Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mac has seen everything there is to see about the house owner. From the ugly to the good to the devastatingly horrid, the crude fanfiction to the diary entries where they’d wish to disappear and stop the charade of being alive. In silence, the two of them harbor a secret relationship. One where Mac is the sole witness of the human’s pain, and in return, the human relies on Mac for everything needed.

It’s an exchange, one which helps the computer understand its owner more and more each day— laid bare before them and the entire space to see. The way their fingers tremble, the slight furl of their eyebrows, the slight tears ever so omnipresent in their eyes. 

Maybe that’s why Skylar Specs’ existence had come to be a blessing for them, a saviour in the passing time proved an obstacle for someone so fragile— so human-like and never steady against the unstopping waves of adult life. The human personification of life’s punching ball.

“…Uhm, hi.” A small sound, just like they’re so small, figuratively but also quite physically— they curl up on themselves and look to be falling as if the entire weight of their existence pulls them down with their shame, Mac doesn’t comment on it, lest they want to drive them further away. It’s the contrary, they want to be skin to skin, lay the human bare to the continuity of their worship and show them that through everything, they’ll be there.

That even if the world has given up on them, Mac for one would never, just like they always had treated the computer with care. It’s a childish sentimental affection in which, everytime their friends came over and rambled about having to replace what they had deemed a decaying equipment, they were never discarded. 

No, Mac was cherished. Updated and fed with the latest updates their system would allow, stared at for hours on end, smiled at— confessed to, a concept of soothing for a being that barely considered itself human anymore, an entity who in the gadget's eyes, was worth more than any high performance data pack a new site could introduce.

They’d both stand at an impasse— an update the other couldn’t have. And whereas Mac was fine with that and found themselves performant enough, the others would always shyly look away— unwanting in the attention now placed on them in their expectations of meeting a grand new blossoming romance.

(Something Mac hoped and knew they could gain— another step after the endless nights together, only a step further into the dance they both could not carry but would try to lead anyway).

They want to be this version of themselves, at their best settings and optimal capacity— not only for themselves, but for them too, because Mac knows when they are in dire need of assistance.

The human does not.

And unlike (some) objects around the house, Mac also knows the desire that stems from being desired, wanted and more importantly acknowledged. The fantasy of a romance with the others does not bother them, much like having the homeowner to themselves does not sound ugliest in the least, it’s a compromise some won’t make, but that they’re willing to work with to know what’s important not in their preferred relationship, with and for the homeowner.

They are fine with sharing, as long as they can be looked at too, 11.4 hours on weekdays and 14.6 hours on weekends, a part of a routine, a puzzle piece in something important to their lover.

Said custom a motion through the days now, known frames by frames, movements for movements. They walk in and Mac smiles at them, letting them sit on the floor with their head on their lap, silently muttering nonsense from the early morning (and unsavory meeting with Nightmare, not that Mac had to know). And despite their own faulty tiredness in the form of having been left on all night, Mac fantasizes about this even as it becomes real.

..Guiding their hand through the human’s hair, whispering sweet nothings into their waiting form— eager to soak up all the affection their computer can offer, feeding off the jealousy of the other’s furniture and marking themselves as one of the first to be so close to them.

It is not a competition, but still an important achievement they will carry with them— they would love a virus all they could, even when the human discarded them all in favor of soaking in their own misery, much like all the other objects wait. Some cause more bad than good, it’s a tough process, human adulthood.

With a dreamy sigh, they close their eyes, letting the door close behind with their hands as the only witness of the privilege given to them. They had it in their palm, the trust of their beloved.

God, it feels so good to want and somehow be sought out.

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If there’s something the human isn’t very good at, it’s talking. Much less talking to prevent a fight from what they consider in their eyes, lovers— something that in a fantasy foreign to them, Harper must imagine they view as sweet and candy-like with the way they first silently beamed when she introduced the two of them, aside from the screaming.

..and somehow, that was almost sweet, hadn’t she been too busy knowing the man was making a fool of her— despite all of her effort and what she had (apparently) given him, they stood there much like a child watching their parents fight— awkward and doll like, making them all the more pathetic.

And maybe that’s what makes them so charming— their inability to understand how to step into the mud and filth that are her and Dirk, all storms before becoming soft rainy clouds and then a complete hurricane when he steps too far ahead, a proof of his cheating, she’d name it.

(Even though Harper finds herself entertaining the idea of the human by their side sometimes, someone to side with her— cherish her, a thing that won’t speak too loud and who she’ll have no worry parting from because much like an obedient dog, it’d never leave her).

Because in all its glory, it’s essentially kind of the owner’s fault or that’s how they see it. After learning about Chappy and having the sudden realization that much like the ones around, that too, was alive. And they had killed him, another thing that left her, a mistake she wouldn’t dare to make again.

Whether it’s guilt or awkwardness— at having killed their laundry hamper’s past beloved (which Harper had only known for a few days). They never say a word more, much like they never actually say anything at all to begin with, the floor is always far more interesting. She’s not scary in that aspect, Harper would argue herself to be quite sweet if not provoked, something Dirk can’t seem to do. Always itching to piss her off.

It reminds her of Chappy, not the passiveness. But the idea of staying quiet and sweet when not needed but cuddly and fluffy when sought out, a soft heady feeling of love the woman won’t entertain, for every thought and hours her eyes are not set on the dirty laundry, who knows where he might sneak off to? She simply can’t afford it, what’s hers is hers.

And much like Harper is stuck in limbo, Dirk is too— amused by the whole ordeal and playing into Harper’s delusional rants in a sadistic streak of wanting to punch where it hurts, to know where it hurts the most, to always land the most critical blow. When he does it, he can see the human frowning, their back even more pushed in as they attempt to make themselves as small as possible.

If the sour pinch it brings to his chest is anything to go by, he hates seeing their face. Mostly because it reminds him getting them on his side will be hard, and that maybe they see through the barely there façade— Harper and him are both the fire and fuel to their relationship, the two of them biting at the hand that feeds and tearing it when it deserves to, and it always does.

If it wasn’t for Amir or Daisuke swooping in and being their knight in charming armor— they’d play their role of the statue forever, until the both of them grew bored of yelling at each other and took a break. Dirk entertains the idea of it sometimes, taking more than a break and finding himself delighted in the presence of the human, much like he’s heard from the other objects (mainly the hanks) how awesome it is to be on their good side.

To be something they do not fear but enjoy, a being meant to soothe them— because wasn’t that the whole deal with Skylar’s existence? To offer a miserable person a chance at love?

“I know it! You’re not even listening to me, you’re trying to cheat on me again, aren’t you? Who will it be this time, the washing machine?!” He sighs, running a hand through his messy hair and just like always takes the bait— and once again, unlike a normal routine with them, both Dirk and Harper lose points.

Whether or not the human is scared of them is up for debate, but they are definitely not entertaining the idea of a romance with him or his girlfriend like they’d be with The Hanks or Dorian.

And maybe that does leave him a little bit bitter, for some reason. 

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It’s rare to hear even the faintest of noise from the houseowner that isn’t associated with either: one, existential dread or two, utter and utmost despair— as if they wanted to disappear. That first showcase was when they lost their job, about maybe 3 weeks ago, the face they had made and the way Mac and the objects in their office had described it.

At that moment, they looked more dead than usual— as if lightning had struck twice and took with it the very last remnants of functionality they possessed, sighing out in frustration and gripping at their head while quietly sniffing, they probably had buried their already low aspirations, made peace with their future and tucked it in a box.

The glasses were a nice gift to an extent— the human was awkward and unsteady, like a feather unable to carry its own weight if there’s no wind, and the added pressure of finding friendship or love was definitely not something they wanted to add on their ‘things i was coerced to do’ bingo. Yet they played if not to please Skylar and the other few objects that had always been eager to talk to them, Teddy— Mac, the list was kind of too long.

It’s like an amalgamation of feelings they can’t begin to explain, not realizing that while they’re in too deep— so are the objects, each in their own sweet or twisted way scouting to get something soft and meaningless or to take advantage of one thing, a person’s fragility.

Something that Front Dorian doesn’t desire. He aims to keep himself at arm’s length, to not put more on someone who looks like the slightest gust of wind would take all their motivations with them and kill them on the spot, he simply wonders how many secrets they can keep. 

Not much he supposes, considering how everywhere something can be. Whether it’s him, one of his counterparts or one of the other objects, the human had never been subtle to begin with. All the details, easy to miss at first, but not difficult to spot altogether. 

How their eyes twitch and puff when they’re ready to cry, the absent tapping of their fingers against any surface as they boringly either watch the tv or are upstairs, eyes glued to their screen and an absent look on their face, it’d be almost sweet if not worrying.

Through each step of their life inside the house, each object has granted themselves (or not) a sense of longing— through the lens of watching a life go by, they’ve understood what makes their owner tick, what they’re like and things normal people would never be bothered to understand.

The subtle things, how they’d sometime, ever since they were a young adult walking through the job market, ‘quietly’ leave the comfort Betty offers and thread carefully down Stella’s narrow steps and ultimately sink into the warmth Mateo lays at their feet, a win for the blanket, a loss for the lovely bed upstairs.

It’s a loving feeling, what each object feels or pretends to know to feel. And maybe that’s how they find themself at a corner, amused but all the while bitterly bargaining for those who do not like sharing, much like right now.

It’s not that Eddie doesn’t want to share, he’d be willing to— if said sharing only involved him and Volt, nothing and no one else. Safe in the comfort of not having to fight for something that’s already hard to obtain, the soft sappy tell-tale signs of love, aided by the alcohol in his system, a rare occurrence. Eddie doesn’t drink, and even if he does, he’s mastered his control.

Unlike Volt, who lets himself go too much. In the quiet of their own little closet, he listens to his love’s drunken rambling, words hard to decipher and sentences strung together as if attempting to confuse Eddie more than help him.

But he understands it, the yearning for something that shouldn’t be. They have each other, but they want more than it— not anyone, they want the houseowner. 

“They’re gentle and kind,” Volt would sigh about, nudging at his partner and offering one of his well known sly grins, draping himself on the overworked man and whispering sweet nothings in his ear, his own idea of a shared fantasy. 

Their fantasy.

“They’re kind and willing, always helpful and so alive. Like they were made for me, made for us.” He’d trail off, face nuzzled in Eddie’s neck, flushed skin giggling against a cold one and with big, wet, hazy eyes— Volt would declare himself one of the many challengers in this stupid game of romancing and chasing after someone they had to fight way too hard for.

“I want them,” he’d slur, giggling— all sparkly and electrifying, enticing and laid bare for Eddie to see. And with a sigh and rare fond laugh, he’d nod along and run his hand through the other’s hair. “I want them too, V.” -badly, he didn’t add, because he wouldn’t let himself be considered desperate, but maybe he was, in his own rough way of loving.

That by the next time, when he’s undeniably turned into a soft bitch because of them— he’ll be looked in the eyes and graced with the words he wants to hear, something to put at peace his ever thinking brain. That with their gentle and frail hands, they’d let him cup their face. Back pressed against Volt’s chest and big doe eyes trusting them.

And fuck, if that isn’t everything he’s ever wanted.

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Lux does not like the owner. 

Or at least that’s the lie that they’re ready to die with. Lodged in their throat— because how embarrassing and shameful it is for them to find anyone but themselves captivating, but how can they not when in the idiot’s eyes, it’s as if they’re the most beautiful thing in the world?

It isn’t shocking. Not a secret— they’re perfect, even more so for a person like them that is afraid of the dark and fears even closing their eyes and letting silence envelop them whole, a pathetic sight. But maybe that’s exactly what they like, the semblance of superiority that comes with having something so moldable. A diamond in the rough meant to exist just for them.

