, technically, if i took your head off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he pointed out. “unless you’re a talking head, which would be—"

“are you serious?” you cut him off, hands flying up in exasperation. “you’re just standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk—”

“crosswalk,” he corrected.

“—like a fucking lamppost,” you barreled on, ignoring him. “and then you hit me. no, actually, you collided with me like a fucking train, and now you’re just standing there?”

you looked ready to kill him. gojo thought you looked radiant. people don’t really yell at him. they get nervous, flustered, awkward. maybe they complain a little, but they don’t yell. not like this—not with this kind of raw, unfiltered rage that was directed solely at him.

and he was loving it.

“ohhh, you’re mad mad,” he said, grinning.

“no shit?” you spat, rubbing your forehead. “you’re huge! why do you walk like you don’t know how to control your own size?”

“i’m huge? that’s a compliment,” he mused. “also, you ran into me.”

“i did not—"

“you did, but it’s okay,” he waved off. “i forgive you.”

your mouth dropped open. your jaw clenched so hard you swore you heard it click. “i don’t need your forgiveness,” you snapped. “i need you to watch where the hell you’re going!” gojo just smiled. “i can do that,” he said. “but only if you tell me your name first.”

you squinted at him. “why?”

“so i know what to say in my apology,” he said smoothly. “y’know, something heartfelt, real personal. ‘i’m so sorry, dear stranger, for running into you with my big, strong, muscular body—’”

your scowl deepened. “forget it,” you turned to leave, shaking your head.

gojo grabbed your wrist. lightly, like he was afraid you’d shake him off (which you probably would). “wait,” he said, less teasing this time, more curious.

you stopped, staring at him warily. “what?”

he grinned. “you’re fun.”

you yanked your arm out of his grip. “you’re annoying.”

but you weren’t yelling anymore. and maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

toji doesn't believe in love—at least, not in the way people like to romanticize it. to him, love has always been transactional. people want things: security, pleasure, a warm body to cling to at night. he provides, they take. simple.

commitment? fuck no. he’s been there, done that, and all it got him was a headache and a kid who looks at him like he’s a walking disappointment. not that he blames megumi—he knows exactly the kind of man he is. relationships, from what he's seen, are just another job. another obligation. more shit to deal with when he's already stretched thin making sure megumi doesn't starve or turn into a little menace. and he's already got enough on his plate. 

raising megumi is work. the kid is sharp, stubborn, and way too perceptive for his own good. keeping up with him is exhausting. fulfilling someone else’s expectations on top of that? hell no.

people ask if he’s lonely. he laughs. lonely? he’s got freedom. no nagging, no obligations, no answering to anyone but himself and, on the worst days, a grumpy eight-year-old who somehow thinks he’s smarter than him. love, in his experience, is just a distraction. and toji fushiguro doesn’t do distractions.

and toji swears he only looked away for a second.

he was just checking the damn price tag on some overpriced brand of instant noodles, and when he looked back, megumi was gone. poof. like a magic trick, except it wasn’t a trick, and the rising panic in his chest was very, very real. “shit,” he muttered, scanning the aisles. nothing. just a bunch of old ladies and college kids looking for cheap meals. no messy black hair, no tiny scowl. he ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep calm. he didn’t want to make a scene. people lost their kids all the time, right? it wasn’t a big deal. he just had to—

and then he saw him.

megumi was at the end of the next aisle, small hands clenched at his sides, his mouth pressed in a thin, stubborn line, like he wasn’t scared, even though he definitely was. and right next to him, crouched down to his level, was you. “you’re really good at this,” you said. megumi blinked up at you. “huh?”

“the whole ‘not panicking’ thing,” you smiled at him. “most kids freak out when they lose their parents. you’re staying calm. that’s cool.” megumi looked away, like he wasn’t sure if that was actually a compliment or not. “i don’t wanna cause trouble,” he muttered.

“aw, but that’s what parents are for,” you teased. “causing them trouble.” megumi almost smiled. almost. toji, still frozen in place, narrowed his eyes. who the hell were you?

“c’mon, let’s go find your dad,” you said, standing up and holding out a hand. megumi didn’t take it, but he followed you anyway, his short legs working hard to keep up with your pace. and toji? well. he wasn’t sure why, but instead of stepping forward, he let you find him.

he let you do the whole thing, watching as you walked with megumi, asking him questions—where he last saw his dad, what his name was, what he looked like.

“he’s really tall,” megumi said. you hummed. “tall, huh? that helps.”

“and he’s got a scar on his mouth,” he added.

“even better. anyone who looks scary is easier to spot.”

megumi frowned a little. “he’s not scary.” you smiled, ruffling his hair. “i bet he isn’t.”

toji snorted under his breath.

by the time you turned the corner and finally spotted him, megumi exhaled in relief. toji pretended not to notice how fast he ran up to him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt like he wasn’t just saying how calm he was. you, on the other hand, stopped a few steps away, hands on your hips. “you must be the scary, not-scary dad,” you said.

toji raised an eyebrow. “and you’re just a random saint, huh?” you shrugged. “not a saint. just someone who doesn’t like seeing kids upset.”

he looked at you, really looked at you. you didn’t seem put out by any of this, like helping some stranger’s kid wasn’t an inconvenience, but just another part of your day. like it was normal. toji let out a breath, then tilted his head down at megumi. “you good, kid?”

megumi nodded, though he still wasn’t letting go of toji’s shirt. toji sighed, glancing back at you. “guess i owe you, huh?”

you waved him off. “don’t worry about it. just keep an eye on him next time.”

toji huffed a laugh. “easier said than done.”

you grinned, giving megumi one last look before turning to leave. and toji? well. maybe being responsible for two people wouldn’t be so bad after all.

nanami never thought much about being single. it wasn’t a matter of pride or principle—just reality. his job was time-consuming, his patience was thin, and the thought of entertaining someone else’s needs after a long workday felt exhausting. he wasn’t lonely, just… fine. indifferent.

until he got sick of his office food.

“this is inedible,” he said flatly, staring at the sad excuse of a meal on his plate. his colleague, barely looking up from his own tray, mumbled, “it’s fine.”

nanami’s eye twitched. it was not fine. rubbery chicken, dry rice, and a soup that tasted more like dishwater than anything edible. this was not a meal—it was a punishment.

so, he made a change.

he found a small business that delivered homemade meals, something personal but convenient. it promised variety, quality ingredients, and, most importantly, flavor.

what he didn’t expect were the notes.

the first one came tucked under the neatly packed meal.

“hope today isn’t too exhausting! eat well!”

nanami stared at it for longer than he should have. then, at the food—real food. properly cooked, properly seasoned, steaming with warmth that no canteen meal could ever replicate. he didn’t think about it much. a kind gesture, that was all. but the notes kept coming.

“long meetings? i packed extra today.”

“rainy day! hope this brings some warmth.”

“rough week? your food will always be good at least.”

and then—

“your order is always so precise. you must be someone who likes routine.”

nanami paused mid-bite. he did like routine. he thrived on it. and yet, this—this unexpected kindness, these little messages—was beginning to throw him off in a way he couldn’t explain. weeks passed, meals came, and nanami found himself looking forward to them—not just for the food, but for the words that came with it. one afternoon, after another insufferable meeting, he opened his meal to find:

“do you ever take breaks? hope you’re not working too hard.”

he let out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. he was working too hard. but how did you—someone he’d never met—seem to know that better than the people around him? finally, curiosity got the better of him. he grabbed a pen and, for the first time, wrote back.

“who are you?”

the next day, his meal came with a note, just like always.

“just someone who wants you to eat well. but i wouldn’t mind knowing who you are too.”

and for the first time in a long time, nanami thought—maybe being single wasn’t so fine after all.

geto doesn’t believe in love. not in the way people romanticize it, anyway. he’s known desire—used it, wielded it like a tool, a means to an end. a well-timed smile, a hand grazing a wrist, a whispered promise—all of it was just another step in expanding his cause. people were easy to sway when you made them feel special. and being single? it wasn’t something he mourned. it was efficient. no attachments, no complications, no wasted energy. everything he did, every conversation, every encounter—it all served a purpose.

until you.

“you’ve been talking for a while,” you said, tilting your head at him. geto smiled. “am i boring you?”

“not at all. just wondering if you’re going to get to the point.”

he chuckled, swirling his drink. clever. impatient. interesting.

“what do you think my point is?”

you leaned back, thoughtful. “well, you’re charming, you have that practiced ease of someone who’s very used to getting what they want, and yet…” you narrowed your eyes. “you haven’t tried to get anything from me yet.”

his smile twitched. perceptive too. “maybe i’m just enjoying the conversation.”

“hmm.” you didn’t look convinced. “i doubt you talk to people without a reason.”

he laughed, shaking his head. “you wound me. am i not allowed to simply appreciate good company?”

you smirked. “do you?”

and that was the problem, wasn’t it? he did.

he was supposed to be recruiting you. that was why he approached you in the first place—he had assessed, observed, picked you out for your potential. another piece in his grander vision. but now? now, he was talking to you about books, about philosophy, about things that had nothing to do with his cause.

he liked your sharp tongue, your quick comebacks, the way you saw through people but humored them anyway. and he was enjoying this. more than he should.

“you’re thinking too hard,” you noted.

“am i?”

“yeah. for someone who flirts so easily, you seem oddly distracted.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. you had no idea. for the first time in a long time, geto suguru had forgotten his purpose. and strangely enough, he didn’t mind.

choso doesn’t really get love. it’s not that he doesn’t feel it—he does, deeply, messily, all-consuming in the way only someone who has lived too long without it can. it’s just that he doesn’t understand how it’s supposed to work. his friends talk about relationships like they’re puzzles, like you’re supposed to fit into someone else’s life piece by piece, no gaps, no edges sticking out. but choso? he keeps forcing the wrong pieces together. he’s had his heart broken by so many situationships, and he doesn’t even know what that word means. all he knows is that people like him enough to stay for a while, but not enough to stay forever. and when someone ghosts him? it’s over.

“why would they do that?” he asks yuuji, completely distraught. “i thought we were getting along.” yuuji winces. “yeah, but… sometimes people just disappear, man. it’s not your fault.”

“but why not just say they don’t like me?”

“because people suck.”

choso frowns. love is confusing. people are confusing. nothing makes sense.

until he meets you.

more specifically, until you send a pug flying in his direction. one second, he’s minding his own business, sipping a coffee, staring blankly at nothing. the next—

“watch out!”

and then—THUD.

a very round, very squishy pug collides with his chest, knocking the air out of him. he blinks. looks down. the pug is fine. choso, however, is shaken.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” you pant, running up to him, looking horrified. “he’s got the speed of a missile and the weight distribution of a sack of potatoes. are you okay?”

choso is still holding the pug. he has not processed a single thing except that you’re talking to him, and you’re really pretty. you snap your fingers in front of his face.

“hello? earth to guy who just got body slammed by my dog?”

he swallows. “i—i’m okay.”

you sigh in relief. “good. i don’t think my insurance covers ‘pug-related assaults.’”

he stares. then—

he laughs.

it’s an awkward, slightly delayed laugh, but it’s real. it bubbles out of him, because suddenly, everything is just… simple. you’re still talking, apologizing, trying to pry your dog from his grip, and he realizes—love doesn’t have to be this big, complicated thing. it can be a stranger, a runaway pug, and a stupidly perfect moment where he thinks, 'oh. this is it.'

sukuna has never cared for love. love is mortal, fleeting, an indulgence for the weak. he has lived for centuries without it, conquered, destroyed, thrived—all on his own. why bother with attachment? why waste time on something that promises nothing but vulnerability? he’s always been perfectly fine like this.

until the night he meets you at the bar.

he doesn’t even mean to notice you at first—just another human in a crowded room, laughing, talking, lighting up the space with an ease he’s never possessed. 

and then he hears you speak. your voice is smooth, effortless, like you’re meant to be heard. every sentence flows into the next, words never fumbling, never uncertain. you make people laugh, pull them in, keep them hanging on to every syllable. sukuna watches, listens, enthralled, before someone leans in and calls you by name—your full name. followed by—

“aren’t you that talk show host?”

and it clicks. you are. he’s seen your face before, flickering on a television screen, a passing glimpse at a life so far removed from his own.

and now he’s irritated. because you talk so easily with everyone but him. and that won’t do.

so he tries. for the first time in centuries, he tries to talk to someone—like a normal person, like it’s something he’s done before, like it’s as easy as you make it look.

but it’s not. it’s a disaster.

he waits until the crowd around you has thinned, takes the seat next to you, and—

“so.” he clears his throat. “you talk to people for a living.”

you turn, blinking, mildly amused. “i do.”

he nods, confident. good start. then nothing. his mind goes blank. shit.

you raise a brow, waiting. sukuna glares at his drink like it’s betrayed him. “how do you do it?”

you tilt your head. “do what?” he gestures vaguely. “talk. keep people engaged.”

you blink. “are you asking me how to hold a conversation?”

his jaw tenses. “no.”

you laugh. he scowls.

he tries again. “what makes a good interview?”

“oh, that’s easy,” you hum. “you have to be genuinely interested in the other person.”

he deadpans.

you smirk. “which means you have to actually listen to what they’re saying.”

“i listen,” he grumbles.

“really?” you lean in. “then what were we just talking about?”

silence. your smirk widens. “you weren’t listening.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is hell.

but he keeps trying. keeps failing, keeps making an idiot of himself, keeps suffering through every one of your knowing smiles—because for the first time in his miserable, ancient existence, he actually wants to learn.

he wants to talk to you.

and maybe, just maybe, he wants you to talk to him, too.

[tsuiioku]

જ⁀➴ ♡ A HEART ONCE BROKEN, NOW HEALED [VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL]

━ VALENTINE'S DAY isn't always for exchanging gifts with those you love. sometimes, it's about remembering those we've lost, and being thankful about those we've gained.

content. gn!reader. slight angst with fluff, cursing, mentions of suicide, slight spice (chuuya), reader is called 'beautiful'. fifteen + stormbringer spoilers (chuuya), dark-era spoilers (dazai). not proofread. 2.9k+ words. ⟶ features osamu dazai + chuuya nakahara (separately). author's note. wanted to do something fun for valentine's! nice to finally be writing again (i say, like this isn't my millionth hiatus).

would you like to see more content? fill out the taglist!

You didn’t expect DAZAI to do anything for Valentine’s Day. He had a certain edge to him as the holiday approached, and as much as you wished to celebrate with him, you decided against it. Perhaps you’d make another day, an ordinary day, memorable instead—a day for just the two of you. At least, that’s what you thought was going to happen.

But, of course, he managed to surprise you.

You had received a voicemail before you even awoke that morning.

You hold your phone to your ear, straining to hear his voice through the rushing wind.

“Hello, gorgeous! I have a super special surprise for you. I’ll text you the details. See you at 3!”

To the untrained ear, one would assume has was planning something sweet for the occasion. But there was this dangerous lilt to his tone—not mischievous or cocky in preparation for a prank.

No.

It was the same tone that told you he’d be standing on the side of a bridge.

You race there the moment you set the phone down.

If he’s planning something self-destructive, you’ll be there to stop him.

Arriving at a graveyard does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You pace along its pathways with no idea where he could be. It’s only through sheer luck that you spot tufts of brown hair hidden behind an isolated headstone.

“Dazai,” you pant, bending down to catch your breath.

He doesn’t bother to turn around, resting his eyes as he leans back against the grave, not flinching when you sit beside him.

You’d think he was dead if you didn’t know any better.

“Do you like it?” he mumbles. “The view is truly to die for. One day, I hope I’m buried somewhere just as beautiful.”

“One day that is far in the future.”

But you can’t argue with him.

The view is beautiful. Whoever lays here is cared for deeply, even after death.

The perfect place to house a weary soul.

“Do I have to ask?”

Dazai hums a familiar tune.

It makes your skin crawl.

“Who was he?” Your hands respectfully brush against the stone. “You’ve never been the type to seek out a grave that isn’t your own.”

He chuckles dryly at your not-so-subtle jab but surrenders to defeat. And you don’t know what that defeat means besides understanding that it’s a part of some carefully crafted plan. And you are inclined to believe you’ll not like how this one ends.

His bandaged hand smooths against the headstone’s surface, catching against its roughened texture.

"This is Sakunosuke Oda. He is the reason I left the Port Mafia.”

And he tells you everything. Everything.

The friendship forged between three unlikely men—the inevitable betrayal of one and the predictable demise of another. The only future left up in the air was his own.

But as he describes Oda—his closest friend, he claims—his voice holds a reverence you’ve never heard spoken from his lips. He draws a line between himself and the late man, holding him as a person so pure of intention, even with their shared past of blood.

Unlike him.

Dazai knows he is a monster.

He has committed crimes far more violent than you could imagine, all without an ounce of remorse. He used to revel in the rush of a bloodbath, the actions of his youth forever tainting his soul. He may not belong to the mafia anymore; his former allegiance simply resulted from bored complacency, but one thing remains certain.

He does not deserve someone like you.

Sometimes, you’re hard to look at. You remind him too much of the man buried beneath you, making his hollow heart ache. Neither you nor Oda are perfect people, but you both so earnestly try to be better—it was human.

And he wonders���if you stay with him for any longer, will you eventually become stained by the crimes he’s committed? Or will you end up like Oda, a lesson for him to reflect on in the lonely years to come?

He can’t stand the thought of either.

“You give him far too much credit.”

Like a record scratch, his mind halts, honing in on your voice as it melts into an unfamiliar, somber tone. One that holds so much raw honesty it makes him sick.

“I may not have known him, but if he was truly your closest friend, then it’s impossible he didn’t see what I do.”

He scoffs.

“Oh, really? And what’s that?”

You choose not to mind his sardonic tone. There would be a time.

“That you have potential far beyond what you envision for yourself.”

You take his hand, tracing abstract images in the bandages of his limp palm as you ignore his hardened stare.

“You have a particularly stubborn way of viewing things, even with your intellect,” you muse. “You craft roadblocks that only exist within the confines of your mind, limiting yourself to the future you think you deserve.”

And when you meet his gaze, your eyes sear through him.

“You’re not a good man. But you’re not as bad as you claim to be.”

Flashes of memory, of every life shattered and of every corpse trampled underneath his feet, beg to differ.

“If you knew the extent of what I’ve done, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

And in reply, you flick his forehead.

“You seem pretty set in thinking for me, Osamu.” Your voice is scolding but holds no bite. “I’d be offended if I couldn’t easily see why.”

And a whisper embeds a chill within his bones, seeping through the flesh and tingling down to his fingertips.

“Do you really think I’ll turn tail and run the second you revert to your old ways?”

His slackened hand seizes your wrist, almost bruising. Almost.

“You should if you know what’s good for you.”

He hopes to scare you.

To shake your unwavering resolve.

To fracture the foundation of those beliefs that lead you to foolishly place your trust in him.

But you laugh.

He tries to pull back, but you hold him there tighter.

“You truly don’t see how much you’ve changed. God, you are stubborn.”

His breath catches—you’re at once calamitous, the wild embodiment of a zephyr with no reins.

“But unluckily for you, so am I.”

Frosted flurries linger in the tresses of your hair, untamed strands framing the electrifying expression that pulses in the upturn of your lips and the brightness of your eyes. So wonderfully unpredictable, so woefully disastrous for a soul he never believes he deserves.

Only in this world is a snowstorm the key to thawing his frozen heart.

“I can’t deny I would’ve loved to meet him.” You lean against the stiffened curve of his shoulder. “Anyone who can manage to change your mind must've been remarkable.”

Every inch of him feels aflame, but he can’t bring himself to move.

“In life, people are categorized as one thing or another, and in death, their actions are simplified to an anecdote or forgotten entirely,” you say, an undeniable somberness returning with a softness as you let frost nip at your skin. “The best that can be done is to watch the results of their influence when they’re no longer here.”

And, for the first time, his hand responds to your repetitive ministrations with a subtle squeeze.

You smile.

