#I hope they make them into a marketable plush | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ilovepedro · 5 months

Text

Woven in the Stars | din djarin x f!reader

Series masterlist | Main masterlist

Chapter 2 - Cosmically Sewn

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~4k

Chapter summary: Din returns to town with Grogu, meeting with you to get custom clothes. Getting acquainted with the pair, you strike up an offer that could bring you and Din even closer. Will Din accept?

Chapter warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, dad!Din, flirting, one (1) use of the word “daddy” in a nonsexual way, reader refers to Din as ‘Mando’ (for now 🤭), POV switching, inaccurate star wars info, liberties taken with the Creed, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N, none really mostly just pining and fluff

A/N: hi everybody!!! tank you for sticking with me, life has been so hectic lately to say the least 🙃 but these two are finally acquainted with one another! the smut will happen eventually so bear with me y’all! i will throw y’all a bone occasionally, but the freak narsty smut happens all at the end. gotta let these two babies pine and let that slow burn burnnnn! can y’all sense i’m a sucker for the buildup? hehehe anyway i hope y’all enjoy! 🩵 not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Divider by @saradika

the first emboldened word = Din’s POV

the first italicized word = Your POV

Stirring in the plush, handsewn sheets, Din’s eyes flutter open, adjusting to the beaming sunlight. Groaning, he huffs as he rubs the shadow of stubble growing on his face, as he recalls what he did last night before falling asleep. Dread washes over him as he thinks of how he has to face you at the market later.

With a deep sigh, he rises from the bed and tidily makes his bed before padding into Grogu’s room. Thankfully, he’s still sleeping, still cuddled up with the stuffed bantha you gave to him.

You are everywhere he looks. How have you infiltrated his mind so quickly?

Din heads down the hall and into the refresher, opting to take a long shower while Grogu still sleeps. The scalding water soothes the dull aches that still linger in his body from years of battling. He scrubs hard, attempting to wash away what he did last night, the guilt and shame.

He shuts the water off and dries off before trudging back down the hall and into his room. As he slips on his flight suit, soft coos make his ears perk up. He smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt as he goes to peer into Grogu’s room. The child now wide awake and still gripping onto the bantha. He squeals at the sight of his father, hands up and stretched forward.

Din cradles him in one arm as he walks out into the kitchen, starting their daily routine. One that consists of breakfast for Grogu, and sometimes Din. If he’s not eating breakfast with his son, he’s usually doing some work - whether that be house work or having comm link meetings with Teva or Karga.

Today, it’s just breakfast for the two of them. Grogu brushes the stubble on his father’s face while he prepares their meal. In the past, he’d tell Grogu to stop touching his helmet. Things have changed.

Din no longer wears his helmet around Grogu so long as they’re alone in their home. He’s part of his clan now, having adopted him. Seeing that Bo-Katan and a few others who’ve walked both worlds, and being exposed to different Mandalorians who practice the culture differently, he’s decided to take some liberties with the Creed. He wants his son to see him, all of him after losing him once. Also, Grogu is still far too young to partake in the Creed, so he should be allowed to see his father.

He prepares breakfast for the both of them, sitting Grogu down in his chair as he serves them both. His son squeals as his father serves him and sits beside him. Mirroring each other, the clan eats in silence. Grogu busies himself with his meal, completely oblivious to his spiraling father.

How is he supposed to face you again today? Why did he do that last night? Maker, he needs to regain his sense of self control. He knew domestic life was going to be an adjustment, but he didn’t think he’d let himself slip up so easily, so quickly. For stars sake, he’s already thinking about sharing a life with someone, with you. He has other things to take care of before he can even give that a second thought. Like settling in, helping Grogu adjust to this new life, prioritizing his contract work with Teva, and the occasional tasks from Karga. He hopes he can act normally today. You caught him off guard yesterday, but hopefully he can prepare himself to see your beautiful face.

A whine pulls him from his thoughts. Grogu has crawled into his lap, pouting up at him with those big brown eyes, meaning he’s still hungry. Din hands him his spoon, and turns him around to face the table. Grogu squeals with delight as he rapidly devours the rest of his father’s food.

With a tiny burp, Grogu plops down into Din’s lap and sinks into the warmth of his chest. Din rises to his feet and pads into his son’s room, cleaning him up and changing him into a spare tunic. He settles Grogu in his pram, nuzzling the new stuffed bantha that he’s quickly attached to next to him, and walks across the hall to put on his armor.

As he reaches for his helmet, he calls out for Grogu before placing it on his head. “Come on, Grogu, let’s go.” A hissing sound erupts as he slips his helmet on, and he rushes back into the living room, slinging the sack over his shoulder while Grogu plays in the pram with his bantha. Another reminder of you, he exhales a deep modulated sigh as he braces himself for a day at the plaza. Embarrassment coursing through him as he and Grogu head out the door and off on their journey for today.

Maker give him strength.

The town bustles as the sweltering sun beams down onto the plaza. Setting up the last display at your textile stall, you wipe the bead of sweat that’s formed at your brow. Mando is supposed to return with Grogu today, making you feel particularly giddy about seeing the mandalorian again. You’ve heard tales about mandalorians your whole life, and have even seen some in passing having lived on Nevarro for a few years now. However, something about him was so enthralling.

You couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was the way he was so caring and gentle with his son, or perhaps it was his demeanor which was surprisingly a lot more open than you had expected. Most encounters with mandalorians are short, as they are not people of many words - but not with him. Something about the man in beskar has captivated you, unable to shake him from your head since meeting him yesterday.