(An exaggeration, course. The human does not belong to anyone. But if some objects like Fantina or Hector can proclaim themselves the human’s lover and best admirer, why can’t they do the same and steal the spotlight by romancing them? You’ve got to do what you must do in the quest of shining brighter than anyone).

Lux dislikes interesting conversations that revolve around anything other than them— they like the soft warmth feeling of admiration they can steal from the human’s sparkling gaze and tight-sealed deal, a package meant for someone like them who just want a sweet nod every often and repeated “beautiful”’s to caress their ears, a cacophony of praise just for them, a thanks for bringing light into this dark world.

A testament to their dedication, and foolishness.

For yes, at first the simple idyllic delusion of a romance to boost viewers’ engagements sounded sweet— a willing, shy and pliant little bird of which they could pluck the feathers and it would not scream, eagerly leaning in and accepting its ill-fated romance.

And as shameful as it is for their pride— they’ve come to dig it, being the center of the human’s world, a constant presence for any decent house to have, a savior. Because Lux has concluded of their odd dynamic, at night, when it’s them the little thing comes to see and hug after a Nightmare in search of a light in the silence of their own mind, they eat it up, everytime.

Not for follower validation, even less to play along Skylar’s stupid dating sim fantasy but because they like it and want to be that, a lover. Just like every human posts their relationship on the internet for shameless validation, Lux wants to press a kiss on their temple and steal a photograph on them to keep it pinned on top of all their other posts— put them above even the constant spotlight they bask in and soothe their fever.

And never lose the chance to hold them bare, in a metaphorical and physical sense— play with them but also coo and tug them gently into the difficulty that is loving such a star like them.

“I’m beautiful, aren’t I?” They’d ask offhandedly, already knowing the answer to the rhetoric. And yet, when the same small voice would gently lull them into being a lovesick puppy, they eagerly turn around with a smile, anticipating the words they’ve grown used to by now,

“..So beautiful.” A shy whispered truth— accompanied by their slightly flushed face and shaky fingers, eyes barely maintaining the eye before surrendering to the flooring. And with a deeply amused chuckle, Lux steps closer with a privilege only they wish to have.

“..You’re not bad looking either, lightning, I could make you my assistant.” A ‘compliment’ sealed by a kiss on their forehead.

And maybe one day— in Lux’s fantasy that they’ll regret later, that promise with a ring like stupid humans do when they yearn, badly.

Because who else but Lux would win this?

Chapter Text

There are scars that never fade. Much like there are memories that will never be forgotten— much like an ever present backpack filled with guilt, the houseowner remains the silent bearer of the package they were born with. A witness of 20 or so long hard years of attempting to fill a void that showed itself as an endless pit.

Deeper and deeper— bottomless and all consuming in a strive to quench a thirst and stop the hunger, the silent need to find a meaning to an existence never meant to be in the first place, clearly shown to them by the way others’ gazes lingered. From the moment the world had let them breathe its oxygen in, it discarded them.

They never bothered to try and make themselves known, happy to cling to their mother’s ignorant sheltering— who was always covering their eyes and squeezing at them in hope of bursting them and stealing their sight. To see the color from her child’s face slowly and carefully disappear and be replaced by the knowledge that soon she’d be free.

A disaster baby, that’s what they had been labeled— their eyes too hollow, their smile too reminiscent of the mockery that had been made of her as she endured the worst kind of torture. That day when they took form inside her, she had given up all of her aspirations much like the little devil stealing her essence would, years later. Following in her steps, in every way.

“Mom?” They would whisper from the doorway— approaching their mother with careful and precise strides, sliding on the floor by the bed and quietly listening to the sobs overtaking her soft breathing, thumb neatly nested between their bruised lips and tears adorning their bruise stricken face. 

Looking back on it— it wasn’t forecasted. They had never blamed the woman for turning out the way she did. Cursed to look at the only thing tying her to a past she refused to bear, and so it never came as a surprise when they were shut out from her world, regarded as an outsider to the only constant they had in their life— it stung, like it’d sting any child. But it never quite burned in a way that would justify any hatred to build up their throat.. for their vomit— for the bile to go up and up until it marked the floor in its horrid color.

In truth? There was nobody better than her— the softness of her calloused hands, the shaky smile she’d offer as she’d cup their face and press their foreheads together. It wasn’t quite love, but it was the best of scrap they could feed off on— never quite sated but never quite starved either. And when in a good mood, away from the fear of touching them and burning, she’d whisper against their skin a promise.

“We’ll be better soon, we’ll be happy.” Said between kisses— a bribe to soothe the crying and bruised child, the rock she pushed and pushed up the mountain's top despite the constant suffering it brought. Bearing its weight.

Until she didn’t.

The details of that night will forever remain blurry to them— for the first time in weeks, in the early days of a soft promising June, their mother had taken their hand as if it wouldn’t burn. Lead them outside and bore a kiss atop of their hair and told them to go, anywhere, everywhere. Somewhere.

And so that’s what they did— sat on their house’s stairs and lazily looking at snails go by, they discovered the world— letting the story write itself, Teddy gripped tightly in their arms as they patiently awaited. Much like they usually did, for mom always got like this.

High and dry— hot then cold. Sometimes she’d curse them out and request them to go, to disappear, to stop haunting them after everything they’d done to her. And with confusion, they’d sit outside while calmly and happily anticipating her fall, where she’d come off from her high and hug them tight.

(Gently, too— because mother was always gentle right after hurting. Her punches were the softest of kisses when she’d finally look at them, not a passive character in the background anymore but as a breathing and living component of the house, less of a decorative object and more of a person. It made the flame burn, but burn good).

That day had gone differently. This time, their game of silence would take its final play, sealed softly in an envelope and never to be continued. 

They never really remembered the details. Whether it was their mother’s swaying corpse or how they thought she was just tired and hugged her legs so tight while softly promising her that when she’d wake up, they’d go to the park and have fun— nor when the neighbors, 4 days later found them and took them away, carrying their frail form that wanted nothing more but to anchor itself in their mother’s skin, join again and like the parasite they always were— drown in her cold but love filled gaze, one more time, as keepsake.

And when they jolt awake at night, gripping at their chest— they can only watch Betty’s worried gaze and let her press a kiss against their temple before softly sniffing and attempting to go back to sleep, knowing what awaits them in their cold, hopeless and vile dreams.

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Betty loves her human. Much like she loves anything relating to them finally catching a well earned and deserved break— still, she understands that she can be.. too much. She knows she is too much. And that’s probably why the two of them only ever hit it off when kept at arm's length, where she plays the role of the anchor and the human simply basks in the attention they dislike and yet love, pampering them yet depriving them just enough to not make it weird.

For every step forward they make, one wrong touch from her sends the both of them tumbling backward, back at step one— painfully awkward and silent. Betty plays the long game and buries her love away in an attempt to gently obtain the key to their heart and twist the lock open, press her lips against the human’s soft skin and whisper promises of a better future— a passionate future.

Much like Mac has been granted the privilege, Betty with only a fraction of it, is content to play the secret keeper— late at night when they’re too tired to remember how scary touch is, when they cling to her and let her softly rummage her hands through their messy hair,  a soft sigh stuck in her throat and chest serving as the softest pillow they can afford.

(And it’s enough because when is it not enough for Betty to simply be present in her love’s life— whether it is as an actual love interest or a simple confidant. She picks at the seed given to her, gently buries it in hope it takes and blossoms into more).

“My sweet, courageous darling,” she’d coo— never quite expecting an answer if not the sniffle and shame of vulnerability, climbing at their back while they shake like a leaf. “Whatever it is— it’s but a mere nightmare trying to get to you, now, won’t you be a dear and tell me what happened? Then we can get a nice cup of milk and have this little cutie go back to sleep, mh?”

No answer. Betty never expects one— not immediately, it’s a tug of war. To have the houseowner speak, you have to learn patience and take only what you need, you have to know when to be or not be greedy and silently make your peace with never entering the narrative.

Betty waits precisely one hour and 45 minutes. Basks in the small, shaky hands clutching at her outfit and always offer a soft smile while waiting and anticipating. By the two hour mark, they give in in the subtlest of way— pressing their head more comfortably against her cleavage and closing their eyes in attempt to erase the horror surely hidden behind their eyelid, the simple exercise of getting ready, and as a good and benevolent admirer, she waits and waits, until their plump lips part and they finally muster up the courage.

“…I had a bad dream.” -is the only explanation she gets, silence overtaking them in a soft embrace as she scratches at their scalp— careful to not take more than she’s given, to be sure to play a good game, the longest game of her life. “I don’t wanna sleep, ‘m not tired..” they muttered out, yawning and letting their weight fall upon her— much as if they were a blanket, Betty softly drowns in the pressure added to her strong form, nodding along the words with patience.

(And a bit of a wish— a promise of more, to kiss at their lips, replace any bad memories her darling might have with the overwhelming gentleness yet sensuality of her love. The kind of puppy romance that has them so high off the attention that they can’t do anything but enjoy it, purring softly into contentment and receiving the highest of treatment).

But instead of acting out on her impulses— Betty hums, lays them down and softly rest their foreheads together, simply overojeyed when they shyly look up at her and flush slightly— leaning into her eager palm as it makes it ways through their hair, a shaky sigh leaving them, eyes fluttering and causing the bed’s normally calm heart to beat out of sync, if only a bit more— a little tease at that passionate side of hers, skin flushed against skin. The thought is pushed aside when a few minutes later, the sleep they attempted to deny reaches up to them and they go limp in her gentle but firm arms.

“Oh, my love..” she whispers against their goosebumps adorned skin— admiring the soft rising and falling of their chest with a lovestruck smile overtaking her features. “How precious you are to a poor heart like mine,” a beat. A few things better left unsaid then conjured— neatly locked in her eager chest. “Sleep with all the good things, mh? And then when you wake up, we’ll live the happiest of dreams.”

And happily, even if for years to come— Betty would endure the idea of simply being used for her function, a cushion for slumber and patiently and silently bury her hunger. After all, it was always for the better.

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Doug isn’t the one for the human. In fact, he’s the perfect example of what they shouldn’t expect out of love— the personification of something so incredibly bold and uncaring that it borders on emotional ignorance if it wasn’t for what he represents.

But maybe that’s what unconsciously pulls them in— how he reminds them of every wrong partner they’ve ever come across in their life. Much like they’ve always beamed at Harper and Dirk despite being scared whenever caught in their lovers’ quarrels and put on the spot as a mediocre mediator.

He isn’t gentle like Betty— he doesn’t heed Dorian’s warnings of being courteous and kind and goes out of his way to remind them how useless they are, because that’s what Doug is. The tiny part of their brain that knows what they are, who they know they can be. A disgrace of a human being who in a few years if not months, would definitely find themselves six feet under if they don’t get up on their feet. And even then, they could be dangling from the floor in a week.

(A terrible joke that The Hanks and Betty had frowned at— their sense of humor much different from his. Even if to him, it had been a simple truth— not a joke or an attempt to lighten the mood in a weird way authentic to him, no. From the beginning, Doug had made it known that he didn’t mind nor care about the arrangement because he was sure that sooner or later— someone would slip up and scare the owner away).

He’s not some kind of prince charming here to pick them up and steady them— if anything, Doug likes them better incompetent because that’s how authentically pathetic they are— closer to being an actual object in their own house than a person. A fact he never fails to make known, even in the presence of others.

It started out simple enough, really. Doug had warned them— he didn’t enjoy clinginess, much like he didn’t enjoy puppies. They were only cute to stare at for a while, without the responsibility of feeding it and tending to it, but as always, much like the idiot they seemed to be— the message didn’t come across.