He pauses at the deafened sound of a sniffle, lost in the sight of the tears that roll down your cheeks without a word.

“But I want to know everything.”

Your arm intertwines with his, fearing he’ll run at the first chance.

“Every sin that stains your soul mafia black, every mistake that convinces you that you can only be who you once were.”

He has made hundreds, thousands of mistakes—a running list tallied in his mind, repeated over and over on his worst days and subtly whispering reminders on his best.

How can he possibly taint you with even the mention of such things?

Your voice echoes in a whisper, only for him to hear.

“I want the chance to look at you, all of you, and still love you the same.”

He is stubborn, but so are you.

He allows himself to press one kiss against the top of your head, but he should’ve known. Indulging once only leads him to indulge again, and again, and again—he pulls you closer, dotting reverent, blistering kisses across your cold, heated skin. His lips trace the apples of your cheeks, marking the pathway of your tears with the devotion to soothe them.

“He would’ve loved you as much as I do.”

His voice breaks, but you say nothing.

Content to remain in his arms, comforted in the knowledge that you’ll always be one of the few who can change his mind.

Out of all the proposed plans for the day, you didn’t expect CHUUYA to ask you to meet somewhere far outside the city. It was weird waking up alone in bed with only a text on the phone with an address and time. But you went with it, not knowing what to expect.

You would’ve never guessed a graveyard.

It sits on a cliffside, enclosed by a canopy of trees that gives the sight a sense of privacy. The graves aren’t neat or well-kept, but for some reason, you have a feeling that is a measure of how loved the place is.

And there is Chuuya, sitting on top of a gravestone.

“Isn’t that a bit disrespectful?”

Chuuya’s attention darts away from the setting sun.

“Not like it matters,” he scoffs, jumping off of it. “Deserves it for being such a pain in the ass.”

But he doesn’t move to come near you, so you settle for glancing at the graves around you, full of unfamiliar names you are sure he recognizes. Some are far more recent than you assumed, but that brings you back to reality.

“Why’d you call me here?” Your face shifts into an awkward smile. “Not that I mind the scenery, but a graveyard isn’t quite the first thing that comes to mind when I think of a date.”

But you falter once you note the downtrodden look on his face.

You’re not stupid, far from it. You know him well enough to know when he has something to say—the way he fiddles with his fists as they’re tucked into his pockets, how his foot taps against the ground at an irregular tempo. Someone less knowledgeable would assume he is just agitated.

But you know better.

“Is everything alright?”

Your voice is soft—not hesitant, calming like a balm over a wound. It carefully treads through as you try to dissect the reason behind his demeanor.

He sighs.

“There’s something I’ve gotta tell you.”

And you don’t prod, simply nodding at him.

“Then let’s sit down.”

You find yourself with the perfect view of the sunset. Despite your earlier jest, this would be a beautiful date spot, but you don’t linger on the thought for long. You don’t want to be nervous but can’t help it. There’s a key difference between his normal stoicism and genuine seriousness.

And he is serious.

You fiddle with the grass beneath your fingers, trying not to overthink it.

Chuuya is careful as he sits down, not completely next to you, but close enough that he can see enough of your face. He feels the words clogged in his throat, instead taking in the sight of you in the glow of the setting sun. The most beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on. He watches for another fleeting moment as the ocean breeze tussles your hair.

But sunsets aren’t meant to last.

So, he delves into the details of this place—its significance in creating the man he is today. But he quickly skips the more unimportant details. These are stories he can tell you with ease. Some are a pain in his heart, yes, but it is a pain he trusts you with. One he knows you can handle—and pain he allows to be shared, even if momentarily.

The origins of his ability are a different story.

Those are more complicated than petty betrayals and mafia rivalries.

The descriptions of experiments are enough to chill you to the core, forcing you to swallow your nausea at the thought of them being conducted on the very man you love.

“Once that power is unleashed, my body is no longer under my control.”

He removes his hat, his gloved fingers straining around its edges.

“I become a beast hellbent on destruction.” His voice dips with an irritated edge, and you can guess the next few keywords before he says them. “And I’m forced to rely on Dazai to nullify it. That bastard enjoys showing up at the worst possible moment just to toy with me.”

You laugh a little, but he doesn’t have the heart for your usual back and forth.

“But without him, anyone in my path is in danger.”

That laughter fades into something silent, contemplative.

“And even if that doesn’t happen, there are many who would gladly give anything for a fraction of the power I possess, to the point that they would use anyone under my care as leverage. I couldn’t possibly keep count of how many die simply for being my subordinates, much less…”

He cuts himself off.

You are smart enough to know the rest.

So he waits, and he doesn’t truly know what for. He just knows what you should do. You should run far away from him and anything he touches. If you run fast and far enough, you can save yourself from the danger of being his.

His eyes catch the way your hands fidget, nervous, and he can’t help but feel the same.

“I don’t think I say it enough…” Chuuya’s eyes dart to the outline of your lips, a breath of cold air escaping them. “But you truly are the most resilient man I’ve ever met.”

He huffs.

He knows that stubborn tone of voice anywhere. But this isn’t some stupid argument over the best type of wine or an attempt to stop him from splurging on new clothes—he’ll shoot your stubborn attitude down for your own good.

“But you’re such a hypocrite.”

What.

He can barely hide his shock, and your fond, cheeky smile begins to sour.

“Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t brave that danger?” you sneer, your voice hot with anger. “I know you would if it were me!”

You whip your head around, your brows furrowed, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl.

“So why the hell do you think I wouldn’t do the same?!”

He can’t quite come up with a response.

You are right.

If your roles were reversed, he wouldn’t leave. It wouldn’t matter to him if he lived or died as long as you were together. But this isn’t your reality, and you are in danger.

And he won’t stand for it.

“You’re in danger.” His voice is low, scolding. “If those bastards find out you’re with me, they’ll do whatever it takes to end your life. If something happens to you, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Do you regret them?”

He pauses, frowning.

“Who?”

“Them. Your friends.”

You level his gaze.

“Do you regret them?”

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Think about them.

He can still see them, or at least the flashes of what remains of them. Shells of the vibrant people they once were snuffed out with ease.

“If it wasn’t for me, they’d still be alive today.”

“That’s not what I asked,” you reply, the coolness of your voice raising goosebumps on his arms. “Do you regret them? Were those bonds not worth the grief that followed their passing?”

“Of course not!” he exclaims, his frustration palpable. “But that’s not the point.”

“Do you think they’d regret you?”

His mouth goes dry at the look you give him.

You are like an ephemeral, deadly storm. Your eyes match his in force and shine with the knowledge that you have him cornered.

And he cannot look away.

You are always beautiful to him—it amazes him how someone can be so breathtaking. But you have never been as radiant as you are now.

You take his hand into your own, holding it tight.

“Do you think I could ever regret you?”

He freezes.

Your fingertips are like fire as they trace the exposed skin of his wrist.

“You don’t consider the agency of the people you care for.”

He shudders as your lips brush his skin, your thumb inching beneath the fabric of his glove.

“Risk is a guarantee for every interaction we have. Especially when it comes to those we hold closest.”

You slip the glove off.

“But that risk is a two-way street.” You smile. “And if those friends are anything like me, then they’d agree with one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

His response is without power, and there is no fight left within him.

Your hand overlaps his own as it cups your face.

You squeeze gently, leading him to truly look at you.

“You’re worth that risk.”

He doesn’t know who leans in first, but before he knows it, his lips are on yours. You cannot be close enough, even as he pulls you onto his lap, groaning at the delicate touch of your fingers in his hair.

In this moment, he allows himself to forget.

The danger. The risk.

He allows the storm to weather him.

And as you part, heavy breaths passing between you both, he is forced to surrender.

“I hope you’re the last sight I ever see.”

If it is for you, it is worth the risk.

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[goldfades]

does Hayes ever have times where he’s a total momma’s boy and Joe has to fight for her attention? I feel like you’d have to juggle two pouty whiny children because they’re not getting your full attention and one of them is your husband

i got like five million requests for momma's boy for hayes, and honestly he IS momma's boy, through and through and always will be

It started slowly at first—little things you didn’t think much of.

Hayes had always been attached to you. That much was obvious from the moment he was born, but lately? Lately, it was like he had developed a sixth sense specifically for when Joe got too close to you.

It was in the way he’d suddenly appear the second Joe pulled you into a hug, his tiny hands wedging their way between you both, his little face scrunching up in disapproval. If Joe so much as rested a hand on your thigh while you sat on the couch, Hayes was there in an instant, wiggling his way onto your lap like he was reclaiming what was his.

And bedtime? Forget it.

The second Joe tried to wrap an arm around you in bed, Hayes—who had miraculously woken up from a perfectly fine sleep—would start calling for you through the baby monitor, like some kind of territorial alarm.

Joe brushed it off at first, laughing whenever Hayes pulled one of his little stunts.

"That’s my boy, fighting for what’s his," he’d joke, ruffling Hayes’ hair, acting like it didn’t bother him.

But over time, as the baby barricade between you and Joe grew stronger, the amusement started to wear off.

Especially when Hayes began glaring at him.

You first noticed it when Joe had leaned in to kiss you goodbye before heading to practice one morning. Hayes, perched in his high chair with a fistful of pancake, scowled at his father like he had just committed an unforgivable crime.

Joe paused mid-kiss, catching the look. "Did—did he just mug me?"

You tried not to laugh as you glanced at Hayes, who was now hugging your arm possessively, his chubby fingers clutching onto you for dear life.

Joe scoffed, hands on his hips. "Oh, you think this is funny?"

Hayes remained stone-faced, gripping you tighter.

Joe really tried to be the bigger person.

At first, he played along with Hayes’ little antics, humoring him like it was some kind of funny phase.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he’d mutter whenever Hayes forced his way onto your lap, effectively kicking Joe out of his spot. “You’re trying to replace me, huh?”

Hayes would just blink up at him, completely unbothered, before turning to nuzzle into your chest like some kind of smug little prince.

Joe would shoot you an exasperated look. “You’re really just letting him do this?”

You tried to be neutral about it, but honestly? It was kind of adorable. Hayes was still so little, still so attached to you in that way only toddlers could be. And truthfully, it wasn’t like you hated all the extra snuggles.

But the real breaking point came one Saturday afternoon, when Joe had the absolute audacity to wrap his arms around your waist while you were standing at the kitchen counter.

The moment his hands made contact with your hips, you heard a small gasp from behind you.

Then— "NO!"

Joe barely had time to react before Hayes came barreling into him, tiny hands pushing at his thighs like he was physically trying to separate you both.

Joe stumbled back, throwing his hands up. “Are you serious right now?”

But Hayes was dead serious. His little brows furrowed, lips pouted in betrayal as he latched onto your leg, looking up at you like, Mommy, I can’t believe you’d do this to me.

"Buddy," Joe tried again, voice light and reasonable. "I was just hugging Mommy."

"No!" Hayes clung harder, sending a defiant glare in Joe’s direction.

Joe turned to you, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "Okay, I think I’ve been replaced. This is—this is an actual hostile takeover."

You couldn’t help but laugh, running your fingers through Hayes’ soft hair as he cuddled into your leg, victorious.

"Joe," you soothed, glancing up at your husband’s genuinely offended face. "It’s just a phase. He’s a mama’s boy right now."

Joe folded his arms. "Right now? He’s been a mama’s boy his whole life."

"Can you blame him?" you teased, giving Joe a playful smirk.

Joe groaned, running a hand down his face. "I just want one kiss. Just one."

But Hayes was not having it. The second Joe leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek, Hayes wiggled between you again, little arms pushing at Joe’s chest with all the strength his tiny body could muster.

And Joe? Joe was finally fed up.

"Alright, that’s it. You wanna go, little man?" Joe bent down, grabbing Hayes under the arms before tossing him into the air. Hayes squealed—part delighted, part indignant—before Joe caught him again, holding him up so they were face to face.

"You think you can just take my wife?" Joe challenged, squinting at him playfully.

Hayes giggled, but still, his tiny hands grabbed fistfuls of Joe’s shirt, as if making sure his dad wouldn’t get too close to you again.

Joe groaned, holding him out dramatically. "Babe, he’s obsessed with you."

You smirked. "Welcome to my world."

But Joe wasn’t giving up. He pulled Hayes in closer, staring him down. "Listen, buddy, we’re gonna have to share, okay? You can’t just claim her."

Hayes blinked. Then, very seriously— "Mine."

Joe gasped. "Did you just—?" He turned to you, absolutely betrayed. "Did you hear that? He just called dibs on you."

You shrugged. "I mean, technically, I did bring him into this world, so…"

Joe’s jaw dropped. "You’re taking his side?"

Hayes grinned, sensing his win.

Joe sighed dramatically, plopping Hayes back down. "Unbelievable. My own son. Stabbing me in the back like this."

You rolled your eyes, walking up to press a kiss to Joe’s cheek. "Don’t worry, babe. You’ll always be my first love."

Joe grumbled, wrapping an arm around your waist again. "Yeah? Tell that to our tiny little homewrecker over there."

But you knew, despite all his complaints, Joe secretly loved it. Because later that night, when Hayes finally (finally!) let Joe tuck him into bed, you caught your husband lingering at his door, watching him sleep with that soft, completely smitten look in his eyes.

And yeah, maybe Hayes had stolen you away for now…

But Joe would let him. Every single time.

[about-faces]

Saw a post from a Nightwing fan that was like “oh my god there’s someone out there who seriously would like to see Two-Face in the BatFam, WTF?! After what he did to Dick?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

….

…

… Anyway, here’s why I think Harvey Dent should be in the BatFam.

For starters, I think it would be a wonderful way to incorporate Bruce’s long-standing love for Harvey in a situation where he gets to interact with a variety of young people who either have personal beefs with Harvey and/or have little sympathy/reason to care about him. We’ve already seen the potential of Harvey and Jason interacting and how fantastic that was for both characters.

I want to see Harvey (specifically a Harvey whose good side gets to be present and distinct, if not in complete control for the time being) interact with Dick, who hates him and—like some of his fans—completely disregards Harvey’s history of mental illness and internal struggles to overcome Scarvey. Extra points if they incorporate the Robin: Year One origin with Dick being beaten by Two-Face (which is not currently canon, btw), something that Harvey would never have done if he was in his right mind or even in control at the time. He was subsumed by his worst side to the point that Two-Face outright genuinely considered Harvey “dead,” but Dick neither knows nor cares about that, and I’d like to see that explored outside of a typical hero/villain environment.

I want to see Harvey interact with Damian and Cass, who each might have his own opinions about Bruce’s ongoing belief in someone’s inherent goodness, heroism, and worth, no matter how much blood is on one’s hands or how they were raised.

I want to see Cass and Steph both reckon with Harvey’s own history of abuse at a father’s hands, and how one tries to struggle against the cycles of violence. Is Harvey a victim of how he was raised, or is he a monster for not overcoming his trauma like they did? I want know if the compassion Cass extended to Clayface could also apply to Harvey. I want to know if either woman would have any empathy for Harvey, or condemn him as being reprehensible and irredeemable.

I want Babs to have a backstory where she, as a kid, knew and liked Harvey, and the two bonded over having alcoholic fathers, something which no one can understand if they haven’t experienced it.

I want to see if Duke has any feelings about a once-good man who was transformed into something he does not want to be, much in the way his own parents were victims of Gotham’s monsters.

I want Tim to better understand Harvey’s psyche, to see if he still thinks that Harvey is someone who “chooses” to become Two-Face again after every redemption attempt.

I want more interactions between Harvey and Jason, acknowledging them as twin symbols of Bruce’s failure who both became murderous mob bosses. How many orphans has Jason created? Why is Jason welcomed back in but not Harvey? Is it because Harvey nearly beat a Robin to death, just like Damian did with Tim? Is it okay to excuse/forgive a brainwashed child but not a severely mentally ill adult who had no control over his worst side? Why or why not?

I want to know which BatFam members would even notice all the ways that Bruce and Harvey are so similar, mirrors to each other with Harvey being the one who lost everything, including his own identity and sanity. I want to know what their takeaways would be, or if they’d even care. I want to know if any of them would realize that Bruce could easily fall like Harvey without the love and support they provide as a family, which Harvey lacks?

Remember A Lonely Place of Dying? Harvey without Gilda and Batman without Robin, both evenly matched in a mutually-suicidal death spiral, broken only when Tim emerged in Bruce’s life? Would Tim draw those parallels? Would any of them? Would it even matter?

Because not all of the BatFam can or should have empathy for Harvey. No family, not even the BatFam, should end every disagreement with Full-House-style hugs and apologies. Sometimes you just hate or don’t even care about other family members, and that’s fine! But I still want to see those relationships explored and hashed out within the context of family.

On top of it all, I want some acknowledgement that Harvey was Bruce’s first and only ally back in Batman: Year One before Gordon came around to Bruce’s side. That Harvey was the ONLY person in Gotham trying to fight against the forces of the mob and cops alike before Bruce returned and Jim rolled into town. That he, as Batman’s ally and the youngest DA in Gotham history, was the original Boy Wonder of Gotham City. That Bruce’s failure to save Harvey has hung over each and every one of his relationships and connections in the BatFam.

Finally, I want to see Harvey in the BatFam because I want to know that, no matter what you’ve done or become, there will still be some people out there who are holding out for you to come back. That you may not be forgiven by all or even most of them, but you’re still worthy of love. And even if/when Harvey loses his battle with himself again, I want some of the BatFam to react with sympathy, some having changed their perceptions about the man they only knew as Two-Face. That maybe, occasionally, the criminals they fight aren’t monsters but just broken people, lost to some combination of circumstance, upbringing, mental illness, and personal choices. I want to see them reckon with that. I think that would be important.

And okay yeah sure I’d also like to see Harvey take them all out for pizza and games at Chuck E Cheese’s or something like that. I just think that’d be neat.

Anyway. I hope that all makes more sense now for anyone still wondering. I’ll finish up with proof that Harvey being in the BatFam has actually been touched on in comics, from the gatefold cover of Hush (that’s Harvey, not Hush, with the bandages), DC Future State, and DC Bombsells.

So there’s a fuzzy sort of precedent for Harvey fitting in with the BatFam. I just hope someone at DC will eventually share my vision, even if some BatFam fans never will.

[awordsmith]

graveyard flowers 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you are seen at Emily’s funeral looking conspicuous and are questioned for it because no one knows who you are or why you’re at their friend’s funeral.

who? spencer x unknown!reader  when? s6 category: angst (comfort) fluff? content warnings: reader is a professional killer, mentions of father with a psychological disorder and i think that's it, reid with interest...  word count: 8k a/n: this was suppose to be smut and i think i got sidetracked, also this would not at all have been possible without a special someone sending me edits, a few honorable mentions will be left down below

Spencer didn’t notice her instantly, he was more laser-focused on keeping his tears in his eyes. He couldn’t fathom the fact that Emily was gone. Emily was like his best friend, his only friend if you didn’t count the eight-year-old in the park near his apartment he often played chess with.

The day was bright, so opposed to the way he felt. The sky was blue and the casket being lowered into the ground was white. The image tugged on his heartstrings; he didn’t know whether to scream or throw up. He had a headache and when salt water stung the corners of his eyes, he went to wipe at them–that’s when he noticed her.

She was wearing all black, dressed perfectly for a funeral. For a moment, without thinking, he thought she looked odd and out of place. She was gorgeous, she had that type of beauty you’d see in a flower–not a graveyard, and that’s what she was: a graveyard flower.

He thought the insinuation ironic, considering she was probably in mourning just as he, but then it occurred to him she was mourning the same person he whom he was mourning, and this was a closed funeral, so he wondered–he wondered who she was, but more importantly who she was to Emily.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, catching the gazes of Hotch and Rossi. She was far off, but he could make out a few of her prominent features, such as her hair, her nose–and the color of her nails. “Do any of you know who that is?”

JJ and Penelope’s ears perked up, “what are you talking about Spencer?”

