#and then i remember we exist in the present and i return to normal and repeat that like three times

[teenagedracula]

Yearning so bad

[megamhafan]

The people who call for the death of Will Byers and hate byler, are actively against the narratives and themes of this whole show.

This show is about how being different is ok, yet I still see people who don’t reflect that fucking image.

I have seen paragraphs and paragraphs of people in this fanbase actively saying that because will is gay that he should die of aids in the show.

That’s deeply disturbing because don’t you all remember the actors guild speech from 2017? The one by David harbour?

It was spelled out in words, that people who spread hate and mockery are not welcome here.

The fans who harassed Caleb after s1, the Billy fans, the people who attempt to downplay the characters of max and el. That’s the kind of people that don’t belong here.

Most of these people have a shared interest in Steve’s character. He’s the pinnacle of heteronormativity, he’s normal, he’s popular, he’s the ideal.

You know who a lot of these people hate? Will Byers is who they hate. He’s gay, he’s traumatized, he’s unpopular and he’s not the ideal.

I was thinking about why I see so many general audience people and Steve fans hate on will, and I began to understand why.

Steve is who a lot of them wanted to be in highschool, will is who they are.

Why else would they gravitate to a show like this? It wouldn’t make any sense unless they do understand how it feels to be different.

Because of that, their distaste for byler makes more sense. It’s because Mike and will are an example of love that lots of people will never experience.

It’s young queer innocence romance, it goes directly against the idea that queerness is inherently only for adults.

As people have previously stated, when byler happens conservative media outlets are going to say that it was “out of nowhere” or that stranger things is trying to indoctrinate their children.

When you put all those things together, it paints a picture of a fanbase that doesnt deserve the show.

They love Steven because he is straight and a masculine man who radiates popularity, but they hate on will who is a gay young man who radiates kindness and compassion.

They the call for the straight relationships

They call for the heteronormative approach

They call for call for the repealing of queerness

They call for the death of a teenage kid via sexually transmitted disease.

These are the fucking reasons why they want Billy to return. So that they can feel like they aren’t being called out for their disgusting behaviors and actions.

They want Mike wheeler to only present as a bisexual young man because they want to latch on to the belief that he is still “normal”

They want will to die because they’re uncomfortable that someone who isn’t a cis heterosexual boy exists.

They want robin to die because they don’t want to grapple with the fact that Steve was rejected by someone.

They want Mileven to happen because it upholds the status quo that straight is the norm and that it’s the only way to be.

You’re probably asking where I’m finding people like this or where they’re coming from.

All lot of these people are from the stranger things Reddit.

All of these comments come from a post about if will would get a love interest in s5.

There are people out there who can’t imagine that a show like this could ever possibly display queer romance.

This is why it matters that all don’t stop chanting how much you love byler and how much you love these characters and how much you love this show.

It matters because some people will never see queer representation in their favorite media,

some people will never see black representation in their favorite media

Some people will never see disabled representation in their favorite media

Some people will never see themselves, and that’s why this show exists, so we can all see ourselves somewhere.

Because we are all out there, and we all deserve to feel safe and comfortable being ourselves.

[prettycottonmouthlamia]

Before I end up making that post I want to talk about briefly with the release of IS5 again, the concept of each IS havin a fundamental theme of unreality to them. I really like this, because it feels like in a pretty unsubtle way a solid way to ground the structure of a roguelike setting into what is normally a pretty grounded storyline.

IS1, Ceobe's Fungimist (please Hypergryph let it return), is a hallucination caused be Ceobe eating weird forest mushrooms. Nothing that happens in IS1 is real, explicitly. However, IS1 is fundamentally drawing from something, and in Ceobe's case, it seems to be drawing from her memories of traveling abroad Terra looking for the origins of her axe (and food, of course). What are things Ceobe's remembers happening to her, what are hallucinations filing in the gaps, and what are Ceobe catching glimpses of fundamental truths of the world (the Black Procession and the Feranmut skeleton that is Maybe? Lifebone for instance) is left extremely vague. Characters such as the Frozen Monstrosity do seem to genuinely exist, but there was no Frozen Monstrosity in Lungmen. Was Ceobe using something she herself experienced in place of Frostnova, or is Ceobe hallucinating the entire thing regardless? Who knows. Ceobe probably doesn't have the answers for you.

IS2 has explicit themes of madness and deception, and although I do not find him a particularly compelling character or plot device, a playwright who can literally warp reality with his plays. Much of the stage design recycles echoes the stage design from IS1, almost as if the Troupe is welcoming you, the player, onto their stage. You aren't here to discern the truth behind the Troupe, you're here to save one man, and while you are able to peel back the curtains somewhat, you never really do learn what the Troupe is. There are puppets who come to life and whose music damages your souls, there are actors driven so fully into their roles that they end up traveling to Sami to carry out their destined end, there's a Troupe Leader whose defining imagery is puppets and strings, and yet, you're no closer to finding out how this all happened than you are trying to explain why the Knights' Duel node exists.

IS3 asks the question "What if time is like evolution?" and presents its unreality in the form of a sprawling, massive bundle of alternative timelines to your own. It feels almost impossible to line up most of the events and memory mappings and endings on top of each other, and even the endings seemingly branch off into several versions of themselves. While, for example, the Irene encounter maps onto her own memory mapping story, we never see the timeline involving Lumen's memory mapping in the game at all. There is no Seaborn version of Gladiia in-game for you to fight. This is made seemingly all the more uncanny by the fact that there is actually a canon timeline going on, and the implication through the Bosky event that you are only seeing these alternative timelines because curiosity got the better of you. You came into contact with technology alien and yet familiar, and as a result, your good little timeline where you just save a girl who tries to commit identity death turns into you having to watch from the third person a version of the world where you and Mizuki are potentially the only intelligent life left on Terra for all eternity.

(No seriously, this ending is fucked up, what the fuck.)

IS4, on the other hand, gives us a reality that is unraveling, so fragile and malleable that you can cause things to manifest out of sheer force of will, something there are explicit warnings about not doing. It's a land where the living become the shambling, almost mechanical dead, and the mechanical being living creatures. It's a world where the abyss looks back at you, and finds you to be worth destroying. Gravity isn't right, time isn't right, language isn't right, snow falls black and the dead rise once again to beckon you home. There's nightmares in the shadows, and they're eating away at everything.

Sorry shit I got dark there. IS5 is Nymph's happy little storytime where she explores future and alternative versions of Kazdel through the imagination of her and her compatriots. What if Theresis and Theresa worked together and Nasti completed her designs (and maybe committed a genocide????) and Kazdel was a flying utopia city? What if the Teekaz all walked in a different direction and became the Sankta, or all became the Anasa? You know, sometimes you lose your sense of reality and become dependent on the visions you see from the Revenants, sometimes you need a little bunny to pull you out, and sometimes those Revenants might have actually caused a new reality to exist but haha, don't worry about that.

What if, hahaha, just saying what if, there was a version of Amiya in a world where the Sarkaz barely exist, where she was given the crown by a dying Theresa with no guidance on how to use it ethically? Haha I mean, what if Kal'tsit wasn't around? What if, just theoretically, there was a version of Amiya for whom the most formative person in her life was the decaying mind of a man stuck as an AI program who kept his people alive for 10,000 years? What if, hehehehe you know, what if, there were special endings you got for each of the stories you told where you went onto fight her, showing up closing up those stories, those worlds, to eternally protect them until she can find the answer to all troubles? What if the Sarkaz prophecy from Chapter 7 kept coming up, over and over again, the prophecy of an Amiya who would melt millions of lives into memories over and over again? What if this was an Amiya so immediately dangerous that the Sankta version of Buldrokkas'tee doesn't hesitate in trying to kill her?

I mean that would be a really scary story if it was true. Really it's Nymph's special storytime with the revenants. Don't worry about it.

Anyways I love pretty much each of these takes (IS2 is definitely the weakest though) and it shows a lot of thought from the storywriters about how they wanted to integrate a roguelike mode into their game.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Do you have any tips on writing a character that can be a bit quiet and weird/quirky yet confrontational and loud. She bites and picks her fingers when very anxious but she’s also a confident, and brave character who fights for what’s right and what she wants. I have a difficulty mixing a character’s personality sometimes, and wondered if you had any tips to help? :)

On Creating Beautifully Contradictory Characters ✨

Hey writer friend! Rin here.

I LIVE for these questions! 💕

Here's the thing about characters (and people). we're not single-note beings who fit into neat little boxes. The most real characters exist in the in-between spaces.

Let's talk about how to make this work...

The secret to contradictory character traits

What makes a character feel REAL isn't consistency. it's coherence.

• Your character doesn't need to be the same in every situation

• What they need is an emotional core that makes sense of their seemingly opposing behaviors

• Think of their personality as a constellation, not a straight line

When I'm developing characters like this, I always start with their wounds and values. What do they care about SO DEEPLY that it would make a normally quiet person raise their voice? What hurts have they experienced that make them bite their fingers when anxious?

Some practical ways to blend these traits

• Give her specific triggers for each mode. Maybe she's quiet in casual social settings but finds her voice when someone's being mistreated.

• Create physical transitions between states. How does her body language shift when moving from quiet observer to vocal defender? Does she take a deep breath? Square her shoulders?

• The finger-biting anxiety habit is actually perfect. it can be the bridge between her quiet and loud states. Maybe it's what she does while gathering courage before speaking up.

• Show us moments where BOTH traits are present at once. She can be nervously biting her fingers WHILE confronting someone.

What NOT to do (because it's boring)

Please don't fall into these traps:

• Don't make her "usually quiet except when..." That's not a complex character, that's just situational behavior.

• Don't explain away her contradictions with trauma (unless that's genuinely part of her story). Not every character trait needs a tragic backstory!

• Don't make her self-conscious about her contradictions. She doesn't need to apologize for being both quiet and loud.

Let's make some word magic happen

Try writing a scene where:

We first see her in her quiet, observing mode

Something happens that triggers her sense of justice

We witness her internal thought process as she decides to speak up

She exhibits her anxious behavior (finger biting) while ALSO stepping into her confrontational mode

Afterward, she returns to quietness, but it feels different now

The magic happens in those transition moments. That's where readers will fall in love with her complexity.

Remember this always

The most memorable characters aren't the ones who are consistently anything. They're the ones who surprise us while still feeling true to themselves.

Your character's contradictions aren't flaws to fix or explain away. they're what make her human. They're what make readers say "I KNOW her" even if they've never met anyone exactly like her.

So embrace those contradictions. Let her be quiet AND loud. Let her be anxious AND brave. Let her be fully, messily human.

I hope this post helped you

-Rin T.

[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 everyone 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 dignified 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.

[kingofpopmj]

Just Promise Baby, You'll Love Me Forevermore

Summary: Michael and Y/N take part in an interview together.

Pairing: Michael Jackson x Actress!Reader

Warnings: fluff, Fluff and more FLUFF Requested: Yes

"Hello everyone, we're having some last minute lighting issues. We should be good to go in a few minutes. Please stand by." A tall man with long brown hair and a headset announced to the room.

The interviewer stood alone tapping her foot, a young twenty-something brunette woman. She had become a household name overnight because of this very interview, her first high level project. She wore a figure hugging navy blue pantsuit with light makeup. She was nervously checking her clipboard every few seconds, scribbling down last minute notes.

"Hi, I'm Y/N, it's very nice to meet you. Thank you so much for being here." Y/N's sweet voice filled the air, introducing herself as if everyone didn't already know her name, but it said a lot about her character. She gracefully made her way around the room kindly making conversation with each person present. Her undivided attention was given to each individual, nothing less, she hung on their every word, asking thoughtful questions in return and in those few moments they were putty in her hands.

"Hello, how are you? I'm Michael. Thank you for taking part in this project with us." Michael Jackson—THE Michael Jackson followed a few paces behind Y/N, his version of walking appeared more like gliding. Eventually, he caught up with Y/N, securing a firm arm around her, his thumb rubbing circles in her hip. They continued greeting everyone and they swept them off their feet as a team. A beautiful, kind-hearted team. It was truly indescribable— like watching two mythical creatures prove their existence right before our eyes.

It was overwhelming— in the most amazing way possible. The star power aside, they seemed very normal. The two of them genuinely enjoyed meeting everyone, didn't leave anyone out and remembered every name. Michael stole glances, numerous lingering stares at his beloved. The way he looked at her, you could feel his emotions, he didn't just think she was beautiful— she was his everything. He didn't laugh or smile until he saw that she was doing the same. The protectiveness was evident. He wasn't jealous or threatened. He was cautious and confident. The way he watched over her wasn't possessive, it was sweet, like she was as vital to him as his own beating heart.

"Let's get our stars set with microphones." A short woman shuffled over to Michael and Y/N, guiding them over to their seats. They were going through the process of being wired up and I couldn't help but to admire their carefree nature.

They stood in front of one another, pulling silly faces at each other, giggling and enjoying themselves. They somehow managed to make this room feel like a home and everyone in it extended family.

"That works. Daryl, thank you." Y/N smiled, placing her hand on the assistants shoulder, the redness taking over his face and growing deeper by the second as he scurried off.

The couple shared a moment, whispering to one another with coquettish smiles. Michael moved to stand in front of her as she took her seat. He removed his coat without a second thought, Y/N waving her hands in the air as if to reject the gesture, but he paid no mind. He carefully placed the coat across her thighs, protecting her from wandering eyes and cameras. A tender kiss to her lips before he walked off for a moment.