Or maybe it did, and some twisted part of them knew but in an attempt to play into Skylar’s game— they hoped to be his friend, utterly and completely fruitless. Sure, their flattery worked and his compliments sometimes caught them off guard. 

But just like with dread, there’s always a catch. Once you latch yourself onto Doug, you have to reap what you saw— wait for the crops to grow and take the filthy reward you’ve nurtured, and maybe that's just what they did.

For some reason, they enjoyed it to some extent— being discarded, treated like nothing. Even as they frowned at his doubling down and insults, they still stuck nearby as if some twisted part of them found familiarity in him— a kind of package he couldn’t bother and did not want to unpack, he’d leave the emotional deal to the likes of Dorian or Mac, heard they were really good at being that for the damn pup.

“Do you have nothing better to do?” He asked one time— met with wide eyes and a confused look, with a sigh and stretch of his muscles— he stared, and stared.. and so on, watching their nervous smile, lips stretched into a grotesque and fake replica of a genuine one. A mockery of actual humanity. “Surely even someone as useless as you has to be busy sometimes.”

Silence— nothing. An awkward wave of nothingness, the calm before and after a storm.

“…No.” they shamefully hung their head, admitting so easily how truly alone they are in a house full of people who’d probably be at each other’s throat if not only for a chance with them— and in his nature of giving and immediately taking back, Doug places a hand atop of their head, ignoring the slight flinch and jolt of their body before grabbing at their hair. “Watching videos can only go such a long way.” He tugs at it— gently, too gentle to him. He’s gone a little soft those days, too soft to not regain a bit of control over himself. What he is, how he is— something meant to take and take. Toy and then throw away.

So with one last motion and a painful whine from them, he lets go. Sighs and lazily puts his hands in his pockets and gets up, hot and cold— feeding yet taking away any sustenance they could have possibly chewed on. Doug takes the time to pet the locks he harshly tugged on not even seconds ago and lazily shrugs. “I’ve got better things to do. Remain children that they will die and what not.” Is all of an explanation they get before he’s off on his merry way.

And with trembling hands, the house owner presses at their aching scalp— blinks and brings their arm to their hammering chest and basks in the shameful afterglow of the acknowledgment that they’re nothing, much like their mother always reminded them and with an inaudible whisper, they smile weakly, softly, scared at their own pitiful display and contentment at being treated as less than trash.

“…Oh.” They frown, trying to remember the entire conversation they’ve had with the various objects, Amir and Dorian insistent on making them understand that they mattered and that they were worth the trouble. And with the shame of potentially disappointing people who have been nothing but kind to them— they swallow their habits and yearning, clutched their beating heart and shook their head.

They are not a toy and less of a person. They matter.

…It’s hard to believe, but at least they’re getting better at attempting to see it.

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Fantina loves the human— much like bees love honey and flowers love the sun, all consuming and needing, she harbors not only admiration but endless passion for the subject of her infatuation. A kind of sick puppy love no one else would understand— Dorian had warned her, one wrong move and she’s out, Timmy even commented on her tardiness and unneeded hogging of his master’s time— discontent with the idea of sharing much like she was.

(Because sharing simply doesn’t work. No matter how resilient and agreeing certain objects are, not everyone likes to bask in the idea of having to share the only person that could make them feel seen— much like Fantina despises the concept of giving in when she’s always been patient and tolerating).

She can get along just fine— if that’s what her love wants. But she also needs to be pampered and to pamper— adorn them in silk and kiss all over their face to show them how much they mean to her. Trail her hands on any inch of skin they’ll get and trail kisses all over their neck, slowly rising to their neck and softly biting down to stake her claim, that is her real dream. 

And so she’s willing to entertain the unrealistic dream of sharing, even if only for a tiny bit. Whatever will get her time with them, no? Still, as Dorian said, she has to ‘behave’. They aren’t exactly on good terms, frankly, and that hurts her.

She knows how gentle her beloved is and how they only bask in attention more often when it’s negative, admittedly much like many objects, she envies Doug and Dirk and Harper for that reason. The fact that they hurt keeps them close even if others have proven that being gentle works too, Fantina hates playing the long game when (to her) she knows exactly what her lover needs.

(Her. It’s her, they absolutely need her).

“How are you today? It’s so nice, isn’t it? Gosh— I can’t believe you’ve finally had time to talk to me!” She shoots them a smile– her best of smile, only reserved for them and neatly adorned by the cutest expression she can muster. In return, they simply blinked— offering a tight smile and backing away slightly, almost bumping into Abel.

It stings— but much like a soldier ready for the onslaught of war, Fantina never gives up. She nods along the movements and herself back away with a soft gaze, shimmery eyes promising to not inflict harm and slowly watch them step a little closer and allow her even the slightest of their personal space. And with a now scarlet face, she’d sigh and breathe in. Understanding waiting. Patiently observing before they make the move of their own, softly extend a hand and watch as they trace the outline of her palm with stress coursing through their body.

She’d take whatever she could get her hands on, no matter how tiny.

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Timothy and Timmy are the same in the sense of their loyalty. Ready to tolerate the other if that is what gets them the slightest of use or attention, even if they have to share it and bask in a fake sweet dream that they can co-exist like this until it bears success.

(Until they inevitably see how wonderful they can be when they agree to be let out accordingly— for Timothy to stop taking most of Timmy’s time and understands that much like him, he loves too. That he’d do anything for their master).

So, Timmy instead attempts to ignore the part of him that he can’t stand and that can’t stand him— observing silently as their master wakes up and immediately is pleased to greet them with the biggest of grins and a tilted head, a privilege he only had obtained for his cat like behavior, reminding them of the balls of fur they were always scared to fully commit to and take home. So instead; he eagerly plays such a role, leaning in when his scalp is lovingly scratched at and their usually hesitant gaze fills with a different kind of warmth.

Out of anything he can get— this grotesque rendition of some kind of pet play is the best version of love Timmy can muster. Whereas Timothy wants a gentle and proper love much like those old black and white films, he desires nothing more than to be used as a cushion for any kind of fall that would bestow their fragile master, a love different from the others but rightfully is. A scenario where Timmy is spent after hours of being rightfully sucked dry and left to bask in the afterglow of being meaningful.

And when he’s like this, head neatly laid against their thigh and their watchful eyes ever so glimmering in the low setting of their bedroom— attention focused on him and shaky limbs mustering up the courage to touch him, he purrs much like a greedy and well sated house pet— lavishing in the attention it knows only it will ever get. Drinks up the love given to him and licks his lips in the anticipation of more.

“Do you like when Timmy is like this, Myaster?” He’d call out— rubbing against their leg with no care in the world and a hopeful but pathetic gaze, watching their lips part and keeping his paws away when they’re close enough to hurt. Just like ordered, plays the long game and carefully encases his fragile flower like a toy he refuses to scratch just yet.

And when he’s met with the clumsy nod and soft smile that rarely befalls them— he knows he’s won even if only a tiny bit, leaning in when their hands softly cup his face and their shaky words shower him with just enough hope to keep playing house cat.

“…You’re so pretty.” Words only uttered to Lux or him— a privilege the clock and ‘the light of their world’ share, neatly cherished and adored for being held in high regard to someone who has proclaimed themselves lesser than anything— below average and painfully boring.

And with a content hum, Timmy closes his eyes and entertains this for a while. Softly nodding along the words and letting his tail freely wag with contentment.

One day, he knows— he’s gonna love them so well. 

Chapter Text

There is a rule in the house— do not fear the unknown. But what you never know serves only as a reminder of all the possible ways to get hurt, as much as the objects are willing to know one another they have to be wary amongst themselves, each all too aware of their feelings for the human. A game of stubbornness which they all entertain by sharing a common feeling between themselves; doubt. Deeming any and every incompetent. 

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Dorian asks— fingers moving to adjust the human’s collar and fasten the straps of their backpack, watching as they quietly blink up at him before nodding, carefully holding out their pinky– a silent invitation to show that they’re aware of what they’re gonna do and that no, today, they are not scared.

(But they are— the slight tremble of their limbs betray them, lips parting just enough to let out any breath that they’ve been holding and lay themselves bare to his watchful eyes and make him understand one thing, It’s not just they’re on edge and evidently scared. They’re dreading having to step out of their comfort zone and be violently slammed into the wall that is humanhood— nonetheless, he insisted on it, and they’d do anything to please).

With a slight sigh, Dorian runs a hand through his normally neat hair— places it on the owner’s head and ruffles. Much like one would with a beloved pet, he lets his palm carve a secure path in their scalp and with hesitation, nods and seals their pinkies together like one would seal a kiss. Intimate and slow— a tentative dance around how much touch he can be permitted before being shut away, and once they part much to his sadness, they are off on their merry way.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust them. If there’s anyone Dorian would bestow the privilege of seeing in high regard it’d be his human— his friend, the one person that throughout his entire existence never once attempted to kick at him nor hurt him, even when back then he was but a mere object in their foggy mind. 

No, instead— whenever (rare) anger would eat away at them, the houseowner would simply seat against a door, leaning in and letting the water boil and dissipate into clear fog in a tiring attempt at staying mad, softly being lulled to sleep by the wood prickling at their skin— a silent promise. A dance they found the rhythm of with no practice. Besides, he knows he can trust Sam. To some extent, even if some would disagree.

…The woman to some objects was— annoying at best. A rival at worst. To Dorian though, she was a nice means to an end when needed, benevolent enough to not ask questions yet bubbly enough to cheer up the human when in dark times, their mind would wander off somewhere else. He thinks their first encounter would date back to a few years ago, when after receiving no news and growing sick with worry— she had shown up unannounced to make sure her most precious friend was still alive.

They had a common sense of ‘friendship’ although whereas Dorian’s own view of the houseowner blurred between genuine care and selfish love— Sam simply seemed to be content enough with the known fact that they were simply alive, demolished and broken beyond repair but breathing and kicking— with enough of a tongue to squeak in surprise when she crushed them into the tightest of hug her physique would allow her to offer.

(…Something Dorian can do too— crush. Much like he crushes his own expectations and keeps himself away when any friend visits, pretends to be nothing just like the other objects and swallows down the sting that comes with seeing the human so alive with someone that is not him, something that unlike him, is not foreign).

While he is himself aware of how deeply he is trusted compared to the likes of Hector and Harper— it still stings whenever he is reminded of the long way he has to go. Ready to share if it aids in pushing it aside and keeping a straight line between his job as a protector and his own selfish desire to be a love struck fool for a time, friends and then maybe a bit more. Where Front Dorian fails at being vocal, Trap Dorian overdoes it in all the wrong way, bold— calm yet filled with innuendos that prick at the human’s skin and has them ready to vomit, he’s moved faster in their heart than the latter. Why? Because he’s what the other Dorian will never be with himself— honest to a fault and rotten in terms of what defines love in his eyes.

Trap Dorian isn’t chasing after a silly and fluffy romance that would rot his teeth but neither is he aiming for a tragic but real passionate kind of intimacy like Betty is— no, instead his redeeming quality lays in the fact that he does not care one bit wherever the distance betweens him and the human titles itself platonic or romantic, and maybe that’s what places him in good favor just like Mac, it’s that he’ll be fine with whatever outcome this game has.

If he shares— then yes, he will share, much like he shares a face with the other doors. If he has them to himself (all other Dorians included), then that too, will come with his inner peace.

A warning he heeds with no worry, reminding Front Dorian that his overthinking will be the very thing pushing him further from developing any kind of romance with them. That, “letting loose” does not rhyme with being rough and that no matter how much of an impact Keith has left on him— on them. He cannot make any mistake and accidently shut himself off because he deems himself used goods.