Subconsciously, you’ve never taken this much interest in a commission before. You’d even selected an array of fabrics for him to choose from for Grogu. You tell yourself it’s because of the unorthodox, sweet duo. The green baby having captured your heart the second you laid eyes on him, his curious eyes wandering and babbles that escaped him having tugged at your heart strings. You wondered how he ended up with his father, the resemblance between them obviously nonexistent, but you didn’t ask. It’s not your place to know, let alone judge, unless Mando feels comfortable telling you.

You should know better than anyone how complicated familial relationships can be. That family does not always correlate to blood relation, being adopted since birth after your biological parents had given you up to your mother and father. You believe that the stars lead you to people. They lead you to your family - your parents, your brother, your sisters. You are their daughter, their sister despite what biology may say.

Oh how you miss them all so much. What you’d give to see them again. You hope they’re alright, that the krayt dragon hasn’t reached them despite all the time that has passed.

Biting back tears, you shake your head and pack the selected textiles into a box and place them in your home-turned-shop. Working out of your home has its perks - never having to leave. It’s also got its downsides with the lack of space. It can get crammed sometimes, and it’s hard to not bring work home with you - literally and figuratively. Big commissions can be stressful, and dealing with a particularly aggravating vendor neighbor doesn’t help.

Recounting your last encounter with him, it was thankfully diffused quickly by your other neighbors. He’d yelled at some innocent kids who were eyeing the fruits he sells, calling them thieves and accusing everyone of being one after he’d had a few pieces of fruit stolen from his stand. You’d intervened first, scolded him for yelling at children and consoling them by offering them some candy from your stash. Thankfully the other neighbors despised him as well and jumped into your’s and the children’s defenses. He backed off and hasn’t said anything since. Hopefully it stays that way.

Thank the Maker he doesn’t actually live next to you.

The sound of your name pulls you from your recollection and back into reality. You rush outside and your breath hitches in your throat. There he is, in all his shiny glory. If he’s this captivating with his helmet on, you can’t help but wonder what he looks like underneath it.

You wave at them, beaming as Grogu returns a wave with his tiny hand as he holds the stuffed bantha you gifted him just yesterday. Din desperately tries to keep his composure as he approaches you, trying not to think of what he’d done last night. His hands having grown clammy under his gloves, his helmet suddenly feeling hotter as the sight of you sends his head spinning.

You’re radiant, as if you belong in the stars in the evening skies - outshining every galaxy he’s ever seen. Your energy is infectious, making his heartbeat stutter.

“Hi, baby! I see you brought your new toy with you! Do you like it?” You ask, voice full of glee. Grogu happily garbles an incomprehensible response, but you take it as a ‘yes’ and burst into a fit of giggles. Your laugh like music to his ears, he bites back a groan under his helmet.

Is there any part of you that isn’t beautiful?

“Hi, Mando,” you giggle. It sucks the air out of his lungs hearing your breathy laugh and his name from your lips. Sweat forms on his brow and he wishes he could wipe it away. He fidgets with his holster, giving you a nod. “Hi, cyar’ika,” he nervously stammers, the affectionate name having escaped his mouth without thinking. Your brow quirks as your lips pull into a grin. “I’ve never heard that before. Is that your native tongue?” You inquire, fully intrigued by the name.

Fuck. He didn’t mean to let the name slip.

“It is. It’s Mando’a, the language of my people.” Your smile grows larger, making Din’s heart beat faster and body grow hotter. “It sounds lovely! What does that word mean? Should I be insulted?” You playfully tease him. Unbeknownst to you, his eyes bug out of his head as his cheeks grow red. “What? No, it was not an insult, I promise. It means, uh… it means ‘friend,’” he lies. You nod, narrowing your eyes at him as if you don’t believe him.

“Okay. If you say so, Mando,” you tell him, coyly winking at him. He clears his throat as awkward tension fills the silence between you two.

Grogu’s squealing breaks the tension, making you laugh. “You ready for some new clothes, baby?!” You ask him, scooping him up from his pram, eliciting a giggle from the baby.

His heart feels like it’s going to burst through the beskar.

Tickling the child, he laughs excitedly as you set him on one of the tables at your stall. “Wait here,” you tell the clan as you disappear into your studio. You return with a box containing something. You place the box on the table, Grogu cooing in curiosity. Din tilts his head to the side.

“What’s this?” He asks, making you beam.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I selected some fabrics for you to choose from based on what he was wearing yesterday! But also, please feel free to browse around the other selections,” you explain with a sparkle in your eyes as you smile at him, laughing as Grogu grabs one of your fingers to balance himself as he wobbles to the box.

He’s undeserving of your kindness, unable to fathom what he’s done to be on the receiving end of it.

“You didn’t have to do that, cyar’ika,” he nearly whispers. Your face is beginning to ache with the amount you’ve been smiling since he arrived. “It was no problem, Mando. I hope you like some of the selections. You can tell me if you don’t, you can be honest with me. Trust me, I can take it,” you tell him with a coy smile and a wink, making him suck in a sharp breath.

Keep it together, Din.

“Th-they’re lovely, cyar’ika. Thank you very much, I’m perfectly happy with any of the fabrics you’ve chosen,” he tells you. “Are you sure? Because I-I can pick out some more,” you say timidly.

Is he making you flustered? No. There’s no way.

“No need. They’re perfect.” You give him a nod and tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. “How about we let Grogu choose his favorites from the pile?” He says, subconsciously inching closer to you. “O-Okay,” you stutter.

You bend down to meet Grogu’s height. “Grogu! Which one do you like, baby?” You gently ask him as you hold up two pieces of fabric for him to choose from. He points to one in your left hand with a grunt. You repeat the process two more times, the smile never leaving yours or Din’s faces.