"Hello, I'm Leslie, I'll be conducting the interview today. I can't believe you're here! This is insane! This is so cool!" She became very giddy, barely catching herself from continuing, Y/N sweetly matched her enthusiasm. "I mean, it's such an honor to meet you. I'm a huge fan. You're so talented." She spoke quickly, her eyes shining brightly with excitement. "You're even more beautiful in person. Thank you for agreeing to this and selecting me to be your interviewer. I know this interview is the first of its kind. I'm incredibly grateful to be part of it."

Y/N listened closely, nodding her head, following along, silently studying the woman before her, then standing up and leaning in for a sweet embrace. Leslie was visibly losing her mind, Y/N shared words of encouragement as she held her. She's sweet, astonishingly delightful and humble.

“Thank you so much. Leslie, you’re very kind. I appreciate you taking us up on the offer. We took time to watch your interviews and were blown away by your style. We knew immediately you were the one we wanted to create this with. We're really excited."

"I still can't believe you two know who I am. I'm so nervous. I apologize in advance if I become even more of a blubbering mess when Mr. Jackson joins us. I know he's your—"

"Oh, please call me Michael. It's lovely to finally meet you." A delicate voice sounded from behind Leslie. Y/N watched as he made his way to the seat next to her, a smile on her face and a light blush across her cheeks. Michael held his hand out to greet Leslie, but she was frozen.

"I'm— Wow— Okay." She stuttered. "This is real. This is happening. Michael, it's great to meet you. I'm a huge fan of you. Both of you. I'm actively struggling to process all of this." She giggled as she gestured toward the two celebrities in front of her. "I— wow. This is mind boggling."

"Thank you. We feel the exact same way. We admire your work as well." Michael said with soft laughter, as Leslie appeared to forget how to breathe. He then directed his attention to Y/N.

"You grow more beautiful by the second. My love, how do you feel, are you comfortable?" He kissed her cheek, gently resting his hand on top of hers. Michael made a habit of asking her that question throughout their relationship. If for any reason she didn't feel safe in a space, no explanation was needed, just a yes or a no and Michael would whisk her away. He knew firsthand how this industry operated and he intended to protect her at all costs.

"You're such a flirt. I’m doing just fine. Thank you honey." She giggled, hiding behind her long hair.

"The two minutes we had to part in the hallway were dreadful.” Michael pouted clutching his chest for dramatic effect.

"Those two minutes were nearly unsurvivable." Y/ N sweetly agreed while caressing his cheek.

It was beautiful to watch them interact in a somewhat private setting. The way they love one another was so authentic, so intimate, but not far enough to be uncomfortable for those in their company. It was real. They're just two people, with unfathomable talent, insane lifestyles but deeply in love and undeniably their true selves.

"We're ready to go!" A man's voice echoed through the studio.

Leslie nodded, taking a few deep breaths and glancing over her notes one last time.

"Three, Two, One." The cameraman spoke, pointing over to Leslie, signaling her to begin her introduction.

"Good evening, I'm Leslie Johnson, thank you for joining us tonight. Tonight is vastly different from our usual programming because tonight you are witnessing history in the making. Our first ever live interview with undoubtedly the two greatest stars this generation has ever seen. They are gifted with talent you only see once in a lifetime. These two phenomenons aren't only loved and respected for their craft, but also the positive impact they make to protect the earth and all of humanity. They have gracefully taken over the business and they are just getting started. Please help me in welcoming our guests for tonight, as if further introduction is needed, the people's sweetheart, Miss Y/N Y/L/N and the one and only, Mister Michael Jackson." She held her smile as the camera fanned out, Y/N and Michael now on screen.

"Thank you for having us Leslie." Michael spoke up for the both of them.

"Thank you both for making this production what it is. I must add that 100% of the proceeds for tonights event are being graciously donated to the charities of our guests choosing." The entire crew behind the cameras began cheering. Michael smiled, covering his face slightly at the scene in front of him. Y/N, reached over holding his hand, smiling ear to ear as she admired him. She helped calm his nerves and soon enough he wasn’t shielding his smile.

"Let's get started!" Leslie clapped. "I'll start with a question for Michael, you've been in this industry since you were five years old, there is so much pressure in your chosen profession, with the mass hysteria that follows, how do you preserve who you are and remain so humble?"

"That's a great question." He spoke softly, shifting in his seat, then continuing. "My upbringing plays an important role in that, my values and morals were something instilled in me at a very young age. As I’ve grown up in this industry, as you pointed out, I witnessed many great artists and their careers. I knew early on what I wanted to do and how I wanted to accomplish it, so watching those that came before me helped to navigate through tough times. It's a difficult lifestyle, but I remind myself daily how thankful I am for the gifts god has blessed me with and the opportunities he's allowed me to experience. Also, it helps to surround yourself with beautiful people who you admire and who help you grow in ways that you never imagined possible. I'm very blessed." A visible warmth took over his cheeks as he very bluntly referred to his girlfriend sitting next to him.

"Lovely, it's amazing to see how you handle everything thrown at you. It's clear that you have a beautiful heart and being in your presence it's overwhelming because of how genuine you are. It's difficult to wrap our minds around it, because you don't let the fame get to your head. It's admirable. I would like to know, Y/N, how you feel, is there anything you would like to add?"

"Michael is one of a kind. All his talent aside, Michael the person is so incredibly caring, hysterical, gentle and thoughtful. I feel that's why people fall in love with him. They hear his music, they see him perform and it's so magical that you want to know how it came to be, you want to understand the real person on a deeper level. When you dig deeper you find this soft-spoken, intelligent, compassionate and crazy handsome man. To fall in love with him is inevitable." As Y/N spoke, Michael watched her intently. He worshipped her, the love struck look on his face and you just knew, you could feel him falling more in love with her with each passing second.

"That sounds like you're speaking from experience." Leslie joked. "Y/N, you made your acting debut as a toddler, though you didn't have many speaking lines in your first film, you managed to capture the hearts of people all around the world. My question is, how have you managed to gracefully grow into the young woman before us today and still have a firm hold on our hearts?"

"My guess is as good as yours." She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "l'd say, I did my best with every opportunity I was blessed with. Although it was difficult at times, I focused on protecting who I was and who I wanted to be away from the spotlight. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by a team that protected my privacy to the best of their abilities. This helped me to have the most normal of a childhood I could, but unfortunately, I still missed out on a lot. I shared most of my life, whether I wanted to or was forced to, the media can be very invasive at times. However, I've tried to make the best out of every situation, so I think that's something that people related to and also, many people feel as though they've grown up with me."

“Yes, I can't imagine how difficult it must’ve been to deal with grown men chasing you around with cameras at such a young age." Leslie responded with a hint of a frown as she processed Y/N’s explanation.

"Now, it's just me she has to deal with." Michael surprisingly perked up, making camera noises with his mouth and holding an imaginary camera. Y/N laughed uncontrollably, her shoulders shaking as she held her stomach. Michael sat up straighter than before with a triumphant grin on his face, proud of himself for making her laugh.

"She has the best laugh, doesn’t she?" Michael gushed, watching adoringly as Y/N tried to compose herself.

"That she does." Leslie smirked, enjoying watching Michael become more comfortable. "This next question is for both of you. You're two of the most recognizable faces in the world, everyone is curious, how you manage to go out and have a peaceful day or night out on the town?"

"It's definitely a challenge. There is definitely intense planning that goes into anything we do. Thankfully, we both have incredible security teams, so they join forces for us when we want to get out and explore together." Y/N responded quickly.

"We've accepted that if were out in public we will never truly be alone. Privacy is out of the question, which we've made our peace with. We don't mind meeting fans, conversing with locals, that’s not a problem. They are always very kind and respectful. Paparazzi on the other hand are a different story. They add a layer of uncertainty in the air and they can be very aggressive. If they just calmed down and gave us a bit of personal space we could all coexist peacefully." Michael added.

"I'm glad you brought that up Michael, you gave me the perfect segue to my next question. It's well known that photographers and paparazzi can become very intense when trying to capture a shot. Y/N, there was an incident last month when you attended the Grammy Awards with Michael. There was a massive commotion that took place on the red carpet. Many theories have been circulating the media, which purposely paint the two of you in a negative light. I feel that due to the nature of the issue you two should get the opportunity to tell your side of the story. The truth. Would one or both of you like to answer this and set the record straight?"

Y/N appeared to grow more nervous as the question left Leslie’s mouth. She tucked her hair behind her ear and shifted her gaze over to Michael, who was already looking back at her.

"Leslie, there are people that push boundaries that simply shouldn’t be pushed." Michael began, shaking his head softly, enveloping Y/N's hand in both of his. "That night, there were a few photographers that were screaming louder than the others, really nasty things, specifically towards my lady. We did our best to drown that out until it became physical. Y/N endured bruises down her arm and back from being aggressively grabbed at, so I had no choice but to step in. On top of that, they attempted to photograph up her dress, which is just despicable. I did what needed to be done to keep her safe. I will not apologize for that."

"It was a terrifying experience, the backlash that followed was so unexpected and hurtful." Y/N's demeanor growing more guarded as she thought of how to answer. "I never thought something like that could happen. Michael did get into a bit of a physical altercation, which has been completely taken out of context as well. Although he was very upset he still attempted to diffuse the situation using his words, but he wasn’t given much of a choice. In the end, he protected me and I'm lucky he was there." Michael followed every motion of her lips intently with a small smirk on his lips.

“Michael, I have to say what we’re all thinking, who knew you had such a mean right hook.” Leslie chuckled. "Thank you for such honest words. I empathize deeply with what you were subjected to. I’m glad you have such an amazing partner. You two complement each other beautifully. I just have to ask, everyone is curious, since Michael is in the music industry and Y/N is in the film industry, how did the two of you meet?"

“Well, this man is sneaky let me tell you.” The smile on Y/N’s face, squeezing her eyes nearly shut. “So, Michael had his people contact mine to plan a meeting of some sort. He insisted he wanted me in a music video—”

“Babe, you’re forgetting a very important detail. We had met at the Oscars the night before and she basically asked me on a date—”

“Oh, you are exaggerating!”

“You said, and I quote, ‘I can’t wait to see you again.’ with a very flirtatious wink.” Michael reasoned, shifting in his seat to face her.

“You showered me with compliments Mr. Jackson. Within five minutes of meeting one another he told me it wasn’t until he met me that he believed in love.”

“And I was telling the truth.”

“And I was flirting.” She winked at him, causing his face to turn a bright shade of red.

“I guess it’s safe to say there was a mutual interest between the two of you. Will we ever see Y/N star in one of your music videos?”

“You know it’s something I’d love to create. I mean she has inspired a lot of my writing process these days. It seems fitting that my muse be in a video or two or three..” Michael’s voice becoming more playful as he tried to conceal his smirk.

“Y/N, how do you feel hearing you’re his muse? Would you be interested in starring alongside Michael in a film?” Leslie questioned, keeping the conversation moving.

“I’m flattered. It’s very flattering.” Y/N’s hand pressed against her cheek as she tried not to giggle uncontrollably. Michael licked his lips as he watched the effect his words had on her. “He’s so sweet. I’m a fan of everything Michael creates. Honestly, his voice is hands down my favorite sound. You know, to make a film together would be awesome. I would love that! I think Michael would do a phenomenal job.”

“You’ve been together for quite some time. I’m sure you’ve had some lovely adventures with one another. Are there any special memories you’re comfortable sharing with us? And, is there anything you look forward to experiencing together that you haven’t yet?”

“First vacation together?” Michael raised his eyebrow at Y/N.

“Michael invited me to accompany him in Italy.” Y/N had this sparkle in her as she looked back at Michael. It was like they were the only two people in the room.

“Italy? Wow. Michael, you brought out the big guns.” Leslie laughed.

“Oh yes. I was on tour at the time and thankfully I had scheduled days off in between each concert, so it worked out perfectly.”

“That was the first time I saw him on stage.” Y/N gushed.

“How was it to see Michael in action? What is the most memorable thing?”

“He’s magic. There’s no other way to describe it. I always tease him about it because he makes it seem like he’s just going for a walk. Performing comes so natural to him. He said, ‘I have to go do something.’ Kissed me on the cheek then went on stage in front of hundreds of thousands of people. He was so nonchalant about it. It’s a sweet unpretentious kind of confidence.” Y/N giggled, reaching over to tuck Michael’s curl behind his ear, which he playfully rolled his eyes at.

“I was trying to impress her. When she arrived at the stadium, I was reminded just how out of my league this woman is—”

“Oh stop!” Y/N poked his side, causing him to let out a deep laugh. “You were very intimidating to meet Mr. Jackson.”

“So were you dear.” He brought her hand to meet his lips. “So were you.”

“Bubbles watched me like a hawk! That boy would squeeze in between us if we sat next to one another. He was difficult to win over.”

“He loves you now.”

“Yes. At the end of our first date, Michael walked me back to my room and as we were about to kiss goodnight, I was launched into the pool. Bubbles’ and I have been inseparable since.”

“That was just his way of welcoming you to the family.” Michael shrugged, biting his lip hard to keep from hollering. “It’s like an initiation.”