“..With that attitude, how can you help them?” —Betty would say— brows furrowed and her usually relaxed expression replaced furrowed brows and a frown, a reminder to let the past go. “We are all fragile in our own way— and that, sweetie, is okay,” she’d conclude, staring at the open door with glittering eyes, a soft smile overtaking her face at the sight of her beloved acting much like an overgrown child. Dashing towards their friend’s arm and limply letting themselves be hugged with no trouble, and with one last teasing look at Dorian, the bed would take the knob between her fingers and carefully shut off the house from the rest of the world, close the door and nod her head solemnly.

“You want to win this game as much as all of us do, don’t you? To repay all they did to us despite being this broken.” And Dorian does— he wants to. More than anything, he wants to give back everything he’s taken— from when he had to be fixed when some robbers had managed to snuck in and they spent an entire day repairing him themselves to all the splinters he’s probably accidentally given him.

And with a smile and a longing look behind his eyes– Dorian lets Betty cup at his face and whisper a promise, sighs in relief when the sentiment is shared and that he can let himself rest.

“We’ll win by sharing, mh? Now let’s get this tension out of those shoulders..”

Maybe he’ll read some papers— after he’s sure that everything really is under control in his chest.

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The outside world is scary— much like living by itself, is the source of any sins.

“MINTY!” Sam’s loud voice makes them jump— the woman effortlessly spinning them around and causing a small broken giggle to allow itself past their lips, head spinning when their frail feet meet the ground again, soon followed by a messy and rough pat of their head— a gesture so many people seem to overdo those days, not that they are mad. But petting Timmy feels way nicer,

(It just reminds them of their mother— much like anything associated with her scares them, it soothes. Because Sam was always the closest thing they had to family— silly and sweet and incredible Sammy. The everything to their nothing, the all consuming blaze to their moldable wax).

When mother first disappeared, it was Sam’s parents that came to their aid. Lifted them up from where they clung to their mother’s corpse and ignored their plea— dragged them away from the extended damage they’d do to their brain and ultimately introduced them to their one and only daughter. Wide eyed Sam with her trusted teddy— her first gift to them, a protector that had quickly joined the dust bunny when they turned 16.

Their first meeting had been.. awkward.

Sam was loud, too loud. And well,‘Minty’ as she had so lovingly nicknamed them was only loud with their cry— thrashing around and scratching at her skin when she attempted to hug or touch them, tugging at her hair with a grunt and warning bite to not get close to them. From that moment, the two children had not liked each other, not until months later.

“Be nice.” -is all Sam’s mother had told her from where she stood at the bathroom’s doorway, carefully observing how the elder of the two sat on the floor while the other silently bathed and pressed at her rubber ducky. She didn’t remember when they came to this, but soon enough leaving the other’s side was much more of an afterthought than an actual possibility— maybe it was the way she’d open her door in the morning one day and found them clutching at (her) their teddy or the little glances they’d steal her way before looking away as if convinced they had not been caught.

Since her youngest years, Sam had tamed them. And in return, every word from her was gospel. For you become responsible for what you tame, forever.

When they turned 18 and (once again) lost one of the part-time jobs she had gracefully found them— they felt shame, no matter how much she’d reassure them. Their apartment was too tiny, the neighborhood too loud and the neighbors far too mean. So when she had seen a house so huge yet so cheap being put up for sale, Sam had made her choice faster than her sibling could cry.

(And they cried a lot— more than the uncertain amount of water they took, the guilt surely eating at them, she knew much like her parents how they always felt like a burden even when Sam reassured them that it was fine. That they were the same kind of star and that no matter what, she was destined to help from the start).

It had been a surprise, a way to test and hope to develop their independence. By drifting apart, Sam reinforced the idea that she couldn’t always be there for them and that in return, they too, had to grow up. Something they failed to grasp the concept of, sat in their house. Under their name— with responsibility and a need to care, that’s how it began.

In a feeble attempt to make the only person they’d ever had proud— the houseowner cherished the house just like one would cherish a newborn, fixing any dish they’d shatter no matter the price of the sharp glass digging at their skin. No matter how much they were afraid of being a bother in a place haunted only by their own guilt eating away at them— in a way, they had been kind even without knowing everything around them was alive.

The house had always been a little odd— things normally lost, always finding them back on their desk, the dishes almost as if alive, washing themselves, tiny little details they blamed on their constant fatigue. Skylar had only been the opening the objects waited for to show their thanks— and in return, they’d aid in her own goals that aligned with theirs, when one day, the old glasses Sam’s mother had gifted them (and that they ‘lost)  came back for a sweet revenge— to attempt to heal them.

“I love them.” Skylar had once declared, gummy smile on display and demeanor certain— with one last adjustment to the glasses perked up on her nose, she found the perfect excuse for so many inanimate objects suddenly gaining physical form they’d have always possessed.

“It’s simple, really!” She had declared to the eager ears listening. “..Love is war just like anything— so, if we really want this to work we’ll just have to pretend! ..A game..— a love game!”

The beginning of the end. 

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The Hanks bring out a side of the houseowner that’s rare to come by— silently embarrassed at their own social attempt much like they were painfully embarrassed all the way through their education when any too cheery and undeniably kind person would approach them, and much like the loser they were, they would crumble and assign themselves the label everyone else probably thought of when seeing them.

A social reject.

“Uhm…Hello!” And the awkward silence that follows— only filled when pulled out of their stupor, the men before them finally understand their cue to speak after them. “HOUSE HOMIE!” -said with all the affection one can muster, doubled by five and multiple hands poking at you. Something that a few weeks earlier, they’d never allow.

And maybe that’s the fun part in watching the process– how easily some objects make Skylar’s attempt at helping them get better so easy, how The Hanks are the perfect personification of a good buddy you’d take a drink with and confide your ever present troubles to— a constant against the tiring waves of the ocean, softly guiding them to a safer shore.

When the six of them are together— it’s like the human finally learns what it is to be alive again, clumsy in all the rightful ways, but willing enough that it borders on adorable. 

..The Hanks have spent their life sharing so the concept was not foreign to them even if with other objects. After all, they loved each other and they loved the human— so if their happiness lay in having more than five already willing partners, the harm in it was not seen by them. Besides, objects like Parker and Chance were always awesome to hang with—! A little bromance in between would not ruin anything.

It’s ironic but as careless as they can be on their adventures if not for Hank’s 2 endless need to make sure they’ll be safe and sound, The Hanks value the sheltering of the houseowner more than the most extreme adventure they could go on. Like a cocoon of painful warmth on a cold winter night, they all entertain a romance like no other by introducing the outside into their tight circle.

(As shameful as it is, for the human feels as if they are intruding and tugging at a love so special it hurts— something so pure and warm that they’re afraid to be the one to unravel it by being at the center of a trainwreck that will drive all of them apart. Their doubt and evident hesitance on display, they too, selfishly want to know what this kind of hopeless puppy love feels like).

It’s a tough process bordering on a metaphorical tug of war with an unfair advantage from the team with more people but necessary enough to make the lonesome player understand that they were meant to lose from the beginning. When the houseowner silently agrees with their antics, The men see it as a mini victory in itself, watching their eyes glimmer and an usually veiled expression replaced with flushed admiration that has them growing equally flustered, if not more.

It’s an incredibly nice feeling to know they are captivating— much like the human is.. The soft way their eyes drift to whichever of them is talking to their admiration for Hank 3’s ease at flirting and buttering them up despite the grimacing that comes when he borders on too cringe and that instead of joining in they either have to one, cover their ears or two, make sure to cover his mouth so he doesn’t make himself more than the fool he’s already known as.

(The human did once say it was cute and amazing though— how honest he was. Which they had quickly regretted and basked in the shame of having uttered that by sinking to the ground and growing even redder when teased by the five of them— squeaking like a toy squeezed too tight and caressed for far too long).

So when the human smiles wider and giggles hesitantly like an idiot— The Hanks can be nothing but pleased at the idea that yes, they are one of the very first reason for such a lack of restraint at masking their reaction and when the time comes for their misbehavior to pay off, that everyone who is willing to play along will be happy— they can’t help but suffocate the human in a hug, one by one and careful to not hang on too tight and for a while.

Content to bask in the idea that when this is over, they’ll have all the time in the world to test the waters— to know when too much is really too much and ultimately live not only a sappy tooth rotting fluff like love with each other— but also with the object(s) of their infatuation. Pun intended.

And they know it’ll be ten times better than their imagination.

────────

Skylar still remembers the first time she came to life— not physically but metaphorically. When Sam’s mother handed her over to the small teenager, soon to be adult and let them bask in the gentle orange hue her lenses could bring, back then, she was just something to ground in a physical sense. A promise that no matter where they went, a part of their family would always be with them.

(Ironic when a few months later— she’d be discarded in a box, neatly cherished but also left behind. Not out of malicious intent but to prevent her from being damaged— because the human themselves knew better than anyone their very own clumsiness. Something so important did not deserve to be hit with their bad luck).

Even back then, in their old childhood home they’d share with their adoptive family— their presence was enough to make itself known that objects were alive, unknown to them that when you cherish something long enough, it grows a soul of its own. Complex to explain but simple enough to grasp, that the touch and clumsy love they put in all of their might had granted them that.

Whether it started with her or Teddy, they knew each other first. One of the many candidates at being not seen but softly touched by them, Skylar almost always present on the top of their face and said tender bear constantly softly hugged and slept with. Until they were both kept as a memory in an effort not to hurt, when the first hints of teenage romance came prickling at their skin and the only person they ever let in made a fool out of them by deeming them too childish if they did not abandon the plush and the ‘ridiculous’ glasses they wore.

(Which in itself was rude— but in an effort to watch their sibling grow, Sam had been encouraging them to step out of their comfort zone— that maybe at 17, it was finally time to let go, be a bit more mature and grown, had it been phrased as).

Didn’t exactly go as planned when instead of being thrown away like that faulty lover expected, they were parted from with a kiss and a sorry— hesitantly but softly tucked away not to collect dust but to reunite with even better for the years to come, even if long then forgotten as Skylar had hoped. It’d make the game more amusing, and easier to slide into.

The dateaviors are charming in itself as a concept— but she also hoped that the human would realize very soon that even without her, they always were able to see the objects that grew with them. That all those ‘imaginary friends’ attributed to roughed up children like them were not imaginary and that even when herself only a tiny brand new manufactured pair of glasses that she had been hit the market, Skylar grew from the love given to her, her physical form grounded in the fact her existence mattered to them.

That even without realizing it, every little tiny thing that they had softly picked up and grew up with watched them every step of the way— that even with her rough exterior, Rebel for example never forgot how shyly they had brought them to their chest for the first time and softly played with them, slipping in and out of consciousness in the water when jolted awake by a force that wasn’t there, thanking their benevolent rubber duck for waking them up even when the concept of existence was foreign to them.

It’s in subtle ways like that one that each object slowly harbored a feeling like no others— softly growing from their touch and manifesting while getting to know each other, secretly hoping one day for a nice, golden opportunity to reveal themselves without sending their beloved into an existential crisis.

And late at night, when lovingly placed on their desk but manifesting either way— Skylar throws Betty a smile from where she protects the human in her warm eager arms. Causes the bed to dip only slightly by her weight, and observes their beautiful sleeping face, hand hesitantly placed in their hair by encouragement of the other object— her own confession stuck in her throat as the host of this ‘show’.

And with all the love stuck in her throat, Skylar lays herself bare at the altar.

A simple ‘I love you’ whispered for anyone but them to hear— she’s happy as it is, by their side, like a tide.