He watches quietly as you swipe your measuring tape from your apron, wrapping it around Grogu who garbles in confusion as he wonders what’s going on. He looks up at you with his big brown eyes, tiny teeth peeking out from his mouth. You smile and scrunch your nose at him, speaking to him about different things like toys, candy, animals, anything a child would like. You intently listen to every garble that streams from Grogu as if you can understand him, showing him enthusiasm as he babbles.

Din can feel his body heating up, his chest feeling fuzzy as he watches you interact with his son.

Grogu goes for something in one of your pockets - the pin cushion. You and Din panic, you get to him before he pricks himself on a needle. “No no, baby! Those are sharp, they can hurt you. Here, you can play with this instead,” you say, handing him a spare one sans pins. You remove the one from your apron and toss it onto a table behind you, probably to ensure he doesn’t reach it at all.

How are you so maternal? Is it instinctual or do you have children of your own?

“You’re really good with him,” he says, moreso to himself rather than you. “Hmm?” You say, lifting your head and eyes wide as you meet his gaze. His heart feels like it’s going to combust every time you look at him.

“What?” He asks. A smile splays on your face, teeth poking through your lips. “What did you say? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said,” you explain.

“Y-you’re, uh, you’re really good with him. Most people can’t keep up with his hyperness, but you can.” He sees something flash across your eyes.

Bashfulness?

“Oh. Thank you, that’s very kind,” you say, voice hushed and shy. “Do, um, do you have any children of your own, if you don’t mind me asking?” He can’t help, but ask - curious as to how you’re so good with his son, curious if you’ve got a riduur at home.

“No! No children, just me at home. I did have a little sister and have just always had a soft spot for kids, but no… no children,” you tell him, a noticeable deflation in your voice as you bring up your sister.

Did. He catches that, unable to miss the use of past tense. Feeling like he’s already pried from you, he nods. “Well, you’re a natural. Plus, he likes you,” Din says, offering some sort of comfort and shifting the focus of the conversation.

Grogu chirps from below the both of you, making you smile. You boop his nose, making him laugh. “I like him too. We’re best friends now, aren’t we, baby?” You ask him, tickling his sides as Grogu’s laughter grows louder. “Better watch out, Mando. I think I’ve taken the throne as his favorite,” you say through your giggles. Din watches from behind his helmet as you cradle Grogu, his heart taking flight at the sight in front of him.

“I don’t doubt that, cyar’ika.”

“So… can I ask what brings you into town, besides clothes for Grogu?” You ask, marking measurements on the selected fabric.

“Uh, yes, uh, we’re actually also here to gather some things for a fence I’m building. I’ve got a pond in front of our house and Grogu keeps torturing the frogs. I also don’t want him falling in, so I’m buying the last of the supplies to block it off.”

Your heart softens at the mandalorian’s concern. Going above and beyond for his son.

“Those poor frogs,” you giggle at the thought of Grogu messing with them. “Yeah, if he keeps eating them, he’s going to turn into one,” he huffs. Grogu snaps his head up, garbling what seems like a question.

“Have you started building the fence yet?” You through a fit of laughter.

“I have not, I’ve been occupied with some last minute tasks High Magistrate Karga asked me to complete. But I plan to start soon, possibly within the next week.”

You hum as silence settles amongst you three. A thought pops into your head, recounting the time you spent helping your father around the moisture farm back home on Tatooine as a young girl. Building and repairing fences and traps with your brother around the farm, your father adamant on ridding your home of womp rats.

Without even thinking about your next words, they eagerly roll off your tongue. Not sure why you’d go so far to extend a helping hand, but not questioning yourself either.

“Would you like some help?” Mando tilts his head to the side. “W-with the fence! That is,” you say, trailing off at the end. “Oh, that’s quite alright, cyar’ika. It’s a lot of work, and I couldn’t ask another task of you.”

“It’d be no problem! I’m more than happy to help, if you’ll let me.”

You’ve never been so eager to do farm work in your life. Surely, your father would laugh at your enthusiasm.

“Cyar’ika, you’re very kind, but I’d be indebted to you should you help me. In fact, I already am with the garments you’re crafting for Grogu.” You playfully roll your eyes

“Again with the formalities. You aren’t indebted to me, Mando! This is my job. Helping would be considered a favor, helping out a friend.”

“Friend.” Mando states.

“Yeah. Isn’t that what you call me? ‘Cya-cy-cyar’,” you stumble through the pronunciation. Mando barks out a hearty laugh, sending a flurry of butterflies swarming in your belly.

“Yes, we are friends, cyar’ika. You can just call me ‘Mando’ or ‘friend.’ We’ll work on your pronunciation later, don’t want you hurting yourself now,” he teases. Your scrunch your face up, mouth gaped open. “Wow! How rude of you, Mando! Give a lady some grace, why don’t you?!” You squeak, unable to contain the surprise in your voice as a huge smile breaks out onto your face, taken aback by his sudden playfulness.

“I’m sorry, cyar’ika. How can I re-earn your good graces?” A smile evident in his voice.

Your face feels like it’s going to fall off if you keep smiling.

“For starters, you can tell me what that word really means. I’m only fluent in Basic and Jawaese,” you say with a wink, trying to make him feel equally as flustered.

“Jawaese? Are you not native to Nevarro?”

You shake your head as you measure Grogu once more, jotting down his measurements, playfully booping his nose to keep him entertained. “I am not. Tatooine was my home, it’s where I was born and where I grew up.”

He nods, carefully catching a wobbling Grogu. “So what brought you here?” You smirk. “I could ask you the same, Mando… if that is your real name,” you tease. The mandalorian chuckles under his helmet.

Oh what you’d give to see his smile.