His brows furrowed and he stepped forward, “that woman–”

“No,” Morgan shook his head, “I’ve never seen her before.”

“Maybe she’s an old friend.”

“No, Emily didn’t have any friends–”

“Someone from Interpol?”

“Reid’s right,” Hotch’s eyes bored into the woman’s, eying her–analyzing her.

They watched the mysterious woman wipe her face, and then all of a sudden her body went rigid as if she’d been startled by something. She lifted her face and Spencer could see clearly now, she was gorgeous, and she was looking right at him. But it wasn’t him her eyes strayed to, Spencer watched them flit across the groups, landing on–no doubt–Hotch’s.

He was curious and quite cute–the young one with glasses–you wondered if your sister had worked with these people or if they were merely her friends. You didn’t know much about Emily, you hadn't even known of her existence until a few months ago, when you’d hired a private investigator to look into your family line as you’d begun to discover your father had kept quite a bit from you. He wasn’t dead, but he had Alzheimer's and through his mistaking you for your mother, or sometimes his sister, he began to divulge things–things he otherwise would have kept to himself.

Llike the fact that he had a wife before your mother and that he had another daughter. Emily, he called her. He used to cry for her, ask how she was doing, and more than once you’d have to argue with him that you were not Emily. You were sure you didn’t even look much like her, perhaps you got her build, but you had two different mothers. You looked more like yours and you were sure–because your father’s genes were so minor–this ‘Emily’ looked like hers.

You knew so little–but you’d wanted to get to know her, that’s why you had tracked her down after all, and instead of figuring out how to start up a conversation, you were shopping for funeral clothing because she had “died in the line of duty.” What bullshit was that? You’d scoffed.

No, you didn’t know her, but you were family–her sister for heaven’s sake, and now you would never even get the chance to introduce yourself. She died knowing nothing of you or your side of the family, she died an only child and you didn’t know how to live with that. Could you even call yourself siblings? All you had was blood. And that–to you–was the worst part of it all.

They were watching you, you didn’t know who caught wind of your presence first, but there was one person–an old, mean guy with an angry expression looking as if you had something to do with the death in front of you. You had no idea who these people were, all the private investigator was able to give you was the address of the restaurant she often frequented, and her home address. You had no idea where or who she worked for.

She “gave off a vibe” and he didn’t want to get too close. Well, you didn’t pay him half a thousand to ‘get a vibe’ did you?

Your body seized once more and before you could watch him take that first step, you were spinning around and heading back toward the parking lot.

It was early morning, you always woke up around 4–unless you were on a job–your work wasn’t put on hold simply because you had personal issues to deal with. If anything, going to Emily’s funeral was lenient. You clocked in around 6 and headed straight for your boss’ office.

The normal person would frown at your job, teenagers might think it was cool, but in truth, your job was neither cool nor disfavored. Did you like it? Well, it depends on what day you were asked, some days were easier, others just shy of a struggle–but you chose it, and however gruesome it seemed, you wouldn’t have chosen anything else given the opportunity.

Spencer found this curious about you as he scrolled through your history. On their off time, the team had taken to figuring out who the mystery woman at their friend's funeral was. It took a little while, but eventually, three months later, Penelope and Spencer not only acquired a photo from a CCTV camera, but through that visualization, they secured a name–your name.

Spencer found you particularly interesting because you seemed to have quite a normal upbringing, and now you were a hitwoman for the United States Government. The team had discussed what to do with the information on you and whether or not they should leave it alone. Spencer was set on approaching you. He wanted to know more.

You must have come across Emily somehow, for you to know her so well–but how was the question? Who were you to Emily and why had she never mentioned you? Why were there no photos of you together, why were there no clear lines that drew a connection to you?

He didn’t know exactly what–though he was trying to pin it on your somehow connection to Emily–but he was drawn to you. Something in the way you carried yourself, even when walking away from the funeral of someone you held dear.

The sky was graying, the trees had no leaves on them and the mornings were cold. He stood outside the roundtable room, leaning against the wall as Hotch and Penelope went back and forth about you. When Morgan arrived, Spencer didn’t notice like he normally did, he was so intent on hearing what his other coworkers were talking about.

“Hey Pretty Boy,” Morgan nodded toward the room, “hear anything you like?”

Spencer ignored him audibly, but pressed his lips together and shook his head. He wanted to approach you, but more than that, he wanted to be granted permission to approach you. He wanted to have a reason to begin communicating with you, but he wouldn’t get it, and so going against what he knew he would eventually be told, he stole your information.

Okay…stole was a big word, Spencer preferred collected. It kind of fit, Spencer thought himself somewhat of a collector, like Gideon, a collector of stories, but instead of keeping photos, he kept memories. It was mostly out of his control, but for the very select that was…

He went through the day as best he could without thinking about you–you and Emily. For the most part, he was good at it, and at one point he even thought he might get away with his plan–but then Rossi pulled him aside in the car park and said, “You’re going after her, right?”

Spencer hadn’t expected the question, but there it was: out in the open. He thought about lying his way out of Rossi’s confrontation, but that would be too easy, and besides–he wouldn’t accomplish that feat even if he tried–Rossi might be getting to a certain age, but his mind wasn’t leaving him anytime soon. Well, that and he practically started the BAU.

This was his plan–to approach you cautiously and calmly. It had been a few months since Emily’s funeral and he wasn’t even sure you would recognize him–what he didn’t know is that just as he had been trying to track you down, you had been spending your time doing the same thing.

You tried to ignore the obvious reasoning as to why Spencer in particular caught your eye. He was cute, definitely your type–and no, you hadn’t been there looking for anything other than closure and to mourn your sister whom you never got to know–but there he was–and when the sun hit his cheeks, you had been able to tell he had been crying. His cheeks had glistened with the lightest shade of red, ti was beautiful, really.

And it tugged at you. 

You typically worked alone, you didn’t have just one homestead–you had multiple all over the country that you used when you needed to. Traveling from place to place gave you much more free time than one would think. Your main focus was your target, but just below that was figuring out the relationship Emily had with the rest of her team–with Spencer Reid, especially.

Your boss looked at you, eyes raised, “are you sure? — think about this–are you absolutely positive?”

“I’ve thought about it long enough–this job has served me for the timebeing–but now I’m ready to move on.”

He hesitated, eyes tracking the sealed envelope. A heavy sigh escaped him and his eyes shut, this–you knew–meant he was accepting it. He would no longer have you under his disposal–you were resigning. But–more than that, you were beginning a new job. To be sure, you had one lined up, though you neglected to share that with your boss–you were never particularly close with him, nor any of your other coworkers. You worked best that way. You had but one friend from your hometown, and even then, you only contacted her on occasion.

It was safer that way–for both you and her.

“There will always be a place here for you, you know that?”

You smiled, though it was grim. “Thank you for your time, Sir.”

Spencer never particularly preferred any one spot in his favorite coffee shop. He only had one rule, he wanted to be able to see everything. He either sat in a corner at the front, or near the wall in the back. The stools that sat in front of the large window pane were okay–and because the other spots were taken, it was where he now resided.

He was reading Dostoevsky, his Russian was a bit rusty and he wanted to see if he could finish the House of the Dead as he once had a few years ago. He took to analyzing the punctuation and pronunciation of words that threw him off. Every few seconds he would realize the definition of a word he thought he had forgot.

He was into his book, sure, but it didn’t stop him from noting the girl watching him. He knew better than to think he was imagining it, even if she was pretty and most definitely out of his league. He knew better because he knew your face. You weren’t just some pretty girl, randomly flirting with your eyes, you were — —, and he was just close enough to tell you most likely knew who he was. He held his breath, waiting to see what you’d do when you realized he had caught on.

You smiled. His stomach dropped at the image. He swallowed and shook his head, trying to grab hold of his thoughts. Without warning, you stood and headed right for him, aiming for the seat to his right. He kept his head down as you lifted yourself onto the stool.

You brought over the lemonade you had been nursing–Spencer didn’t even know this shop sold lemonade, that’s what he kept assuming was in your cup at least. 

“Spencer Reid.” You murmured, annunciating each syllable.

Spencer’s lips pressed into a thin line, so he was right–he didn’t know exactly how much you knew, but he didn’t want to let anything slip just in case you didn’t know everything there was to know.

“—,” he only said your last name, but it was enough to make you smile slightly.

“You know me?” Though you tried to neutralize your expression right after, Spencer caught the way your eyes widened briefly. You were genuinely surprised, unlike Spencer, you hadn’t used his information to profile him the way he did for you. Though he wondered if it was a lack of training or skill, he went for the first as it seemed entirely possible assassins were not trained to profile their target. You knew basic personality traits, but you never had to get close enough to get into the psychology of your targets. 

“You know me,” he shrugged, sliding his bookmark into House of the Dead and setting it aside, to which you found yourself analyzing. This was the training you were preparing for. You were ready, but you still had to ace the interview–you had to be better than every other agent. You could do that–no you’ve never worked with a team before, and no you’ve never dealt with serial killers but your shots were lethal and you never missed, that had to count for something, right?

“Yes,” you twisted your body in the chair. The man in front of you dressed like a schoolboy, your eyes twitched and you asked, “You were bullied as a kid, right?”

Caught off guard, Spencer blinked, “uhm–what?”

You shrugged, “you’re a genius, I mean, in the worldly definition–but you don’t believe intelligence can be accurately quantified,” you bit back a smile, “I read a few of your papers. I was pleasantly surprised.”

“You were?” He raised a brow, twisting his body to face yours.

You averted your eyes, if you could impress him, that job was yours–you didn’t have a single doubt. Yes, maybe you should have secured it before resigning–but with your schedule, if you hadn’t you never would have made it to this final interview and your opportunity would have been lost until someone else quit or another died. Your eyes flashed at that thought–it had come out of nowhere.

Spencer–of course–saw this as well, but he said nothing. Instead, he noted the single earring you wore, he nodded toward it, “Your father gave you that.” Your heart seized itself, did Spencer know? Had he figured it out? “He passed away last year, that must have been hard.”

Though his expression and tone led you to believe he was genuine, you couldn’t help but feel this had turned into a game. Who knew more about the other–and maybe if you won, he wouldn’t be too mad when he found out you were interviewing for Emily’s position. “You had an addiction problem, it wasn’t recent, but it must have been hard.”

“What? Getting over it?” Spencer didn’t miss a beat, though you thought this would be his trigger, it wasn’t, so there was something you were missing. Something in which he carried with him that was heavier than his addiction.

“No, admitting you needed help.” You reached out an arm, pulled your glass toward you, and took a sip through the straw. Spencer watched you, waiting, eyes narrowed slightly. You thought you had won, but Spencer had been at this a long time–you were egging him on, trying to trap him, get him to slip up for some reason.

Thankfully, he had one more trick up his sleeve. “Yeah” he sighed, “that was pretty hard. But once I did, the rest came pretty easy.”

You nodded, taking in the information. He wondered if you cared or if this was just foreplay to you. What he didn’t know was that you were having fun. This wasn’t about testing out your skills or seeing if you could glean anything viable of Emily off of him anymore; now, you were slightly more curious about Spencer Reid as his person. He was the nerdy kind of cute and you couldn’t help but enjoy your minor quarrels, and be thankful he hadn’t taken any of your jabs seriously.

“Why did you really seek me out?” Spencer finally asked.

You raised a brow. “You honestly want to know?”

He shrugged, “I mean, wouldn’t you expect me to?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I don’t know you, Spencer, how could I assume anything?”

He liked you. It was everything. He didn’t just like your assertiveness. He liked your coyness, your confidence, your intelligence, your brain, the way you spoke, and the way you carried yourself–Spencer was sure he hadn’t felt this competitive since Gideon first challenged him to a game of chess. It was exhilarating, and as you stood to leave, your banter dying down, he found his arm shooting out to stop you. He wanted more.

It had grown later in the afternoon, though neither of you–it seemed– realized just how long you’d been talking. For a lack of better words, it was entertaining. To find someone that could keep up with you–not only on a pyshcological level, but a timed one–was the most brilliant feeling in the world. He didn’t care who you were anymore–in fact, he had forgotten for a time how you knew each other in the first place–he just knew he didn’t want you to leave. He didn’t want to lose whatever it was you had together.

“Yes?” You eyed the place where he grabbed your sleeve. He let go before stopping to think like a normal person–because a normal person never would have said what he had–he asked, “will I see you again?”

You bit your cheek and he noticed, taking pleasure in the fact that he made you smile, and embarrassed enough to want to hide that smile. “Yes, Spencer–but don’t hold your breath.”

“And why’s that?” He stood, thinking to follow you out.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, ignoring the other ignorants people around you. Then, you averted your eyes quickly back toward the floor, a frown falling overe your smile,  “it might not be under the circumstances you’d prefer.”

Spencer didn’t ask what you meant by that. He was too enthralled by your slightly solemn expression to register it at first, and by the time he had, you were long gone.

5 in the morning you woke up, dressed rather nicely, brewed a pot of coffee, drank said pot, and headed out around 7 to buy another cup of coffee.

Today was special, it was special because today you were going to see him again, but more than that, he had no idea you were coming. You didn’t know how attempting to figure out what Emily was like turned into obsessing over Spencer’s reactions. You were positive you weren’t insane, and yet, here you were, grinning like a madman as you stepped into the comforting confines of the BAU.

This is it? You thought as you approached the front desk. Many milled about, conversating, running documents back and forth, there was a line–you were sure–meant for the interviewees. You were one of them. The wait was terrible, but when you saw him, it became a bit more bearable.

You would need to overcome this, you would be working with him–you had no time to feel whatever you were starting to feel, you knew it would be much easier if you could put it out of you head and pretend he was no one in particular, but you found it hard. You didn’t find many things hard, but this–for whatever reason–had you struggling. 

He didn’t notice you at first, so you took to watching him. It was so tempting to analyze him in everyway you could. It’d pass the time, you tried reasoning, but you knew you it was an excuse. You huffed, folding your arms. You needed to leave him alone, you would force yourself if need be.

You stepped forward when the line moved, stating your name and sliding your ID across the desk. When you passed check in, you headed for the elevator, assuming he’d stay on the first floor talking to whomever he was talking to. A few others joined you in the cramped space.

The light was dim, flickering. You’d have to mention that when you got the position. There wasn’t any way you wouldn’t–you had two ins. Besides, that title had your name written all over it. You’d have to take some psychology classes? So what? You minored in psychology during university. It’d be a walk in the park–hell, you were probably even overqualified for this job–

Similar thoughts tainted your mind while the doors began to shut. A hand shot through the crack and the doors reopened. You felt your eyes roll before looking up to meet the gaze of the idiot who just couldn’t wait.

“Sorry,” Spencer winced, stepping through the doors. He observed you immediately. His shoulder straitened and his body tensed. He swallowed as he filled the space next to you.

“Bit close, don’t you think,” you leaned over and whispered.

His throat cleared and he took a step away, turning his head. He looked flustered. You forgot how easy it was push him back into his shell, but you wanted to do the complete opposite. You wanted that witty banter from before, you wanted to cocky and know-it-all genies you’d played with before.

“I was joking,” you shook your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Spencer’s voice lowered as he closed the distance between you once more, looking down at you, though trying to be mindful of the people around you. You didn’t care about them, they were NPCs to you. They didn’t matter in the slightest–maybe that was a problem, but you shoved that thought away.

“Isn’t it obvious?” You shrugged. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. You stepped out, looking around the office; Spencer followed you. “So, this is where I’ll be working from now on,” you nodded, it’s… quaint.”

“What are you talking about?” You watched realization dawn on him. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes, “no–no. You’re not–you can’t–

“–and just what can’t I do?” You met him, your face coming inches below his chin. People milled back and forth once more, Spencer clicked his tongue and pulled you further into the office, toward a few desks separate from the others clustered together.

He bit back a retort, you could see the words swallow in his mouth. He turned away and headed toward–you assumed–his desk, muttering to himself something incoherent to you.

Working with him was going to be a pain–you could already feel it. You wanted him, and not in the way someone normally desires another person–you wanted his brain, wanted to know what ran through it all the times of the day, wanted to know what he dreamt about. You felt your heart squeeze together with the knowledge that you could never get that close to him. You would get what you came for and go back to your old job. She was the only reason, she was the end goal, and it was her you would leave with.

This mundane life of catching serial killers and hurting people who deserved it wasn’t for you. Your life revolved around murdering people you didn’t know, people whom you had no connection to; people who had never done anything to you–some who were even completely innocent or simply collateral damage–all because you were ordered to. You knew once he found out he wouldn’t be able to look at you the way he looked at you now: with curiosity and possibility–he’d see a cold-blooded killer and nothing more.

Even if the orders you received came from the same organization his orders did. Spencer would never be able to see past the blood on your hands–that was just the type of person he was.

“I can’t believe this,” Spencer shook his head.

“What’s wrong, Pretty Boy?” Gosh–not Morgan again–he’d just laugh at Spencer. And right now, Spencer didn’t need someone to laugh at him, he needed someone to agree with him–and that person was never Morgan–not even on a good day.

“Nothing–just–,” his breath caught as you existed Hotches office. You grinned at him and waved, no–no you were approaching him now. Spencer could feel the confusion course through his body with every second you got closer.

“Pretty sure I nailed that interview,” you winked.

“Great,” he said full of sarcasm., but it was fake. It felt like bile in his mouth. He hated the taste of bile, it made him want to vomit again, or go back to sleep so the thought of the taste, the remembrance would go away.

You gave a mocking frown and playfully punched him in the shoulder, “meanie.” He huffed, and glancing at you, felt heat warm his cheeks as he held your smiley gaze. He knew things about you he probably shouldn’t–things the rest of the team didn’t know–things you probably wanted to keep to yourself. He couldn't act normally around you because every time he saw your face–he was reminded of the fact that he knew these things and they swayed not a single thoguht about the way he felt toward you.

He liked you–that was his initial thought, anyway. You weren’t angry, like work reports had painted you out to be, thought maybe that’s because he met you first. Before he knew what you were–what you did. It was people like you he chased–people like you he locked up, tossing the key without hesitation.

He wasn’t fooled by your playful attitude, he knew you were a serial killer–though a legal one. You weren’t just a hitwoman like the rest of the team firs thought–you were a very real and a very dangerous assassin Just because your kills weren’t considered crimes, did that make them okay? Any type of person with your mindset would need a high level of trauma tolerance. Assassins had the ability Spencer would never be able to acquire in this life–the inability to form relationships. Spencer’s brain operated in complete contrast, he needed human connection and social relationships. He’d never survive without it.

But where dis this fall on his moral side? Where would you fall on that scale? Did this make you a bad person? Did this form the entirety of your person–you weren’t depressed, and you had emotions, even if you were good at hiding the stronger ones. You showing up at Emily’s funeral proved that more than any words could defend it.

“That was the woman,” Morgan turned to watch as you headed toward the elevator, “the one at Emily’s funeral.”

“Yeah,” Spencer affirmed.

“And she knew you–you knew her?” Spencer didn’t want to admit that he had met you before, he didn’t know how that would be interpreted, he just knew it wouldn’t be appropriate, at least considering the surrounding context.

He held his breath, he didn’t know what to say–did he know you? No? He knew about you, not you personally. “No,” he replied, shifting his focus on Hotch as his boss stepped out of his office, seemingly watching you as well.

“Well then what the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer ran a hand over his face and groaned, tomorrow would be complicated. The look in Hotch’s eye told him everything he needed to know, and he still wasn’t prepared to fac eyou again.

Would it be a one on one like last time? Gosh, there shouldn’t have even been a first time–he shook his head. He needed rest, but more than that, he needed to figure out what the hell to do with these thoughts. His fascination wasn’t going away anytime soon, and if he was being truly honest with himself, he did not care.

You weren’t as tech savy as you would have liked, so digging up anything that wasn’t relatively public–was nothing short of hard. Emily was lost on you. You couldn’t find anything before she joined the Beurau, Spencer was pretty much everywhere in the sense of his works and his studies. Aaron was somewhat similar, Jennifer was a snore, now, Penelope was intresting–and David–well, he was just sad. You ignored Dereck for a bit as most of his personel files were locked and as mentioned previously: you did not have the skill set to go around those firewalls–yet.