“Initiation?” Y/N’s tone was enough to make Michael lose it. His signature fedora nearly fell off his head as his laughter filled the air.

“You are his favorite now. Y/N comes over and he’s glued to her hip. He pushes me away now.”

“He threw an entire cake at Michael the other day.” She buried her face in her hands as her shoulders began bouncing rhythmically.

“Yes! The candles were lit too.”

“What happened? Why did he throw the cake at you?” Leslie asked between laughs.

“It was Y/N’s birthday. We had finished singing to her and I leaned in for a kiss which he absolutely lost his mind over.” Michael explained, “Fortunately, most of the candles blew out as the cake flew through the air, but one did burn a hole in my coat.”

“I didn’t know Bubbles had such great aim.” Leslie spoke in shock.

“Bubbles’ is very passionate.” Michael’s face was serious “He’ll yell at me if I’m stealing too much of Y/N’s attention.”

“Aw, he’s not that bad.” Y/N tried to reason.

“He’s not bad. He just bullies me sometimes.” Michael fake pouted and crossed his arms. His beloved leaned her head on his shoulder, trying to comfort him although she couldn’t help giggling just a little bit.

“Oh no!” Leslie exclaimed. “It sounds like you’ve got competition. Speaking of kisses, Michael, every picture I see of the two of you, you’ve got your lips on Y/N. You are usually very reserved, what is it about Y/N that brings out that side of you?”

“I’m comfortable when I’m with her. I’m able to be myself. Also, nothing will stop me from showing my lady some love.” Michael pulled Y/N closer, gently placing his finger on her chin turning her head to face him.

The kiss was short and sweet.

Michael was very deliberate when it involved Y/N. He never wanted her to doubt his love for her. He knew how he wanted to make her feel. Then, did whatever it took to accomplish just that. The look in Y/N eyes said it all, Michael never missed.

“I have to ask, as we begin to wrap things up. Michael, Y/N, where do you see yourselves in five years? Are there any goals you have as a couple or as individuals you’d like to share?” The brunette spoke, flipping her page over quietly.

“Together? We will definitely be married and have at least a dozen little ones running around Neverland.” Michael answered quickly, his tone very matter of fact as if we should’ve known that already.

“Bubbles’ does need siblings.” Y/N added with a smile.

“How would you two juggle family responsibilities and your careers?” Leslie asked carefully.

“Well, I think we’d figure it out along the way. The most important thing to us would be raising our babies. We didn’t have much of a childhood ourselves, so we’d be very hands on in order to give them everything we didn’t have. When it comes to our careers, if Michael is touring we’d join him on the road, if I’m filming on location they’d come along. It just depends. Maybe one of or both of us would want to be stay at home parents. At the end of the day, what’s best for our children is the number one priority.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself lovely.” Michael complimented her, practically gawking at her, clearly loving that they were on the same page about their shared future.

The interview came to a close shortly after. Michael and Y/N went around the studio the same way they did when they first arrived. They had intended to say their goodbyes, but enjoyed everyone’s company too much to leave just yet. They posed for photographs and signed every item sent their way with a smile on their face. What should’ve been just a few hours turned into a daylong event. The couple stayed for a little celebration party and treated the crew to a lovely dinner.

Three months later, Michael and Y/N were the headlines of every publication. Their faces were on every television channel. The media was in a state of hysteria that has never been seen before. It turns out that the couple was husband and wife. They had gotten married and managed to keep it secret for a whole year, but that wasn’t the only surprise.

The Jackson’s were expecting their first child together.

Y/N was about five months along.

The pair was thrilled about starting their family.

The craziest part of the whole story was a detail that the media would never know. Three months earlier, Michael and Y/N shared their news with everyone present in the studio that day. They felt comfortable enough to trust us with such a precious moment in their lives. Since then, the couple enjoyed a somewhat quiet three months without anyone spoiling their announcement or betraying their trust.

We didn’t just make history that night we formed a bond, an incredible friendship that would last a lifetime.

[cameronspecial]

heyyy i am so glad to see someone write for zach. if you like this maybe you could give it your take. so zach and reader are like exes and they reunite unexpectedly then zach gets hit by a car and gets a concussion then forgets about their break-up and still think that they are together.

The Amnesiac's Mistake

Pairing: Zach MacLaren x Reader

Warnings: N/A

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.6K

Masterlist

The sweet roars of the crowd fill her ears as Y/N points her camera at the soccer team. She’s been the soccer team’s social media content creator for the university since her sophomore year. After her breakup with Zach, it was a little awkward, but they left the relationship on amicable terms and she wouldn’t let a breakup keep her from her dream job. “And MacLaren has the ball. He’s running it up the fie- Oh, MacLaren is down. It looks like the medics are on the way,” the sports announcer’s scream emits from the booming speakers. Y/N removes the camera from her eyes, watching in worry while the medics take Zach off the field. If they had been dating, she would’ve been running after them but it’s no longer her right to be there for him. 

——

Zach blinks to readjust his eyes to the room's lights. The medic puts the flashlight back in her pocket, “You seem to have a concussion, Mr. MacLaren. I’m afraid you’ll be out of any games for the foreseeable future and any screens for the next forty-eight hours.” Zach nods, l looking around for his girlfriend. “Where’s Y/N?” he questions. Coach Grace’s eyebrows knit together, “She’s out on the field. Doing her job.” Her slow pace drives him crazy. “Why isn’t she here? I need her here,” he states with his lips slopping to a frown. The medic knows about the breakup as well and this causes her to question if she should add something to his diagnosis. 

“Mr. MacLaren, what is the last thing you remember?” she asks. Zach’s hand comes to his forehead, “Uh, we were playing the game against UNC.” Coach Grace’s face scrunches like a dried-up raisin. “That was two months ago,” she breaks the news to him. His eyebrows raise and his mouth drops, “How is that possible? Where is Y/N? She’s my girlfriend. She’s allowed to be here.”

——

Coach Grace runs to Y/N, who is talking to another player on the field. She spots the coach and worry flushes her because it must be serious if Zach was okay, it wouldn’t be taking this long for him to come back out. “Hey, Coach. Is everything alright?” Coach’s head shakes, “No, Zach needs you.” Even with the breakup, Y/N dashes toward the medical room, almost tripping over her feet. Her breath comes out like a panting dog as she stands in the middle of the room. Her hands are on her knees, searching for Zach. His eyes light up when he spots her. He hops off the medical table and rushes towards her, “Are you okay, Baby? Take a deep breath in and out.” She does as he suggests, letting her breath return to normal. Her body straightens up, so they are face to face. He gives her a charming smirk, bringing his hand up to her cheek. His lips find hers. For a moment, she lets them get swept up in the moment, kneading his lips with hers. 

She finally snaps back into reality, remembering what happened between them. Her lips leave his with a tiny shove to his chest to keep her away. “Zach, we broke up,” she whispers. The scrunch between his eyebrows smoothes out. Her words bring him back to the present. “Right, right. Sorry. I think I lost my memory for a second,” he reasons. She bites her lip, nodding her head with her eyes cast down, “It’s okay. I guess I’ll just go then.” He watches as she makes her exist. The kiss they shared showed him he made a mistake. They still had that spark and he let her get away. 

Taglist: @winterrrnight @loves0phelia

[thegirlwholovesficcharacters]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐈 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐚𝐲 Elijah Mikaelson x OrFemReader!

Summary: Was she brave enough to do that? Or was she simply a coward for not facing her feelings for him?

Words acounts: 809 Warnings: None, ¿maybe a litlle bit of angs?, feellings for an a original vampire.

Autor´s Note: Hello!. So, after a long time without writing anything, and after rewatching the originals and falling in love with Elijah again, and finding thousands of fics and a few one-shots of him here, I decided to write something. And this is what came out. What do you think? PD: English is not my first language, and I apologize if there are any grammatical errors, you may find translation errors since I have little knowledge of English and mostly use Google Translate.

She didn't remember how it all began. Well, actually, she did. Maybe it was when he smiled at her—well, not a big smile, but she could see the corner of his lips lift slightly, and to her, it was a smile—or maybe it was when he thanked her after she helped him search for an object he and his family were trying to track down. With her limited knowledge of this supernatural world and a couple of connections with a trusted witch, she managed to help them find it.

Though how it began didn't matter now, what mattered was the now, and in the letters she held in her hands, five letters to be specific. She'd had those feelings from the moment she'd started working for his family, or rather, for almost every supernatural being who knocked on her door asking for her help.

She wasn't a witch, much less a vampire hundreds of years old, nor a hunter or a wolf. She was just a human, with knowledge of that world thanks to her grandmother, an ancient messenger between supernatural beings, and she was the last of her family to continue that work. They received nothing in return, they helped and then returned to their normal lives.

Well, the most normal thing one could have after helping the Mikaelson family, the original vampires and the first to exist on Earth, made up of five siblings, one of them a centuries-old witch, another a half-wolf hybrid, and also a hybrid transformed by him, Hayley Marshall, and young Hope Mikaelson, the family's trihybrid daughter of Niklaus Mikaelson and Hayley Marshall, the product of a night of drinking and zero chance of having children.

But hey, we know how that ended.

They weren't the only ones she helped; witches also knocked on her door, even wolves, the vampire Marcel, and even the witch Bonnie Bennett used to help her and her friends when they visited New Orleans and sought her out for some help.

She wasn't a stranger to that world, and she wasn't a fool to let vampires into her home either. She knew how it worked. Vampires had to be invited by the owners of the property to enter, and she never let anyone in, not wolves, warlocks and witches, vampires, hybrids, and not even him.

Elijah Mikaelson.

Original vampire, tragic past, family traumas, past and present loves, hands stained with more blood than anyone could imagine, though not as much as his brother Niklaus. He was, according to rumors, the noble brother of the rest of his siblings, with his always-ironed three-piece suit and hair that never seemed to get messed up after decapitating or removing hearts with his bare hands.

A man with the oldest eyes one can find, the one who saw empires rise and fall, and rise again, the one who loved, hated, and lost people over the centuries, loyal to his family and only his family.

It was wrong, or well, that's how she felt. Because she shouldn't have had feelings for him, not because someone forbade her, but because she never let anyone in, anyone. And the last time she did, her heart had been broken in a thousand ways, and she didn't want to suffer the same thing again.

And those letters, those pages, were the only thing she could create, to transfer her words onto pages, her thoughts and feelings toward him, the only possessions that allowed her to speak, or rather, write, what she felt for him, letters addressed to him, but which she would never send.

The soft murmur of the night wind from the forest gently touched her flushed cheeks. Her coat and scarf kept her warm, along with the sparks from the small fire in front of her. A small sigh escaped her lips as she held the small stack of white letters. They had no name or address, nor had she written her name or his. Just words, full of feelings, and possibly love, if she let herself feel it, for him.

Her eyes, illuminated by the moonlight, looked out from the letters in her hands to the fire. Her brows and lips furrowed slightly, hesitant to do so, hesitant that if she threw those letters into the fire all feelings would disappear, but she knew that wasn't the case. Written words disappear, but not her feelings.

They never did.

Without saying anything, she stepped forward and threw the letters into the fire, watching as the fire grew even more intense through the paper and sparks flew upward.

Was she brave enough to do that? Or was she simply a coward for not facing her feelings for him?

[respectthepetty]

You made me obsessed with colors. Now, I cannot watch any piece of media without trying to figure out the colors. Why did you do this to me?? I love you for it, but WHY?

I don't know if you ever read The Giver, but (SPOILERS) I remember the exact moment when the book revealed the whole world was devoid of color by having the main character notice the red color in the apple as it was moving through the air because it made me feel sick. Up until that point, I was just going through the required reading with mild interest because I thought it was a regular oppressive world with colors, but the second I realized it was an oppressive system IN A COLORLESS WORLD, I was horrified!

And I think I'm that moment for some of y'all.

I don't think I am The Giver. I think I'm that WTF moment that happens in midair which makes you question everything because you think all is normal while you're watching your shows until the exact moment one of my post points out that you were missing something that has been there all along. And the thing is, you were perfectly fine without knowing that one specific thing existed, but now that you know you were missing that one particular detail, you can't ever go back to not knowing because it changes how you move forward.

You can't live in darkness once you know colors exist.

Knowledge be like that sometimes. It haunts us even when we would rather return to a time when we didn't know. It lurks around corners and when we least expect it, we are confronted by it and forced to notice the visuals we once easily ignored. Like how I'm trying to watch a funky little vampire show yet one character keeps appearing in all white.

Because in a show where all the vampires like their darkness and black outfits and the only color is red for the blood they drink to show they are vampires,

It's interesting that we've been shown that some vampires with powers have different colored eyes.

But Thara's are almost golden.

Because it means the show isn't presenting Thara merely as a leader, but as a god.

And it makes me wonder how a vampire becomes a god among immortals.

Yeah, so about them colors . . .

You can't unsee them.

[beneathstarryskies]

Summary: It's been centuries since Ganondorf's victory in bringing Hyrule to its knees. However, victory is lonelier than he'd anticipated. The once great Demon King is a shadow of his former self, drinking his way through the castle's wine cellars and mumbling to himself in the dark. That is until one brave stranger wanders through the castle gates, led by curiosity...Or perhaps fate.