“Maybe I’ll tell you… should you ever choose to tell me your given name,” you tease.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell you everything one day, cyar’ika.”

One day. Is he possibly considering telling you his name?

“One day,” you repeat. Your gaze never leaves his, staring into the blacked-out T in his helmet, hoping he can see the desire in your eyes. The silence is broken with the clearing of Mando’s throat.

“I plan on starting next week. Does that work for you, cyar’ika?”

You nod a little too eagerly, automatically agreeing despite not having checked your deadline schedules for other commissions. “It does! I’ll even bring over Grogu’s new tunics next week, they’ll be ready by then,” you excitedly say, folding the paper containing Grogu’s measurements and tucking it into your apron. Tucking your pencil behind your ear, you fold the fabrics up and carefully place them back in the box.

Grogu picks one up and hands it to you, melting your heart. You graciously pout, cooing at him. “Thank you, baby!” You squeal, gently caressing his cheek. He nuzzles into your touch.

He’s got you wrapped around his little green finger.

A pang of disappointment hits your heart, your time with the clan coming to a close.

You sigh as you tuck the box of fabric under one of the tables behind you. Silence hangs in the air, fiddling with your apron as you’re unable to say goodbye.

“Well… I guess we’ll be seeing you next week, cyar’ika?” Mando says, making you perk up at the sound of his voice. “Yes, yes you will, Mando.” You can’t help but smile at the thought of spending time with the duo.

“Good. I can’t wait, mesh’la,” he says quietly. Your brows reach your hairline at the new nickname. “Okay, now what does that one mean, Mando? You better not be insulting me!” You exclaim, poking fun at him, but genuinely curious as to what he’s saying.

“I would never, cyar’ika! Like I said, I’ll tell you one day,” he assures you. You sarcastically hum, reaching for something else in your pocket and hand Grogu yet another piece of candy.

“Here you go, little man. Thank you for being so good today, baby!” You tell him, helping him unwrap the lollipop as he squeals with excitement. He incoherently babbles as you discard the wrapper.

“None for daddy though, he’s being a meanie,” you pretend to whisper to Grogu. Your head snaps up at the sound of a groan.

“You alright, Mando?” You ask, brows pinched together. “Y-yeah, cyar’ika. I’m fine. J-just s-sometimes… this… helmet gives me, uh, a headache. I’m fine though,” he stammers. Your worry not quite dissolving.

“I’m sorry, Mando. Would you like some medicine? I think I might have some inside,” you worriedly ramble. He waves you off. “It’s alright, cyar’ika. I promise. Th-thank you for all your help today, truly,” he nervously says. Taking his word, you nod.

“Well, I’m here if you ever need anything. And of course, it was my pleasure,” you say as you extend your hand to him, smiling as you do so. He quickly glances down to your hand, his large gloved hand fully encasing yours, his thick fingers brushing against yours in the process. He gently shakes your hand, giving it a soft squeeze in between, flashing him a gentle smile.

Is he smiling under there? You hope so.

“See you next week, cyar’ika,” he says, his hand still in yours. “I’ll see you both next week, Mando,” you say breathlessly. He sets your hand down, but doesn’t let go. You can sense his hesitation, but what could he be hesitating about?

“Have a lovely day… mesh’la,” he rasps with a tender, but swift swirl of his thumb on your hand. Sparks of electricity bolt throughout your body, your hand feeling as if it’s ablaze. He quickly drops your hand, gathering Grogu in his arms and settling him in his pram.

“Thank you. You too, Mando,” you nearly whisper, still relishing in the lingering feeling of his hand in yours. “Bye, cyar’ika,” he says with a wave, Grogu mirroring his father’s actions. “Bye, Mando. Bye, Grogu!” You say, returning the wave to the father-son duo. They part from your stall.

There’s a few customers browsing around your stall, but you hardly notice them as your mind swirls from what just happened between you and Mando.

What was that?

A customer comes up to you to ask a question. You shake the thoughts from your head and go about the work day. Anticipation blooms within you as the day drags on.

Next week can’t come fast enough.

we've finally been introduced to our reader (or as Din likes to call you, 'Cyari'ka' hehehe) and now the plot has been set up for some major pining! we've even caught a glimpse of backstory for reader!

i truly hope your suspension of disbelief allows you to picture yourself when reading this, because i like to picture myself while writing! Din wants reader aka you! 🫶🏼

anyway, thank you so much for reading! i'd love to know your thoughts in the comments, my asks, or dms 🩷

tag list: @javierpena-inatacvest @gracieheartspedro @undrthelights @tinygarbage @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @nostalxgic @mandoisapunk @pedrostories @anoverwhelmingdin @diguise7 @survivingandenduring @missladym1981 @stilllivindue2spite @dindjarinsmut @coquettegingette @firstofficerwiggles @christinamadsen @leithatnight

if your name is crossed out, it means i couldn't tag you ):

#fic: woven in the stars #din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin series #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #mando monday

213 notes · View notes

starleska · 4 months

Text

Dollface - the Toymaker x Real Toymaker!Reader

As a toymaker, you are delighted when you stumble across MR EMPORIUM'S TOYSHOP. But when you meet its eccentric owner - one eponymous 'Toymaker' - you enter into an impossible game with higher stakes than you ever imagined…with the risk of your deepest fantasy coming true. Rating: Mature. Tags: Dollification; Toyification; Truth or Dare; Reality-Bending; Humiliation; Psychological Torture; Fluff; Teasing; Touching; Forced Dancing; Mentions of Neglect; Cosmic Horror; Horrible Fake German. Reader is presumed female, but has a complicated relationship with gender and enjoys feminine terms of endearment. requested by the lovely @chronicbeans!! whilst this was originally meant to be a few-paragraphs long headcanons bit...but then it sprawled into a 13,000 word fanfic. my apologies to yourself, and to any German speakers in the audience 🙈💖 you can also read this on AO3. i hope you enjoy!