Perhaps the tech girl could help you–she seemed the most likely to befriend you, the least likely to be sucpicious, though in truth she and everyone else had nothing to be sucpicous of, the only reasoning you weren’t giving them much was because you didn’t want them knowing your connection to Emily. 

It was private, a family matter, if you will.

You caught Spencer from the corner of your eye, he was slowly approaching you, though you pretended to jump when you appeared right behind you and slid a hand to your back, murmuring, “follow me.”

He brought you to a secluded room where the other members of the team were waiting around a table, Penelope stood at the front, holding a remote in her hand. She smiled faintly as you entered, but turned back to her debrief as you took your seat next to Jennifer–Spencer shut the door as quietly as he could and slid into the seat to your left.

The case was pretty heartbreaking–a series of child kidnappings that always ended in murder. As of now, rape kits were being distributed between the bodies that had been found, but you wouldn’t know more until you got down there. Florida–of course it would be Florida, you thought. 

You wondered if this was normal for everyone–had it been normal for Emily? They all looked slightly shaken up–though you supposed any sane person would be at the thought of kids being harmed.

You were to leave in 15 minutes, so you had some time to snoop around. You thought of going to Spencer first, but you didn’t want to get attached to him, so you went to Penelope. 

“Oh, hey,” she jumped, and noting your presence, she wiped her face, you disregarded to mention it. It could be many things–but you knew the more likely was Emily or the case.

You decided to latch onto the ladder as a conversation starter, “do you always get many kids?”

“Oh–uh,” she shook her head, “it varies, but normally no. They’re not–uh–” she struggled to calm herself down, “not typically the center, though sometimes they do get caught in the middle of…things.”

You nodded, thinking to leave the subject where it was. You wanted to ask about Emily, you knew it’d probably spark the intrest of why you were at her funeral as they no doubt remembered you, but a few reasonable responses were already lined up in your arsenal.

“Do any of you have kids? Or any…former members?” Did Emily have kids? Basic reports over the years said no, but with how vague Emily’s personal file was–there was no description of her background, no spouses, no property–the only things it really had was her father, her mother, and her birthdate–a lot of good that was going to do you.

Penelope’s facial expression halted as her mind ran through your question. Gears were turning in her head: it was obvious by the dazed look on her face; questions of her own began to form as she eyed you. “Just Hotch and JJ,” you nodded, pressing your lips together.

You knew she was hiding something, but you didn’t think it concerned Emily having children–if that were the case you were sure they'd be in protective custody by now. You didn’t feel like asking more about the topic as these children didn’t particularly concern you.

Though that sounded harsh, it wasn’t–not to you at anyway. Emily didn’t have children–regular or secretiv–that didn’t mean she didn’t have a lover, maybe someone whom she was extra close with? Someone who could tell you what she liked to eat in the morning, if she woke up early or late, if she was a cat or dog person–Spencer was a cat persono, you could just tell. You didn’t really have to think long and hard about it.

“You’re smiling, why are we happy?” Penelope gushed…? 

You schooled your face and cleared your throat, “I’m not–I wasn’t smiling,” your words were so close to a shudder you thought Penelope might’ve caught it, but she didn’t, and not wanting to jinx it, your ran for the hills.

You weren’t smiling–if you were it was because of Emily, but why would you smile at that? You still knew next to nothing, why couldn’t you just ask? Because then they’d be curious, you’d tell them you were an ex associate, but they probably wouldn’t believe that and start digging.

Eventually they find out who you father was, your connection to Emily–which was largely no conncetion at all–would be out in the open, and you previous job–....Spencer would know–they all would. It wasn’t a secret, it was simply intimate. That was all, you assured yourself, you just wanted to keep it personal, it wasn’t like your previous occupation was criminal…but you didn’t know how he’d see it–and even still, you had nothing to be ashamed of…

You had nothing to be ashamed of.

“So–you stalked each other?”

“I didn’t–quit laughing!” Spencer looked around, “and keep your voice down.”

Morgan snorted again, then sighed and let his head fall back. Spencer had dragged him into the break room as soon as Hotch had released them, “I’m not–I’m just–” they made eye contact, Morgan laughed again, “okay yeah, I’m laughing.”

Spencer huffed and pulled his legs to his chest in the chair he was huddled up in, “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he groaned into his knees.

Morgan frowned, genuinely concerned for his friend, who had become more of a brother to him over the years. “Listen kid, if what you’re saying is true, and that woman really is who you say she is…then we need to figure out why’s she’s here and who she’s working for.”

“That’s the thing,” Spencer shook his head as Morgan stood, Spencer followed him, keeping his voice hushed as they made their way to the jet, “I don’t think she’s workikng for anyone right now.”

Morgan raised a brow, tossing an empty coffee cup, “no? Then why is she here? Could it be an under the table kind of job?”

“No,” Spencer bit his lip, “I don’t think she’s that kind of person…” he ignored Morgan’s raised brow, “I think Hotch knows something, I don’t think he would have let her on the team otherwise.”

Spencer stepped into the elvevaor and Morgan followed shortly behind. They waited for the doors the encapsulate them completely before continuing, “So… what? You think she’s here under her own agenda? Like a vendetta or something?”

Spencer huffed, stuffed his hands into his pants pockets, and leaned back against the wall, “I don’t know…” he pressed his lips together regretfully, “she has a goal, that I’m sure of, but I don’t think I’m apart of it, I don’t think any of us are.”

“I don’t know about that,” Morgan sighed, mimicking Spencer’s stance.

“What are you talking about?”

“I hate to say it Pretty Boy, but I think you incerted yourself,” he shrugged, “partially, at least.”

“Partially?” He enunciated, “what does that mean?”

Morgan saw his chance to be smart, but held his tongue in favor of helping his friend truly understand the mess he’d gotten himself into–Spencer better appreciate his generosity (Morgan snorted at his own thought). He patted Spencer once on the shoulder and kept his hand there, “look kid, it’s kind of like tango–she sought you out, and you let her. Or at least–you sat at that table longer than you should have.”

“But that was an accident, I just didn’t realize time was slipping by–”

“Yeah, but why? Or better yet, how? You better starte asking yourself these questions Pretty Boy, or she's gonna do a number on you.”

Spencer paused, watching Morgan push open the door to the roof and head toward the jet. He yelled, “that literally makes no sense!” He bit back an insult when he saw a smile alter the way Morgan walked. Spencer could admit his “buts” were weak, what he couldn’t admit was that he was falling for a killer he’d known for less than a month.

A month passed–a full month, Spencer tried relenting the first week–but he didn’t last. He wondered where you were right now, what you were doing. He wondered if you had decided to go back to your old job, and if that were the case why you even neglected to let the team know so they could begin looking for a new member.

He knew saying it out loud would make him more pathetic than he already seemed, but there was something about you that enraptured him–and now he spent almost every waking moment picturing you in the most mundane ways–but also the most provocative. He wondered–if you were, though of course you were, he’d found multiple sources to indicate your previous occupation–but he wondered if it had prevented you from certain pleasures.

No–he knew he should stray his mind from the topic–from you altogether. But as he left the office, his mind refused to let go of it. He was caught offguard when he noticed a silhouette outside his car. It was as if all his prayers had been answered because it was you. 

He wondered if you had been waiting for him, and if you had been, how long you had been waiting for. You’d taken a few days off–that had been the story Hotch relayed anyway–and his mind had been trying to replace the emptiness you’d left behind.

He hadn’t known it until just now, when he saw your stark white expression. He wonderd if you were alright, he hated the thing that had you looking so afraid. He nearly dropped his satchel as he quickened his steps toward you. 

“What’s wrong?” He huffed, trying to catch his breath, though Morgan kept telling him to do laps at least once a day, Spencer hated running–hated exercise in general.

“I don’t know,” that was a lie, you knew exactly what was going on, the warning arrived three days ago, the morning before you had asked to be put on a leave of absense. You liked it here, at the BAU, enjoyed it more than you would have cared to admit a month ago. You’d gotten close to people, something you hadn’t needed to do before, hadn’t wanted to.

“Here,” Spencer pulled your hand away from you mouth, you were nibbling on you fingers, it was unhealthy  and unsanitary. 

“I didn’t know what to do.” You said as a way of explantion when you were safely tucked into his car, but what you really meant was, “I didn’t know where else to go.” Spencer heard it, your silent plea, knowing it probably took a hit at your pride to say such a thing, and though any normal person wouldn’t have, Spencer caught himself smiling to himself. He was glad, glad you felt safe enough to come to him when you feared you were in–what were you in? 

His face tensed as he was brought back down from his ego-high. You reached out gripping the sleeve of his collard shirt, trying to imagine what was running through his mind. You’d been in hideout for the past three days, but they found you again, of course they’d found you.

You’d taken out someone incredibly important to them, as an order, but that didn’t matter–not the the cartel.

You were a one on one kind of person, you couldn’t take on an army. So, you resorted to the only thing you could think of, the only thing that had ever made you feel safe, you went back to your boss. But he wouldn’t be of much help to you in a grave, which is where you found him, just days after you’d resigned. You didn’t find your resignation, though, it was either stolen or burned.

You’d left the building a different way you had gone in, you had no way of knowing if they had lookouts watching the building, but chances were: they did. And like you–they had a specific hitlist, and an order. 

You drove around for a bit before ultimately deciding you only had one option left. You needed to ask the BAU for help, but like before, you went to Spencer first.

You kenw it was a longshot, that when he found out just what kind of trouble you were in, he’d probably turn the other way, but you were hoping the past month had done you some favor. At least with the team–even if Spencer hated you. 

“Who’s after you?”

You hesitated for a minute, your heartbeat almost puncturning the silence with each second you didn’t respond, “the cartel.”

Spencer released a beath and nodded, his grip on the steering wheel tightened and his face hardened. You were prepared for him to tell you to get out, to tell you that he couldn’t help you–he started the car instead, and said, “Call Penelope.”

“We can help you,” Hotch ground out, “but before we do, we need to know everything.”

You froze, feeling the gaze of every other person in the room on you. You felt yourself swallow back bile and take a step back, Spencer was right behind you though, and when you turned, afraid, he caught your arm, sent you wordless reassurance, and squeezed your arm.

You took a breath and turned back around, “6 months ago, I was granted a weekend off,” you neglected to bring up your job, you were sure everyone in this room already knew. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling, “he’s…forgetful.”

“He has alzheimers.” Spencer reworded.

You sighed, “yes, he does. And in one of his older delusions, he mistook me for someone else.” You turned away, trying to keep yourself calm as your readied the biggest blowup of your life, “My father thought I was my half-sister, I kept telling him I was —, but he was insistent, he kept saying, “I know my little girl, you’ve gotten older, Emily.”

Bated beath was released at your admission, “Emily didn’t have any siblings.”

“Neither did I,” you ran a hand through your hair, sweaty from the stress.”

“Right,” Penelope pressed her lips together in an apology.

“It’s,” you waved a hand, “that’s why I’m hear, I needed to do some research, all I had to go off was a name and my Father’s whereabouts. When I found he last known location, I resigned as soon as I could and I came here, imagine my surprise,” you said the last bit with dripping sarcasm.

“Oh,” Penelope held a hand to her face and to your confusion, Jennifer wiped a tear as well.

“And that’s all?”

You inhaled and swiped at your eyes, “that’s all.”

Aaron nodded, took a breath, then released it, “alright, let’s get to work.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmured as the team rubbed sleep from their eyes, they were all ready to get home, to their warm beds. They’d been working nonstop and finally–finally–found the group within the cartel that had killed your boss–the ones that were after you. It was raining outside, you could hear it, you didn’t rember Februaruy being so cold, but perhaps that was just because it hadn’t crossed your mind as much.

You were used to being secluded; complaining about the cold always seemed to come with the job, but now that you’ve experienced how warm life could be, how warm a semi-normal job was, you were able to miss it. 

No, it wasn’t part of your plan–but neither was having a sister, neither was having a branch of the cartel after you; nor was getting close to and even relying on your teammates–and definitely not falling in love with your late sister’s coworker–nothing, you realized, had stayed the course. Everything had gotten lost and just now, you understood you didn’t wanr to look for it.

“No, we didn’t,” Aaron was the first to answer.

“But you did…”

“Which must mean,” he sighed.

“That we love you,” Penelope cooed.

You winced when she hugged you, but smiled your way through it, “thank you.”

“Anhytime,” the team headed out, all but one.

You turned toward Spencer raising a brow. “What?”

He shrugged, and rounded your desk, picking up a few of your things and throwing them into his satchel, “nothing, just–I assume you need a place to stay for a little.”

You shook your head, “I should be safe now, I can go back home.”

“About that,” he paused, “...You got a call yesterday, you have three days to move all your things out.”

“What?” Your eyes widened and your eyebrows shot upward, “they’re evicting  me?” you snatched your phone from the table and called your landlord, though to be sure, she did not answer, “you’re not pulling my leg?”

“I’m not,” he held up his hands.

“Ohhhh,” you groaned and face palmed into the table, tired, and irritated, and angry, but having no energy to show any more emotion than the first.

“Come on,” Spencer’s hands ran along your back.

You lifted your head, “really?”

“Before I change my mind,” he grinned and began walking away. Your stomach flluttered as you watched him walk away, the ghost of his touch left behind on your shoulder. You rolled your eyes roll, but a grin spread across your face and a little laugh escaped you, “I love you.” you whispered.

But he wouldn’t know that, not for a little while anyway, because though he was being nice, it didn’t mean anything more than that. Spencer was a nice person, Spencer was kind and smart and funny and he was a lot of the things you were not–but you could try, couldn’t you?

Yes, you were slowly losing the part of you that hated the world. You thought it might have began thawing upond that first forced encounter witht he nerd in front of you. No–you were absolutely sure of it.

Spencer was in his own little world as he started his car. It had taken some time, but now he knew for sure exactly what he thought of you and the person you were. He’d known from the very beginning. He didn’t need some reports to tell him who you were or some teenage magazines to understand what he was feeling. 

Spencer might have had trouble discerning curiosity from intrigue, but desire was desire. And he desired you in every way he knew existred. He knew what you were, and he knew he didn’t care, and he didn’t think to question it because he knew he was crazy, all geniuses were or went someowhat insane, and Spencer’s crazy was normal compared to most of them if you really thought about it.

He loved a murderer, a serieal killer, but you weren’t like those that he chased, you didn’t kill for fun or because you had some personal end goal in mind, you only killed upond receiving an order, if anyting that was a plus, it meant you were trained, though you could probably kick his ass if you really wanted to, he had a feeling as long as he was careful, you wouldn’t hurt him….much.

a/n: honorable mentions edit 1 edit 2 edit 3 edit 4 edit 5 edit 6

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody

[webbedmirror]

I don't really have any solid ideas for this so I'm just throwing pasta.

I think emotions can still tie to raw ectoplasm. So I think the Pits could be tied to malice and other negative emotions especially since Ra's bathes in it and in some cases sacrifices people to it. So I think Pit Rage can be a result of those negative emotions.

If we don't go that specific route, it could be due to the circumstances of resurrection. Ectoplasm reacts to emotions, whether or not tied to a specific emotion, especially strong 'negative' emotions. As far as I know, in the comics Pit Rage is temporary if it is one time and can be calmed down quickly depending on the person (iirc Cass managed Pit Rage quite well and it went away fast) but I do know dpxdc likes Pit Rage being a more permanent thing, especially for Jason! Nack to my main point, I think there's a lot of anger in death, especially for vigilantes and the like. Additionally, if you believe that anger is always the result of an underlying emotion (sadness, betrayal, annoyance, fear, etc). Jason was resurrected prior to entering the pits and was mindless, I'd assume he'd have a lot of those underlying emotions (from both the causes of his death and his resurrection) and when being dumped in the Pits, it'd result in one big emotion, rage. Same thing with Ra's, except his is more madness than rage because of his morals. Either way, the raw ectoplasm takes all those emotions and amplifies them into one.

There are a lot of ways to go about it I think. It could even be an unrest in Jason's very soul. We see in Danny Phantom that when food reanimates that they automatically become violent. This could be because their life prior to death was miserable or because ectoplasm in general is automatically infused with anger. If raw ectoplasm has a combination of all emotions or has none, anger as one of the stronger emotions is easier to latch onto. Kind of like how black, red, and blue paints overpower other colors when mixed. Of course this contradicts with Danny's existence. You could argue that Danny does exhibit some of the corruption of ectoplasm (his attitude to his friends, revenge on Dash, etc) however since he almost constantly is using his powers, the ectoplasm doesn't control his emotions (most of the time) and in some cases, amplifies it.

Therefore in Jason's case, the only way to control the raw ectoplasm in him is to allow himself to get angry or to use the All-Blades. If it's a universe where he seals the Pit Rage with magic, it's likely that the raw ectoplasm builds up to an extreme point. So it's a mixture of what you said in a way? Since Jason did die and was dead for a while, he is partially compatible with raw ectoplasm and his actions result in the raw ectoplasm becoming dangerous to him.

What if instead of corrupted ectoplasm, the lazarus pits were simply raw ectoplasm? Just thinking about the fact that one of Danny's chores is to change the ectofilter for the ghost portal which could possibly mean that the Fentons don't use raw ectoplasm for their machinery (also explains why they need to refuel some equipment). It could mean that raw ectoplasm is more volatile compared to purifed ectoplasm so purifed ectoplasm can animate hot dogs but not an entire person, raw ectoplasm would explode machinery whilst careful use of purifed ectoplasm can be used to fuel machinery etc etc

[imagine-you]

If I Open the Door To Heaven Or Hell 2/? [Wally Clark/Reader]

Summary: Something Wally mentions in the meeting with Maddie's friends catches your attention. Word Count: 1.8k Author's Note: The new episode gave me ideas. I have no one to blame but myself. Spoiler alert...it's body shots.

Read on AO3 // Part One

What you had with Wally was new and exhilarating and sometimes terrifying. You were learning new boundaries and territory, seeking places to step where you couldn't before. You hadn't told the others about your relationship, because you didn't want them to scrutinize it, but you knew it was only a matter of time before someone found out.  

Secrets had a bad habit of coming to light when you were dead. 

Now that the dam had broken, it was like you couldn't get enough of each other. You were both focused on helping Maddie, but whenever you got a spare moment, you found each other. Wally had taken to surprising you by pulling you into classrooms and making out on desks. You made use of janitor closets and locker rooms and on one memorable occasion, the rooftop of the school.  

You felt breathless as you stared up at the night sky with Wally's fingers intertwined with yours. You hadn't bothered to put your shirt back on, sure no one would manage to find you up here.  

You turned your head to see Wally already watching you. Besotted was the first word that came to mind and you felt like you were floating.  

"We've got to go soon," Wally reminded you.  

"I know," you sighed, turning towards him so you could hook a leg around his and wrap an arm around his waist. You let your head rest on his shoulder, your fingers tugging briefly on the drawstring of his sweatpants. "What do you think it'll be like? Trying to talk to Maddie's friends?" 

"Weird," Wally responded with a laugh. "Worst game of telephone ever." 

You had to concede he had a point. Telling Maddie to tell Simon to tell whoever what you said did sound a bit tedious. But it was the only connection to the living you had and figuring out how to get Janet back to the school so Maddie could get her old life back. You would do anything to help Maddie get the opportunity you would never have, even if it meant rolling away from Wally's warmth and touch to grab your shirt where he had thrown it earlier in his haste to get it off you.  

You held Wally’s hand up until you were right outside the auditorium. You let his hand slip from yours, sending him an apologetic smile, before you opened the door. You walked into the auditorium to see chairs set up on the stage. There were four arranged off to the right that had pictures of Charley, Wally, Rhonda, and you taped to them. There were another three chairs set up and then two others off to the left that you assumed were for Simon and Maddie.  