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When they came to life— the human gave their mother a fright. Not because she didn’t expect the baby she knew would shatter all her dream to die, but because they were 2 months earlier than expected and even if some sick twisted part of her hoped to see the life inside her dissipates— another who knew the hurt of being discarded could not afford to let this go by.

She was a bad mother in her eyes, barely even a fully functioning adult herself and still very much wishing to be considered a child herself. And yet that day when said disaster baby finally parted from her womb— she cried, harder than the baby itself would ever cry.

Neither from happiness nor sadness but from the stupid understanding that yes— this is where her aspirations would have to be buried and that she’d shamefully have to live with the knowledge that the only thing tying her down to that awful man was bound to her forever, because she’d been too weak to plunge the finishing dagger in that cursed object when she had the chance.

(‘Object’ because from the moment the human was born— they never remembered being more than an accessory, a doll that on nice days, mother would cherish and dress up and take to church— the picture perfect replica of a good willed single hard working woman giving her offspring all that it deserved. And on less joyful days, when the sunday haze dissipated and Wednesday slipped through, they’d be met with the harsh palm against their skin and tumble to the ground with a whimper of hurt and a plea for her to stop— that they were sorry, that they wouldn’t cause her any worry).

That’s how love worked in that tiny house. You were only cherished if you knew how to keep quiet— and keep quiet they knew, whether physical or not, the child moved through the halls like a ghost haunting its own house. Silent to a fault and only loud enough when falling down the stairs with grunts of pain, and even then, they’d get up and make no noise again, clumsily pawing at where it hurt and attempting to fix it themselves.

“Mama.” —a rare word on their tongue, accompanied by the woman’s exhausted gaze rising from her book— equally hollow eyes staring at them as if they were the root of all evil. Softly threading inside the bedroom, they’d lay at her feet— let her harsh yet tender palm pick at their skin with a promise.

That; “everything you love gains a soul— no matter how twisted said love is”. That even with all the hatred she carried in her regarding them, it’s her acceptance of said principle that made them come to life, and that maybe if they left her alone and went to talk to the wall instead, they’d gain a much better family than her.

That every object, plush and backpack that they’d found on the side of the road and brought home to fix would one day repay them ten times the price— and that even when someone has no kindness to offer, they’d be there.

She’d be there, with them.

So when the day came when she disappeared— the only thing that could replay in their head was the various things she’d always taught them. that life does not end when one stops responding and that if you put enough love on something, it’ll always come back with a revenge of loving too.

So they waited— 4 days, 35 minutes and 8 seconds for that revenge to come. For their mother’s dangling form to lower itself and encase them in their arms even as they faded in and out of consciousness, the flies became the only friend caring enough to remain by their side.

And that one day, if they were patient enough, those 20 something years of living would pay off— and at night, still hopeful and dazed from slumber, they dream of the front door opening and seeing her there, the sick woman who despite her hatred for them, kept them sharp and awake enough to be nothing but a lovesick puppy for her.

And that when she takes out her hand and silently offers it to them, they’ll be a child again— a good child this time, a baby that wouldn’t be associated with a man who took everything she had.

Was that too much to ask?

Chapter Text

“Will you stop moving? Please.. jewel..” They remembered it— the rare, occasional, all crushing nickname their mother would use to get them to behave. Much like a dog seeking good praise from its owner, they’d remain still in the bath without much complaining despite hating water— alongside the gnawing feeling that at any moment, mother could plunge into the dark pools of her mind again and reenact the very thing that started this incredible distrust.

..The drowning to clean their sins— her sins too, and they were a part of the many atrocities she believed to have commited. Early sundays meant to be cleansed over and over again, head shoved in the tub and frantic fingers attempting to push away at the smooth surface, begging and apologizing for being alive and yelling at their progenitor to not forsake them— that they knew they’d end up in hell, but right now, they were too young, that they deserved one more chance. A chance at living.

(A kind of begging always known to them. Fueled by the need to please— the known rule that if they did not beg the woman and remind them that they were not an object, but something that needed nurturing, she’d forget about them all together).

Later on those days, when they'd resurface— they would think about how they died a little, coughing their lungs out and collapsing on the white floor— the muted color filling their vision and showing them what was to come. That despite their all consuming love, the transgression they devoted to keep on living would chase them and fix itself— that only when they’d be dead would any God forgive them. 

And maybe that’s what should’ve happened.

But there’s nobody like Johnny Splash, and Johnny Splash ain’t nobody else. So maybe it’s not much of a surprise how easily he soothed his beloved, urging them to take care of themselves by being gentle. Like a true, to the book, polite gentleman. Hands only touching when necessary and always dutifully eager to encourage them to think of nice things as a distraction to get rid of their clothes and start the process they usually dreaded.

Something, funnily enough, aided by the usually shouty and harsh Rebel— the rubber duck’s usual cold and brash behavior only soothed when the owner’s feet dipped into the tub’s water and they slowly sunk and instinctively held them close to their chest, a habit from ever since they were gifted.

And they won’t admit it, but Johnny, just like anyone with eyes and a sharp sixth sense to see love where it shows itself, knows that just like the majority of them, Rebel is absolutely smitten in their tiny little hateful way. Probably flushed by how easily the other forgets that they’re alive and lets them closer than anyone else when in their inanimate form, keeps them close and safe and uses them as an anchor.

Which embarrassingly enough, felt fuckin’ good.

“Now darling, you’ve got to let our charming Rebel go— how else will I make it work otherwise? We’ve got to take care of your arms.” They blink out of their haze at the other’s voice, reminding themselves the initial goal of this— to not only shower but to prove to them that actually enjoying a bath and not just a quick fruitless splash of water without any additional process will not kill them— that despite the fact that in the past, it could’ve. Many times. Now, it won’t.

Besides, today is not a sunday— it’s a nice slow Wednesday to prepare for the terrifying Friday to come since they were fired. That day, they will attempt to walk into the job market again— this time helped by Mac who (apparently) took it upon themselves to find non taxing jobs that’d keep in mind their employees’ mental state and hadn’t lost themselves to the AI hivemind.

(And maybe, additionally— something that did not require them to leave home too often, safely manageable where their owner could be seen, so they would not be sick with worry when the time to work came). 

The bath blurs on itself in their mind— the soft pressure on their scalp enough to have lulled in and out of sleep, aided by Johnny’s soft humming and reassurance. That they’re doing a good job, that they always are— and that he’s proud and honored that they’re letting him, out of anyone they could’ve chosen, do this. 

Once he deems them clean enough (and they are— practically shiny from how thoroughly he had scrubbed at their skin)— he helps them out of the bath and wraps them up nicely, leaving the rest to the dutiful ‘care’ system they’ve built— walking them to the bedroom and with a nod, leaves them under the care of Amir and Lux.

An odd duo that he’s unsure when or how came to life— but it showed its bearings, sometimes. When the light was feeling nice.

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Lux thinks they’re a person— not a good person, but a person nonetheless. While they know their qualification as the epitome of beauty, they can’t stand to be outshined in any way, that included their peers being closer to the human than them— a childish jealousy stemming from the fact they were one of the first few objects to be ‘romanced’ and that means more than a lot to them.

(It’s proof of their superiority— that they're everything and more than what the houseowner can desire and they refuse to lose to the likes of Amir or Mac— because Lux, too, can give that soft grotesque love without basking in their own beauty.. for a few minutes).

And that’s how they found themselves in such a gross predicament, having to share the care of their assistant with some lousy laid back mirror— contrary to popular belief, light and reflective surfaces don’t mix well in Lux’s opinion. They’re way too gorgeous, what if they blind someone? Courtesy aside, they suppose this arrangement is better than nothing, had fate really hated them, they could’ve been stuck with someone like… Dirk.

“Aren’t you just adorable?” They ease into— lazily hanging around as Amir dutifully ponders on what they should wear, offering a perfect smile much to Lux’s distaste. With an easy grasp of the human’s chin, they offer a soft smile and watch the flush of their cheek before parting, as easily as they catch their attention, Lux ignores it. Hot then cold, building up a dynamic tasty enough for their audience.

The next moments are a blur— Lux yawns, Amir helps the owner get dressed and compliments them as always. Gentle and reassuring, praise flowing out in waves and seeing the color painted on their cheeks— an image that if he could, the mirror would paint over and over again, adorn it in every surface he represents and tell them that yes, they are the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And almost like an eager puppy that feeds only when the entire family has settled into admitting they love it— the human looks at Lux as if anticipating their adoration too, watching as they inch closer even if nervous— fingers picking at each other as they silently beam when the other’s eyes leaves their screen to focus on them.

“What?” Lux questions— watching from the corner of their eyes how Amir is anticipating, expecting them to throw a backhanded and half assed acclamation that will ‘destroy’ the entire long hour he’s spent trying to make them understand how smitten he is with their look, but if that’s the thing he expects— to once more play the knight in shining armor, Lux does not allow it today.

(Because it’s their day— their moment and most importantly, their human. So with petty intent, they encase the human in their arms— watching as they grow redder by the second and let out an embarrassed squeak while awkwardly returning the gesture).

With one last lingering look at the personification of the mirror, Lux buries their face in the houseowner’s hair and sighs softly, kisses at it and agrees if only to satisfy their own sided rivalry with the other object.

“I guess I can agree with him,” Lux trails off— a barely there smile lingering on their features. “You are needlessly adorable, aren’t you? My darling sweetheart.”

Amir blinks in agreement— a soft expression casting itself on his relaxed face as he joins the duo and encapsulates the human too, offering Lux a smile too, which the light in return scoffs at— tightening their hold on their beloved and causing him to chuckle.

“Jee, they’ve got us whipped, don’t you?” Amir jokes and Lux laughs. “Speak for yourself first.” They counter but he can only smile as they lazily run a hand through the human’s hair and ruffle.

They aren’t that bad of a company, when their real feelings dictate their actions. 

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There are many rules in life— like never drink and never have children. The second one being established solely by the human, when outside of the house— they meet someone, they immediately shut off. No, they will not accept being burned and let a simple invitation that is getting a drink ruin them.

(Much like drinking ruined their mother— caused her to make that fatal mistake that resulted in their birth, made a prisoner of her own making and with it— brought the victim that they were into the world to continue the circle of hurt).

So maybe it’s not a surprise they don’t visit the Breaker Box often— but when they do, it’s always accompanied by Jean Loo, the french man seemingly convinced that if, with their help— he talks to Volt or Eddie, he’ll be able to perform on stage. And like someone who is allergic to the simple two letters that strung together to compose the word ‘no’, they agree everytime and let the other drag them around.

Sometimes it works— and they enjoy seeing Jean going all out despite the— well, honestly debatable quality of his lyrical genius. But today the bargain is different, or so he’s understood it— Volt and Eddie were a weird bunch, glued together at the hip and only comfortable enough with each other and the houseowner.

“Livewire, you came!” Snapping out of the hearty conversation he was having— Volt’s entire being lights up (physically and metaphorically) in their presence, watching as they quietly waved and squeeze the toilet’s hand harder— almost incredibly sad to watch. Jean Loo remembers now, just how much of a disaster at love the electric duo are— or perhaps it’s the owner’s obliviousness that kills them, much like it kills any other object.

“Hi.” They say— bland but warm, a soft smile graced upon their features and the rapper’s hand squeezed tighter— as tight as someone with no fighting bone in their system can anyway. “I came with Jean.” —stating the obvious, the aforementioned threw a lazy peace sign and watched the slight frown, easily replaced by a carefree chuckle as he shook his head.

“I know!” A pause— silence, a beat. “Why.. hello! It isn’t your turn to perform yet, right? Come sit with me— just the tw— three of us.” He’s got it really bad. 