Word Count: 5,002

Warnings: mentions of violence, depression, Ganondorf is a recluse, beauty and the beast AU, might be OOC but i don't care this idea wouldn't leave me alone until i wrote it so here we are, overall it's pretty PG

Taglist: @emmacornell, @actuallysaiyan

In the remnants of a castle once grand but now desolate, Ganondorf wanders the halls alone. Some days he is focused on working his way through the wine cellar, but other days he mutters quietly as he wonders where it all had gone wrong. He’d achieved everything he wanted. He sits upon the throne of Hyrule, the entire realm under his control, yet as centuries pass the emptiness in his chest persists. Even the people of the realm stretching from the deserts of Gerudo to the flatlands of Akkala noticed the grip of the once fearsome ruler lessening. Only occasionally would he exert his dominance again, as though only to remind them he is still present. Even the darkness of his gloom seemed to fade from the landscape as life returned to normal for the people of the realm. Tales of the great demon king who once took over the kingdom are still passed from grandparents' mouths to the eager ears of children, but Ganondorf as they speak of him almost feels like fiction. 

It was this sense of safety and curiosity that led you to Hyrule Fields. A thin layer of snow is falling on the landscape as you walk through the fields. Your eyes widen as you see the castle, and the now-empty town surrounding it. The walls are covered in a thick layer of ivy vines, now brown and barren from the cold air. You carefully walk forward, tiptoeing past the gloomy black and red sludge as you pass through the gates. As you explore the once great Castle Town, you remember the stories you’d been told as a child. The horrible stories of a great big demon who took the form of a horrible pig. Every little noise sent your mind into a frightened frenzy, and you were beginning to wonder if staying here much longer was worth indulging your long-held curiosity about the castle. 

Ganondorf became aware of the intrusion when he wandered outside of the master bedroom onto the balcony. He looked down to see the tiny form of a Hyrulian woman poking around the old stalls in the market. Every so often he noticed her flinching and looking around as though frightened. Her attention soon turned to the wide doors of the castle. He recognized her intentions almost immediately, and he threw on a cloak to meet her at the door. 

When you push open the double doors, you let out a squeak of surprise at the large figure looming at the bottom of the stairs. Long red hair falls in front of his face and glowing yellow eyes stare at you with malice as he growls. 

“What are you doing here?” his voice, even as a whisper, echoes through the empty halls. 

“I’m sorry,” you stammer as you try to back away. You trip over your own feet and fall backward.  Just before you hit the ground, a large hand catches the front of your cloak. Suddenly, your feet are no longer on the ground. Ganondorf lifts you to force you to look into his eyes. 

“I asked a question, little one,” he snarls. “What are you doing here?” 

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” you stammer as your hands instinctively come to his wrist, grabbing on in case he drops you. “I thought--” 

“You thought the castle to be empty,” he finishes your thought. “Perhaps I have been too kind to your people, allowing them to live too comfortably. My existence having been relegated to folklore and legend, is that it?” 

“No!” you cry out, the thought of your kingdom being punished for your stupidity makes your skin crawl and your chest tightens with guilt. “No, it’s just…Me…I was curious.” 

“Oh,” he pulls you closer. “Curious? You wish to see my castle?” 

His words lull you into a false sense of comfort as you mistake his annoyance for understanding, “Yes, your Highness.” 

“I see, little one,” he throws you over his shoulder. “You wish to see my castle and know its secrets. I see…Well, I shall make sure you spend all the time you have left within the walls of this castle.” 

He walks you upstairs and tosses you into an empty bedroom. Before you can scramble to your feet the door is being slammed shut, and you hear the unmistakable click of a lock trapping you inside. You crawl to the door, standing on your knees as you bang on it desperately with shaking fists. 

“Please,” you call out. “I’m sorry! Please let me out! I’ll leave! I promise I won’t tell anyone I saw you!” 

Your cries and pleas fall on deaf ears. Ganondorf closed himself off to emotions like pity and empathy long ago. He ascends the remaining stairs to go to the master bedroom once more. He grabs his earlier forgotten bottle of wine and throws himself into his chair. He throws his head back and finishes the bottle in one long gulp. His heart is racing as he thinks about you. Your pitiful eyes as you tried to explain yourself, and then your tiny hands on his wrist to cling to stability. There’s something about your curiosity and bravery that piqued his interest. He can’t remember the last time someone ventured to the castle. 

Your cries and pleas continue for hours until you wear yourself out from exhaustion. You crawl onto the old bed and you begin sobbing until you fall asleep. 

_____

Ganondorf awakens when the sun is high in the sky. He has almost forgotten about having locked you away. You on the other hand have been awake since dawn. You’ve torn the room apart in search of some sort of escape. Realizing the king had you locked up tight, you felt a wave of defeat crash over you. 

“Damn it all,” you cried out and fell onto the bed with an annoyed sigh. Tears sting your eyes, but you try to hold them back. 

You could feel Ganondorf approaching before you could see him. His looming presence was difficult to ignore. He pushed the door open, not feeling even a moment of remorse as he saw your pathetic form on the bed. 

“You’re lucky it’s been ages since I’ve had anyone in this castle,” he speaks. “I require a new servant.” 

You sit up on the bed, turning to him with a look of indignation. 

“Who says I’m trying to become a servant?” you ask. Immediately you regret the question when his eyes begin to glow with anger. He reaches out to grab you by the collar of your dress, and easily he lifts you off the ground just like before. 

“The alternative is death,” he growls. 

You had no choice but to give in to him. He drops you back onto the bed before turning away. His imposing figure stalks to the door, only stopping for a moment to look over his shoulder at you. 

“Start by cooking breakfast,” he says, his voice a perpetual growl. 

You don’t know what else to do. There’s not much you can do besides go along with his orders. You go downstairs, and it takes a bit of searching before you find the kitchen. There’s almost no food in the pantries, only a few things you assume he must have gathered on his own at some point, or perhaps those from neighboring villages brought in the goods as offerings. You’re staring up at the shelves trying to plan a meal when his shadow looms over you. 

“A farmer nearby brings supplies,” his voice booms through the pantry. “In return, I keep the monsters off his sheep.” 

“Why would you?” 

He answers your question with another, “What threat does a farmer hold to my rule?” 

You don’t turn to him, instead, you reach up to the high shelf where there’s a bag of flour to try to reach it. You expect him to help you, but he doesn’t. He stands back and smirks as you climb up the shelves to grab the bag of flour and start to pull it slowly in the hope you can shimmy it down. Instead, it falls and bursts on the floor. 

“Now you have a breakfast to cook and a mess to clean,” he chuckles. “It’s good to see you can keep yourself busy.” 

He leaves you alone, and you manage to clean up. Then, you cook a nice meal considering what little you have to work with. After that, he tells you to pick a room and begin cleaning. 

The days continue in this manner. You cook and clean in the castle. Occasionally you manage to tease some semblance of conversation from him, if grunts and the occasional sarcastic quip can be considered as such. To your surprise, he’s not cruel to you. He’s just cold, almost apathetic as far as you can tell. You’re mostly kept to your own devices, which is lonely. As long as you do the chores, he doesn’t have much to say. 

Considering his indifference, you didn’t think he would put in any effort to stop your escape. Being able to explore the castle on your own for so many hours of the day, it had taken you a week to muster up the courage to try to leave. However, as soon as you passed through the gate gloom hands surprised you and dragged you back to your quarters. If he had known of your attempt to escape, he never spoke a word of it to you. 

_____

Ganondorf isn’t accustomed to having company anymore. The centuries have passed, and his former companions have fallen by the wayside. Either having fallen in battle or to the ravages of time. He tells himself he’s a lonely old fool the first time his heart races when you attempt to make casual conversation with him. 

His heart pounds even more so when you shyly ask if he misses being in Gerudo Town. Nobody over the years ever had the bravery to ask such a deeply personal question. You were sitting on the sofa by the fire mending a hole in your skirt when the question fell from your lips as simply as asking if the sky is blue. He looked up from the flames. 

“What a bold question little one,” he commented as he took a deep breath to prepare his answer. “I miss my sisters most of all, but none of the sisters I knew are living any longer. Those who inhabit that place are now strangers to me as I am to them.” 

A pang of sadness hits your chest, “Are there other things you miss?” 

“No, not necessarily. The blistering sun and unforgiving sands hold no sentiment except for how they made me strong.” 

“I see,” you say and quickly return to mending your clothes. 

“You need more attire,” he says. 

“You don’t need to worry about that.” 

“Ah, but you’re wrong. It is because of me that you are here, therefore it is my responsibility to care for you.” 

Your mind feels blank for a moment. Was that kindness? From the mouth of the demon king himself? Before you can say anything, he rises from his seat. He doesn’t bid you goodnight before disappearing. Nor do you notice him locking the castle up like he usually does at night. 

The next morning when you awaken, there’s a a pile of neatly folded clothes placed on the armchair in your room. You look through the clothes carefully. Among the more casual pants and blouses, you also find a beautiful gown. The material is soft, emerald green with gold floral embroidery along the hems. You assume it must have been by mistake that he brought something so elegant and beautiful to you. With great care, you hang the gown in the wardrobe, where among the shelves you find a new pair of shoes and a winter cloak. 

You get ready for your day, dressing in the new clothes he brought, and then busy yourself with chores. It’s nearly night when you hear Ganondorf stir. Looking to thank him for his gesture, you quickly make your way towards the staircase to greet him. However, the words are caught in your throat when you see him. 

He’s dressed in a fine, majestic robe. You recognize the patterns on it as being Gerudo. His hair is tied back, and the red beard that had been down to his chest when you arrived is neatly trimmed back up to his jawline. 

“Did you have something to say?” he asks, hoping to put a stop to your wide-eyed gaping. How long has it been since someone looked upon him with awe rather than fear? 

“Y-you look nice,” you smile shyly, having forgotten your original intentions for the moment. 

“Ah, yes,” he nods. 

You look down to the floor again then the thoughts return to your mind. You bounce softly on your toes and your eyes light up. 

“Thank you for bringing me new clothes!” 

“I told you I would,” he comes down the rest of the stairs and looks down on you but not with malice. “Did you find the gown?” 

Your eyes widen. So it hadn’t been a mistake? 

“Y-yes, I did! It’s so beautiful.” 

“I was hoping you’d wear it tonight,” he doesn’t sound as authoritative as he’d hoped to. 

“Oh, sure. I’ll put it on after dinner.” 

“No, don’t worry about dinner. Go change now.” 

With a short, courteous bow you make your exit. Upstairs in your room, you quickly bathe and then slip into the beautiful gown. Upon inspecting your appearance, you decide a bit more effort needs to go into it if you’re to wear such an opulent outfit. You brush your hair and braid it neatly.

 As you set to work on your appearance, you wonder what Ganondorf has planned for the evening. You’ve never seen him quite so…Handsome. He’s all cleaned up and dressed like the true king he is. Surely he wouldn’t go to so much effort for you, would he? No, you tell yourself that’s not possible. Perhaps he’s just having a bit of fun with you. After all, he’s been in this castle by himself for centuries. It would make sense for him to take to a bit of fanciness since he has someone around to share it with. 

Somehow imagining him seeing you as more than just a servant makes your heart flutter. You tell yourself you must be insane for thinking this way. Yet, he’s become more than a master to you. You’ve spent long nights sitting by the fire, listening to his tales of times long past. Somewhere among hearing his childhood tales of starvation and heat among his people and witnessing the opulence Hyrule hoarded, you began to understand his anger. Perhaps you couldn’t fully condone his path, but you could understand why he would grow to desire the conquering of the kingdom. You began to see through the dark, foreboding reputation of the demon king. 

As you descend the stairs, you notice more light in the castle than you’re used to at this time of night. The grand chandelier in the main hall has been lit along with the chandeliers on the stone walls throughout the corridor leading into the ballroom, as though lighting your path. As you open the large double doors, you see a dining table set up by the large windows looking out onto the courtyard. It’s filled to the brim with fruit, cheese, and dried meats. A bottle of wine is chilled by two glasses. Ganondorf stands nearby, his back straight as he stares out the window with his hands locked behind him. 

“Your majesty,” you say to get his attention. 

He turns to you, his eyes widening momentarily before his face returns to being neutral. 

“You look lovely,” he whispers, almost too quiet for you to hear it. You bow politely. 

“Thank you,” you smile. 

“I have set up dinner,” he explains. “You asked me once what it was like being the king of the Gerudo. I thought I would show you how I ate then.” 

“Oh?” You approach the table, and he quickly pulls the chair out for you. You thank him as you sit down. 

“The heat was intense. So, I often tried to eat light yet still filling meals. I ate considerably more than this, of course, but I thought you’d appreciate having more variety.” 

“You put this together?” 

He smiles as he begins pouring the wine, “Yes, of course. Can’t I do things for myself? Or do you wish to take care of me completely?” 

Your cheeks heat up at his double entendre. It takes you a moment to regain your bearings, trying not to imagine what all ‘taking care’ of him might entail. 

“I suppose it’s just unexpected.” 

He places a glass of wine by your hand, and you hear a deep chuckle from him as he sits across from you. 

“Believe it or not, back then I didn’t have many servants. The Gerudo people are prideful therefore believe it or not, they didn’t bow to me like I was a child in need of praise. I was proud to be self-sufficient.” 

“I see,” you smile. “So, what is all this?” you gesture to the ballroom all lit up and with a few flower arrangements scattered about.