"Aw, come on," Wally groaned when he saw the layout of the chairs. "We're not even sitting next to each other." 

"We'll survive a few minutes apart," you promised him before sneaking a quick kiss. "Let's just do this." 

Wally nodded his head, already trying to get his head in the game, before he bounded up to the stage.  

You sat beside Rhonda and enjoyed her sarcastic remarks at the expense of Maddie’s friends, even adding in some of your own just to get her to laugh. You knew she was having a hard time after visiting her scar and getting her to simply smile felt like a personal triumph.  

You noticed Wally glancing over at you from time to time, but you were worried if you looked at him that you wouldn't be able to stop.  

The group was trying to decide how to get Janet back to the school. You thought about it for a moment before leaning forward in your chair.  

"What if we tell her Mr. Martin is gone? I mean, we're pretty sure that's what happened, right? If she knows he's out of the picture, at least for now, maybe she'll come back here." 

"Oh, uh, Y/N is talking now," Maddie informed Simon, pointing helpfully at your chair.  

Simon squinted, as if he was trying to see you, and nodded his head. You knew he couldn't see you, but his eyes were fixed right where your chest was, and it made you just the slightest bit self-conscious.  

"Hey, dude," Wally interrupted, snapping his fingers at Simon. "Show some respect! Stop staring at her y'know," he said, gesturing towards his own chest.  

Charley glanced over at Wally in surprise, but Rhonda turned and arched a brow at you.  

"Interesting," she commented.  

Maddie relayed your message to Simon before she changed the subject, leading to other ideas being presented. Xavier brought up salt as a way of creating a barrier to keep Janet contained.  

"He's clearly the brains of the operation," Rhonda observed with an unimpressed roll of her eyes.  

"Salt's not going to do anything," Charley added, looking like he wanted to laugh. "Unless you plan on doing body shots with Janet and hoping she cowers in fear." 

"Damn, I miss body shots," you heard Wally chime in and you finally ended up glancing over at him in surprise.  

Your surprise turned into contemplation and from there a plan hatched.  

The next evening, you waited until Wally was distracted by the others before you left in search of what you needed. Typically, you would have grabbed a bottle of tequila, some salt, and limes. But you were stuck inside a high school, so you would just have to settle for the best you could find.  

You started in the principal's office where all the best contraband was stashed. You didn't find tequila, but you did find an emptied water bottle that had been refilled with vodka. Next, you tried the cafeteria and found lemons and a knife. Salt evaded you, but when you tried the teacher's lounge, you did find sugar packets. It wasn't the best combination, but it would have to do.  

Either way, you were sure Wally would love it.  

You reconvened with the others and sidled up to Wally.  

"Meet me in the auditorium in fifteen minutes," you whispered to him before making your exit again.  

There was a booth at the back of the auditorium where the light and sound control boards were kept. It was half past six and the drama club had already vacated the premises, so you were guaranteed to be left alone. The whole reason you picked it was for its promise of seclusion, but also the couch that was tucked into the corner of the booth. You had stolen a blanket from a teacher's classroom and draped it over the floor. The vodka, sugar, and lemons were spread out on the blanket like an offering.  

You waited on the couch until Wally found you twelve minutes later.  

"Hey," he started, looking from you to the blanket and contraband on the floor. "What's all this?" 

"Well," you said, standing up and approaching him. "You said you missed body shots, right? So, I thought..." you trailed off, letting him put the pieces together himself.  

Even in the dim lighting of the booth, you could see Wally's eyes darken with want. Before you knew it, he was crowding into your space, cradling your jaw in his palm, and pulling you into a kiss. The kiss grew heated and Wally had your shirt rucked up under your arms, his hands holding you at the small of your back and between your shoulder blades, keeping you close to him. 

"Wait," you gasped, breaking the kiss.  

Wally groaned, letting his head fall to your shoulder. He pressed a light kiss to the crook of your neck.  

"C'mon," you coaxed, trying to usher him over towards the couch.  

"Right," Wally agreed, letting you push him down onto the cushions. "Just got distracted," he admitted with a grin up at you.  

You felt yourself flush before you turned and grabbed the supplies. You handed him the lemons and knife. "Cut those for me," you instructed him while you grabbed the sugar packets and vodka.  

You joined Wally on the couch, reaching out to grab the blanket and drape it over your laps in case you made a mess. Wally dropped the knife on the floor and then handed you a lemon wedge. You gave him a sugar packet in exchange. Before you could put the lemon wedge in your mouth, Wally was in your space again. He nosed along your jaw before finding your neck and licking up from your collarbone to just below your ear.  

You shivered, feeling want surge through you, before he gently tipped your head to the side.  

"Got to make sure it sticks," he murmured, before he opened one of the sugar packets and let it pour over your neck. You felt some of the granules tumble down and land on the blanket, but most of it stayed where Wally intended.  

He was quick to fit his mouth to your neck again, eagerly lapping up the sugar and even taking a moment to suck a kiss into your skin.  

"Wally," you breathed, knowing that you were on a tipping point. Either Wally would take a shot or you would abandon the plan and let him have you now.  

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, before he twisted the top off the bottle and took a swig. He hissed before letting out a delighted laugh when he noticed you put the lemon wedge in your mouth, the rind smooth and bumpy against your tongue. He fit his mouth to yours, pulling the lemon into his mouth and sucking on it, before he spit it out onto the blanket.  

Before you knew it, your back was on the couch and Wally was over you. He kissed you, letting you taste the tang of lemon and sharp sweetness of the vodka and sugar as he licked into your mouth.  

"So good," he groaned into the kiss. "You're so good to me," he whispered before trailing his kisses back to your neck. You could feel him trying to get all the sugar free, chasing the sweetness stuck to your skin. "Can't believe how lucky I am." 

You grinned helplessly up at the ceiling of the tech booth and let your fingers run through Wally's hair. You tugged playfully at it and he nipped at your skin in retaliation, sending a shiver down your spine.  

You let Wally continue until you knew you were going to have one hell of a mark high up enough on your neck that you would have to find a scarf somewhere to cover it up.  

"Come on," you said, pushing lightly at his shoulders. You had let Wally have his fun and now it was time to have yours. "It's my turn," you told him when he refused to budge.  

That was enough to get Wally up and reaching for a sugar packet. You couldn't help but laugh watching him so eager to let you reciprocate.  

Wally might have felt like he was lucky, but you were the one who had truly lucked out with him. As you grabbed the lemon wedges where they had fallen to the floor, you hoped you would get to show him every day of your afterlife just how much you really loved him. 

Author's Note: If you would like to see more, have something you would like me to write for this 'verse, or want to be tagged in future updates, please let me know!

[fanfoolishness]

thinking about how I hope in the end that Severance is a treatise on grief and how you cannot run from it, you cannot bury it, you cannot hide from it, you can only in the end accept it.

It's been two years since Gemma "died," and Mark has tried everything but accepting her loss.

Alcoholism? Check. Getting severed to avoid choking on her ghost? Check. Moving to a new house and keeping her memories boxed in the basement? Check. Not even bothering to unpack her ashes and put her in an urn or a cemetery? Check. "She's not dead, she's just not here."

He shoves her in a box in the basement surrounded by boxes of her hobbies. He tears up her photo in little pieces and tapes it back together with whiskey on his breath. He cries in the car before work until snot runs down his face. He spits on other people's grief and wields his own like a weapon, pretending that he isn't bleeding.

It's a core part of him. It's always been there. Maybe it goes far back, to Fern Scout who's been dead so long Mark can't remember the color of her eyes. It's there in Mark S too, ripping up Petey's photo and his map with grim denial. "Irving isn't dead, he's just not here."

Mark can't bear grief in any form. So when scraps of puzzle pieces scream that she's alive, he runs into the maelstrom of reintegration without thought, without care, without telling Devon, self-destructive to the core. Because if he could kill the grief, that monster stalking him in the dark or at the bottom of a bottle, then maybe he'd finally be okay.

But I don't think we'll ever get to see the Gemma he once knew. I think she's lost, a ghost stalking Lumon's halls, never to escape. Or maybe she does escape -- but only as Ms. Casey, someone who never loved him, a different person altogether.

And maybe Severance will say, you have to accept this, or you'll die. Grief isn't an enemy. It's a part of you, like your innie, like your outie. It breaks you apart.

And you can put yourself back together again, if you only face it.

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

Phainon x (fem)reader (7)

Part6 Part7

The air was thick with tension—and, in Phainon’s case, lingering grief over his stolen sandwich.

The trio combed through the ruins, eyes sharp for any sign of the thief. They followed faint disturbances in the moss, the occasional misplaced stone, and what looked like small drag marks in the dirt, as if something had been carrying away their stolen goods.

“This thing better not be using my armor as furniture,” Mydei muttered, stepping over a fallen pillar.

“Or my coat,” Phainon added dramatically.

“Or the sandwich,” Y/N deadpanned.

Phainon sighed, placing a hand over his heart. “May it rest in peace.”

Mydei groaned. “It’s literally not dead.”

As they moved deeper into the ruins, Y/N’s keen eyes caught something—at first, just a slight indentation in the wall, almost imperceptible beneath layers of ivy.

She stepped closer, brushing aside the vines, revealing a small opening in the stone.

It was barely large enough for a person to fit through.

She crouched down, peering inside. The tunnel beyond was dark, but not entirely. Faint light flickered somewhere deep within, casting strange shadows against the walls.

“We’ve got something,” she called over her shoulder.

Phainon and Mydei joined her, inspecting the opening.

Phainon brightened. “A secret passage? Oh, this is exciting—” He moved to step forward—only to immediately stop when he realized something.

The opening was way too small for him.

“…Oh,” he muttered.

Mydei crossed his arms. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Phainon turned to Mydei. “…You’re not fitting either.”

“Obviously.”

Y/N, still examining the entrance, spoke up. “I can fit.”

Both men immediately turned to her.

Phainon’s enthusiasm vanished. “Absolutely not.”

Mydei frowned. “No way.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “It’s the only option. You two aren’t squeezing through there unless you plan on dislocating every joint in your body.”

“I could try,” Phainon said optimistically.

“No, you can’t,” Mydei replied flatly.

Y/N ignored them, already checking the structure of the wall. “It looks stable. And I can see some light further in—if I can find another way to open it up from the inside, you two can follow.”

Phainon frowned deeply, looking at the entrance like it had personally offended him. “I don’t like this.”

Mydei sighed, rubbing his temples. “Look, I don’t like it either, but she’s right. We’re too big, and wasting time arguing isn’t helping.”

Phainon looked at Y/N, concerned. “But what if—”

“I’ll be fine,” she cut him off with a reassuring smile. “I’ll check it out, find a way to widen the passage, and you guys can follow. Simple.”

Phainon still looked unconvinced, but he knew she wasn’t going to back down. With a dramatic sigh, he threw his hands up. “Alright. But if anything happens, yell, and I will—somehow—squeeze my way in there.”

“Same,” Mydei muttered, though far less dramatically.

Y/N smirked. “Noted.”

Taking a deep breath, she crouched down and began to shimmy her way into the tunnel, disappearing into the darkness.

Phainon leaned closer, trying to watch her progress. “Y/N, if you see my sandwich in there, grab it—”

“Not the priority, Phainon,” Mydei snapped.

And just like that, Y/N was gone.

The two men stood in silence, staring at the small, dark opening.

Phainon shifted uncomfortably. “Sooo… what now?”

Mydei exhaled. “Now? We wait.”

“…I hate waiting.”

“I know.”

They both turned back toward the tunnel, listening for anything—any sound, any movement, any sign of Y/N.

Y/N moved carefully through the narrow tunnel, her elbows and knees scraping against the rough stone as she wriggled forward. The air was damp, carrying the faint scent of moss and earth. The deeper she crawled, the warmer it got, as if something alive lurked ahead.

She wasn’t scared. Not really.

…Okay, maybe a little bit.

Eventually, she reached the end. The passage widened just enough for her to slide down, and with an unceremonious plop, she landed on the cave floor.

Pushing herself up, she dusted off her clothes and looked around—

And froze.

The cavern stretched out before her, dimly lit by cracks in the ceiling where faint streams of light seeped through. But that wasn’t what made her breath hitch.

It was the massive hoard of stolen items.

Piles of goods were stacked haphazardly—merchant crates, trinkets, food, pieces of armor, even a familiar white and gold coat.

“…Well,” Y/N muttered to herself, hands on her hips. “This is definitely not a sandwich shrine.”

She took a cautious step forward, her eyes sweeping over the stolen goods. Some of these things had clearly been taken from the city, maybe even weeks ago. There were things that shouldn’t be together—gold jewelry tossed next to half-eaten fruit, finely woven fabrics draped over broken weapons. It was a bizarre collection, like someone had been hoarding anything that caught their fancy.

And then, among the clutter, she spotted Phainon’s half-eaten sandwich, perfectly placed on top of a velvet cushion like some sort of prized artifact.

Y/N snorted. Of course.

She took another step forward—

And something jumped on her from behind.

Her heart stopped.

A weight slammed against her back, small but incredibly fast, its grip clinging onto her.

She didn’t even have time to react before a sharp, high-pitched screech filled the cavern.

“AAAHHHH!”

She screamed.

The thing on her back screamed.

Somewhere in the distance, she vaguely heard Phainon and Mydei screaming too.

Phainon’s entire body went rigid the moment Y/N’s scream echoed through the tunnel.

Mydei snapped to attention, his hand immediately gripping his sword.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“DID YOU HEAR THAT?!” Phainon shouted, already pacing in panicked circles.

“No, Phainon, I’m just standing here for fun,” Mydei snapped. “Of course I heard it!”

Phainon whirled toward the tunnel, pure instinct kicking in. “I’m going in—”

“You can’t fit, you idiot!” Mydei grabbed the back of Phainon’s coat before he could try and wedge himself into the hole headfirst.

Phainon flailed. “BUT Y/N—”

“I KNOW.” Mydei’s grip tightened, barely holding him back.

Another muffled noise came from the tunnel, followed by what sounded like a scuffle.

Phainon made a distressed noise. “SHE’S BEING ATTACKED BY SOMETHING, WE HAVE TO—”

“What part of we won’t fit do you not understand?!” Mydei snapped, though there was clear concern in his voice.

Phainon stopped struggling—but only for a second—before he turned, gripping Mydei’s arms desperately. “We have to do something!”

“I AM OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS.”

Y/N’s heart was still racing as she turned to face her attacker.

And then she froze.

Perched on the cave floor in front of her was the smallest, strangest, yet most absurdly adorable creature she had ever seen.

It looked like a chubby orange cat, but with tiny curved horns on its head and a pair of bat-like wings that twitched as it stared at her. Its fur was slightly unkempt, its long tail flicking anxiously. Despite its wide, startled eyes, it didn’t look particularly dangerous—just… guilty.

Y/N blinked.

The creature blinked back.

“…You’re the thief?” she asked, still half-expecting some terrifying monster to pop out from the shadows.

The chimera let out a small, high-pitched chirp, like a mix between a purr and a squeak.

And then, realizing it was no longer on her back, it panicked.

The tiny creature flailed its wings, trying to scramble back up onto her. It flapped, stumbled, and missed entirely, bonking face-first into her chest before sliding dramatically to the ground.

Y/N blinked down at it. “…Uh.”

The chimera flopped onto its back and dramatically played dead.

Silence.

Y/N’s lips twitched.

It was so stupidly cute.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she crouched down slowly, careful not to startle it. The chimera peeked up at her with big, wary eyes, its little paws tucked close to its chest.

She extended a hand, palm facing up.

At first, the chimera hesitated. Its tiny ears flicked, and its tail swished as if debating whether she was a threat.

Then, after a long pause, it took a tentative step forward.

It sniffed her hand, its tiny nose twitching.

Y/N remained perfectly still.

And then—

With a soft little trill, it bumped its head against her palm.

A grin spread across her face. “There you go.” Gently, she ran her fingers over its fur, feeling its warmth. The chimera let out a deep, contented purr, pressing further into her touch.

Y/N chuckled. “So you’re the one stealing everything, huh?”

The chimera gave a little chirp in response, its wings fluttering slightly.

She glanced around at the hoard of stolen goods, connecting the dots. This little thing had been snatching anything it found interesting—armor, food, fabric… even Phainon’s sandwich.

“…You’ve got expensive taste,” she muttered, amused.

The chimera rolled onto its back again, paws wiggling.

Y/N let out a breath, shaking her head. “Alright, you little menace. What am I supposed to do with you?”

Before the chimera could answer—

“Y/N?!”

Phainon’s frantic voice echoed from the tunnel.

But he got no answer.

Phainon was panicking.

The moment Y/N’s voice cut off, his brain went straight to worst-case scenario mode. Maybe she was being attacked. Maybe she got hurt. Maybe—

“I CAN’T HEAR HER ANYMORE,” Phainon practically yelled, already moving toward the tunnel entrance.

“Phainon, wait—” Mydei started, but it was too late.

With absolutely zero hesitation, Phainon threw himself at the tunnel, trying to squeeze through.

It did not go well.

For the first half second, he thought he had a chance. His shoulders barely fit, but if he just wriggled a bit—

—Nope.

He was stuck.

“Ah,” Phainon said blankly, blinking at the cave wall in front of him. “…I seem to have made a mistake.”

From behind, Mydei let out the deepest, most exhausted sigh.

“Phainon,” Mydei said, deadpan.

“Yes?”

“Are you actually—” Mydei cut himself off with a slow inhale. “Alright. Stay calm. I’ll get you out.”

“I am calm,” Phainon replied, voice slightly muffled.

“No, you’re not,” Mydei muttered, grabbing Phainon’s shirt and yanking.

Nothing.

Mydei scowled and pulled harder.

Still nothing.

Phainon grunted. “Ow. Mydei—”

“Shut up.”

“I think I’m really—”

“SHUT UP.”

With one final pull, Mydei wrenched Phainon out of the tunnel, sending him crashing onto the ground.

Phainon groaned, rolling onto his back. “That was unpleasant.”

“Oh, really?” Mydei muttered, hands on his hips. “And here I thought you enjoyed getting stuck in small, tight spaces.”

Phainon sighed dramatically, staring at the ceiling. “We still can’t get to her.”

A brief silence.

Then, Mydei exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Screw it.”

Phainon sat up, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, screw it—?”

Mydei cracked his knuckles.

His veins pulsed with crimson light, a sharp, crystalline glow sparking along his forearms. The air shifted, a faint heat radiating from him as his power surged.

Phainon’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh.”

With one powerful swing, Mydei slammed his crimson-crystallized fist into the rock wall—

BOOM.

The tunnel entrance exploded outward, stone and dust flying everywhere. A fresh, wide opening now stood where the tiny passage had been.

Phainon blinked through the dust cloud.

Mydei rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers as the last traces of glowing red energy faded from his skin. “There. Problem solved.”

Phainon stared at him for a long moment.

Then, with zero hesitation, he clapped.

“That was amazing.”

Mydei shot him a glare. “Shut up and get in the cave.”

Phainon grinned, already moving. “Yes, sir.”

And with that, they hurried inside— finally able to reach Y/N.

The peaceful moment shattered when a sudden shockwave rippled through the cave.

A boom echoed from the other side of the chamber as a burst of crimson energy blasted through the tunnel entrance. The walls shook, dust and debris falling from above.

Y/N barely had time to react.

The chimera, meanwhile, had zero hesitation.

With a startled squeak, the tiny creature bolted, its wings flapping uselessly as it scampered off into the shadows.

Y/N, however, was not so lucky. The force of the explosion made her stumble backward, her foot catching on a loose rock.

“—Oh come on—!”

She went down.

A cloud of thick dust swallowed her whole, and she immediately started coughing.

From the newly blasted tunnel entrance, heavy footsteps rushed forward.

“Y/N!”

Before she could even see who it was, something crashed into her—

Or rather, someone.

Y/N let out a startled yelp as she was engulfed in warmth, strong arms wrapping tightly around her and pinning her in place.