Toys are your life.

For as long as you can remember you have been fascinated by all manner of toys: everything from teddy bears to zoetropes; spinning tops to yo-yos. As a child you weren’t just interested in playing with toys—you wanted to reach inside of them, pick them apart, and understand every little detail about how they worked. Much to the chagrin of your parents, you spent more time trying to put your toys back together than you did actually playing with them.

But all of your alternative playtime paid off. Now, as an adult, you run a modest yet successful local toymaking business, with your own vendor stall at the market and a popular online shop. Much of your work is custom, using vintage materials to replicate toys of the past, and you occasionally trade and sell real old toys too. As a result, you have something of a monopoly on the local toy scene, and feel you know every single toymaker and toy-collecting enthusiast in a fifty mile radius.

That’s why it’s a real shock when you stumble across MR EMPORIUM’S TOYSHOP late one night.

The storefront is a gorgeous assault to the senses. Parked in the middle of the cold, grey street, the toyshop beams out crimson and gold onto the snow drifts, with all manner of classic toys peeking out at you through the windows. You are delighted to see an assortment of downy plush bears and hand-painted model motor cars crowding the shelves: so many it feels like the toyshop itself might burst at the seams. Your giddiness only increases as you get closer to the window. You can make out all sorts of fun, bright shapes within: countless colourful toys beckoning you and begging to be taken home.

Yet it isn’t these treasures which catch your eye the most. Right at the back of the shop, near the counter, you spy a shelf lined with dolls. They are beautiful even at a distance: likely from the early 20th century, masterfully painted and wearing a fine rainbow of little dresses. Even from your vantage point you can see the impeccable craftsmanship. There’s immense detail in their delicate hands, and if you’re not mistaken, each doll has a crop of real human hair.

Perhaps most intriguing of all is the eyes. Their glass sheen looks so sad and wistful…far more emotion than a doll should be able to communicate.

If you didn’t know any better, you would believe the dolls were alive.

Oh, I shouldn’t , you tell yourself. I’m much too old now to be playing with dolls…and I keep all my old ones locked up anyway. I shouldn’t deprive some kid of a toy. This is a deeply silly excuse, and a hypocritical one. The vast majority of your clientele are adults, as are the brilliant toymakers you’re proud to call your friends. This is the perpetual double-standard you constantly believe and are always trying to rally against: that you are uniquely strange, and deserve to be ridiculed for your interests.

The curious thing is that this idea doesn’t apply to toys more broadly…only to dolls. You have made countless dolls throughout your career, and yet owning dolls and enjoying them is something you’ve long nursed a hang-up over. But that is a can of worms you refuse to open up today. No , you decide, today I am going to be a normal adult who is confident about their interests and doesn’t feel an ounce of shame! I am going to go into this toyshop and look at those dolls, and that’s that! With your mind made up, you shift your backpack onto your shoulder, take a deep breath, and push through the toyshop’s door.

The door slams shut behind you with the tinkle of a bell. You are immediately enveloped in warmth, and the delicious scent of varnished wood enrobes you like a fine dress. You can’t help but close your eyes and inhale: somehow, the toyshop smells just like your childhood.

“Hallo, meine kleine Mädchen! Komm in, komm in, be ge-removings yourselves from dee kalt! It is ein horrid evenings, is it not?”

You open your eyes in surprise, and see an older, greyish-blond-haired man leaning against the counter. He’s dressed in a most whimsical fashion, wearing a soft white work shirt coupled with a maroon waistcoat, and a brown apron stuffed with woodworking tools. A spotted ascot around his neck and a pair of pince-nez balanced at the end of his nose complete the look.

The man smiles at you like he’s known you all his life. You feel like you’ve been transported to another time.

“It is,” you agree, as you shake the snow drifts from your boots. “So sorry for dropping in so late—I’m surprised you’re still open.”

“Ah, but I am always having times for dee beautiful Fräulein,” says the man with a coy wink. “But vot is it zat is ge-bringings you here?”

You have to stifle a giggle. You know enough of the language to know the man’s German is terribly off, and his accent is borderline offensive. However, you also know that folks in the toymaking community tend to be eccentric, and you can forgive a corny, theatrical accent for the wonderful atmosphere of this shop. Who are you to judge if he wants to LARP as a Bavarian thespian?

Before you can reply, the strange man is suddenly beside you…although you don’t recall seeing him move. He has also removed his pince-nez. You blink, a little taken aback. How did he move so quickly? You wonder if you’ve eaten enough that day.

“I’m…a toymaker,” you say, trying not to sound freaked out. “I’ve never seen your shop before, and I thought I knew everyone in town who makes toys. What’s your name?”

The man’s eyes are blue, you notice—terribly blue, and sparkling in the soft light with unspoken mischief. “You are beings ein toymaker? Vy, zat is a coincidence…” He taps the side of his nose. “Many peoples ge-calls me by many names. But zey most oftens call me the Toymaker, und nothing else. It be gettings dee point across, nein? Und was ist your name?”

You tell him, and the Toymaker’s mouth splits open in a wide grin.

“Das ist ein schöner name!” he says enthusiastically. “Truly, a magnifizent fit. It is not often zat I am gettings other toymakers in mein shop…I vonder, vot does your eye ge-fallen upon? Could it be mein cuddly collection of teddies? Oh, ja, I sees you are ge-needings ein soft companion for dese frosty nights. Or could it be mein train? Choo-choo! it goes, round and round all dee livelong day! I am ge-havings many customers mit ein eye for dee train.”