“I thought you might enjoy a bit of grandeur,” he sighs. “Must you ask so many questions?” 

Your cheeks burn as you look down at your plate, “I only wished to know.” 

“All in due time,” he answers before beginning to pile his plate with food. 

You follow along, taking a bit of all of the offerings. It was a nice, light meal. Leaving you full, yet still energetic instead of ready to fall asleep in your chair. The wine made your cheeks burn and your muscles feel loose. Ganondorf encourages you to eat more if you need more, and you’re surprised by the way he seems to be taking such care of you even though he doesn’t seem the kind to have a caring bone in his body. 

After the two of you finish your meals, he takes your hand and leads you to the middle of the ballroom. He explains that he wishes to teach you some of the traditional Gerudo dances. He explains how often in his time as King, the dances would be performed with two women. However, as time passed and the Gerudo became more focused on finding husbands they began altering the steps. 

“Women are strong and can stand on their own, but I suppose as time passed they wanted to be more meek to attract husbands,” he explains as he shows you the steps as intended which would see your hips swaying carelessly. “Are you meek?” he asks with a teasing smile. 

“For you?” you giggle. “I think not.” 

He laughs, surprising you deeply yet thrilling you none the same. Soon he has you pulled close as you perform the steps as he’d showed you. One large hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you to move along with him. The ballroom is large, and it’s perfect for what he does. Every corner is explored by the gentle tapping of your feet, barely out of synch considering the difference in your size. 

“Come,” he says as he pulls you closer. He gently guides you to stand on his feet. The weight doesn’t seem to bother him as he holds you as close as he can. He moves the two of you as gracefully as waves across the ocean. There’s a softness in his eyes as he looks down at you, and finally leans closer. 

“Are you…?” 

Before you can speak, and ruin the moment, he presses his lips to yours. The warmth of his mouth spreads through you, lighting a fire in the pit of your stomach. His hands rest upon your waist and his feet go still as he loses himself to the kiss. Your fingers are small and gentle as they comb through his fiery hair. Finally, the two of you separate. He almost looks ashamed of his actions. He steps away, looking around the room like a wild animal in a cage searching for an escape. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers. “Intimacy shared when one is bound is a violation.” 

“Gan…Wait,” you grab his hand but he quickly pulls away. “I don’t feel that way with you.” 

“It matters not what you feel. The truth is unchanged. If I’d not forced you here, then this moment would have never come to pass.” 

“No, please-” 

“You should leave,” he growls. “Do not look back at this place. Leave me here.” 

“Just listen to me,” you plead. “Please, I want to stay!” 

“Leave! Now,” he bellows through the halls. “Do not ever return!” 

Tears fill your eyes as the sting of rejection fills your chest. You want to open your mouth and tell him how badly you wish to stay. Throughout your time with him you’ve seen him grow from being a reclusive, grumpy king to showing the side of him that’s charming. You’ve found yourself growing more confident and content as well. Despite everything, you seem to have brought out the best in one another. Yet, he’s pushing you away now. 

“If you do not leave, I will kill you!” he snarls, the threat as empty as the wine bottle on the dining table. He’d never be able to bring himself to harm a hair on your head. 

Without another word, you run upstairs to pack your few belongings.  _____

You were surprised by the greeting you’d received when you’d returned home. Your family was delighted to see you. Your mother doted on you for days, having spent the better part of a year thinking you had abandoned the family or worse got yourself killed. You have always been a curious one, after all. After all of your family realized not only were you in good health, but you weren’t going to share what you’d been through it was business as usual. There were chores to be done on the farm, and you were eager to busy yourself with mindless work. 

You missed him deeply. It was a surprising turn, even to you. At night when you sat by the fire, you often found yourself asking your family philosophical questions they couldn’t answer all that deeply. In your mind, you could almost hear the way Ganondorf would have answered them. The way he almost seemed to purr in the back of his throat when he sat back in his chair, rubbing his beard, as he considered how to answer your best. You remembered the way his eyes would light up when you’d managed to push a topic he was particularly interested in. His eyes would light up when you would argue with him, confidently asserting your thoughts, as though he was proud of you for being so willing to stand up to him. Meanwhile, you felt suffocated by returning to your old life. Your family are kind people, surely, but they’re also simple in their desires. You missed the thrill of being close to someone who had a worldview so interestingly different from your own who could both challenge and be challenged in exchange. 

Yet, you worked. Finding solace and quiet in the familiarity of it all. It was the same thing you’d found yourself doing up until the fateful day you had been at the castle. 

Did he know how much the time you spent with him meant to you? Somehow you felt that question burning in your mind for weeks. Maybe if you had told him the truth of your feelings sooner, then he would have never sent you away. If he had known you didn’t feel imprisoned with him, would he have let you stay by his side? Would the budding feelings between you have finally bloomed? Not having the answers to these questions was enough to drive you to madness. And yet…The answers would not come. 

Months had passed when the adventurer arrived. His name was Link, and as your family served him dinner he explained his mission. He was to free Hyrule from the Demon King, Ganondorf. 

“The Demon King has been silent for many years,” your father said. “Is such a feat really worth laying down your life for?” 

“He may be silent for now, but the conquering spirit in him still remains. Hyrule will not be free until he is gone,” Link replied. 

“Will peace truly ever return?” your mother asked.

“Yes,” Link said, with an unwavering resolve. “Princess Zelda will take the throne, and restore prosperity.” 

As all of you laid down in your bedrolls that night, you had tried to push away the fear. He had made sure you no longer felt like he was your problem, therefore you felt it was in your best interest to pretend it wasn’t. Whether Ganondorf lived or died, should have been of no concern to you. 

Yet, the next morning, you rise with the sun. You quickly go check the spare room, and see that Link has already left. His blankets are neatly folded and there’s a small pile of money off to the side. 

“No, no,” you whisper to yourself. 

You run to the stables and take one of your family horses. You ride towards the castle, praying that you will make it in time to save Ganondorf. Although truth be told, you didn’t know if it was entirely possible. 

The sun is shining brightly overhead, the sky a cheerful shade of blue. In the distance, you can see a dark, gloom-filled cloud hanging over the ruins of Hyrule castle. You wonder if Link has already made it there, and is now fighting Ganondorf. There’s a strange conflict brewing in your chest because you understand why Link wants to defeat him. You just can’t stand the thought of losing Ganondorf. You keep replaying that night in your head, and you wish more than anything that you would have fought harder to stay by his side. Knowing you may never get to tell him the truth of your feelings makes your heart sink into your stomach. 

As you arrive at the castle, the clouds of gloom have begun to fade. Leaving only rainclouds in their wake that are slowly being pushed aside by the soft breeze. Does this mean it’s over? Ganondorf has been defeated? 

You leave your horse by the gate and run past the walls. You see his large form hunched over on one of the balconies. Link lunges with his sword, and suddenly Ganondorf falls. He lands with a loud crash on the ground, sending cracks through the stone from the impact. Link stands at the edge of the balcony and crawls onto the ledge. He points an arrow bathed in divine light down at Ganondorf, aiming for the finishing blow. 

“No!” You cry out as you run to Ganondorf’s rumpled form. 

“Huh?” Link gasps as he sees you throw yourself over Ganondorf. Your considerably smaller form does nothing to truly shield him, but Link knows you wouldn’t be able to withstand the blast from the light arrow. “Move!” Link calls down to you. 

“No! I won’t!” 

“Little one,” Ganondorf coughs. “It’s over…Do not…” he trails off when he sees the tears rolling down your cheeks. He can’t remember the last time anyone cried for him, or if they ever had. 

“Please, I won’t let you die,” you cry softly and bury your head against his chest. You don’t care about the blood and grime covering him. You feel his large hand on your back, his fingers curling through your hair. 

“I’m glad you came, if only so I could see you one last time.” 

“Don’t say that,” you whisper. “Don’t speak that way.” 

Link jumps down, landing with a thud on his feet, “You don’t understand. I have to finish him. Ganondorf has to die so Hyrule can be saved.” 

“Why does he have to die?” you sob as you continue clinging to him, your tears soaking into his tattered clothes. Link looks down, unsure of how to answer your question. Truth be told, he didn’t truly understand himself. Ganondorf had practically been dormant for half a century, and the monsters had slowly begun to fade away. 

“It’s fate,” Ganondorf tells you, continuing to rub your back. “Stand aside, little one. Do not weep for me anymore.” 

“Ganondorf, I can’t leave you like this,” you whisper. “I love you.” 

“Love?” he whispers as though the word is one he’s never heard. He wants to laugh, not at your feelings but at the notion of someone feeling something so gentle for him. “I…I love you as well, but it matters not now.” 

You look up, expecting to see Link standing over you. Instead, you see his retreating form. Almost seeming to sense your gaze, he looks over his shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t give me a reason to seek him again. The two of you find somewhere to go, somewhere far away from here. I will tell everyone he’s dead.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper through gentle sobs. 

Ganondorf can hardly believe his ears. Had the hero truly decided to spare him? He couldn’t imagine a time when something like this would happen, and yet he knows there’s something he’s never had before…Rather someone. You must be the most precious thing he’s ever held in his arms. 

You embrace him again, savoring the beating of his heart and the warmth of him. Still alive, still breathing. He touched your hair, feeling the soft strands between his fingers. When you finally look up at him, there’s a sweet smile on your face despite the tears in your eyes. Then, you lean down to kiss him. His heart soars from the gentle affection. 

 It would seem fate had something different in store for him this time. 

[belit0]

I have a little different request than the usual pace and content of this page but i hope you would do it 🩷

Idk if you have watched boruto but if you did , can you write Indra + All the Uchiha's being reanimated by Sarada to use the power of their mangekyou sharingan against Eida's senryugan and cast a powerful genjutsu to return things back to normal ? How would things unfold ? How would they react ? Esp for Shisui and Itachi after learning that their lovely little brother have grown up and has a daughter...🥲🥹😭

~🥥 anon

I don't watch Boruto. I can't tolerate it, as a diehard Uchiha fan, I can't tolerate it.

I tried the first few chapters until Sasuke reappeared and I literally disliked it so much that I'd rather act like it doesn't exist. The fact that Sarada knows absolutely nothing about her lineage, where she comes from, her predecessors, the creator of the clan, the fourth war where her ancestors defied death itself, HER UNCLE FOR GOD'S SAKE HER UNCLE! I had to do some research in order to answer this, and it is done to the best of my ability. I hope it is correct.

I have no idea what's going on now, but did Sarada learn about her clan? Or is she still absolutely ignorant of her family's past?

(PS: there are many details that I don't remember exactly about each one's eyes at the moment of their death, the last time I re-watched naruto was 2 years ago, so there may be some mistake).

The first thing Indra registers upon awakening is summoning.

A summoner.

A force daring to pull him back from the abyss of time.

His form materializes in the present, body reconstructed by the unnatural force of the Reanimation Jutsu, and his eyes—his ancient, indomitable eyes—snap open.

He is not alone.

Beside him, Madara’s presence is undeniable, radiating power even in this mockery of resurrection.

Izuna follows, always at his brother’s side.

And then, the newer generations—Obito, Shisui, Itachi—all bound to the same forced return.

They do not speak, not at first.

The gravity of their summoning presses down upon them, their revived eyes scanning the warped reality that stretches before them.

A world distorted, rewritten by a power none of them have ever encountered.

And then—they see her.

A girl.

Standing before them, her small frame rigid with defiance, the unmistakable Uchiha fire burning behind her glasses.

Their eyes lock, and in that instant, they understand.

She is the one who called them.

Itachi's sharp inhale is the first sound among them, his hand flexing instinctively.

His gaze flickers over Sarada’s form, then past her—to the broken state of the world around them, to the unnatural pull of an ability that defies even the Sharingan’s comprehension.

And then, it hits.

—Sasuke…— The name falls from his lips, a whisper laced with disbelief.

Shisui stills beside him. His expression goes through a hurricane of emotions, but there is something undeniable in the way his gaze lingers on the girl.

—You’re... his daughter. What's... what's your name?— Shisui voices, way too soft for what's happening around them.

She lifts her chin, unwavering. —I am Uchiha Sarada. And I need your help.—

Obito lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. —Sasuke has a kid? Guess we really were gone too long.—

Shisui swallows, an unreadable tension in his throat. His mind reels. Sasuke—the boy he once knew, the boy he died for—has lived, has grown, has become a father. There is relief in that thought, but also a twisting in his gut, an ache he does not yet know how to name.

Itachi remains shocked, and beneath the surface, something shifts—something that only those who truly know him would recognize.

The weight of time bears down upon them, heavy with all that has been lost.

Indra observes silently, arms crossed, mind already dissecting the situation. His descendants, different generations, the level of power and chakra accumulated in bodies that should no longer exist. An absurd and realistic look into the future he could not witness through his own eyes.

—A power that rewrites reality itself.— Indra’s voice is cold, analytical.

—A nuisance,— Madara corrects. He steps forward, his towering presence casting a long shadow over Sarada. His Rinnegan flickers to life, appraising her with something caught between curiosity and annoyance.

—You reanimated us to deal with this mess? A mere child using the power of the dead to fix what the living could not?

Sarada does not flinch. —You’re the only ones who can counter her Senrigan with a powerful enough genjutsu. I need you to help me set things right.—

Izuna scoffs, but there is something dangerously amused in his expression. —And what makes you think I care for your version of right?