“Oh, thank the Aeons—!” Phainon’s voice was breathless, frantic, and entirely too close.

Y/N barely had a second to process the full-body hug attack before Phainon pulled back slightly, grabbing her face between his hands. His bright blue eyes scanned her frantically, his usual carefree expression replaced with deep concern.

“Are you okay?! You’re not hurt, right? Did something attack you?! How many fingers am I holding up?! Are you concussed?!”

“…Phainon,” Y/N managed between coughs. “You’re… holding my face… with both hands.”

Phainon blinked.

Slowly, he looked down at his own hands.

Then, back at Y/N.

“…Oh,” he said, as if just realizing how dramatic he was being.

A heavy sigh came from behind them.

Mydei had arrived.

Instead of immediately checking on Y/N, he stepped into the chamber and scanned the area, his entire posture tense and alert. His sharp amber-red eyes flickered over the stolen goods, the damp cave floor, and the scattering of fresh footprints.

There was no enemy in sight.

Still, Mydei kept his guard up, his fists clenching slightly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Y/N coughed, still vaguely trapped in Phainon’s death grip. “Just a little… dust explosion.”

“…Dust explosion?” Mydei repeated flatly.

Phainon, seemingly forgetting his panic, finally realized that Y/N was still covered in dirt and dust.

“Oh, wait—” His worried frown morphed into something far worse. His golden retriever instincts kicked in, and he immediately started dusting her off—

With both hands.

Y/N let out a noise of protest as Phainon frantically patted her shoulders, her arms, and even tried to fix her hair. “What— Phainon, stop—!”

“You’re covered in dust—”

“I know—”

“We need to get you cleaned up—”

“That’s what the river is for, you maniac!”

At this point, Mydei was watching with the expression of a man who had seen too much.

His patience was already dangerously low.

“…I blew up a wall for this,” Mydei muttered to himself, rubbing his temples. “Unbelievable.”

Meanwhile, Phainon was still fussing. “Wait, did you fall? Is that why you’re coughing? Did you inhale too much dust?!”

“I—” Y/N started, only to be cut off as Phainon suddenly cupped her cheeks again.

He was so close.

Y/N could see the pink dusting his ears as he stared into her eyes, completely unaware of how much of a mess he looked himself.

“…You’re okay, right?” he asked, softly this time.

Y/N, thoroughly overwhelmed, just blinked.

From the side, Mydei groaned.

“Alright, that’s it,” he snapped, grabbing Phainon by the collar and physically dragging him away. “I refuse to stand here and watch you make heart-eyes at her like a damn lovesick fool.”

Phainon, still flustered, yelped as he was yanked backward. “Hey—!”

Y/N finally breathed properly again, blinking at the two men.

“…I don’t have heart-eyes,” Phainon mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

“Yes, you do,” Mydei grumbled, dropping him. “Now, shut up and let’s figure out what the hell was in here with her.”

A beat of silence.

Then, finally, Y/N cleared her throat. “So… about that.”

Phainon and Mydei both turned to her.

Y/N dusted off the last of the dirt from her sleeves, then gestured toward the cave entrance where the chimera had run off.

“I may have found the thief,” she admitted. “And… it’s kind of adorable.”

Both men stared at her.

“…Come again?” Mydei said slowly.

Y/N just smiled.

“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll see.”

The culprit

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 25 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

Content Warnings: The last scene (Igris p.o.v.) contains some elements of gore—this is a work of fiction and I do not condone or glorify violence in real life.

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

"(Name)?"

Jinwoo’s voice pulled you back to reality, the ethereal images of your mindscape dissipating into the humid air of the jungle. The ghost of a father’s warmth vanished entirely, leaving behind an ache that felt too deep to name.

Under a canopy of branches and leaves shielding you from most of the rain, you sat perched on the uprooted trunk of a tree, the poor thing yet another victim of the battle that had raged mere moments ago. Its splintered roots protruding like skeletal fingers.

Your gaze trailed over the battlefield, past the litter of corpses sprawled across the muddy ground. The heavy downpour diluted the blood pooling in the soil, streaking crimson rivers through the uneven terrain. The dungeon’s boss laid lifeless in the background, and the shadow soldiers wordlessly harvested magic cores from the fallen. Even with the restrictions of a Red Gate, they worked tirelessly, ensuring nothing of value was wasted.

The quiet crunch of footsteps tore your eyes away, lifting your head just in time to see Jinwoo approaching.

"Ah, done already?" you asked, forcing out something that barely passed as casual. The scepter in your hand dissolved into the usual flurry of tiny luminous butterflies, the warm glow flickering briefly before vanishing entirely, tucked away in your pocket space of an inventory.

Jinwoo said nothing at first. He simply plopped down next to you on the fallen trunk, shoulders brushing against yours. The words were forming on your tongue before you even realized it.

“Jinwoo, I—”

Jinwoo’s eyes widened and he instantly caught you before you could completely double over, his hands steadying you by the shoulders.

“Hey…” He whispered worriedly when he saw your scrunched up expression, your lips glued tight.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” His voice was slow, careful, as though afraid that saying too much would only overwhelm you further. However, his expression darkened when he saw how your hand instinctively shot up, pressing lightly against your neck.

{The meeting with character < Sung Il-Hwan > cannot be shared.}

“It’s the system again, isn’t it?”

You nodded pitifully, eyes squeezing shut against the growing discomfort.

Jinwoo didn’t like this. Didn’t like seeing you in pain. Didn’t like seeing you hurt. The vulcan incident was a dead giveaway.

His grip on your shoulder unconsciously tightened, his fingers pressing down just a little too hard.

You flinched—just barely, just a small, involuntary reaction—but it was enough. Jinwoo’s body tensed, the barely-contained wrath inside him threatening to spill over.

He inhaled sharply.

Exhaled.

Pulled back just slightly, loosening his grip, his thumb instead beginning to trace light, soothing circles against your arm. Slowly, your breath steadied.

And yet—

When you lifted your gaze to meet his, the guilt was plain in your eyes.

That was when Jinwoo truly felt it. The unmistakable churn of fury rising in his chest.

Why?

Why were you looking at him like that?

“Sorry—"

“Stop.”

Without hesitation, his hands slid to your waist, pulling you into him. The movement was fluid, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if this was simply where you were meant to be.

Your heart lurched at the sudden proximity, but Jinwoo only exhaled, resting his head against your shoulder.

He sought warmth.

Not just any warmth—yours.

The warmth that had always been there, always within reach, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

And how funny, really.

Here he was, seeking comfort from the very person he was supposed to be comforting.

Because he knew—he knew that if he let his frustration take over, if he allowed his rage at the system’s interference to boil over, it would only hurt you more. And that was the last thing he wanted.

"Whatever it was that you were going to say, stop." he murmured into your shoulder, voice quieter now, "The fact that you still, always, try to tell me first—even when you can't in the end—is enough."

You fell silent at his words, thoughts hidden in depths of your mind.

Before you, the system’s interface flickered to life, displaying a tally of the experience points earned from your support during the raid. You ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the feeling of Jinwoo’s breath against your skin, his damp hair brushing against your neck.

Without thinking, you shifted slightly, tilting your head just enough to allow him more space. Your hand found its way to his back, resting there in a quiet gesture of reassurance.

The sound of rain filled the silence between you.

And then—

You hummed.

A quiet melody, soft and familiar, barely rising above the rhythmic patter of water against leaves.

“That tune,” he murmured slowly. “You’ve sung it to me before.”

You blinked.

“I did?”

The memory surfaced before you could even search for it.

A bleeding hunter in the abandoned corner of a dungeon.

His head resting on your lap as you healed his wounds.

“…Oh.” Realization dawned. “I guess I did.”

“Wait.” Your head turned to him, the motion almost robotic, though the position only allowed you to see his dark strands. “You were conscious?”

A slow, almost sheepish exhale.

"Barely."

There was a pause. Then, so quietly you almost missed it—

“You have a nice voice.”

Heat crawled up your spine before you could stop it.

Jinwoo shifted slightly, and the gesture was like he was nuzzling into you.

"What song is it?" Jinwoo asked, as if nothing had happened. "I can’t find it anywhere."

Your lips parted slightly.

"You searched for it?"

“Scoured.”Your heart tripped over itself when Jinwoo felt the need to emphasize. "I thought finding the song was the closest I could get to hearing you again."

“I—” Gosh. Did Jinwoo even realized how adorable he was being?

"It’s a song I also heard in passing… Can’t remember exactly where." A small, hesitant pause. “Maybe it just stuck with me.”

It was a song from your world.

“Mm.” Jinwoo scooted closer, if that was even possible. The front of his chest was already pressing flush against yours.

“Can you sing it again for me?”

Wow. Just… wow.

“Please?”

You yielded.

Your lips parted—

And you began to sing.

-----

Jinwoo’s gaze followed your hovering finger over the golden screen, observing as you clicked a dotted button. A new page overlaid the main menu.

“That’s new.”

“Nope.” You popped the letter ‘p’-sound. “It’s my second, and apparently the last, ascension quest.”

You scrolled through the <Final Ascension>’s list, skimming past the check-marked objectives: <Reach Level 200 – (200/200)> and <Ascend your summons to the final stage and maxed out their level – (8/3)>.

At the bottom of the page, an entry caught Jinwoo’s attention:

{ 3rd Requirement: ???

Progress: ---

Status: ---

Note: The last requirement will be revealed in due course as you continue your journey. }

“That’s vague.” Jinwoo huffed.

You just let out a sigh, flicking the interface away with a gesture. “Your <Key to Cartenon Temple> wasn’t exactly clear-cut either. At least the system isn’t playing favorites this time.”

His lips quirked into a brief smile, but it faded as you continued. “Besides, it’s not the first time the system’s pulled something like this. That first ascension quest was in the middle of our fight with Baran—”

You stopped mid-sentence as you felt Jinwoo stiffen beside you. The angle still prevented you from seeing his face fully, leaving only the top of his head and the curve of his ears in view. His sudden rigidity made your chest tighten.

“Jinwoo?” you asked gently, concern lacing your tone.

He didn’t respond, merely shifting closer, as close as possible, to ground himself in this quiet moment with you.

You lifted a hand to pat his cheek lightly, coaxing him to lift his head. When he did, you brought your other hand up, cradling his face gently. Leaning forward, your forehead pressed softly against his, your gazes locking for a moment before his shifted to where your hand rested against his skin.

“That time,” he murmured, voice low, “the black marks…”

You understood immediately.

“They were the result of contamination in the mana flow,” you explained, your tone calm and matter-of-fact. “Even after I managed to filter it out using the flowers, there were remnants left behind.”

It truly broke your heart when he tried not to flinch, eyes snapping to yours so briefly before looking at your hand again, while his voice held a note of incredulity, mixed with something deeper—hurt, perhaps. “You knew?”

“That absorbing it would cause my body to shut down? Not quite.” You admitted. “While I suspected something might happen, I didn’t anticipate the accumulation having such an effect. On our first trip there, the black marks on my hands didn’t do anything.”

Sensing the protest forming on his lips, you instantly added, “Precisely because they didn’t show any effect, I didn’t consider it urgent enough to mention.”

There were more important things to worry about—was what you thought, remembering his mother.

Jinwoo’s lips fell into a thin line, jaw tight.

"I made a promise to protect you."

“And you did,” you replied firmly, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. “The best you could.”

You wasted the <Holy Water of Life> on me.

You didn’t remember it being mentioned that Jinwoo used all six of the elixir in the original story, only thrice. So, at the very least, you could rest easy knowing that you didn’t take the life of some character meant to be cured via that one bottle you had consumed.

“Not enough.” His eyes darkened, frustration seeping into his tone. “If I were stronger—”

“Would you say I’m a deadweight, then?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than intended.

His gaze shot up, horrified. "No! Why would you—"

“Because my powers are essentially halved—can even be less than half—in places like that.” Your gaze bore into his, unyielding. “I can’t change that. Neither could you.”

Your voice echoed faintly in the rain-drenched jungle, and his mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, he bit his lip. His expression remained a storm of emotions—guilt, frustration, and a lingering vulnerability he seldom let surface.

“Jinwoo,” you said softly, your tone more tender now, “you’re doing more than enough.”

His lips parted as though to argue again, but you stopped him. “I was the one who decided to trust the system and go through with it.” Your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within. “It was a risky, split-second decision, yes, but it was worth a try to hijack Baran’s mana reserve.”

You would’ve succeeded even without my help—you wouldn’t doubt yourself like this if I’m not here.

“The system wouldn’t have given me the quest if completing it meant I would die, remember?” You tilted your head slightly, meeting his conflicted gaze. “If it didn’t need me anymore, it would’ve left me alone instead.”

Strange... ̶̧͗ ̶̖̫̔̾ ̵̧͗̊h̷̺̆̅ȯ̴͓̥̆w̵̘̿̒ ̵̫̂͘ͅc̴͍̼̃́o̷͔͉͑̓ȗ̵̯l̸̯̊d̸̘̫̊͘ ̸̫͓̏I̴͖̻͗̓ ̴̮̱͊̉b̶̤̝͌̀e̶̯̦͆͝ ̸͚̓͂s̴̖͝o̷̮̍ ̷̢̆s̸̗͙̾ṷ̸̜̓r̵̞͌e̴̹̽͜ ̵̣̇ͅȏ̵̰͎͝ḟ̵̪̤ ̷̣̯̈t̵̥͑h̸̝͌͋a̴̝͋́͜t̴̨̯̓?̶̩͆

{ . . . }

Jinwoo’s hands clenched faintly in his lap.

“We don’t know exactly what would’ve happened.” And you pushed aside the intrusive thought. “We don’t know how much it would take.”

“Jinwoo.” You gazed upon those kind, caring, stormy greys. Offering a small smile, gentle and reassuring. "We're in this together."

Don’t blame yourself.

The silence between you thickened, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. His eyes searched for answers in yours, and whatever he saw seemed to soothe the storm within. You watched as the tension in Jinwoo’s face began to melt away. The faint crease in his brow smoothed out as he exhaled a long sigh. The tight line of his lips softened into the faintest of smiles. The frustration that had etched itself into his features ebbed away like the receding tide. The weight on his shoulders seemed to lift slightly as he brought his hands to rest atop yours, still cupping his cheeks.

His skin felt somewhat cool against yours, a contrast to the warmth radiating from your palms. His fingers curled lightly over your own, as if anchoring himself to you, unwilling to let go just yet. Then, he closed his eyes, his expression becoming more relaxed, almost serene.

It was a rare sight—Jinwoo letting his guard down entirely. The tension that so often coiled within him like a tightly wound spring had loosened. He looked utterly vulnerable yet so at peace. There was something heartbreakingly endearing about it, the way he melted into your touch with such quiet trust.

A soft giggle almost escaped you; the sight was just too adorable. His usual guarded demeanor giving way to something boyish and sweet. The great and mighty Sung Jinwoo, leaning into your hands like a content cat basking in the sun. The temptation to tease him was strong, your palms pressing lightly against his cheeks in jest, but before you could act, he opened his eyes.

What greeted you made your breath catch.

His half-lidded gaze was heavy, made his pupils seemed dilated, irises that ethereal shade of bright blue. The droopy edges made him look drowsy, lazy, yet his focus was unwavering, almost hypnotic. There was a strange, dazed quality to his expression, as though he’d been lulled into a rare state of peace, so utterly content that he hovered on the edge of slumber, yet fought to stay awake, unwilling to look away and miss even a second of the sight before him.

It was as if the only thing tethering him to the present, the only thing he wanted to see in that moment—was you.

And oh, how that look did something to you.

A rush of warmth spread through you, feeling as if your body might catch fire. You instinctively tried to pull away, head leaning back just enough to create some distance, desperate for an escape. But before you could retreat entirely, Jinwoo’s hands tightened gently over yours, keeping them firmly in place.

Your eyes darted away, hoping to regain your composure, desperate for a distraction. They landed on the littering corpses of magic beasts scattered across the muddy ground. Before you could utter a single word in your attempt to change the subject—

“You don’t need to ask for permission,” Jinwoo beat you to it, his tone soft but certain. “They’re your spoils as much as they are mine.”

Your head snapped back to him, and you instantly regretted it.

Why? No, not just because of the whiplash you were experiencing. But also, because he was still looking at you like you were his haven. Achingly tender, almost worshipful. His gaze hadn’t softened; if anything, it had grown heavier, more intoxicated on you.

You thought this would end when he closed his eyes, but then he proceeded to shift his head just slightly to the side, tugging on your hand with just enough force to bring it closer. His lips brushed lightly against the inside of your palm, unhurried, halting your thoughts.

Then, with deliberate care, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your wrist, right above the spot where your pulse thrummed. Jinwoo took his time as though savoring the contact, the faint rhythm beneath his lips. When he finally lifted his gaze, glowing eyes locked onto yours once again.

A shiver ran down your spine.

Dangerous.

“Mother.”

You jolted, your hands yanking back so quickly you feared you might have pulled Jinwoo along with them, or worse, accidentally scratched him in your haste. Relief washed over you when you realized you hadn’t, ignoring the brief glimpse of disappointment in his grey eyes. As you cradled your hands against your chest, your fingers instinctively brushed over the spot he had kissed.

The palpable pulse was louder now, faster under your fingertips.

“Sire.”

Your head turned to see Red standing nearby, her posture straightening from a curtsy after greeting Jinwoo as well.

Jinwoo nodded in acknowledgment, though you didn’t dare look at him again. Instead, you made the discreet gesture of fanning yourself with one hand, trying to cool the rising heat out of view. Your other hand remained pressed against your chest, feeling your drumming heartbeat as it slowly steadied.

That was too much.

Red’s perceptive gaze lingered on you, and you couldn’t help but feel grateful for her timely interruption. This composed child of yours had always been uncannily the most attuned to you among the others.

“Mother, may we begin <The Feast> ?” Red’s calm composure betrayed nothing, her tone remained measured, though the knowing glint in her eyes suggested she had seen enough.

My sweet, sweet child, you thought with fond exasperation. I’m going to spoil you to bits once we’re back home.

A private tea party with you would suffice, Mother, came the unspoken reply.

“Yes,” you answered, finally finding your voice. “Yes, you may.”

-----

Jinwoo was, understandably, a little unsettled.

It was just a flash of something sharp peeking past Red’s lips, glinting in the dim light, made all the more unsettling by the sudden, ignited hunger in her eyes at your simple permission.

He thought it might’ve been a trick of the light, some illusion caused by the jungle’s shifting shadows. But the smile that followed, fleeting as it was, left no room for doubt. If asked to describe it, Jinwoo would struggle between words like “alluring” and “unnerving”. It was a look that sent goosebumps rippling across one’s skin, like staring too long at a blade glinting in sunlight.

And as it turned out, that was only the beginning.

-----

Igris was, understandably, a little unsettled.

He was not a shadow who easily found himself at a loss for words. He had faced countless enemies, stood beside his Liege through most harrowing of battles, and witnessed displays of power that would render lesser beings trembling in fear.

Then again, this could very well be one of those newer experiences.

The shadows had just about completed their task of collecting magic cores for their Liege. Each of them was accompanied by your summons, the usual pairing: a soldier and a butterfly, the latter usually a personal dedicated support for that one shadow—a formation established early in their Liege's cooperation with you and maintained ever since.

As the last shadow soldier stepped away from a lifeless corpse, the number of red butterflies increased. This was not unusual. In most cases, the red ones were the most diligent in storing and distributing the energy gained from the living and the freshly defeated. Igris had learned this firsthand through observation during joint operations and later confirmed it through the many conversations his Liege had with you.

From a shadow’s perspective, these butterflies, when at work, siphoned an essence often resembled near-transparent wisps drifting from their targets’ bodies until none remained. Typically, the targets were already dead by this point, and since his Liege could still call upon their souls without issue, it became clear to Igris that souls were not exactly what the butterflies were feeding on.