The Toymaker’s voice is smooth as butter, rich and inviting, and each word he speaks seems to add a little more colour to his delightful environment. You look around in awe at all of the toys, unable to comprehend the sheer scale of the place. Just moments ago the shop seemed so small, with the abundance of toys seriously crammed in on the shelves, but now it looks impossibly vast: a veritable sea of playful delights. The little choo-choo train in question chugs along on its rails and moves past the doll shelf, drawing your eye back to their pretty little figures.

“Ah, dee Katze hast gotten your tongue,” says the Toymaker. He gestures to the dolls, and the gold ring on his right pinkie finger catches the light. “I too ams often becomings stricken by dee beauty of mein dollen…zey took me many nights to make, ja. Oh, but ge-look! Eins ist out of place. Zose fingers are so fiddly! Und dee hair…zo many eveninks ge-spended brushing out zeir tiny curls."

You watch as the Toymaker reaches up and begins deftly rearranging the dolls. His fingers are long and nimble, and they move with such care and attention, placing each doll’s tiny hands neatly in their laps and smoothing down their dresses. When you’re a toymaker, you grow to appreciate a pair of well-practised hands, and there’s something undeniably… charming , about this Toymaker and his cartoonish whimsy. It’s silly, but you feel a little heat rising in your cheeks. The attention he’s paying to such small, delicate objects…

…well, it’s only natural that your mind should wander to more practical applications of such hands.

“The dolls are gorgeous,” you say. “Do you offer any toymaking classes? The dolls I make have a bit more of a modern touch.”

That’s when the Toymaker laughs, and it is a strange laugh: it tinkles out of his mouth like a jingle, in a musical, ‘Ha ha ha HA ha ha ha!’

“Oh, mein dollen are sehr modern…moreso zan you sink,” says the Toymaker. He gives you another wink, as it seems he likes to give them out for free.

That’s when you feel the little clench in your chest. Oh dear, he really is quite handsome. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d caught feelings for a quirky, attractive stranger, and they were often not as well-dressed as the Toymaker. You have a tendency to get caught up in the realms of imagination, and have thought up more than a few daring trysts with pretty-faced people with whom you’d only exchanged a couple of words. You ought to grab a doll, leave, and have a quiet little panic attack about this interaction at home.

You force your eyes away from the handsome man and back to the shelf.

That’s when you spot her.

Somehow, a doll had escaped your notice. Right in the middle of her sad-looking rainbow sisters is another doll, simply and prettily done up in a powder-blue be-ribboned frock. Unlike the other dolls, this one is smiling in a dimpled way, and her eyes sparkle with a magical sheen not unlike that of the Toymaker’s. You note with some amusement that the doll has the same eye colour as you—hair colour, too. This isn’t strange on a doll, but it gives you the same jolt of satisfaction and déjá vu you get when meeting someone who shares your name.

“Ah,” says the Toymaker (now on your other side). “Dee dollen…zey speak to you, ja? Zey are ge-having ein chitter-chatter, all high up on dee shelf. Vot fun games zey have ven I ge-leaves the shoppen!”

Dollen isn’t even the German word for dolls, you know—it’s Puppen. But you get the sense that the Toymaker’s German accent is less an earnest recreation (and it’s certainly not his natural accent), but a pantomime version intended to amuse and entertain.

“I’m sure they do,” you say, but you’re distracted from the Toymaker’s little act. The longer you look at the doll, the stranger you feel.

You move closer to the shelf to get a better look, and are startled by what you discover.

It isn’t just that the doll on the shelf has similar hair and eyes to you: they’re both the exact same shade, even down to the imperfect flecks in your irises.

You study the doll intently for a moment, blink, and— what? The doll’s hair is now the same length as yours. Was it always? No, you could have sworn just a moment ago it was not just a completely different length, but style.

You rise up on your tiptoes to get a better look at the doll, and are baffled by what you see. It’s as if detail is stacking on the doll right before your eyes, the way some video game maps load in piece-by-piece. You watch as texture is added to her hair, and light pools in her eyes. This level of craftsmanship is uncanny; it’s as if the Toymaker went out of their way to create a doll which resembles you.

“How did you do that?” You turn to the Toymaker, confused. “Did you know I was coming here?"

The Toymaker’s mouth contorts into an offended pout. “Now, you ge-vounds me. It is ein special privilege, having another Spielzeugmacher in mein shop. Tell me, vot do you sink of her hair? Es ist pretty, ja?”

“But that doll looks exactly like me,” you say.

You can feel your heart hammering in your chest. Suddenly the warm, cosy atmosphere of the toyshop feels more claustrophobic and oppressive. The Toymaker looks unbothered; he rests his chin on his hand and contemplates the shelf.

“Zere ist ein…certain resemblance,” says the Toymaker, with an unusual, almost French affectation on the last word. “But you are just ge-havings, as zey say, ‘von of zose faces’. Ja, das ist richtig: ein dollface. Puppengesicht. All smooth und sveet. Vy, vot a lucky lady you are! She simply must be goings home vith you.”

You’re scrambling to work out what kind of practical joke this is, and how the Toymaker was pulling it off. You’d met a few eccentric toymakers with God complexes before, as they tend to go hand-in-hand: you’d briefly dated one who designed escape rooms in his spare time. But this is on another level…creating a doll which can be imperceptibly altered to resemble a person in real-time? You’d never heard of such a thing, and you can’t think of a non-creepy reason why someone would go to the trouble of making one.

Oh, hang on a minute, you think. This guy might just be a genius. “This is a marketing trick, isn’t it?”

