Oogie's Muse (Jack Skellington x Reader)

5 - Nominee from Hell

Y/n appeared against the black, backdrop sky as the setting sun - casting a shimmering beam of warmth to light as she entered the room. There was no denying it, she was radiant in all aspects.  She was like the illusive black rose, from the cascading curls of her chestnut locks to the pumpkin-orange gown separating in glittering shards around her carroty bodice, tumbling gradually into luminescent waves with every tentative step she dared to take. There was only one problem : Y/n didn't smile.
Despite Oogie Boogie dragging his coarse elbow against her shoulder blade painfully. She was adamant. She would not smile, possibly never again. Just the action alone would fragment any bit of bitter, wintry heart that hadn't thawed in Jack's company. Although Y/n would never admit it to any soul, living or dead, it hurt her to think that she was practically attending Jack's engagement party. She contained a sneer as she glided across the dancefloor to the refreshment table, leaving Oogie in the dust. She could imagine it perfectly.

Jack clad in his refined, black-white suit with a defensive arm draped over a perfect maiden with flawless skin, curled lips and eyes that reflected heavenly light that made her look like she was a Miss Universe run-away.

She shook her head slightly, rattling the thought from her mind, and poured herself a glass of granulated pumpkin juice with the use of a ladle. She sighed and took a long sip, wishing that it was a strong rum. She hadn't tasted rum or alcohol before, but she did meet a pirate that talked about it like it was liquefied gold. Then again, she thought, he did vomit on my shoes before the end of the conversation. Giggling to herself quietly, she stalked to a desolate corner in the vast, extravagant ballroom and casually draped herself against the darkwood wall, tilting her head to the side and watching the synchronised waltzing of the Halloween citizens. She sighed again. What she'd give to be in love and have someone she loved to love her back.
Oogie was great, she assumed lightly. He gave her everything she needed; food fit for a queen, clothing decked with jewels of every colour, cut and clarity; silky soft sheets and plump pillows and he even brushed her hair on the rare occasion. She tried once to give him affection, to not writhe away from his coarse hugs or grimace in his direction. But Oogie just took things too far - he truly wasn't an admiring ransid sack of creepy crawlies on the inside. No, he was a lustful ransid eroticism-craving sack of creepy crawlies on the inside.

Suddenly, amidst her contemplation, Y/n was thrusted to the floor when a brutal, manicured hand forced her chest downward, causing her cheeks to burn red with the winds escaping her lips. She struggled for breath as two, Olympus-high heels paraded past her to the desert table. She was startled when they instead turned in her direction.
Glancing up, she was met by two unimpressed bottle-green eyes and pulled back raven hair.
The raven-haired female in the fiery red dress glanced down at her with her rosy red lips rearing in digust, 'Uck, what are those things on your feet? What century did you get those from?'
At the mouth of her dress, Y/n's oldest pair of hightops peeked from the silky material. They were one of the only memorabilia of her old life on earth and they were comfortable on her feet - not to mention that she couldn't walk an inch in heels. She blushed a rich rosy red and decided that it would be best not to answer - this woman in front of her was a wild inferno, a dancing flame and if Y/n wanted to mess with her - she would be burned.
Scraping together her fallen dignity, Y/n got to her feet gradually and glared at the woman. Surprisingly, the woman giggled in a high-pitched amused tone.
"Look at that dress! Did you find it while you were dumpster-diving?"

Y/n frowned,"What is dumpster-diving?"
The raven-haired 'angel of death' scoffed and mumbled something about a stupid witch under her breath before returning to the Turks with every inch of her superficial wavy locks tumbling over her never-eaten-a-day-in-her-life shoulders.
Y/n sighed in melancholia, she wished she looked as much of a goddess as she who bares the title as the Turkey representative, Binay Yalçin. Or how nice it would be to be able to walk a mile in her cherry-red Paris Hilton originals and swishy scarlet tango-dress.