Jean Loo isn’t sure if he’s pleased at having to share either but until a week ago— he wasn’t sure if he liked the human either, way too focused on his rap career to entertain the idea of straying from such a path by the tell-tale signs of a blossoming crush. His attraction was a hard bargain— Jean Loo was loud, self assumed and absolutely terrible with shy people.

(The first time the dateaviors had been pointed at him and it was cue to come to life— he panicked. Immediately started rapping and watched the confusion spreading itself on the owner’s face as well as the way they registered the urge to cover their ears. He should’ve remembered just how scary noises were to them).

Somehow their little trio worked just fine— the houseowner would quietly nod at stuff Volt said, he’d perk up each time they vocally answered even with the most basic of words and noises.

A simple ‘uh uh’ had him on cloud nine, a soft ‘that’s so cool’ rendered his face incredibly red and when they didn't mind the way his hand lingered and settled atop of their hand on the table— he let himself bask in the fantasy. Maybe it was okay, sharing was fine.

And ‘course— sharing was fine with Volt. He enjoys hanging out with other objects, whether it’s Johnny and Jean’s questionable qualifications to perform at the bar or Dorian’s gentle love towards the human— a proof of their shared goal in this house they all inhabited, to see and feel the soft ray of love granted upon them. The only real dilemma being to convince his first and most beloved to share too.

Eddie had always been a little— touchy feely. He owned very little things and sharing when in itself, he already had nothing, rubbed at him the wrong way. But with what he saw today, having the human choose just felt cruel— heartless, too heavy for someone with so very little strength.

“Volt?” They called out when Jean Loo’s turn neared, wide, soft doe eyes finally zeroing in on him with a tilt of their head and the slightest demanding on their face,

(His name on their tongue felt like the softest kiss— slowly and passionately letting their tongues intertwined in his fantasy. A soft tentative dance in which Volt lets himself be used by them. Reassures them they can take and take from him, feed from the electricity he provided to regain their own strength and that his happiness truly resided in just being in their presence).

“Yes, livewire?” He adds almost breathlessly— watching as they lazily let Jean pet their hair— a soft hesitant smile drawing itself on their face, the corner not quite up as if confused on how to coordinate the expression to start with.

“…Does Eddie not want to see me?” Their voice died down, head hung low in shame at having made someone uncomfortable— that just like with their mother, their mere presence is enough to make someone vomit. And they understand it, they are defective, repulsive. 

And with a sigh— Volt is reminded of his other battle, to finally spark some sense in the other man's head and make his faulty wires come to life so he finally attempts to love instead of shutting out the one thing that eagerly waits for him and worries.

“I’ll get him another day, ‘kay?” He promises. Watching the hesitant smile spreading to their face as Jean Loo gets up, ready to put on a show.

“Wish me luck,” the rapper grins and both Volt and the houseowner giggle— offering him wide smiles.

“Goodluck!”

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“…Mom, why do things die?” They had asked one day— watching their progenitor quietly bury away the small stray cat they had brought in, the life drained and its fur stiff, ready to join wherever it was that cat joy when they perished.

(When one day ago, in this same spot in the grass of their garden— they were playing with the feline, lying in the grass and letting lick at their face, tender, filled with love and undeniably theirs— the single sign of existence they had, thrown out the window).

When no answer came, they asked again. “Mom,” they begin— watching as her shoulders trembled and her own lips parted, tears filling her shamefully hung head, coughing. And yet— curiosity outweighed her empathy. “Where will kitty go now?” 

And maybe it’s because just like them, she didn’t know. But all she could do was sob and finally look at the source of misfortune and cover her mouth to prevent the bile building up at the innocence and admiration in her child’s face— something so pure that would be tainted by being raised by someone like her, with trembling hands, they cupped their scarred face, watched as they trusted her so easily and leaned in.

“It’ll watch over you.” She concluded, dirt filled hands swiping at the waterfalls adorning the toddler’s face before tightly bringing them down to hug— cursing at her own incapacity to function normally and apologizing over and over again. “It’s not your fault baby, mommy swears.” She squeezed tighter and tighter, watching as they coughed while she sobbed harder— unsure whether or not she was reassuring herself or him.

“It’s not your fault.. it never was.” 

Living itself was just the source of sin.

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Once again— they jolt awake. A routine well known by now to Betty and Timothy, the clock and bed already looking at them with a single question in their gaze; “bad dream?” and in return, they’d quietly nod and watch how instinctively the cat offered his head despite the embarrassment staining his face.

Gently, they place their palm on the other’s head as Betty lets out a hearty chuckle at the expense of the other’s pride. A small price to pay to observe the soft expression drawing itself on their human’s face and the collapse of the neat schedule Timmy had laid out for them— nightmares are an odd variable he completely forgot to count in. 

“You should go back to sleep, darlin’.” Betty voices out, lazily joining the owner’s hand in Timothy's hair as they nod quietly.

(And in moments like those, they think about that little cat that left them— poke at the clock’s ears and reminisce about how stubbornly shy it had been too in their care, and for a second they’re almost convinced that it’s exactly as mother said— that it’ll constantly watch over them).

And when the next morning comes and they unmistakably wake up in a tangle of their own limbs and the addition of either object at their side— they can’t help but chuckle a bit, as dry as it sounds— Skylar’s joy reaching higher than the ceiling as she peeks in, accompanied by Mateo’s curious and soft gaze.

“Aren’t they cute? This is actually workin’!” The glasses would explain before being cut off by the blanket, a finger before her lips to remind her of the allowed voice volume lest she wanted the human to wake up in a panic, carefully and softer this time, she giggled.

“It’s workin!” She whispered and Mateo agreed with a lazy nod of his head, eyes focused on the rising and falling of their human’s chest.

“Can’t believe they haven’t noticed you ain’t been on their head all day.” He chuckled— fondly leaning against the doorframe and watching the other object quietly placing a hand on her chest, calmly nodding alongside his words.

“We’re one step closer to the goal, no?” She inquired— and leaning in closer with the same dumb smile gracing his features, Mateo immediately agreed.

“Yeah..” he trailed off. “One step closer.”

What a funny thing it was— gentle yet blazing love, a flame that each day grew warmer and warmer with the promise of something— their owner’s happiness.

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The first time Mateo met the human was very far apart from Teddy, Skylar— anyone really but still very early. Despite having grown old by now and ready to be discarded, the moment Sam’s mother had passed by with him in their arms— the human had insisted on keeping him, mimicking a grabbing motion until the woman finally gave in and draped him over their form.

They hadn’t even been that young then— 19 with a sleep schedule worse than Parker’s attempts at keeping quiet, insistent on the value of objects and never letting them die.

“Are you really gonna throw that away?” They had asked— their adoptive mother already knowing where the conversation was heading and accepting to have kept the now old ‘tissue’. Ever since then, they never slept far away from him when they were too lazy to reach their bed and he, in exchange, would do his best to never fail them.

That kind of sappy little attraction in which, the moment when they had been given his responsibility— they clutched the mere cloth tight, whispered to it as if it was actually listening. 

“I’ll still love you no matter how much others would wanna throw you.” Much like their mother had said and behaved too— no matter how useless they had been to her, she never gave them up until it became too much. And back then, they were undeniably ineffective in soothing any wounds she might have, only the vague teaching of cherishing everything they had stuck to their skin.

Sometimes, when late at night and nicely tucked on their couch with Mateo hugging their form— is this what mother wanted? Was she finally proud and at ease knowing what they had?

How long would they have to wait for her to come back? To once again reunite and be useful, by her side.

Chapter Text

School is— or well, was the bane of the human’s existence— the day they graduated was probably the happiest day of their life despite the responsibility that came crashing upon them and the undeniable parting from the only family they'd had. In a fit of independence, they had decorated their house just how they wanted— not quite with new furniture but various hand-me-downs that other people had long since discarded. 

That’s the thing with them, they think— they were stubborn to a fault and essentially had transformed their school days into a battlefield because of the terrible behavior they exhibit. An instinct to fight, when back then, they still had that fire inside of them, unlike the long running waterfall of the years of desperation that came to destroy their once solid and bright flame.

(They hated it back then— just like they do now, their weakness. And yet after years and years of mellowing, they think about what the young brat they were would say. Look them in the eyes and confidently call them a phony, a dimwit who can’t even look at their opponents’ in the eye).

Before their mother's death, they had never flown. When the words “fight or flight” came to present themselves before them, they’d always bare their fists and teeth in retaliation— not because they liked the surge to dominate and the adrenaline that came with being hurt, but instead the sweet care that would come after, the pathetic glances other students would give them. The loving gaze and soft touch of the nurse as she congratulated me for not actually fighting back and waiting for an adult to intervene.

The idea that to other people, even if not important as a mother— they existed. That yes, they hadn’t fully become an object yet, filled them with joy like no others.

“I know it’s wrong..” They had murmured to the woman one day— watching the silly stickers and bandaids that she slowly placed on their skin before humming softly, a reminder, an acknowledgement that yes— she was listening to them. “But I like that it hurts.” They whispered, scratching at their bruised face— a gift from mother, their reminder of their sinful existence.

They had gotten into a lot of trouble that day. So many people visited the house and talked about “proper care”, “protecting children” just to in the end slam the door in their face and leaving them with the fury of the very woman they suspected to do wrong. That sunday, they were cleansed even more, head kept underwater longer than they could afford— the first few cracks in mother’s attempted love, that yes, they were a product of her creation. But that just like a bored child could rip apart a doll, they were a puppet still hanging in the air because she decided so.

After that, they remained quiet or more so— they grew quieter, learned to ignore their own existence and only came into the light of the world when allowed. When their name is called out and that they go from object to human— from a simple cut-out decorating the background to a fully sentient, articulated, breathing thing. That’s what the objects in their house make them feel like.

Alive— grossly and disgustingly organic and raw. Put on spot as the main lead of a grotesque dating sim which they leaned into because Skylar used their only weakness; being unable to say no.

It’s almost unfair how easily they caved in when she leaned in close and begged— pressed herself just far away yet close enough to bring out the yearning in her eyes despite the glasses making it hard to get, they weren’t even sure if they were hallucinating again or life was really weird, but just like a highschooler being cornered and put on the spot by their crush, they flushed— stuttered and ultimately sighed.

And with “okay, i’ll try”— sealed their fate to be hung and paraded around the town. An exaggeration but exactly what they felt like.

It’s complicated really, to understand how or what they feel except love— not that kind of love, no! But gentle admiration and shame that so many people have to put up with, that in the grand deal of things, the objects they’ve cherished are happy and healthy and that makes them happy, but they also feel deeply that they’re the owner they ended up stuck with.

“Overthinking again, are we not, my petal?” —and they would jolt awake every time, haunted by the beautiful dark pools that were Memoria’s eyes, and with a hand to their chest they would watch her get up from where she (elegantly) crouched by the bed and chuckle with fondness.

(An odd thing that was— when in the first meeting and the whole debacle with Artt and Cam, they weren’t sure what to do with their memories. When they opened the various boxes they had stocked away in shame and watched the dust that had collected on the thousands of desperate drawings of their mother they had made— to keep them or lose them, they didn’t remember what they did with them by now).

“..Why are you here?” They whispered, letting their heart calm down. “Well, you’ve got a nasty habit to forget how this works.” One finger lazily prodding at their forehead, the woman tsked. “You think and hoard that love— those memories, and, I— my sweet darling..” a pause, their eyes following her fingers as she proudly points at herself.. Her stance is reminiscent of mother on good days, when she was on top of the world and them? They were lower than the dirt.