You pull away from the Toymaker and lean against his counter, feeling terribly smug for having figured it out.

The Toymaker puts his head on one side, quizzical. Playing dumb, you think.

“I am not ge-followings you,” the Toymaker says.

“You make dolls of the people you see ahead of time,” you explain. “People you know who will come in here at some point…collectors, other toymakers. Then you wait and put them on the shelf when they come in, maybe behind some hidden panel so you can spin them around when they get close. Then when they come in, it’s like they’ve found the perfect toy!”

You’re so proud of yourself for having cracked the case, you want to pump your fist in the air. For a moment, you envision yourself wearing a deerstalker hat and smoking a pipe. Go me! But your victory is short-lived. During your diatribe, the Toymaker’s bright, childish grin had frozen on his face, and remained in place even during your brief mental celebration. But now the smile slowly slips like a mask peeling away from too-tight skin. In its place sits a stormy frown: one which clenches the muscles and wrinkles of the Toymaker’s face into an expression which says ‘insulted’.

“For shame,” says the Toymaker. “That’s twice you’ve accused me of cheating now. You really do me a disservice. I am bound by the Rules of Play, and would never resort to such cheap tricks.”

What the hell…? The Toymaker’s accent is completely different. Where before his voice was a thick soup of faux German, now it is a soft British breeze: a proper, formal accent which speaks the way trees rustle. You gape at him, dumbfounded.

“Your accent is different,” you can’t help but say. You’re no longer just leaning against the counter—you’re actively pushing into it, with the edge of the countertop pushing into the small of your back.

The Toymaker raises an eyebrow at you, and smirks. “You are not half as stupids as you are ge-lookings,” he says, slipping the German back on like a heavy cloak. “But zen, I know you are playing ein game mit me, aren’t you?”

You stare at the Toymaker. Something has shifted: the air is thick with a tension you cannot identify, but which you want to run away from. You keep staring, thinking that if you look away from those too-blue eyes for even a moment, you might just lose your grip.

You know for a fact that if you look back at that doll on the shelf, it will look even more like you than before.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, and you wish you weren’t lying.

The Toymaker laughs his musical laugh and wags his finger in your face. “Sehr naughty!” he says. “Oh, how natürlich dee lies kommen to sie, mein Schatz. You be ge-knowinks how to play games…zis ist ein lecker human mind game, und you are ge-tryings to deceive me.”

His voice slips smoothly back into the British:

“Do you think I don’t know all about your little fantasy?”

Your eyes go wide, and a choked noise escapes your mouth. No. There is no way that this man…this impossible toymaker could possibly know. You were always so careful, so sure to keep it all to yourself! Familiar shame and embarrassment wash over you in a hot wave as the Toymaker looks at you, looks into you, as if he can see the inner workings of your mind. Your mind grabs at the old, familiar justifications the way one might grab a newspaper for modesty if they found themselves naked on a bus. It’s perfectly normal to have fun little flights of fancy. Everyone plays make-believe sometimes, right? “But zey are embarrassing, zese thoughts of yours,” the Toymaker giggles. “Not dee kind of thoughts you can share mit deine Mutter. I am not ge-thinkinks zat you have shared your desires mit ein Partnerin…” There goes the eyebrow again, cocked sardonically to match the wicked curl of his lips. “Is zis true?” You feel nauseous. The firm pressure of the countertop underneath your palms is all that stops you from shaking. It feels as if the Toymaker is probing the inside of your skull, and using those skilled fingers to strip back the whorls of your brain and grab at the fleshy thoughts inside.

“Get out of my head,” you say quietly.

“Oh, but zis is dee game I ge-likes!” says the Toymaker. “Humans mit zeir internal struggles. Desires mit dee most fun ideas, but you are too ge-frightened to say vot you vant. So you play games mit dein loved ones…dee hunting und dee exasperation. Oh, you simply vill not communicate!"

You don’t know when the Toymaker got so close to you, but now he’s towering over you, with his hands firmly planted on either side of the countertop. You’re close enough to count the spots on his ascot, and examine the year-lines etched around his mouth and eyes. When he smiles those lines crinkle, but not naturally: it’s the way a puppet’s arms reach for the stars when the marionette twists them upwards.

“Okay, you’ve had your fun,” you whisper. “I’ll buy the doll and leave.”

This close, the Toymaker radiates heat. He smells like rose petals and Christmas.

“You could…but zat vould be no fun,” says the Toymaker. “I propose ve solve zis in a more interesting vay…”

The Toymaker waves his hand across your field of vision…and transforms the centre of the toyshop. A small wooden table complete with chairs has popped into existence just in front of the counter. You gape at the sight. How did he do that?! “Let us play ein game,” he says. “If you vin, you can take dee doll free of charge. But if I vin…”

The Toymaker’s smile cracks like the earth preceding a quake.

“You vill stay vith me und play mein games forever!”

You have to give yourself credit for reacting as well as you did. Most people, if they were faced with a crazy fake German man who seems able to read your mind, may have had a breakdown or made a run for the door. But you’ve seen a lot of anime, and you understand that if you are challenged by a handsome, powerful man with magical powers and a delightful hairstyle, you cannot refuse the call. Your brain has shifted from This should be impossible, to It’s game time. “Alright,” you say slowly. “You’re clearly very powerful. It seems like if I play a game with you, you have far more to gain than I do. A doll isn’t a good enough prize.”

The Toymaker smiles at you. “Ein girl after mein own heart,” he says. “How about zis: if you vin, I vill show you exactly how I make mein dollen, complete vith a demonstration. Zat is generous of me, nein?”

His words are laced with sinister venom, and it’s all you can do not to be poisoned.