Shisui says nothing, but his gaze remains sharp. Calculating.

The Uchiha stand at the precipice of war against a power none of them fully understand.

Eida’s Senrigan is absolute—an ability that twists reality itself, rewriting the very nature of hearts and minds.

But the Uchiha are genjutsu.

They are the masters of illusion, the wielders of sight beyond sight.

And so, when they move—it is together.

Indra and Madara lead, their ancient power carving into the fabric of reality itself, their eternal eyes defying even the laws of nature.

Izuna’s presence flickers like a shadow, a deadly counterpart to his brother’s overwhelming force.

Obito’s Kamui bends space, weaving a distortion within a distortion.

Shisui and Itachi—their Mangekyō Sharingan synchronize, the Kotoamatsukami and Tsukuyomi intertwining, forming a counterweight against the Senrigan’s manipulation. Their power seeps into the fabric of the rewritten world, challenging the falsehood Eida has imposed.

Sarada stands at the center, her own Mangekyō flaring, her lineage culminating in the union of past and present.

And then—

The clash.

A battle not of weapons, but of wills. Of illusions layered upon illusions, of rewritten realities collapsing under the weight of something even stronger:

The undeniable truth of the Uchiha’s gaze.

When the battle ends, when the world settles back into its rightful shape, the Uchiha find themselves standing at the crossroads of time once more.

Their purpose fulfilled.

Their existence—a borrowed moment.

Shisui and Itachi’s gazes linger on Sarada, on the last thread of their lineage still left in the world.

Obito exhales, glancing up at the sky, a ghost of something bittersweet in his eyes. —Guess it’s time to go, huh?—

Madara, ever himself, huffs. -You’re lucky I was in a good mood.—

Izuna laughs -Yeah, cause you'd always avoid a good fight instead of facing it, right?-

Indra says nothing, merely watching.

Observing.

And then, one by one, they begin to fade.

Sarada watches them go, her heart heavy with something she cannot name.

But before they vanish completely—

Itachi speaks.

—Take care of him.

A simple request.

A whisper of a legacy left behind.

Sarada clenches her fists.

She will.

[stupendium-brainrot-blog]

Why Did I Say Okie Doki? - Song Analysis

It's no surprise that this was my first Stupendium song. I still remember my friend excitedly showing it to me as we sat outside our high school one morning. They were so excited to summarize the game for me, and they did so by showing me the song, which makes sense. I've come to think of this song less as a fan work and more as an adaptation. But why is it such a good adaptation? How does Stupes utilize poetic devices to translate the game's narrative arc? All this and more tonight on Stupendium Brainrot Blog.

So much of popular music is built on repeated stanzas--verses identical in rhythm but subtly different in narrative. DDLC is similarly structured into "verses." Each reset follows the same rhythm (the same story "beats") with slightly different "lyrics" (changes in dialogue and narrative focus). This makes it a perfect candidate for a narrative nerdcore song adaptation.

"I'll consider it, sure / No fan of literature"

In the first verse, Stupes sets up the framework for the narrative, and their writing is up to their usual high standards. Multi-syllabic rhymes like the trochaic one above (or "late again / raised a pen") are inserted casually.

Following the narrative introduction, we get the pre-chorus, which introduces the four main characters of DDLC. Interesting to note is that Monika's descriptor is slightly different from those of the other three:

"Monika's brains and beauty"

She's described with two nouns, a synechdoche no less. The other girls are described more syntactically plainly with adjectives. The difference with Monika calls attention to her, in the same way that her sprite facing directly forward in the game calls attention to her. Also, she's presented in terms of "assets" rather than qualities, almost like the narrative is trying to sell you on her already. It makes you wonder slightly who the real speaker of this song is.

"Just the five of us / We can make it if we try"

This is the song's hook, a reference to the classic 1980 Bill Withers love song, "Just the Two of Us." The reference makes sense for a dating simulator, but it's also foreshadowing: one way or another, that five will have to get whittled down to two to complete the reference by the end of the song.

There are subtle backing vocals in the chorus, probably meant to be the voices of the four girls. I like that this implies that all five are in a similar position of panic and vulnerability, which is very true in the game.

Following the chorus, the song rewinds, making for a fantastic, creative instrumental break and returning us back to the beginning of both the poetic form and the game's ostensible narrative.

As in the game, verse 2 is a little different--more disturbing, yes, but also more haphazard. The narrative and structural cracks are showing more in the game as well as Stupes' writing. The second verse contains almost entirely slant rhymes, nothing multi-syllabic, and some stresses fall on the wrong syllables--almost as if they're making it up as they go. Tellingly, the line ending in the word "Monika" doesn't rhyme with anything else, as if it was forced into the stanza where it didn't belong.

The second pre-chorus adjusts the girls' descriptions to reflect their changing characterization, as expected. Stupes then hits us with this breathtaking rhyme:

"The task may seem laborious / I wonder where Sayori is / I guess it's just the four of us"

This tells us two things. One, just because Stupes was using simplistic rhyming to illustrate narrative degradation in the verse, doesn't mean they're beholden to that for the rest of the song. Two, Sayori's existence is no longer supported by the structure of the text; it's literally "between the lines." The line mentioning Sayori is inserted between the two lines that would normally finish this stanza, the two lines we've been trained to expect from the previous pre-chorus. Stupes wondering about her artificially extends the bar, making any mention of her seem illicit, even contraband.

So far, one theme has been consistent: the structure of the song itself is acting more or less in Monika's interest. It bends over backwards to characterize her differently, it improvises when she improvises, changes and reverses as she dictates, and removes the space for characters she no longer wishes to see. Stupes created a song that perfectly illustrates the game because both are used as tools by Monika.

After the second chorus and yet another rewind, we are taken to the final verse, which has been chopped in half and drastically simplified. In the pre-chorus, unable to completely dismantle the four-part structure the song has set up, Monika simply replaces all four parts with herself.

"Monika's all that you need"

The repetition of this line, seemingly against Stupes' will, makes good on the earlier implication that Monika is just as much the speaker of this song as Stupes is.

This is furthered by the shots in the music video where Stupes' mouth is overlaid onto Monika while they're singing.

This whole section is just utterly thrilling. It's full of fantastic and complex rhymes and alliterative flow, which is really cathartic after the methodical repetition of the last verse. The quick cuts, wild editing, and blending of illustrated and live-action elements mirrors the exciting fourth-wall breaking of DDLC to a T. And then we come to the iconic "harmonica / harm Monika" line, which is not only a perfect homophone, but also fucking hilarious.

Harmonica more like stole-my-heartmonica. This was the moment I fell in love.

And now, at last, the lyric is as it should be:

"Just the two of us"

After descending into chaos, the song settles down to begin its narrative again, zooming in on the book one final time. This calming musical coda is a perfect reflection of the game's heartfelt epilogue, even quoting a musical phrase from Monika's in-game song as its lyrics are written out on the page.

So yeah, I'd say that Why Did I Say Okie Doki? is a pretty damn good adaptation, specifically for the standout way that it uses poetic form to convey its narrative. Since the game is so good at using genre and formal conventions to do the same, I wouldn't have it any other way.

[eris-norwega]

HOLAAAA, VI TU PUBLICACIÓN PIDIENDO PEDIDOS O ESO CREO. POR FSVOR HAZ ALGO EN DONDE ALSSTOR VE A SU AMSDA O AMIGA EN EL CIELO IDKK POR FAVOR

En el Cielo

Español: ¡HOLA HERMANO! ahora, antes de empezar, quiero advertirte. no hablo español muy bien, pero estoy trabajando en ello. mi objetivo es incluir más lectores latinos en fanfics de hazbin hotel. este fanfic no sera en español😔mi escritura en español todavía no es tan buena. ¡pero! voy a hacer este lector hable algo de español para tú :)

English: HELLO BROTHER! now, before we start, i want to warn you. i don’t speak spanish that well, but i’m working on it. my goal is to include more latino readers in hazbin hotel fanfics. this fanfic will not be in spanish😔my writing in spanish still isn’t that good. but! i’m going to make this reader speak in some spanish for you :)

Notes: if y’all see ANY mistakes, english or spanish, let me know! i don’t find it annoying, i find it constructive. that being said, hi, i’m Eris! i’m now taking alastor x reader requests because i’m losing my goddamn mind :D

Synopsis: Reader has been living in Heaven peacefully—albeit a little empty—since their death. That is, until a group of unlikely demons are escorted by the seraphim. Little does reader know that one of the demons is a long-lost friend—and maybe something more.

CW: reader speaks some spanish (doesn’t necessarily have to be latino)

Word Count: 2462

Heaven. A place of perfection and peace for all eternity. Not a soul up here suffered. No one worried. We didn’t have to. Everything was okay and good. I couldn’t remember how it felt to feel the burdens of mortal life, because then what would be the point of everlasting tranquility?

And yet…

Something was missing. I remembered, I knew, for a time here in Heaven what I was lacking. That’s if time even exists here. But at some point, it faded away. Is anything really wrong in the first place if you can’t remember?

Now all I feel is a bit of an ache. Is that normal in Heaven?

There wasn’t much I could do about it anyway. Until there was.

I whipped my head around as I heard shouting from beside me. I scrunched my face in annoyance, my angelic wings fluttering behind me.

¿Que carajo? I mumbled in my head, returning to my book as I read in the outdoor café. I tried to tune the yelling out, but it only got louder and louder. I groaned, snapping my book shut, glaring at the forming crowd in the promenade.

I drummed my fingers on my book, my eyes squinting and frown deepening as I watched angels upon angels gather around an unknown source. Some even began to take to the skies, wanting an overhead view.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light enveloped the square. I covered my eyes with a hand, peaking behind it to see two seraphim appear in the midst of the crowd.

I watched as Sera shooed the crowd away, wings flapping in the array of bodies as angels scooted back.

I finally managed to see what the kerfuffle was about. A group of…odd looking people stood in the center of the huddle, some looking grumpy, others excited, others anxious.

I blinked in confusion. They didn’t look like they were from Heaven. Maybe the mortal plane? But who dresses like that on Earth?

Then they must’ve been from…

Cold fear washes through me as I make the connection. Hell? Were those odd people from Hell?? But how? And why was Sera letting them in?

I snapped my book away, my attention fully on the newcomers. I got up from my seat, warily making my way towards the group. Once I made it to the edge of the dispersed onlookers, I shuffled towards Emily, the younger seraphim.

“Psst,” I hissed. “Chica. Behind you.”

Kind blue eyes met mine, a wide smile overtaking her face as she floated towards me. “Hey!” she presented herself. “What do you need?”

“You’re supposed to keep us happy and joyful, ¿sí?” I asked, my arms folded. I nodded my head to the bizarre group. “It would make me happy and joyful if you explained who they are.”

Emily’s smiled wavered for a second as she glanced behind her. She turned her gaze back to me. “Well,” she started, wringing her hands, “they’re uh. They’re from…Hell?” she shrugged nervously.

My wings twitched behind me, not entirely surprised but not pleased either. “Why?” I asked bluntly.

She chewed her lip nervously. “I don’t know if I can tell you that…” She twiddled with her fingers before blurting out, “They’re here to get sinners redeemed!”

I recoiled, my wings flapping in alarm. “What?” I hissed. “But that’s impossible!”

Emily shushed me, giggling excitedly. “Keep it quiet, okay? I just couldn’t hold it in anymore!” She squealed. “You know one of the new arrivals? Sir Pentious?”

“Yeah,” I grumbled suspiciously, understanding where this was going.

“He was a redeemed sinner!” she whisper-yells. “Their plan worked!”

My face drops in shock. So it was true?

“How?” I asked incredulously.

“Okay, okay, so they have this hotel, right?” Emily starts excitedly. “It was started by Charlie, the Princess of Hell—she’s right over th—”

“The what?” I yelled.

Emily clamped a hand over my mouth. “Shh. Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy, but she’s sweet, I promise.” She points to a girl in the small huddle, one with long blonde hair and large, optimistic eyes. “That’s her. Next to her is her girlfriend Vaggie and…” she trails off.

“And what?” I stared in awe.

“Don’t freak out but…that’s…Lucifer,” she winced, gesturing to a short blonde man with many of the same features as Charlie.

My wings drooped. “The Lucifer?” I whispered harshly.

Emily nodded solemnly. “Yeah. He’s helping her now.”

Unease churned in my stomach. That was Lucifer. The Devil. The beast parents warned their kids about. And he was…just a tiny blonde dude?

I shook my head, turning my attention to the last group member. “And him?”

Emily scrunched her face. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, inspecting the tallest figure adorned with red and black. “He must be important if he’s here.”

I shrugged. “What’re they gonna be doing while they’re here?”

Emily clapped her hands together. “Well,” she said excitedly, “they have to settle into their rooms first. Then I think we’re going to, like, a theater or something? Then a meeting with the higher-ups.”

I eyed her. “Which theater?” I grumbled.

She turned and pointed her finger down the street. “The one that way. Saint Peter’s I think?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mierda,” I growled. “I am too,” I sighed.

“Really?” Emily beamed. “That’s great! Maybe you’ll get to meet them there!”

“I really don’t want to,” I groaned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A wide circle of seats around the demons in the theater stayed open. Angels cowered away, not wanting to sit next to the hellspawn. I hummed, getting up from my seat near the back and sitting in the now vacant chairs. Better seats were better seats.