Thus, it was an unspoken certainty: once there was no energy left to harvest, the red butterflies would leave their targets untouched.

So, imagine his surprise at the scene before him now.

The first clue that something was different came with the sound. It was subtle at first, nearly swallowed by the rain—a low hum, rhythmic yet discordant, like paper tearing. Then, the scent: the iron-rich tang of blood, thick and pungent, saturating the air more potently than it had during the height of battle. The atmosphere itself felt heavier, the damp earthiness of the rain-soaked ground mingling with something raw and visceral.

From Igris’s vantage point, the kaleidoscope of wings shimmered iridescent as they descended upon the battlefield, resembling curtains falling to signal the end of a play. At first glance, their movements seemed no different from their usual post-battle routine—fluttering, siphoning, the eerie white wisps floating around them as expected. But as the swarm enveloped the fallen beasts, it became apparent that this was no longer a mere routine.

It was a frenzy.

Limbs that appeared delicate, outwardly made to only be strong enough to support their own body weight, moved with unnatural strength. They dug into flesh and pulled, tearing through skin and muscle with the ease of a blade slicing through parchment. It was as though the beasts’ bodies were the fragile ones, not the little summons. With surgical precision, they ripped through tissues and chipped away at bones, the gleam of their tiny proboscises betraying no hesitation.

Igris didn’t know how such creatures, originally built for a liquid diet, could dismantle corpses with such efficiency. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Monster consuming their kind, eating humans even, was the norm. Even the shadows were no exception—especially beast-type soldiers like the ants and bears still indulged in the habits of their former lives, tearing into their enemies without a second thought. Even the orcs partook in such practices from time to time. Though they no longer required such sustenance, some instincts proved difficult to erase.

So no, it wasn’t the act itself that disturbed Igris.

It was the way they did it.

The simple and gentle flutter of their wings, the precise and calculated movements of their limbs, the effortless grace of each bite—it was all too deliberate, too synchronized. Pattern of movements, solo and with another, resembled silhouettes of performers. Each motion mirrored a meticulous choreography, rehearsed and perfected for centuries. And yet, the reality of this elegant display was a savage massacre. No beast was spared, no corpse favored. All were stripped away from their most earthly possessions—their bodies, their physical existence—with the same ruthless accuracy as the butterflies did not just eat, but also play with their food.

Igris had never considered himself a connoisseur of art. He barely remembered caring for such frivolities when he was alive, save for the artistry of battle. But if there was ever a performance deserving of the name danse macabre, this was it.

His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

Who would have thought those delicate creatures were capable of such a thing? Capable of stripping sinew from bone with such efficiency?

It was all too easy to forget that the very same butterflies that provided healing and support had stolen that energy from the living in the first place. That fact too be damned; on most days, the wisps they harvested looked like nothing more than soft clouds they played hide and seek with, or a shimmering mist they weaved through.

Now, those same creatures just painted a more vivid picture. The grotesque scene be the fine wine spilling onto the ground, soaking into the canvas. The severed nerves and veins be the strands of an artist’s brush dipped in ink—dipped in blood. The rainwater, far from washing it away, acted as a solvent, softening the edges and blending the red into the damp earth. The colors bled together in a masterpiece of similar hues, framed by the black of their wings against the dull, muddied backdrop. The light reflected on each droplet, all over the scene, cascaded down ethereal wings and gruesome carcasses, gave off that finishing polished look, just like what varnish would do on paintings well-done.

What incongruity. And yet, somehow, how fitting.

Igris, who had borne witness to countless battles and their aftermaths, had walked through desolation, through carnage and destruction, had stood amongst the living, the dying, and now the fallen. And yet, it was his first time seeing anything quite like this—as surreal and 'lively', like moving pictures.

The jungle’s muddy terrain had become their stage, where the grotesque and the beautiful performed a duet to the orchestra of chimes and tearing flesh. The corpses strewn about were no longer remnants of battle. They were offerings.

No—bouquets.

Thrown at the feet of the dancers by the audience.

This was not a curtain-call anymore, this was an encore.

And the audience were the shadows.

So at least, Igris was not alone on this thought.

A quick glance at his fellow soldiers confirmed that much. They had finished collecting the magic cores, their task complete. But not a single one moved to leave. Not a single one spoke. The sight before them should have triggered some primal urge to flee—some lingering instinct, no matter how faint, to recoil at the sheer wrongness of it. But they did not move. They did not look away.

They were mesmerized.

Igris’s sharp eyes caught the subtle tremors in some of them. The telltale signs of unease. Fear? He recognized the ones most affected—those often paired with the red butterflies in battle.

Under normal circumstances, he would have deemed this a failure. A soldier trembling at the mere sight of their allies? A disgrace. One that would merit a harsher training regimen to ensure they never faltered again.

But this time?

This time, he supposed he could spare them.

Because for all his experience, for all his time spent serving under their liege, he had always believed that the dead had but one thing to fear: their king’s wrath.

And yet, this—this spectacle that blurred the line between beauty and horror, that none could look away from—this thing that played at the edges of death’s dominion—

Perhaps it was not quite fear. Perhaps it was something close.

Close enough that it left them frozen in place, wondering. Wondering when they become a part of it.

End Note:

Unedited Draft of [30/01/2025]

Okay, so, I'm not too happy with how this chapter turned out. But right now, I'm out of words and ideas on how to fix it. Plus, I wanted to proceed to the next few chapters which I find more exciting to write. And, I'm also entering a new semester on the 17th, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to write and post again.

Also, I wanted to ask you all: since this my first time writing something close to gore, I wanted to ask if this much is already considered as gore, mild gore, or not at all?

While this chapter might not be my best work personally, I hope it will do well nonetheless.

Oh yeah, since I didn't put any lyrics in here, the song TP!Reader sung to Jinwoo is open to interpretation. Personally, I was listening to Rise Up by The Fat Rat while writing the past scene mentioned (referring to Chapter 4).

Feedbacks are very much appreciated. Thank you for reading. 🙏💕

[vandme12]

i LOOOOOVEEEEEE your fics omgomg

i was wondering if you could do hcs on Ronin from KC in a relationship ( with us ) if you havent already ? ? tyyy

Ronin in a Relationship!

Flirtation is a Weapon – Every interaction is a battle of wits and double meanings. Ronin flirts like it’s a game, but every joke has a sharp edge, every smirk hiding something deeper. He wants you flustered, but more than that? He needs you to flirt back.

Obsession Disguised as Devotion – He won’t call it obsession—he’ll just call it attention to detail. Your favorite food? Memorized. Your schedule? Oh, he’s painfully aware. If something’s off, if someone’s bothering you—he’s already taken care of it.

“What? You wanted them alive?” – Speaking of taking care of things… yeah. Ronin’s love language? Murder. Someone so much as looks at you wrong, and suddenly they’re a missing person’s case.

The Devil’s Full Attention – Ronin has a short attention span for most people, but you? You could be doing the most mundane thing, and he’s watching you like you’re the only thing that exists. And if you’re ignoring him? He will make himself impossible to ignore.

Touch is a Privilege – He’s not big on casual affection with anyone else, but you? He’s constantly draping himself over you, an arm around your shoulders, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin. If you try to move away, he just tightens his grip with a smug little tsk—as if to say, where do you think you’re going?

Possessive, but in a Fun Way (Mostly) – “Babe, you’re mine.” That’s not up for debate. But he’s not the jealous type—he’s the let them try type. He wants someone to think they can take you from him, just so he can prove how wrong they are.

Every Threat is a Promise – He doesn’t make empty threats. You know this. If he says someone’s on thin ice? They’re already under it. If he promises to “ruin you,” well… hope you didn’t have plans tomorrow.

You’re His Favorite– He plays with everyone, but with you? It’s different. He wants you to push back, to challenge him. If you can keep up, if you can toy with him right back—oh, you might just be his new addiction.

Sharp Kisses, Sharper Words – He kisses like he talks—slow, teasing, always promising more. He bites. A lot. Your lips, your neck, your soul—nothing is safe. He loves hearing you gasp, loves knowing you’ll still want more.

Murder as a Love Language – He doesn’t bring you flowers. He brings you knives, guns, evidence of someone who needed to die. “Look, sweetheart, I got you a gift~” he hums, presenting a bloodstained ring from some poor bastard.

Meta Hints That He’s Too Aware – He drops cryptic little comments that make your skin crawl. Stuff like, “Why didn’t ya run when ya had the chance?” or “We both know this story ain’t got a happy ending, sweetheart.” And yet… you stay.

Always One Step Ahead – Good luck hiding anything from him. He knows when you’re lying. He knows what you’re thinking before you say it. And if you try to surprise him? He just grins. “Aww, babe, ya really think I didn’t see that coming? Cute.”

Sleeps Like a Cat, Clings Like a Demon – Ronin doesn’t need sleep, but when he does sleep? He sleeps on you. Limbs tangled, face buried against your neck, completely dead weight. Try moving. I dare you.

No Such Thing as “Too Much” – You wanna be obsessed with him? Good. He expects it. In fact, if you’re not at least half as obsessed with him as he is with you, he will make your life a living hell until you prove yourself.

Surprisingly Soft, When No One’s Looking – He’ll never admit it, but sometimes, just sometimes, when it’s late and no one else is around, he’ll just hold you. No teasing, no jokes. Just… holding you like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

The Only Opinion That Matters – He doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of him. But you? Your words sting if you’re not careful. If you tell him he went too far, if you tell him you’re disappointed—he’ll laugh it off. But later, when he’s alone, it eats at him.

He Will Ruin You – But only so he can put you back together again. He wants to watch you rebuild yourself and see if you can handle it. If you can? You’re his forever. If you can’t? Well… he did warn you, didn’t he? you're still his.

The Devil Keeps His Promises – If he says he’ll protect you? Consider yourself untouchable. If he says you’re his? There’s no escaping it. Ronin never breaks a promise. Ever.

You’re the Only Exception – He doesn’t care about most people. But you? You’re different. He won’t say it outright, but it’s there in the way he watches you, in the way he makes sure you’re always within reach. The Devil may not have a heart, but if he does? You’re the only one holding it.

Cuddling is Mandatory – He doesn’t ask to cuddle. He decides cuddling is happening, and you just have to deal with it. One second you’re minding your business, the next? Boom, he’s on you, arms locked like a vice. Hope you didn’t have plans.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart – His hands are always cool, and he loves using them against your warm skin. Back of your neck? Chilling touch. Slipping under your shirt? You yelp every time, and he lives for it.

Insists on Being Your Pillow – No, really. Whether it’s his chest, lap, or arm, you are sleeping on him, not the other way around. If you try to move? You don’t.'

Loves Watching You Sleep – Not in a creepy way. But when you’re completely relaxed, he can’t help but trace his fingers over your face, memorizing you.

You Can Steal His, But… – If you take his jacket, his gloves, or god forbid his scarf? He’s gonna make a show out of how you owe him now. “Aw, babe, ya wanna wear my stuff? That’s cute. But I’m gonna need payment in kisses, minimum.”

His Laughter is Just for You – Ronin doesn’t laugh for people. He laughs at them. But with you? It’s different. When you make him genuinely laugh? It’s softer. Less mocking. Almost... human.

Surprise Hugs from Behind – You’ll be focused on something, and then—bam—arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder, a lazy hum against your neck. “Whatcha doin’, sweetheart? Thinkin’ ‘bout me?”

Hates Waking Up Without You – If you get out of bed before him, you will be dragged back. “Uh-uh, sweetheart. Where d’you think you’re goin’? You’re my prisoner ‘til further notice.”

Loves when you're playing with his Hair – It’s a habit, a distraction, or just an excuse to touch him.

Your Happiness is His Favorite Reward – If you smile at something he does? That’s the good stuff. He won’t admit it, but he feels happy too.

Kisses are a Game – You kiss him? He has to one-up you. Peck on the cheek? He’s got one for your nose, then your jaw, then— yeah, good luck getting out of this.

Acts Like You Owe Him for Existing – “Babe, I graced ya with my presence today. A thank-you kiss is the bare minimum.” He’s only half-joking.

Secretly Loves Being Pampered – You run your fingers through his hair? Give him a massage? Kiss his scars? He melts. But he’ll never ask for it outright—you gotta catch him off guard.

His Definition of a “Date” is Unhinged – A normal dinner? Boring. A walk under city lights after he just disposed of a body? Now that’s romantic. He likes doing weird, chaotic things with you—something that makes for a story.

Loves Ruining Sweet Moments – You’re having a heartfelt moment, staring into each other’s eyes, and then—“You’re really into me, huh? Kinda embarrassing for you.” You will smack him, and he will laugh.

Hand Holding is a Power Move – If he interlocks fingers with you in public? He’s making a statement. It’s less affectionate and more this one’s mine.... No, It's to tease you

You’re the Only Person He’ll Apologize To – If he ever actually upsets you? He’ll brush it off at first, but later that night, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll mutter something like, “Didn’t mean to piss ya off, y’know. Won’t happen again.” And with Ronin? That’s as real as it gets.

[s0urw00lf]

I have a Winchester

Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: On a hunt you’d been cut off from dean and cornered by the witches you were hunting. But you weren’t afraid because dean will always find his way back to you.

AN: this is somewhere around s!5 dean, and i had to write it because i love unhinged dean protecting his girl. Also this was inspired by the “we have a hulk” quote from the avengers movie.

The house was eerily normal. No dark rooms, seance tables, dead animal parts, nothing to even resemble the house of a witch. Or at least any of the witches you’d encountered in the past.

Sam went to take on another lead for the witches plaguing this town and you and dean took the most risky one.

Dean as always was hell bent on taking the lead just in case so you carefully followed behind him with your gun raised.

“Are we even in the right house? I mean nothing really screams ‘witch’ to me” you asked looking around the living room. Dean didn’t answer instead he let his hand holding his gun fall to his side as he also looked around.

“This don’t feel right. We missed something” he said, you raised your eyebrows in confusion “we’ve checked every room in this house, what could we have possibly missed?” You asked with a sigh.

He looked at you “Sam said these witches are rich, they got investment properties being rented out right?” He asked, you caught his drift immediately “you think they’re using one of the properties?” You asked.

He raised his shoulders “makes more sense than this” he said gesturing around the eerily normal home.

“Guess we’re looking for a vacant rental property” you said, pulling your phone out of your pocket dialing Sam’s number as Dean led you out of the house through the window putting a hand above your head so you wouldn’t hit it trying to climb out.

“K thanks Sammy” you said hanging up a brief phone call with Sam and he was able to find an unoccupied rental home under the company name, only problem was it was across town and dean was low on gas.

“What’d he say?” Dean asked not taking his eyes off the road. You sighed tossing your phone to the side “well, we got an address because the couldn’t be any less obvious.” You trailed off “but we’ll need gas because it’s across town and we probably wouldn’t even make it to the motel because we’re on E” you pointed to the flashing red light on the dash.

“Well let’s get baby some gas” he said.

Didn’t take long to find the gas station and Dean ever the gentleman took the lead in getting out to pump the gas “need anything sweetheart?” He asked as he got out the car, bending down to look at you in the passenger seat.

“I could go for some skittles” you said with a smile. He nodded “thanks babe” you thanked him as he walked off.

You noticed his tense demeanor. He’d been like that since he returned from Hell. His once boyish playful nature dimmed by the horrors he faced in his time down under.

The thing that changed the most was his ferocity. Before Dean would do anything to keep the people he loved alive, but now he’d go to lengths you didn’t even know was possible.

You wished you could bring the glimmer back to his dulled eyes, or the humor back to his personality. But with everything going on and the end of the world looming just around the corner it was a pipe dream.

You snapped out of your thoughts when you heard something hit the back of the car. It wasn’t loud, quite the opposite actually but it still caught your attention.

You grabbed your gun and opened the door stepping out. You glanced at the gas station and you could see the top of deans head moving behind a tall shelf, before putting your focus solely on behind the car.

You knew it was small, but something in your gut was telling you it was something, and maybe you should’ve listened and stayed in the car because not even two seconds later your eyes went dark and your body limp.

Dean walked out of the gas station and immediately the feeling had hit him in his gut when he saw the open car door and you nowhere around the car. He ran to the impala, searching all around and inside and not finding a trace of you. “No, no, no damn it!” He shouted slamming the passenger door shut. He looked on the ground, spotting your gun and his face hardened.

He picked up the gun, filled up the gas tank impatiently then got into his car and peeled out of the gas station. He was going to find you, and he’d kill anything in between that tried to stop him.

When your eyes opened you were almost blinded from the lights, or maybe your eyes were just sensitive. You stood from you laying position, eyes still adjusting. As if you’d rang the dinner alarm four women walked into the room, or building, you weren’t really sure where you were. “Oh good you’re awake. We can get started then” Gina the leader of the little witch coven said with a sickly sweet smile.

You didn’t have your gun on you, you must’ve dropped it when they did whatever they did to you, and the knife you had tucked into the back of your pants was there but you wouldn’t be able to work fast enough. So you’d just have to talk their heads off until Dean got there if he wasn’t already. Gina gestured to you “tie her up, should’ve been done before you woke up but hey” she shrugged moving to the seance table she had set up.

“Don’t you dare-“ you were cut of by falling to the ground, as if your strength had been sucked right out of you. “You bitch, witches never play fair but guess what?” You said as they wrangled your body to sit up against a pole, then tying your hands together around it “its fine because you’ll end up dead and ill be the one walking out of here alive tonight.” You said confidently. Gina stopped what she was doing at the table, laying down a knife and stalking towards you with a sarcastic laugh.

She grabbed your chin tightly “oh you poor, poor thing.” She fake pouted “i dont know if you’ve realized but your outnumbered, there are five of us, very strong witches, and one of you little hunter.” She said with a smug smile, roughly punching your head to the side as she let go of your chin.

“I may be outnumbered, but I’m smarter than you, stronger, and i have a Winchester.”

This time all of them laughed. To be completely honest you thought they were mutes from how silent they were, “well your precious Winchester isn’t coming, he’s off chasing his tail in the middle of town. Besides nobody knows about this place.” She gestured around “It’s not one of those stupid rental properties like the guy in your phone says.”

You glare at her “you went through my phone?” You asked, she walked back to the table, resuming what she was doing previously. “Of course, the guy, your Winchester. What was his name…” she faked thinking as she sharpened her knife “ah Sam, he kept calling your phone so i just sent him a little message” she said. ‘Your Winchester’ isn’t Sam, how didn’t she know that if shed been watching you at the gas station. She isn’t as smart as she thinks she is, because somehow she found your phone but not the knife and missed the fact that you’d been cutting the rope they tied you up with this whole time.

“You’re just abut the dumbest bitch I’ve e-“ a punch landed to the side to your face, you looked at the man just as the ropes broke loose, you laughed manically “oh that just might have been the last decision of your life big guy” you said, just before you jumped up and plunged the knife into his chest, twisting it for extra measure. You turned towards the other four who were looking between you and their friend angrily.

Before anyone could move the door to the room broke down and in dean with a deadly vengeful look in his eyes “Whaddya say we get this party started huh?” You say, with a smirk. You lunged for one of the girls, your knife missed her by mere inches, she kicked your feet from under you, bringing you to the ground, you grabbed her hair bringing her with you.

You rolled on top of her placing the knife to her neck and successfully pulling it across. Blood spurted out of her mouth and neck as her eyes pleaded for life. Dean had easily taken care of the other two, as they were on the ground right next to the two you took out. The only one left was Gina, who stood singled out from behind the table. Dean went to go take care of her put you put a hand up, stopping him. “Oh you poor, poor thing, who’s outnumbered now?” You mimicked her earlier words.

She looked fearfully between you and dean “he’s- he’s not supposed to be here” she stammered “i sent him the message i-“ you cut her off with a loud laugh “no, honey, you sent Sam the message.” You and dean both walked around the table standing on opposite sides of her. You grabbed a fist full of her hair making her look at dean, who was covered in blood and as hot as ever as he held his knife waiting for your signal.