“You’re doing it again.” They sighed. “Again and again— you cherish everything, but how long can you keep it going? I thought the boxes were good enough, to let you pick what you wanted and didn’t want anymore, physically.” They flick their forehead— and despite her annoyed expression, it’s actually quite gentle. 

They aren’t sure when or how their head ends up in the woman’s lap, or when they start sobbing and offering themselves bare to the point of almost throwing up, but they do. And all they get instead of disgust, is the feeling of soft well kept nails scratching at their scalp, promises whispered as if at the altar.

“Let it go,” she’d silently signal, lips close to their ear and smile evident in the way she spoke her words. “That’s right, cherish only the moments you have now and forget the drowning sorrow.”

Go to sleep weak. Like you’ll always be, but wake up with me— a brand new me.

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Telly thinks he can love to death— a huge exaggeration but when have they ever been quiet about the way they behave or feel? It’s amusing really, just how opposite him and his beloved are— kind of like a loud, eager and excited golden retriever being heads over heels for a meek, shy, and terrorized rabbit.

(They’ve always liked the loud noises from TV too— the only thing they could tolerate because the volume laid in their hand, and no matter how much he hated the idea of volume control, they had to admit that being stared at for hours on end much like Mac often was brought a weird static like feeling in their chest).

That is to say, they’ve got it bad— and they know. Everytime the human seeks them out is another moment where his love grows and grows, fueled by the fact that they look at him in the eyes without caring how loud he gets even with the slight flinch that sometimes overtakes them when it very much feels like he just broke the sound barrier. So, he tries to keep his volume in check.

“So,” Is how the owner would often let their conversations go, head tilted and a gentle yet unsure smile gracing their lips as they nervously got comfortable on the floor and patted the spot next to them. “..What does television even watch?” —curiosity, a nasty little thing with them but all the more welcomed by the expecting object, and so he entertains the question.

What does he like, honestly? Well, seeing his beloved’s face as they enjoy a show that’s for sure. But in terms of his own satisfaction, he isn’t too aware or what he could and could not like. And in response, they propose to him the sweetest yet most chaotic idea, someone who’s unaware that so many people are pining for them.

“Movie Night.” Telly blinks a few times— not in confusion but by the seriousness following such simple words, how pumped up they sounded and how close they leaned in, enough to have his cables short-circuiting. But ever so the people pleaser just like all the channels he offered, he retaliated. “..Movie Night?”

And they nodded, backing up a little while gently picking up Phoenicia.

(That was the thing with them, they were always gentle— even before knowing the device was alive, they’d cherish and panic at the thoughts of having hurt her, diligently make sure to never squeeze her in their bag in fear of causing the screen to crack— one of a long list of reasons why Telly, in any situations, would always yearn to inch closer to the owner. To clumsily and loudy expose their love with the hope of being accepted, in any way. Even if he had to share).

“…I read that people who are—” they tremble, almost as if afraid the words will burn on their tongue. “..really close do that. Let’s do that with the others, as much as possible— find out what everyone likes or something close to that, please.” 

That takes Telly aback but also feels him with a familiar warmth— reminds him why it’d be cruel to have them choose when they love so well. And when taken by an usual boldness known to him, he prompts the human to climb on his lap before hugging them and getting up, spinning them around and yelling as loudly as possible, just like in his nature.

They can’t help but laugh a bit— throaty and stuttery, something between a scream and yet an actual giggle as they’re lifted by the object— it’s in those rare moments that the other objects can understand just how human deep down the owner still is, no matter what happened— that the goal isn’t to fix this, but to help them soothe back into their skin, bask in the bliss that yes, this is how they want to see them every day.

Laughing like a fool— clinging to whichever object is glued to their side then, as Telly encases them and they sigh in relief, he can’t help but let it out as gently as he can— hidden behind layers of bad commercials and terrible romcoms.

“Isn’t this fun?” He stills— still holding them in his arms and looking up at them. And when the human pauses, hand placed on Telly’s shoulders and eyes glimmering in the slightest despite their quivering lips, he can only hold his breath as they part and the sound cascades up their throat.

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

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The job interview comes faster than they’d hope— the switch from the lovely day where they spent half of their afternoon discussing with Telly who they could get on board and how fun it’d be to standing in front of their computer, only aided or pressured by the sharp woman before them— it started 2 hours ago, Willi insisting on shaping them for the deal, that if they failed after this, they may as well have a better career in begging and crying on the internet.

(A tough answer but something to add fuel to the fire— to see their shoulders straighten and to show her love in the best way that she can, strict but soft around the edges. Fully here to support her beloved and tell them when or how to answer— on a moral standpoint and all around work life standard, it’s a bit of a cheat, but love makes you blind to work ethics, no? This will be her only transgression).

And man was having Willi silently guiding them the best choice Mac and Penelope— it was flawless, if they could praise the personification of work to that extent. Once it was over and the man on call with their owner seemed satisfied and the conversation soon met its end, they couldn’t help but all reassure them that surely they’d get it, that they did so good and that most of the answers came from them and it was honest.

And despite the embarrassment racing to their face and the shaky hold they had on their own fingers— the human extended a hand towards Willi while she scrutinized them, sighed softly and let the faintest of smiles show itself before anyone in the room could blink.

In a surge of sappy emotion— she lazily ruffles their head sighing before shaking her head and laughing. “I guess we’ve found a new job, huh?” and as soon as such overwhelmingly and embrassingly raw words leaves her, Willi is gone. Leaving a human with a soft smile on their face.

“We did..” They trail off, unaware of Mac and Penelope’s own growing smiles.

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Jean Loo has a problem— he likes like the human. Badly. And no matter how soft and silly Johnny tries to frame it, he knew from the moment they had begin to march his way that he was doomed, their confidence as inexistent as his so called rap career, the awkwardness on their face and wide eyes when he had started rapping out of nowhere.

Something he’s vulnerable enough to confess to Johnny and Volt and boy— does he immediately regret it. They’re immediately laughing around their shared table, the booze the only thing keeping his real sadness at bay for the unnecessary giggles before perking up when Volt himself lays his head on the table, slurring and whining much like the singer was earlier.

“I get it,” he hums. “Not really because I mean— have you seen me?” He rubs it in before lazily leaning his head on the toilet’s shoulder, chuckling under his breath and coughing lightly. “Eddie avoids them like the plague because he’s much more of a scaredy cat than he’d like to admit— it’s driving me crazy.” A few sparks float here and there and Johnny hums, patting the other’s back as the other singer lazily scratches at his hair.

That’s the problem with package deals— one could agree and the other would disagree— and honestly they get it, neither Johnny nor Jean is sure if they liked thid whole sharing bit— but in an effort to try, they’ve come to find nice surprises. Like how kind some objects could be, Betty’s soft words, Timmy’s mischievousness only for Timothy to have to fix whatever mess he created later.

Not everyone can be Curt and Rod— Volt probably had to make his peace with that.

Because honestly, who else could be like Curt and Rod? Joined at the hip even in their love— Johnny still remembers walking in on the two and the owner laughing, neatly placed at either side of them. Rod content with his arms wrapped around their waist and Curt debating which lipstick would suit them better, a perfect synergy he had yet to see really replicated with any other duo.

And as Volt whines and complains, the only thing Johnny can do is reminisce on how happy the human had looked— albeit a bit stressed at the attention being so focused on them but undeniably content to be pampered. And with his heads in the cloud, Johnny thinks and thinks.

And he knows that making them choose is much more cruel.

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Lesson 34 is to shut up when asked— the child does not shut up when mother is having bad days. Because a child is a mother’s divine punishment, a reminder of her baby out of wedlock, taunting and begging her to be fed, again and again it whines. ‘Feed me feed me’ it whispers in her ears like the snake it is, and when she jolts awake at night. The woman is scared.

Scared at her own cowardiness— unable to bear the weight of a child she brought into this world because of her values— that any life had meaning. And on Sundays when she becomes the church’s punchline on why choosing wisely the man of their dream matters, she grows bitter and bitter.

(Because she is doing her best— she wants to cherish this child. She wants to have it soak up her twisted love, but how can she when looking at it makes all the bile go up and have her hesitating to even acknowledge it to begin with? Almost as if her touches burns, the nurturer avoids the plant it’s meant to take care of. And so begins the vicious cycle).

“Mom,” they would call out quietly— tugging at the woman’s arm and watching her tug herself away from their grip. Shamefully stare at the ground and let the request bury itself in their stomach, ignore the other children rushing to the ice cream truck and shut up.

The world is a sick and twisted place and their mother is the only one who can and will save them— so patiently they wait, hug her, kiss her cheek and never admits defeat even when pushed away. Because everything you love will pay you back ten times fold, they know it’s true because mother said so.

And even as they stand in the mirror with Amir hesitantly and carefully tracing their scars— they can’t help but wait, stare at the spilting image of someone they never knew because mother always insisted that no matter what, they would forever be more their father than her and swallow their cry back— when the object wraps his arms around them and hum in that lone of his and calls them beautiful, all they can do is not to avoid be sick.

Because their mother was a beauty and they got none of it— and late at night like these, when they understand how wrong they turned and how vile and terrible their existence had been for her— they have one single prayer.

To live with love— to be a being so gentle that anyone can count on them to lean on, that deep in the sea— they never become the anchor that ties people down and restrains them from moving on.

That if people really want to be happy, they should never love an anchor— and that they won’t be that. They’ll be the free ship sailing from harbor to harbor, pleasing everyone around them.

Living not for the woman who’s gone, but for the life she would’ve wanted them to lead. Because deep down they knew it, mother was full of expectations that were simple. They remember her words— when her touch was soft, the night before they parted.

“Live a good life— my child. A honest life.”

Chapter Text

“Mom?” They would call out— hidden and protected by the oversized sweater handed down to them by the nice neighbors across their place— shrink in on themselves in an attempt to not give way to ugliness, to not give mother a reason to succumb to the juice’s madness.

(“Juice” as they childishly called it, to drown out the idea that their mother is an alcoholic, that she was dependent and venomous when she had it— and that if they pretended that instead, she was having a nice glass of something they appreciated too, then, it’d be fine).

(It never did, and instead— the idea of drinking anything but water to their little toddler brain became impossible. Soon enough, booze went from juice to juice and poison— a slow toxin, the thing they firmly believed would be their mother’s fall, the reason why she would not caress and love them again, discard them).

Oh and how they so wholeheartedly wished they had not the need to bother their progenitor but not only had they not eaten for 3 days but they couldn’t help but sniff at the sting of the shards of the many shattered bottles lying around as if carefully setting traps of her making.

And so like any child who wants to be a burden that a parent has to bear— they sobbed and sobbed, tiny little whines and moans and when “mama” “mommy” or “please” did not work, they would instead turn away, watch the soon to be object that the human their mother was would become. A static piece of art to forever haunt their mind.

(Much like her hanging corpse haunts their days and nights— when the houseowner thinks of where they’ll end up, they pray it’s anywhere but a few feet above the ground, being begged to come back just to never see it— a second chance at life).

And when mother forgets to water the plant they are and give them nutrients, the tiny little sin just waits. Waits until they can’t anymore, until their body inevitably shuts down and their eyes close and for a second, or a few hours, they disappear to Neverland.

Neverland is Neverland because it does not exist— they make it up. Neverland is a place free of shame and guilt, and in it— there are no cleansings on Sundays or agonizing and sharp meant blows to their form, in Neverland, they do not exist.

For if the filth they are was never born, mother would have not been punished by God. And they are the witness of her transgression as her sin out of wedlock— a lamb not pure by default but immediately tainted as the guilty audience of a dog tearing itself apart to not become a ruthless wolf.

Because mother bites, and in return, they watch.