The demons chattered behind me, waiting for the show to start. Charlie in particular seemed enthralled to be here. Vaggie and Lucifer? Not so much.

Still didn’t know what the red demon’s name was.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god, DAD!” Charlie rambled. “We’re watching HADESTOWN! I’ve heard such good things about it from sinners!”

“Yeah,” I heard Lucifer chuckle. “Let’s see how inaccurately they depict the underworld in this one.”

“Daaad, it’s not about that,” Charlie whined.

“I’d certainly take Hades as a king than this fool!” came a staticky cackle.

My body froze, the argument brewing behind me lost in a haze as my eyes widened. Why did that voice feel so…familiar?

I slowly turned around to watch the bickering demons, Charlie and her girlfriend uncomfortably smushed between the two men. I stared at the red demon, large ears laying flat on his head as he hissed insults at the king.

“Guys!” Charlie shushed, pointing in my direction. “You’re causing a scene!”

The two men turned in my direction, the king looking guilty and muttering an apology. The other froze, much like I had.

We locked eyes, and I tilted my head as I tried to identify the odd feeling in my mind. Who was he? And why did he feel…important?

The demon looked at me in shock, large toothed smile twitching along with his ears, his eyes flickering over my face. He seemed tense.

“Do I…know you?” I questioned.

His smile wavered, ears flicking down for an imperceptible moment. “Yes,” he said softly.

The other demons stared in confusion, their eyes bulging out of their sockets.

I shook my head slowly. “Lo siento. I…I can’t remember who you are.”

His eyes looked away for a moment before he vanished into shadow. I recoiled in confusion before he reappeared in the seat next to me.

“¡Mierda!” I screeched, backing away from him, hand on my chest. “¡No me asustes así!”

The demon let out a laugh. “Just as fiery as I knew you in life, my dear.”

I frowned. “Who are you?”

His wide smile faded, replaced by a smaller, sadder grin. “You don’t remember.”

I shook my head.

He sighed, looking down. “Ah, it’s probably better that way.”

I scowled at him. “Well don’t keep me waiting.”

He chuckled softly, looking back up at me. “I’m Alastor, my dear. We met when we were quite young.”

I furrowed my brows, my mind beginning to swirl. Alastor. I had heard that name before.

“Alastor?” I repeated softly.

He nodded. I stared at him in confusion. I knew him. How did I know him? Subconsciously, my hands went to his face, cupping it gently, like he might break. His eyes darted around, backing away slightly in fear.

“Alastor,” I murmured. The second my fingertips met his face, all the memories came rushing back.

Alastor. We had met when we were kids, two young souls playing in the warm Louisiana rain. Life was rough for the both of us, born to poor, struggling families. He was a troubled young boy, always getting into fights and being the target of abuse both in and out of his home. He was an angry, angry child. But I was determined to be his friend.

He had no toys. He sat in that rain, watching the water flow into the ditches, throwing rocks and watching leaves drift on the water. My parents had forced me outside, saying I needed to get some of my energy out. I found him. He would be my best friend right then and there.

He hated me at first. I wanted to run around, but he was just content to sit there and seethe. After flopping down in defeat, I finally had the grand idea to construct little leaf boats and float them down the ditch.

I built with determination as he watched silently. When my first boat sailed successfully down the stream, he quietly started to build his own. We built more and more and more until the rain stopped and we had to go our separate ways.

We were inseparable after that.

We stayed friends throughout our school years and into adulthood. We had grand dreams for our futures. I wanted to travel, to see the world. He wanted to be famous, to get his mother out of poverty. I went to college, hoping to get a high paying job so I could travel. He went straight to work, getting job after job to finally achieve his goal.

There were moments along the way where I would feel something more than just friendship for him. He was charming, smart, determined, and fiercely loyal to those he cared about.

But he never seemed interested. I gave it up a few months before he was found dead in the woods, a bullet in his head and a body next to his.

Oh, that’s right. He was a serial killer.

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at him now. “Alastor?” I whispered softly.

He laid a hand over mine. “Yes, my dear?”

I choked on a sob, bringing him closer and crying into his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, wrapping an arm around me. I knew he wasn’t too fond of physical contact, but to hell with it. I missed him.

“I can’t believe I forgot you,” I cried.

“It’s alright my dear,” he soothed. “I knew you wouldn’t have done it on purpose.”

“I missed you,” I mumbled.

A pause. “As did I, my dear.”

I pulled back, anger filling my eyes. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill all those people? You could be here. With me.” I sniffled.

He gave me a wry smile. “I assure you I did not kill good men, my dear. But perhaps that’s a conversation we’ll have another time.”

I closed my eyes and let out a breath. “But how long will you be here?”

He smiled sadly at me. “Only a day.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the day we stayed glued to each other, just as we had when we were alive. The meeting with the seraphim went well, and the Hazbin Hotel got full support from Heaven.

So now it was time for the demons to go.

A portal swirled in front of me as I held Alastor like a lifeline. I clutched his back, nails digging into his coat and face buried in his shoulder as I stared in fear at the churning vortex leading to damnation.

“Please don’t go,” I whispered weakly. “I just found you again.”

Alastor squeezed me tighter. “I’m afraid I don’t have a choice.”

“Will I ever see you again?” I squeaked.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

“Alastor!” Charlie called. “The portal closes soon!”

Alastor begrudgingly pulled away from me, a regretful smile on his face. My lip wobbled as I stared at him.

He cupped my face with a hand, his thumb running soothingly over my cheek. I leaned into his touch, my eyes wide with tears.

He smiled softly down at me. “I should have told you sooner,” he whispered.

“Told me what?” I hiccuped.

Alastor let out a soft hum, his thumb brushing over my lips. He looked so at peace as he leaned down and captured my mouth with his.

A surprised noise left my throat before I felt my heart pound in my ribs as my eyes fluttered shut. I pulled him closer, tears running down my face as I poured all the emotion of a lifetime into the kiss.

A pulled away just so, tears he would never let fall gathering in his eyes. “I do it all for you, my love,” he whispered. “All the pain and suffering, all the power I accumulated down there…it’s to reach you.”

My eyes widened as I looked at his deep crimson ones, eyes that held the same fire and determination as they did when he was alive.

Alastor clutched my hand. “I will find you again, even if I have to tear down this whole place to get to you. I swear it.”

“Alastor!” I hear Vaggie call. “It’s now or never!”

Alastor groans with a roll of his eyes. “One day the worlds that separate us will be nothing but myths.” A pained expression crossed his face as he leaned down to give me one last peck. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when we were alive. I was a scared and selfi—”

I silenced him with a finger, giving him a small smile. “I know. I don’t blame you.”

He smiled at me. “One more thing before I must go. I lo—”

I cut him off with a kiss, a final tear escaping my eye. “I know, mi amor. Save it for when you find me again.”

His eyebrows shoot up and a faint blush creeps up his face. He lifts my hand and places a gentle kiss on my knuckles before he steps through the portal, looking at me longingly.

“I will.” he whispers.

And then the portal closes.

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 24A (the long-expected continuation): The Gift

Or: the Fall of Númenor

TW: well, it is Númenor. I will not give more details than the book does.

It is said among the Eldar (because where else :þ) that Men fear and worship the Darkness (which is a word the Eldar use as a synonym for "evil" which is a bit inconceivable but let's move on).

We get a recap od what we know of Men, also in the War of Wrath Morgoth was "ultimately defeated" ok I know you can't make your mind, (both Jirt and Pengolodh probably), I like this better than "he's going to fight Túrin and Fefe in a van".

Men in the East are in a bad situation, the Valar abandoned them for a time (until they send the Blue Wizards I guess) because they obeyed bad people. Generally the East is wild and bad and … :/

OK, so now we are told Manwë imprisoned Morgoth and the language strongly suggests "but he will eventually break out and do Ragnarok stuff". Huh. I did say something about not being able to make your mind, right?

Now there's the weird part about "the will of Morgoth" which sounds like a somewhat separate entity?… I get the general idea, it's hard to have him booted out and explain why there's still evil in the world. Still it all feels odd.

OK, quote (emphasis mine):

But Manwe put forth Morgoth and shut him beyond the World in the Void that is without; and he cannot himself return again into the World, present and visible, while the Lords of the West are still enthroned. Yet the seeds that he had planted still grew and sprouted, bearing evil fruit, if any would tend them. For his will remained and guided his servants[…]

Huh. Any thoughts?

Eonwë personally taught the leaders of the Edain. What did he teach them? I don't know. We are not told. But it suggests that Eonwë may have better social skills with Men than I have assumed.

It was Ossë who raised the island of Númenor (at least he does something nice and non-violent ;) ) + the Valar upgraded it and only then did the Númenoreans sail. It is almost as the history of Arda in miniature. Just make it better (Morgoth is not there, Men live longer etc), what could possibly go wrong with this?

[Yes, I read the situation as "the Valar are trying to jump higher than their heads here".]

The Númenoreans don't get sick. I forgot that part. Well, they don't until they get under the Shadow. They are taller than normal people and their eyes shine like stars. TLDR: they're like offbrand Elves and Tolkien likes shining eyes.

And they don't have many children. Why? It makes sense for Elves, but why the Númenoreans, even early?

No temples, only the open mountain. OK. and we get the mention of the graves of kings at the mountain's base even now. Does it mean that even the first kings had big decorative graves?

It was the Valar who chose Elros to be the king. I wonder why, but "he could be an Elf but preferred to be a Man" seems like a --- yes, this is a good reason.

We get a recap of the peredhil. Again.

The Númenoreans learned Quenya during the alliance with Elves, so again: they speak Vanyarin Quenya, or maybe non-Exilic Noldorin Quenya. So either they do read "ty" as "ch" or they read the "th" as "s". I don't remember which one it was. Anyway later they spoke a lot with the Elves so they probably settled with some kind of pronounciation based on whom they spoke with the most.

Nobody later reached the sailing awesomeness of the Númenoreans. The book is written in, what, late TA? Early FA? Makes sense that they sail less.

We get an explanation of why the ban. It makes sense, but also I get that it seems very arbitrary (especially with Númenor existing).

Also, a quote:

For in those days Valinor still remained in the world visible, and there Ilúvatar permitted the Valar to maintain upon Earth an abiding place, a memorial of that which might have been if Morgoth had not cast his shadow on the world.

OK, maybe it's just me adding to my little box of arguments, but this sounds to me as "Ilúvatar permitted them because they asked intensly but it wasn't a great idea". Also, a memorial. Of what might have been. This does not sound good. This sounds like the vibe of the Elven Rings.

Also, again we have mixed messages about whether Valinor was moved to the orbit or into the unseen world (made purely spiritual somehow)?

Sigh. the Númenoreans civilize the people of ME because they need it. *sigh* at least they're goodwilled about it.

Aaaaand, who could guess, with time they grow more and more focused on the bright thing that is nearby (Valinor). Just like it was with the Silmarils and almost everyone who saw them.

Also, they don't like that they die, and they murmur. And they are upset that the Elves don't die, even the ones who disobeyed the Valar and it's so unfair, the Noldor went to ME and did all kinds of bs and still they don't die and we never even get— I mean, and we die. How unfair.

Seriously, almost everyone in this book is so predictably stupid and the worst part is that knowing that all does not make us less stupid. anywa, let's continue with the reread:

"Aren't we the greatest?" Huh. :/

Manwë is sad. Relateable. I want to hug him, and it's not even from a fic. My guy [affectionate], my poor birb.

He sends emissaries to the king. Oh, he's learning from his mistakes around Feanor! <3 You'll eventually learn how to deal with the Children. <3

The Earendil argument (and as was discussed, no tuor arguement, at least not quoted in the book). And a recap of how Men and Elves work. <3 some vague Athrabeth-ish tones. <3

Thirteenth king and we're already deep in trouble. :(

OK, now we get the big graves. And colonialism. The good guys visit Gil-galad and figth Sauron together. The bad guys colonize the South.

We get a recap of Sauron. Who wants to be an overking and worshipped by Men and hates the Númenor for pretty much everything including "their ancestors fought against Melkor and me in the War". And he is afraid of them.

More kings. Some of you remember their names… 23rd king hates the Faithful the most… huh, he is not the one to burn them so I would argue with the narration here. The Elves from Tol Eressea still visit, but in secret. This has a lot of fic potential. (Also, don't tell me that nobody ever at any point of Númenorean history tried to sneak into an Elven ship and go to Aman with them. not at this point, probably. But earlier you could have someone who both doesn't like the Ban, and has contact with the Elves)

Then the Elves stop visiting, because the Valar get angry. i'm not sure why now, what exactly was the tipping point.

A recap of Andúnie, the, ugh, situation of Inzilbêth, we get a good older brother and bad younger brother— wait, maybe the Men have this scheme inverted in general? I'll need to investigate this.

Tar-Palantir. Whose remorse is too late because the Valar are already angry— excuse me, Pengolodh, my guy, what? I'd get it if you told me that the problem is that the whole nation has already been gone so far and the king could not convince them, but I really don't like what you said about the Valar here. But yes, ok, it;s probably because the nation is still full of bs. Pengolodh. Please, be so kind and spare us your opinions. Especially on questions like forgiveness. go handle your exilic trauma somewhere else. I can't find a quote for this, sadly.

