It was so subtle that only Rollo himself could recognize the signs- the glances, the grumbles, the glares at anyone (Rollo included) who dared to get too close

And then he comes into the lounge to see his tsum cuddling on your lap, when Rollo himself hasn't so much as worked up the nerve to hold your hand...

He's in his room shaking on his hands and knees in agony all night

When you ask if he's okay the next morning he tells you he just had some trouble with the fireplace

You let him lean on you for support and he is sated (for now)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Fellow Honest

...Tried (and failed) to teach his tsum-self to do little tricks

It was too stubby to jump through a hoop, too round to perform aerial acrobatics, and when he tried getting it in costume (hand-sewn by Fellow himself), the thing took his cane and started beating him with it

Fellow had long given up on his tsum self, and so by the time Rollo was storming out of the lounge, Fellow was there to cackle about the kid being jealous of a jelly bean

...Then he caught you kissing and petting his tsum, and it wasn't so funny anymore

Having given up on his dreams of touring the world with the living hacky sack, he set out to catch it and mail it to somewhere you'd never see it again

His first attempt (hanging anvil) failed (there's a totally unrelated giant hole in the floor of the gardening shed now by the way (don't tell Rollo))

His second attempt (exploding piano keys) also failed (bomb didn't go off for the tsum, Fellow tried it, no more piano/eyebrows/nose hair)

His third attempt is drying on the side of the house as we speak, a painting of a road on the brick, his most genius scheme yet! This one will work for sure!

Concussion.

But at least he got you to dedicate your afternoon to bandaging his bruises and cradling his aching head in your lap (while he smirks wickedly at his tsum across the room)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Skully J. Graves

...Is on you like glue

His tsum? In your coat pocket. Small and quiet as a baby bat, snoozing in there all day

Himself? Attached to your side, monologuing about the great beauty of the season

Skully isn't the vindictive, angry boy you met in a book hundreds of years ago- he's an aged gentleman

That is, he's not one to get jealous over himself. There's more than enough Prefect to share, after all, as long as he...

As long as... he...

...Did that little scoundrel just kiss your hand?

His cheeks burn

His tsum is trying to... woo you!

And what's worse is, it's working! You're laughing in that lovely way! The sound only his stories of adventure and witty remarks on current Halloween trends can draw out of you!

...But Skully is a gentleman, after all, and he doesn't settle spats with fist fights

He just gives his teeny self a reminder that he could use a miniature pumpkin for the decor this year, and it is just the right size...

...And then back to linking arms and escorting you around the old dorm, talking your ear off

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Swing

...Was about to eat his tsum before you intervened

He insisted he was only kidding (was he?) as you carried the poor thing away

After the tsum had been caught chasing the others with matchsticks and shards of glass one too many times, you decided to put it in a time-out, keeping it on your shoulder for the day

It cozied up real fast, getting comfortable in the crook of your neck while you went through your routine

After a while, Swing started following, shuffling down the hall after you, lingering in doorways and glaring at the bean creature on your shoulder

It glares back, and you let them have their little stare off until Swing grabs it off your shoulder and announces he's ACTUALLY going to eat it this time

Ensuing ten minutes of chasing him through the dorm while no one else tries to intervene (Rollo is tired, Fellow hates that guy, Skully is busy arranging his new miniature pumpkin on the porch)

Eventually you catch him (well, he lets you catch him) and get him to promise not to eat any tsums, including his own

In exchange, he gets to hang off your shoulder all day and watch everything you do

But blood drips from the open sore on your hand, by your knuckles, the red of it tainted by the same black lacing searingly beneath your skin.

You don't know if you screamed. You wouldn't have been surprised if you did. You must have whimpered, at the very least, because the shape on the couch shifts.

You hear a groggy grunt. A low laugh. Or maybe you're hearing things through the blood pounding in your ears. Maybe you're seeing things through your tears, because you think the fae's smile suddenly doesn't look so sharp.

A clicking sound by your ear, chiding, mocking. "Poor little grub. What a nasty bite!"

The words come honey-sweet and honey-thick and cloying. You think you hear him chide about playing with bugs or surprising Mr. Swing, but you're a little too occupied with wondering if you were dying, if this was what dying felt like, if this was really how you were gonna go after surviving Overblots and a disc to your head and the hell week of exams and-

And why? Because you thought his strange tattoo cute for a moment? Because you saw it swaying from his hood, and you offered it a cookie, as though it were Grim?

Grim would have snatched it from you, beaming.

The centipede had curled around your arm carefully, curious, you thought, as it tapped about. You had smiled, remembering the snake at the zoo you'd seen when young, then-

You can't breathe. You can't-

"Would sure be a shame if this killed you huh, roach?"

You definitely scream when he grabs your hand. Your throat stings from the scratch of it, but the cry is muffled by slate-rough skin shoving your head to the carpet. A massive hand presses its calloused skin between your teeth while his other lifts your blackened fingers to acid green eyes.

The fae hums. Then he smiles so wide, it splits his face as he bares his teeth-

You taste salt and soil and rot as your own teeth scrape his palm and another scream scrapes uselessly from your throat. You see starbursts as his fangs sink into your hand, the pain blinding, but not nearly as much as it is the very next second-

Needles scrape the inside of your skin, tracing your veins and stitching them in knots of agony. There are thousands of them, burning-hot and sharp and awful-

You don't know if you black out.

You blink, and you see Swing.

You blink, and he remains as your vision settles.

His large form sits across from you, towering despite his hunch. Your hand's still held in his, raised to his bowed head. Your fingers feel wet and warm and the hold on your wrist tightens when you try to tug. The distant pain crests in a not-so-distant wave as you feel suction on your sore skin, then ebbs again. Your veins don't look so dark anymore. His throat bobs.

You watch him suck the venom from your hand, the pain leaving with his poison.

At last, he lets go.

Your hand slips from his maw and he huffs, the breath warm against your cooling fingers as draws his hands back to prop his head up on them. You think you see crow's feet at the corners of his arrowhead eyes as you take your hand back and take in the sight of it, grimacing.

It smells of spit. On the back of it, in red punctured skin, is the v from his bug, and the marks from his teeth. They sting like any little cut, itch like any bugbite. You squeeze and only red trickles out.

You flinch at the hand on your head, but it doesn't crush you. It ruffles your head, the the dark shape before you gets up.

The fae licks his lips as he turns. At the doorway, he gives a lopsided smile as he glances back.

"Be a little less sweet next time, hmm?"