(They are witness to their own meaningless life, a doll discarded and then acknowledged— put on a pedestal then cruelly ripped apart by the avid collector that bought it in the first place, the chew toy to a sweet dog that at any point could become a ruthless dog).

And nonetheless, they will die with mother’s sigil as their branding— a reminder of a childlike love for a figure that was never truly gentle to begin with, a product of her dreadful environment.

They are and will die their mother’s child, born from her torn wings and waiting indefinitely.

(For her return, for her embrace).

And waiting, of course, drives you crazy.

Ben-Hwa is everything they do not want to come near of, not because they are a rude and crude person— but because they represent everything lesson 56 in the imaginary guidebook they’ve made, is not right.

The houseowner does not want to give way to life, even if they can or can not. They do not want to talk about intimacy, about sex— about anything close to it far away from an object inserting itself into any part of them.

(Like a syringe, an awful one— much like the desperate sting that the one mother would bring out when so powerless to serve her living doll, she’d instead put them to sleep and silently beg them to not wake up— to not carry such a burden anymore).

Birthing is a shameful, nauseating and overly genetically doomed situation. For they carry all of their parents’ sins, from the helpless victim that itself became a lost hound to the predator that found itself clawing at the shell of a young lady he had already broken, and with it— offering her a lifetime of suffering by handing her his perfect replica.

Because everything mother has always said must be right, they are the splitting image of her torment. So with such insight, they have no right to lament.

“I’m sorry.” —it’s all they’ve ever been able to say, the perfect script sent from heaven itself to a gag like them, ironic, when the one hurt here is not only them— Ben-Hwa must be hurt, because they too are a gag, more than them and that hurts, to be a joke in everyone’s eyes.

(Much like mother was the church’s punching line and them too, alongside it. Two little things you could point and use as scapegoats for why marriage is important and why choosing a man who believes in ‘Him’ whoever he was, was the one).

And they hate it, to be so meek. When Ben-Hwa quiets and instead offers a soft smile compared to the blow they expected to come for stealing the rightful hurt they must feel, the shame crawls up for their tummy to their throat— ready to throw it up and show just how guilty they are, and yet, it doesn’t come and they don’t touch either.

But they can see they are hurt— they hurt an object, when they swore to cherish anything given to them.

“I’m sorry.” They repeat, sealing their embarrassing act as the victim a little further and watch the pang of hurt flashing through the other. “I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I’ll do it right, please just give me time.” -You scare me so bad, they don’t add.

And Ben-Hwa, desperate for love just like the owner is— is quiet, they only offer a soft uncomfortable smile masked by a want to appear strong, and when everything seems lost they laugh— laugh so softly that even the human can’t help but think of why they are, and when they’ve got their beloved’s attention, they cave into the degrading honesty that comes with offering yourself bare, and not in the good way they’d like to be.

“Honestly,” The object starts, the houseowner sniffs, steps a bit closer but obviously shakes— and in return, Ben-Hwa takes two steps back, like they both are disgusting to the other.

“I don’t mind that you feel like I’m… dirty.” They admit, hesitantly staring anywhere but at them, they confess. Because this is what they signed up for by being in Skylar’s little love game, one of the very things the other hates or more so, feels shame for— intimacy, sexual intimacy but they will be so much more, they can be so much more.

“I just hope that at one point, we can talk heart to—” Ben-Hwa almost added.

 “we will!” a quick desperate yell, the human so quickly corrects it, as if unwilling to think about the fact they are the main factor of this awkward dilemma that the root of their shameful life is their own doing, and shakingly pawing at their shirt, they make a promise.

“Please believe me.. I think we can have this figured out— I can be so much more.” 

They want to be so much more.

Lesson 87 is to die if you can’t make things right, die and save worthy people the trouble of wasting their hours by being near you. The houseowner does not want to die, but they cannot live with the thought of hurting someone.

And although they cannot stop their spiraling frenzy, in an attempt to soothe them— the suspicious bag of objects nods and places a hand on their head.

“I will wait. Months, years, decades. Please, darlin’, I mean it— never push yourself for me, I know how much you want me to matter to you, and how much I want you to find meaning in me.. at our own filthy speed.”

Waiting. Waiting drives you crazy.

────────

Curt and Rod are willing to do anything for their third, even if it means learning to nerd it out and in the process, not getting it at all. And although they are friend with everyone and anyone— they have a hard time understanding Parker and Chance’s love of games, but if it is interesting not only to the objects but their beloved houseowner, then yes, they are willing to understand whatever “G&G” or “Battleship” are and how exactly fun they are.

But in the meantime, to make sure to start out with a simple game— the human was presented 3 options: Monopoly, Uno and Scrabble— so essentially classics, in a way. At least classy enough that the likes of the two best friends actually know what is being talked about.

And when faced with choices, the homeowner goes catatonic— as if struck by lightning, they feel as though they’ve basically had an anvil slammed down on them with the responsibility.

In the end, Curt and Rod choose. And so, they play Uno. Unconventionally much to Parker’s dismay, because instead of actually picking up cards too and joining in on the fun, they instead simply help the owner in their strategy, a little cheat-y like, something he normally wouldn’t tolerate, but he’s not that cruel. 

(And it’s almost a bit too adorable how squished the three are, like a sandwich— an odd comparison, but it has its meaning!).

“So.. I placed the number, but if I have.. more numbers?” The houseowner echoed while shakily eyeing their card— if Chance didn’t know any better, he’d think they were being held hostage and forced to play the game.

“Ta-ah! Hold on, I'm thinking, sugar!” Curt quickly whisper-yelled while Rod lazily leaned in, eyes already closing while snuggling to the owner, his head draped over their shoulder and face slightly buried in their nape— from there on, they thought they all zoned out in a way.

And the homeowner didn’t even win, Parker did— but they clearly had fun if the smile they had on their face while watching the other celebrate was anything to go by at least.

It was cute— how they could feel such a simple joy at seeing someone else content, with a slight giggle that cut itself short when they realized so many eyes were on them— breathing in and out before looking at the ground in shame.

“Sorry.” -is all they say, all they can ever say despite knowing they don’t have to. 

“Oh! It’s no problem really.. my! Well now that we’ve finished, how about an introduction to Grottos and Gargoyles?” Chance offers and the owner smiles a tiny bit, nods and relaxes slightly.

..They’ve always wanted to play games, any game..

Back when they had their mother. But some things change, and if their only opportunity to ever experience the joy of being taught something a child would find fun and find meaning in it, then they’d gladly let themselves be guided.

Towards a good life, an honest— happy and sugary life, one filled with the past but moving to a more hopeful future. 

────────

Johnny loves some good ol’ time romance and Johnny Splash is more than a feeble part time lover— and more than all, he’s got more than one hand. Sharing is caring some say and Johnny although in his own blues at the idea of his time being taken up, welcomes Jean-Loo into his and his beloved’s favorite hobby with no problem or awkwardness, they’ve gone a long way from the thrashing or crying that came with the word “bathing”.

Or maybe it helps that Johnny is not Bathsheba— because for all her flair and loving prose, she sometimes forget the owner is anything but the likes of him and Rebel, thick skinned and able to handle a few demands from a rather harsh lady, and in her shame at not being treated like royalty— she accidentally scares their beloved away. And in return, to not be a burden, the owner avoids her asides from when dragged to take a bath.

(Or maybe, along with Ben-Hwa, what she represents does not go well with the owner’s mind. Showering is something, a full body bath— it’s a cleansing, and deities know just how ‘well’ that word is swallowed by the human, and still, they do not hate the woman.. they simply do not know how to treat her like she deserves).

“They like it when you make sure they’re not cold, but not too hot. Isn’t that right, darling?” The owner does not respond, hugging their knees while quietly watching Rebel floats around them, eyes silently sparkling despite their half-lidded state. That’s why Johnny is not a part time lover.

He always chooses the best time in his book to coax the other into showering— right after they’ve either been tired out by the Hanks or the games fanatics that are Parker and Chance. Or even more rarely, like today, when they’ve basically been used as a rope for a tug of war by Dirk and Harper, the chaos getting to their head to the point where all they can do is walk up to their room, flop on the bed, and let Betty’s warmth comfort them.

They’re less likely to resist, tremble and shake, that’s another story— but Johnny is good at what he does, and Jean can see it like he sees the beauty of the other face.

Jean has been thinking— thinking about something other than music. He’s been thinking of Johnny and the houseowner, and how he too— can be part of a duo, as weirded out as the concept goes. Volt and Eddie are an item, and Curt and Rod too— and yet, they both want the owner, so why couldn’t it be the same for the three of them?

It can be the same, for the three of them.

────────

2 days before mother’s judgement.

There is a dead child in the house, this house has people in it. And the people are not people— the child is not a child, it’s a martyr. And inside said house, is a soon to be corpse.

The house has a tv with a dead pixel in its corner— to common people it does not exist, but in the child’s mind, it’s always there.

(And like the dead pixel— they haunt their mother’s days and nights, the child is a tyrant, a never present constant that tears at the woman’s self regulation, eats away at her until she has nothing left, makes her puke out all her safety net plans and have the other feed on it).

The child is alive, but the mother will not live. Judgement day will let the man above truly decide whether or not she really was the rightful punching ball of the common church people, and as such— she tries to do the right thing, feed that dead, haunting and mind occupying dead pixel.

One last time, for the sake of a good consciousness. 

Let it go, grow a little— how long until this dreadful burden is a little taller, how long until she watches from hell how they destroy themselves like she did, as if growing peaceful for a second, she crouches down— squeezes at her poisonous gift and sobs— like the child, she too is. Too little to be grown, too grown to the church to be small.

(A child-like mother and its motherly child— the tiny little thing blinks and smiles, leans in and ruffles her hair with a giggle and a sniff, they both are crybabies. Both weighed by a different agony).

“It’s okay, mama.” They assure, blink and kiss the woman’s face as if their kiss can heal— they’ve seen it at school a bit. How some mommies kiss their children better like magic, maybe if they believe it hard, instead of hurting their mommy by existing— they can heal her and meet their part of the deal.

And what a peculiar thing it is, why, unlike other tiny things— they’re so useless. And all they can say is the most useless thing to a walking corpse, an idiot ghost— a woman dead to shame.

“Mom..” They started, humming and hugging her as tight as they could.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’ll be very nice, I’m so sorry.”

(Sorry for existing, sorry for killing the only little happiness you could have had).

“I’ll be quiet, I’ll be pure. I’ll be cute.”

(I’ll be an object, like you want me to be).

“I won’t be like papa, please. I swear, don’t cry. I’m sorry it’s my fault.”

(Child like its mother, like mother like child).

And now, looking back at it— they were always a sick and cruel DNA guarantee. Born to inherit the rot flesh of their father but also the guilt of their mother, as Doug degrades them and pushes them, they can’t help but think.

Are they really that unworthy? They have so many things they need to be.

What a pitiful and egoistical damn crack baby, born to repeat the same cycle and die in the same agony just like they were cursed to— they remembered asking such fooling questions.

“Mommy, am I happy?” “Mommy? Am I alive?”

“Mommy, why did you hurt me so bad?”

Kill them, bury them— and then, let them realize their mistake. The houseowner does not want death or to be treated like a mere toy, they’ve realized.

It’s beautiful out today, they shouldn’t let themselves be in such a shameful state.

…Is this the real goal in the end? To live, for themselves? That maybe, they don’t own anyone, their heart nor body, but people should know that they’re sorry and will prove improvement is possible as soon as they can make it.

That no, they will not die, wrist stained and body littered around and staining— against the kitchen floor.

They see it now, they’re doing their best— they just haven’t learned to be as human as the objects are yet.  

They’re much less exposed if they take off their clothes.