“You see him, this is dean. This is my Winchester, and the one who’s gonna put an end to your pathetic little life.” You said, giving him a nod. He immediately plunged his knife into her. You let go of her hair, letting her fall to the ground as she struggled to cling onto life. She died quickly, wasn’t much of a fighter. You looked to dean who grabbed you bringing you closer to him checking you over “I’m fine honey” you said. He gave you a look “your cheek is bleeding” he said, you smiled “and the man who did it is bleeding out on the ground, im fine” you said. He begrudgingly accepted it “when we get back to the motel I’m gonna stitch you up.” He said.

You nodded “fine, but let’s get out of here.” Dean agreed, gently grabbing you hand leading you out of the room. And then the house completely. He pulled you into a hug once you reached outside “cant believe you slipped right between my fingers” he said into your neck. You pulled away, from the hug and placed a chaste kiss to his lips. “We were barely apart for two hours.” You teased. “Two hours too long” he confirmed.

Maybe dean had been different, but that was one thing that hadn’t changed. Dean couldn’t handle life without you for any extended amount of time. And you were fine with that, because yo were the same way. You were his, and he was yours. Forever your Winchester.

[fancyfeathers]

Au where Damian cuts robin (nightengale) darling only for him to find out that (unknown to her) she is a demigod daughter of nyx (is she still Harvey's idk), who is furious cause that's her kid how dare you! (The myths say she's a real protective mother) Luckily for him nyx lost alot of power since the fall of her pantheon, enough for him to make it out alive.

Now does he give up like a sane rational person or does his resolve strengthen.

(Also does he tell his family his ass got beat by a long thought to be dead goddess)

Yandere!Batboys as Villains with Robin!Darlings AU Masterlist

Ya so while I can’t answer this ask as originally intended because of my rules, I can put a spin on this because I never did say who was her mother.

Say let’s make her mother a vigilante who based her persona off of Nyx. Having kept it a secret in her marriage to Harvey and the two having ending their marriage due to him becoming Two Face, not because she hated him. Then she trusted Bruce to look after her daughters while she continued to work as a vigilante, following a lead to another country.

Her oldest daughter, Jason’s darling knows what their mom is doing but for now Damian’s darling does not know, she was a good mom and she doesn’t want her job to ruin her youngest daughter’s perspective of her. So Damian’s darling thinks she is on a really long business trip because the company her works for needed someone to deal with trade with another company in a different country, that was all a lie, there was no company, just criminals and the vigilante targeting them.

Damian’s darling calls her mom every night after patrol at the same time, so when Bruce calls her nearly an hour later she knows something is wrong. Then when Bruce tells her what happened, a member of the League of Assassins targeted her daughter and carved something into her back, oh she is livid.

She decides to make a quick pit stop in her mission, deciding to pay a visit to a small rich town in Egypt where it appears to be somewhat of a travel destination but it hides a base for the League of Assassins. She goes under the guise of a tourist, walking the streets of the town to scope things out, and then she sees a young man who perfectly matches the description she was given. She accidentally bumps into Damian before continuing on, but she has been a vigilante longer than he’s been alive, she knows how to place a tracker without the best assassin noticing.

So then later that night she goes out in her gear, and when she finds him Damian almost looks innocent, perfectly calm and sitting in a garden, reading during the warm desert night. Even if he could swallow his pride and call for help none will come when she is throwing him to the ground, she already knocked out every single guard.

She will pin him to the ground, strangling him while screaming at him about what he has done, so it’s only fair… an eye for an eye.

While she has no idea he is Bruce’s son, she knows he hates the Batman, so she carves that symbol into his back before knocking him out cold.

Damian doesn’t even have to tell his own mother what will happen, she will drag his body to wherever Talia is and throw his bleeding and bruised body at her feet. Now I imagine Talia and her do not get along already, probably having bumped heads before, but even Talia has to acknowledge the truth when she is told…

“An eye for an eye… your son hurt my daughter so I did it in turn. He should not have done something of he couldn’t take it himself.”

Damian is enraged when he wakes up and hears Talia let her get away but he is quickly reminded he has other problems to deal with like having to tell his grandfather of his failure.

[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.

[cjsmalley]

A New Goddaughter:

The Doctor and Rose went out first, holding hands as always.

That, more than anything else they might have said or done, convinced the Royal couple and Tucker of the Doctor’s identity, even in a new face.

Anyone could claim the title, but Rose would only be with the true Doctor.

After reintroductions were done with, and the three admired the Doctor’s new face, he spoke, “We’ve actually a favor to ask you.”

He seemed tired and Rose joined him in the exhaustion as she said, “We…accidentally, mind, kidnapped a little girl. Human. Seven years old. From 1996, England.”

“How do you accidentally kidnap someone?” Danny questioned harshly.

“It was supposed to be twelve hours,” the Doctor replied with a small whine.

Everyone who knew him facepalmed, before Sam asked, “How long was she—?”

“Twelve years an’ countin’, Rose sighed, “saw the missing persons papers before we let her out. Means we can’t just take her back. ‘Sides, the TARDIS an’ Bad Wolf are both sayin’ this’s a better Timeline than what could’ve happened.”

“So, what’s the favor?” Tucker asked, though he had a feeling he already knew.

“We want you lot to be her godparents from outside our universe,” the Doctor said seriously, “we’ve already named godparents on the inside, Jack and Sarah Jane, but like with Jenny, we want somewhere outside to stash her if another Davros situation occurs.”

“This is all legal?”

“As legal as can be,” Rose nodded, “UNIT laid the groundwork for a false record. She’s not Amelia Pond anymore. She’s Amelia Wolfe, born in Scotland, parents are dead so we’ve adopted her. Family friends, see. Lots of other smaller details are still being worked out, but that’s the gist of it. And she’s got records in Pete’s world too now, with their Torchwood. Bit easier since she died as a baby there.”

“We’ll get the paperwork going on our end then,” Tucker whipped out his beloved PDA and started the process.

“So,” Sam spoke, “we do need to meet her.”

“Right here, Aunt Sam,” Jenny emerged from the TARDIS, leading a little redheaded girl by the hand.

The little girl seemed nervous.

“Turns out, Amy’s afraid of ghosts,” Jenny said casually, “so I promised her, crossed both hearts and everything, that Uncle Danny’s a nice ghost. That all his staff and friendly ghosts won’t hurt her. If she ever meets a mean ghost she can call Uncle Danny, ‘cause he’s the King of Ghosts, and he’d deal with ‘em.”

Danny stood up and walked down to meet them, crouching, “Jenny’s right, I’m a very nice ghost as long as you’re a very nice person,” he said before sticking out a hand, “Danny Phantom, it’s very nice to meet you, Amy.”

Cautiously, Amy shook his hand, becoming braver when he did nothing to her but shake her hand.

Danny, still holding her hand, stood up and led her closer to the double thrones and Tucker’s more modest seat, “And these are my wife, Sam, and our best friend, Tucker. They’re human.”

Amy looked up at Sam in astonishment, “You married a ghost?”

Sam chuckled, leaving her throne, “Well, he wasn’t a ghost when I fell for him. ‘Sides, Danny isn’t even fully ghost.”

Danny nodded when Amy’s head whipped back to him, “That’s right, I’m still half-human. I was in a terrible accident years ago. Shoulda killed me dead. It didn’t—at least, not all the way.”

Letting go of her hand, he shifted back to his human form, “Danny Fenton, nice to meet you.”

Amy blinked.

“In fact, let’s meet another ghost,” Danny put his pinkies to his mouth and whistled sharply before shouting, “Cujo! Here boy!”

A ginormous green dog bounded up, ginormous, as big as a house, and Amy cowered behind the Doctor and Rose.

“Father?” said a boy’s voice as a boy slid from the ghost dog’s back before the dog shrank to a puppy.

“Good going, Danny!” Sam said, swatting the back of his head, before she said to the boy, “Dami, the Doctor and Rose brought their new daughter to meet us but she’s afraid of ghosts. Your father thought it a good idea to introduce her to Cujo, without checking his form.”

“Father,” Damian sighed, before spotting Amy and holding out a hand, “I am Damian Fenton-Manson; I assure you that Cujo is mostly harmless…he is a guard dog after all.”

Amy slowly took his hand, coming from behind her adoptive parents, “I go by Amy, Amy Wolfe now. Your dad’s a ghost.”

“Well met, Amy Wolfe,” Damian led her towards the green puppy, “and yes, I know. Father is kind and caring, strict when needed. He is just like anyone living, merely half-dead. Cujo is our family dog…Cujo, sit.”

Cujo sat like a good boy and Damian, Amy at his side, knelt.

It took some coaxing, but Amy finally let Cujo sniff her hand; he then leapt into her lap, front paws on her chest, to lick her face.

Amy giggled, “He’s just a dog!”

“Yes, merely a dead dog,” Damian affirmed, “many ghosts are just as Cujo is; if they were kind in life then they will likely be kind in death, if they were unkind in life…”

“They’re mean ghosts.” Amy finished.

Damian nodded, “Yes; sometimes death, eternity will change a person. For example, the ghost we shall refer to as Grandfather was, in one life, a god-like being. He heard a prophecy that a child of his loins would overthrow his throne. So he ate his children.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes; as godlings themselves they survived until the day their youngest brother, once secreted away by their mother, slew the tyrant god, slicing open his abdomen and freeing his siblings. However, in another incarnation, into your universe no less, he was a Time Lord. A forefather of the Doctor. He helped found Gallifreyian society, the Doctor’s culture.”

Amy’s eyes were large as she looked between Damian and the Doctor.

Before she could say anything, another ghost appeared, storming into the room.

Amy froze as the ghost—a woman with blue flames for hair and a guitar slung across her back—marched up to Danny without fear, “What’s this about a new kid, Babypop?” she demanded.

“A new goddaughter, Amy, Ember,” Danny replied, pointing out Amy with Damian and Cujo, “and she’s currently afraid of ghosts—”

Ember arched an eyebrow, “You—the half-ghost Ghost King—have a goddaughter afraid of ghosts?”

“Yeah, and you’re not helping!”

Ember spun on her heel, spotted the children and dog, and softened; taking careful, calm steps, she knelt before Amy.

“Hey, kiddo,” Ember said sweetly but not patronizingly, holding out a blue tinted hand, “You can call me Ember. I work for King Babypop over there.”

“Miss Ember is Father’s bard,” Damian explained as Amy hesitantly shook hands with the ghost, “that mean it is her duty to create songs about the royal family’s deeds and heritage, the deeds of our ancestors if there are any to sing about. She also functions as an advisor—”

“See, the King was never trained for any kingly stuff,” Ember nodded, “so I translate a lot of the double-talk the lower kings and queens and Court tries to get by him. Meaning, I tell him when he’s doing something wrong or against ghost culture or someone’s insulting him or any royal. He’s getting better at catching stuff himself; helps his wife was basically trained for all this fancy high society bull. Mostly, I get paid to write music as long as I don’t hypnotize someone on purpose without Royal Permission and people have to listen to my music because I’m the Royal Bard.”

She whipped her guitar around her body and made up a quick ditty about the Doctor from what she knew of his exploits before shrugging, “See?”

Amelia was smiling shyly, “Brilliant.”

“So, King Babypop’s probably gonna give you his personal comm-line number, it’s like a phone and phone number,” Ember said, “he gives all the kids he considers his a special phone and his personal number. Everyone does. But, I actually like you, Amy, so here,” Ember pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Amy, “my personal number. If you’re ever in real trouble and need a quick rescue, call me and I’ll be there.”

“We did tell you there are nice ghosts,” Damian spoke up suddenly, “Miss Ember is one of them.”

“Thank you, Miss Ember,” Amy said shyly.

Ember smiled and nodded, standing up to give the room a lazy salute before leaving.

Over the next few hours, Amy was introduced to many ghosts, who were all nice, and slowly became comfortable with them being around, talking to her.

“This’s the Royal Nanny, Clara” Danny introduced the latest ghost to arrive; a young, blue-tinted woman with blue-tinted dark hair and matching eyes.

“If something big is happening, that needs all-hands-on-deck,” Danny continued “but we need someone watching the kids, Clara does it. So, she might watch after you occasionally.”

“We trust Clara with our lives and afterlives,” Sam spoke up, nursing her baby, Anakin, as she did so, “she’s one of the nicest ghosts we know.”

Clara smiled and personally introduced herself, “Hi, Amy. I’m Clara, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Has anyone given you a tour of the Palace?”

Amy shook her head.

But the Doctor coughed lightly, “That’ll have to wait another day, Miss Clara; the TARDIS’ getting restless,” he looked apologetic, “She still doesn’t like the Realms.”

Clara nodded in understanding.

The small, time travelling family said their goodbyes, Amy now brave enough to give Danny a hug which he returned warmly, and entered the TARDIS.

They left through a portal back to their universe.

Danny met Sam and Tucker’s eyes and chuckled, turning to Damian, “Made a new friend?”

“I promised Jenny I would,” Damian nodded seriously, “soon I must introduce her to Jonathan.”

“Next time.”

“Yes, Father.”

Wished Away 9

Tylers meet Phantoms:

“Christ, Mum,” Rose said as she took in how Jackie, Pete, and Tony were dressed, “we’re just meetin’—”

“Royalty!” Jackie squeaked. They were all done up like they were meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace itself!

“Honestly, Mum, they don’t care,” Rose rolled her eyes, grabbing her mother’s wrist and tugging her through the console room and to the wardrobe room, “I told ya ta dress casually. Let’s just hope the Ol’ Girl has clothes fer ya.”

It took about an hour to get everyone redressed, in things much more casual but still nice, before Rose led them back to the console room.

Jackie was clearly anxious, “Are ya—”

“’m sure, Mum. Danny an’ Sam don’t do formal unless they have ta. Unless you’re an annoying subject or someone threatenin’ war, ya don’t even have ta call ‘em by their titles. They’re just Danny an’ Sam ta family.”

“Lookie what I found,” Jenny bounded from the innards of the TARDIS, holding a tiny bike helmet.

She went to her toddler uncle and put it on him, making sure it fit right, “Landings in the Realms are worse than normal ones. The TARDIS does Her best but the Realms give her…nausea? A headache? She just doesn’t do good.”

“Oh, goody,” Jackie said lowly, hugging a strut for dear life already.

“Let me protect Anthony,” Bad Wolf came out, holding out her arms; without hesitation, Pete handed his son over.

Bad Wolf settled Tony in her arms, against her chest and shoulder, and then spread her feet and crouched slightly, clearly bracing for impact; she stayed steady even as the TARDIS began Her flight.

Everyone else was thrown about the console room, the Doctor and Jenny barely holding on to work the console, but Bad Wolf and Tony did not move an inch.

The landing was rough, just as Jenny said it would be, throwing even the Time Lords to the grated floor before the TARDIS stopped quaking.

Jenny recovered first and stood up, rubbing her shoulder, to peek out the doors, “We’re in the Palace. Uncle Danny and Aunt Sam are waiting…”

Slowly, everyone picked themselves up and Rose reemerged, straightening with some popping from her knees.

Jenny led the procession out, racing to hug a man and a woman, “Uncle Danny, Aunt Sam! How’re you?”

Danny and Sam chuckled and hugged her as one, “Good, doing good. You?”

“Perfect!”

She let go of them to drag Jackie, who was hesitant, forward, “This’s my Gran, Jackie. Mum’s side, duh. Completely human. He’s my step-granddad, Pete, and Mum’s holding my uncle, Tony.”

“Yer Majesties,” Jackie tried to curtsy even though she was in trousers, “an honor ta—”

“Oh, enough,” Sam chuckled, “didn’t they tell you? We don’t do formalities with family.”

“Family?” Jackie’s eyes were wide, “I know Rose said—but—”

“We count Clockwork as family,” Danny explained, “and he’s claimed the Doctor as family. The Doctor and Jenny. Rose’s basically married in by this point. Common-law, you understand. That makes her family our family. Welcome to the Palace, your home in the Infinite Realms.”

“My god,” Pete muttered, somewhat disbelieving.

“Not a god, not yet anyways,” Danny winked.

“Where’s Dani?” Jenny burst out, “Is she still in school?”

Sam grinned, “With Anakin, in the nursery. We let her stay home today.”

“Oh, Gran! Can I introduce Tony to Anakin? Please!” Jenny nearly begged.

“Anakin’s our youngest,” Danny explained kindly, “around Tony’s age, actually. We also have a nanny looking after them, Nanny Clara. He’d be perfectly safe.”

“Well…” Jackie looked to her husband, who nodded, “if you’re sure.”

Jenny cheered and took Tony from Rose, dashing off with him deeper into the Palace.

“Jenny knows the Palace as well as anyone,” Sam assured, “and if she gets lost, she can flag down a servant for help. She’s heading directly for the nursery. It’s the most defensible part of the Palace.

Danny stood up, helping Sam, “C’mon, we can talk over food; stay close, Tylers. Doctor?”

“Rose and I can bring up the rear,” the Doctor agreed, taking Rose’s hand as they began walking.

The Palace was a gothic masterpiece, in a very literal sense, though even Sam had wearied of all the gloom and had sought artists and artwork to fill the halls, soft, plush carpets and tapestries to keep the warmth, glassworks to fill the once barred windows. Statues and busts dotted the hallways, some classical, some avant garde

Masters had given their masterpieces, their magnum opuses; they were paid handsomely of course, in either coin or material.

Oils, watercolors, acrylics, textiles, glass, all created for Her Majesty the Ghost Queen. For His Majesty the Ghost King.

It wasn’t yet a riot of color, nor would it ever be, but it was more alive.

Jackie gasped and the group stopped, turning as one to see what had captured her attention.

“When they said the family was huge…”

Ah, it was the most recent family portrait; all the children were gathered around Danny and Sam, all in formal wear.

“We…sometimes people sell the souls of children to me,” Danny started, causing her and Pete to whip around to him in horror, “I know, it’s horrible, isn’t it? But anyways, we adopt the kids. Only Dani—Danielle—isn’t adopted.”

He pointed out each child and gave their backstory.

“Good Lord, you were young!” Pete said at Damian’s story.

“Old enough to be king,” Danny shrugged helplessly, “it…it wasn’t easy, we had help, so much help, and we made mistakes…”

“All parents do,” Jackie told him softly.

“So we’ve been told,” Sam smiled just as softly, “and we’ve learned and made new ones with each kid.”

Danny coughed and continued to point out kids and tell stories, until all had been covered and then they moved on.

As they neared the dining room, Danielle and Jenny joined them with each holding a toddler.

“Oh my,” Jackie said, taking in the Anakin Skywalker; she knew who he grew up to be, or would have if he had not been adopted.

“We’re hungry, Dad,” Danielle said.

Danny waved them into the dining room where the smaller table was already set for a meal; there were two chairs with booster seats and Jenny and Danielle put Tony and Anakin in them before sitting beside them and helping them get food.

The group chatted over the meal, Jackie and Pete slowly relaxing at how easy going the Royals were, and generally had good cheer.

After the meal was done, Jenny asked, “Do we put their photo up on the family wall now? I know you’ve got me, Dad, and Mum…”

Danny chuckled, “We can, if they’re okay with it.”

“Family wall?” Pete questioned.

“We keep walls of pictures of the extended family,” Sam explained easily, “you know, like Rose, the Doctor, and Jenny. Harry’s and Neville’s parents. Damian’s paternal birth-family. The Royal Portrait is just the immediate royal family. The walls are for everyone and everything else.”

Danny and Sam led the group out of the dining room and down another hallway; the walls were plastered with photographs. Some were professional, most were candid and amateur.

A common camera sat on a small round table; a high-end camera but nothing too expensive or professional.

Danny picked it up, saying, “If Jackie, Pete, and Tony don’t mind—”

Jackie decided it would be a family photograph and dragged the Doctor in; Rose and Jenny came without complaint.

Danny took a set of pictures.

After that was done, it was decided it was time for the Tylers to leave, taking pity on the still disgruntled TARDIS.

They were, however, invited to the next family gathering.