So, Tar-Palantir gets a healthy dose of the typical Silm "sad about my brother" especailly that he (the brother) dies early. Aaand we get Pharazôn. Yay… :/ People love him, because he's a great general and gives out riches.

The 25th king. As I have already speculated in one post, the number 5 is not a good number.

Sauron provokes him to war. When the Númenorean fleet arrives, everyone is so scared that they run away and the army marches through an empty land, which gives me echoes of Earendil, but this makes no sense, I think tolkien just likes the image of someone (or an army) walking through a deserted land/city. I agree, it has a lot of atmosphere. they march for seven days, with trumpets, and in red and in gold.

So Sauron does his thing, but Ar-Pharazôn is not a fool—well, not this kind of fool—and doesn't trust him. which plays very well into Sauron's ringed hand.

Sauron sees the capital of Númenor and again we have someone reacting to a beuiful city with envy and hatered. (First: Melkor to Valinor in general; second: Maeglin to Gondolin; third: here.)

He tells the king a lot of secrets, and "he knew many of the things not yet revealed to Men". Like… what things? I wonder. Many of the Elf-Friends get confused and scared and switch sides. I wish I knew why exactly. It is before the violence started.

Something something Darkness and Sauron's peak bs.

Amandil and Pharazôn have been friends in their youth (yes, Pharazon liked him too!) → Fic. Potential. So much fic potential. Amandil gets higher on my "I like him because he has a lot of things to be sad about" list. So, Amandil—

We've had many, many instances of characters cursing things/characters/themselves/whatever. Now we get the only instance in the Silm of an Incarnate blessing something. (Amandil blesses the seeds of the White Tree.) which is very interesting.

OK, warning: it gets dark from here.

Sauron. The language. I know the style of description of the thing is not Sauron's fault… I suppose the style is, again, illustrative of his general vibe (which is a very smart writing btw), so, ugh. Seriously, Professor, you never give the dimensions, so we all know why you gave the dimensions here, and … yes I do get your stylistic choices, they make me want to punch him which i assume is exactly what you were aiming at.

I'm sorry, I should probably elaborate more.

So, to elaborate more: the temple which sauron built is described in a language that is vaguely reminescent of the Temple of Salomon (ie giving the exact measurements, and yes, this is very noticeable because tolkien is always very poetic, about sizes too) and the juxtaposition makes me feel offended, and this helps, because this is how we should feel at this point in the book. So, this is brilliant.

They didn't burn only the Faithful, I would assume also some criminals and maybe random people. Also, there were some anti-king conspirations, the book almost says that.

People die more, everything is awful, and of course the people of Númenor are "it's fine" (as you do). In addition to Sauron's main temple of Melkor, people have private temples. Where they burn people stolen from ME.

madness and sickness availed them; and yet so they were afraid to die and go out into the dark, the realm of the lord that they had taken; and they cursed themselves in their agony.

I really wish we had an idea how this came to the chronicler. anyway, an Elf repeating things he hard from some escaped Númenoreans about what their friends/lords/whomever were thinking. And still it sounds very much like what they would be thinking.

No, wait, there could be a better source. Imagine a noble and depraved lady (or nobleman) who left Númenor for the colonies, thinking it'd be just for a short time, and in the meantime— the whole thing happenned. Great fic potential for survivor's guilt leading to remorse and later this person as an old woman telling this stuff to an Elvish chronicler, or maybe not even so old, maybe telling the story in the times of the Last Alliance and fighting against Sauron to do at least that, and I'm not a fan of the "redemption equals death" trope, so living into old age, but without a leg or something. Maybe ending up in rivendell. that would be fitting. The guilt of it all. And yet you chose to live and to do what you can.

Anyway back to the story. Amandil. Nobody even speculates about what happenned to him. (Well, I do, but)

The Faithful prepare to sail and the seven Seeing Stones (all but one of them) given by the Eldar— by whom? I hope it was Nerdanel. Or someone wlse who actually had the right to give them away. Yes, I will assume it was Nerdanel.

Lightning strikes kill people on random hills… I would prefer to assume it's either Sauron or gossip. especially that just a bit later we learn that Sauron is immune to those lightnings. So yes, i think some elements of the "wrath of the Valar" is just Sauron trying to make people even more desperate.

I can't imagine Manwë killing people just like that, even in this context. Especially with how later he doesn't do anything to Pharazôn's army until given a very explicit leave to do so.

Logically, it is sauron killing those people.

The armada… they sail for 39 days (where did I find that information?) which I'm sure means something, but what. 40-1? 3*13? Both?

40 is a number of transformation, so 39 would be a failed or false transformation maybe?

Also, black and gold coloring. Beautiful but in the Silm, vaguely evil-coded.

Just as they break the ban(? but I think it is this moment) they get a strong wind. I guess it's Manwë saying "ok, if we have to, let's make it quick".

They pass Eressea, I think mostly ignoring it? Pharazôn sees Taniquetil and gets one good idea (to cancel his idiotic thing), but nope, he's too proud. Seriously. That's… "my guy" is not enough of a wording.

The Eldar have escaped from Tition… this makes me smile a little, because assuming the ex-exiles did move back to tirion, they do deserve a little fright. For Alqualonde. I know I know. But. It's not like any harm happenned to them. they were just terrified. Of an army of Men. Which is encamped around their island.

So yea. The world is round now. And again it sounds like Aman is moved to the unseen world. Huh. Mixed canon.

Oh, here is the 39. 39 days from the fleet leaving Númenor to the destruction. Including also a volcano and earthquake.

And speaking of numbers, 9 ships of Elendil, Isildur and Anárion.

Also, all the sea shorelines are changed.

So, back to Sauron. Idiot. He is terrified by what happenned, because he expected Pharazôn and everyone to die, but not something like this. So, he is sitting on his black (of course) throne and laughing. What had I said about Sauron being somewhere high up and laughing? So he laughs three times and just as he does the third time his throne falls down into the watery abbyss. "Not noticing a divine tsunami" level: pro. I am not surprised. I mean, I read the book before, so of course I am nor surprised, but anyway, that is nor surprising.

Loses his beauty. Just. The amount of mercy. "I convinced Men to sacrifice other Men to Morgoth, and put the Valar into a trolley dilemma and all I got was this ugly face so that I maybe finally learn" — he needs a t-shirt with this. I need to draw him in a frigging t-shirt.

I want to punch him in the face again.

Yes, i know, i know. It's not my fault he gets more infuriating descriptions.

Oh and the peak of Meneltarma is maybe an island, and people want to find it and have visions of Númenor's past glory… *sigh* Call me old and grumpy but focusing on that doesn't seem like— ok oh. they don't have anything better to focus. This is also true. Huh. I just realized that this makes the whole "focusing on unreachable shadows" things so much more tragic. anyway…

Oh, they do not find it. Good for them. I am sorry, I know it's sad, but it is good for them.

The Dúnedain seeking this island is peak amdir. (This is neither a compliment nor a accusation, or maybe both).

But explaining this would need a long tangent of "amdir" meaning etymologically "looking up" and of the gneral idea of looking in the wrong place. I know I shouldn't be quoting motivational posters when talking Tolkien, because they are much less profound but generally "Stop Looking for Happiness in the Same Place You Lost It"

So anyway, The Land of the star is lost, and the Straight Road is no more and Tolkien is sad and pretty much everyone is sad and we are growing up.

Still, there is a shortcut for Elves who want to use it.

Huh. this reread felt more profound than the others. Not so many facts I've been missing, but the vibe. I think I understood some vibes I didn't understand before. But this may be just the autumn.

[sleepyorchidmonster]

Twst event where NRC's magic goes haywire and the dorms swap themes. Like, it's still Savanaclaw, but everything is flooded, or there is a gothic castle in the middle of scarabia (the architecture is a mix between diasomnia and Scalding Sands, though).

In an effort to solve the crisis, the students must find the artifacts responsible for keeping the magic at the school. There are three different items, one in Pomefiore (the oldest dorm), Diasomnia (the dorm known for its magical prowess) and Ignihyde (they installed the system).

Crowley organized three groups:

- The dormheads for Diasomnia, the most dangerous of the three;

- The vice-housewardens for Pomefiore;

- The freshmen plus Cater, Floyd and Silver for Ignihyde.

Starting with Diasomnia, the dorm swapped with Heartslabyul, with plenty of hedgehogs and flamingos running around, as well as the regular gravity defying architecture.

As soon as the housewardens passed though the mirror, everyone but Riddle became as tiny as a mouse, which is okay, since at least they won't get separated and lost in the maze of corridors. Riddle is getting a headache from all the bickering, though.

However, Diasomnia's influence is still present, so this version of Heartslabyul is a bit creepier. Card and chess soldiers dripping with blot stalk the hallways, beautiful roses with a metallic scent bloom among the thorns, painted by headless knights. There is also the Jabberwocky wandering about.

After a near death experience (Riddle was thrown at, at least, five walls by the Jabberwocky and was almost beheaded, only to be saved by the twst version of the Bandersnatch), they decided to go to the kitchens, looking for a way to return the others to normal (or at least Malleus, whose dragon form is no bigger than Grim at the moment).

Unfortunately, there was nothing of use in the kitchens, though they did find (and fight) one of Lillia's cooking attempts, brought to life and in excruciating pain for existing.

They manage to power though by using Idia's "Riddle on-field DPS Strat", where they let Riddle fight while providing him with shields, healing and buffs. He used Zettaflare thrice.

After securing the artifact, the dorm returned to normal. Which is great, since Riddle was five seconds away from passing out.

Bonus:

Idia: This'll be Ez! It's not like the Queendom is KNOWN for having dragons, right?

Riddle: *walking faster*

Idia: Riddle!?

*Roars in the distance*

Riddle: Malleus, I need a shield RIGHT NOW- *gets thrown into a wall*

Kalim, later: Are you okay?

Riddle: Just a concussion and a few broken ribs, no problem.

Idia: Bruh

Leona: What do you think, Malleus? Missing the tines when you used to loom over all of us?

Malleus: I'm still taller than you, Kingscholar.

Malleus: Rosehearts, why are the gargoyles wearing party hats?

Gargoyles: Because it's our unbirthday party!! *Spits out confetti*

Idia: are we running in circles?

Leona: Riddle, we've been here before...

Vil: I remember that weird painting.

Riddle, whispering: SHUT UPPPP!

Bandersnatch, after we finish everything: WHY WERE YOU ATTACKING THE STUDENTS !!!????

Jabberwocky: Wait, there were no intruders?

Bandersnatch: NO, YOU FOOL!!!!!

Housewardens, minus Riddle: Are you KIDDING ME-

[melliotwrites]

You’ve mentioned in the past that there used to be a section where the Adamandi characters would’ve written letters home, what would that have entailed? Why was it cut?

Vincent and Quincy, specifically! It would have included details that framed how different their home lives are; Quincy is writing home constantly but hasn't gotten a letter back since they came out to their parents, while Vincent avoids writing to them because he feels ashamed of what he sees as his lack of academic success. Before they came to Ardess, Quincy was a prized only child, raised almost in a terrarium to be the perfect scholar, while Vincent has siblings in China who are depending on him to carve out a place for them in America. The song would've probably just added complexity to the arguments they have in the latter half of Act II; why is Quincy the first one to return to the establishment? Why does Vincent want to be remembered so bad? It's part of their backstories.

In the end it got cut for time and also because there wasn't a great place for it in the plot as it was written (it used to be right before Me, Myself, And if I remember correctly, but the end of Act I moves so briskly it would have dragged everything to a halt to Be Sad™ for a second.) However, it might make its way into our next draft a little more!

~Mel

I think it got cut because in our conversations with our advisor, we were unsure how to treat the "outside world" beyond Ardess. If the letter song had existed, that would've been the only part where the characters would've contacted the outside.

In our process, we were heavily inspired by folk horror (a genre that emerged from fear of the pagan roots embedded in the British countryside, capitalizing on the disconnect between the historical pre-Christian pagan inhabitants of the British Isles and the Christian culture of the Isles’ modern inhabitants -- basically, horror tied to the land.) If you've watched Midsommar or The Wicker Man (1973!!!) or Get Out, those are some good examples -- they involve a newcomer entering a seemingly antiquated place removed from the rest of society, and a stark contrast between this newcomer and the establishment.

For Adamandi, we wanted to see if we could transpose this power structure onto a college campus environment to create a similar genre of horror -- the university settings presented in dark academia (steeped in patriarchal and white supremacist values) VS. queer students of color (characters traditionally excluded from dark academia narratives who have only been recently granted access to these prestigious settings during the time of the show.) Accordingly, a big part of this was making Ardess feel like an inescapable bubble.

We also wanted to heighten this by making Ardess a pressure cooker a la Lord of the Flies or Yellowjackets. The students only get pushed to horrific lengths because they see no other choice, and because they're trapped in this claustrophobic hellhole. They're so deeply surrounded by the Ardess bubble that they think it's totally normal. Accordingly, we (or our advisor) thought breaking this bubble by Mentioning The Parents would be a bit jarring and lower the stakes (what if they could just go home? what if they asked an adult for advice? what if their parents bailed them out?) -- which is something we didn't want, especially near the end of the first act! Hence, goodbye, song. But I do want to discuss their backstories during the show somehow. We'll figure it out.

- Elliot

Also that. I forgot about the whole advisor thing but she was probably right! ~Mel