“And I’m guessing that if I refuse your game, something terrible would happen to me?”

The Toymaker hums low in his throat. “Hm…not accepting mein game is always ein option…ja, you could do zat. Und yet…”

You inhale as the Toymaker brings his face terribly close to yours. The skin of his cheek brushes your own. You can feel his soft breath as he whispers into your ear, British once more:

“I know you are so curious as to how I make my dolls. If you leave now, you’ll never know. And I think if you wanted to leave, you would have done so already.”

The Toymaker pulls away from you, leaving you with your face on fire. He’s right. In less than ten minutes, the Toymaker has sussed out your fatal flaw: your damned unstoppable curiosity. There have been countless times where your life would have been improved if you’d kept your nose in your own business…but this is different. The Toymaker isn’t just dangling a carrot: he’s already dug his hooks in you, and you are being reeled in with every second you spend looking into those impossibly blue eyes.

When you next blink, the Toymaker has moved again. He is sitting in one chair, his hands folded primly in front of him.

“Name your challenge,” he says.

You weren’t expecting this: you thought he would have a game in mind. “Any game at all?”

“There isn’t a game I don’t know,” says the Toymaker coolly. “It is common courtesy to allow the guest to pick the party game.”

You can’t help a nervous giggle. “This is a weird kind of party,” you say.

The Toymaker acknowledges this by inclining his head. “Choose.”

Your mind scrambles over dozens of options. There are so many games…board games, card games, strategy games. Do we need equipment? How long does the game have to be? What games can you play with just two people? That’s when your brain starts to run in a very different direction, and a variety of… game positions …flash through your imagination with impunity.

A flush scalds up your neck. You look at the Toymaker, who raises his eyebrows in a knowing way.

He knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You want to scream.

“Truth or Dare!” you blurt out.

That gets his attention. The Toymaker leans forward, his eyes quizzical. “Zat is non-traditional…yet apt,” he says. “Could it be zat you are ge-vantings me to force zat fantasy out of you, meine Liebchen?”

“No,” you lie. “I want you to tell me what you are, and why you’re doing this to me.”

“Then let’s get down to business,” says the Toymaker. “We take it in turns to ask each other Truth or Dare. A Truth corresponds to a question which must be answered truthfully, and a Dare is an action which must be carried out. The player earns one point for each Truth or Dare successfully completed.”

The Toymaker steeples his fingers together. You can’t pull your eyes away from them.

“If you refuse to complete a Truth or a Dare, or you contravene the rules of the game, you lose a point…and must complete a forfeit.”

The way he says ‘forfeit’ sends a shiver down your spine. “What kind of forfeit?”

“Oh, dee usual,” says the Toymaker casually. “Somesing difficult or humiliating. I do not ge-liken to pre-plan zese things…I am preferings to be spontaneous.”

You are starting to regret your choice of game. This is a man who knows more about you than you’ve ever told your closest friend…surely a game like Truth or Dare would be pointless for him? So you ask: “Why would you want to play this if you can already tell what I’m thinking?”

The Toymaker frowns. “A good question,” he says. “The Rules of Play prevent me from having any unfair advantage over an opponent. Although my abilities will remain intact, anything which would tilt the game in my favour is out-of-bounds. I am physically incapable of cheating, and would thank you not to bring it up again. There are only two states of being which matter: winning, or losing. I intend to win.”

Fair enough , you think. “And what if I cheat?” you say. “I have a pretty good poker face. If you can’t look inside my head during the game, what if I just lie to you? How could you tell?”

The Toymaker chuckles, bearing his mouth wide. To your horror, you see there are far, far too many teeth in his mouth.

“I can always tell when someone is lying to me.”

“Six turns,” you counter, voice trembling. “Whoever has the most points at the end of those turns is the winner. And…you can’t choose Truth or Dare more than twice in a row.”

The Toymaker seems impressed by your game-making skills. “Agreed,” he says. “Let us begin.”

He snaps his fingers, and all the lights in the toyshop go out. Above, a stagelight snaps into existence, pouring heat and light onto your scalp in a cascade. The Toymaker’s striking features are illuminated by this shift in lighting, casting the lines of his face with the severity of stage makeup. You swallow: he looks divine.

“Would you like to go first?” he asks politely.

“...No,” you say after a moment. “I think that honour should go to the house.”

Your gamble pays off: you realised that the Toymaker is a man with great respect for the rules of the game, and this offer makes him smile.

“How generous,” says the Toymaker. “Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” you say.

The Toymaker taps his finger to his lips, considering. Then, he says, “Destroy something precious to you.”

It takes a few seconds for you to really process the Dare. When it hits, you are baffled. What kind of Dare is that? you want to say…but you don’t bother saying it aloud. What kind of toyshop is this—and what kind of ‘toymaker’ is he? All you need to know is reflected in the sadistic gleam in the Toymaker’s eye. This wouldn’t be an ordinary game, and contesting his requests would be fruitless. All you can do is make your move.

You take a deep breath, and reach down into your backpack. You didn’t leave the house this morning planning to bring anything precious to you, but you are a sentimental person by nature, and know you have one item which fits the bill. It’s with great sadness that you pull out a small, ratty teddy bear and place him on the table. The bear is old and beige and dressed in a crimson band leader’s outfit, complete with a hat and red-laced riding boots.

“Oh, ein teddy bear!” laughs the Toymaker, delighted. “How charming. He is quite dee looker, isn’t he?”

“He’s the first bear I ever made,” you say. “I was listening to some 90s British pop music, and the idea for his design just…popped into my head. I scribbled it down and pulled him together from scraps of fabric and repurposed stuffing in just a day. His name’s Neil…I keep him with me for good luck.”

Something about what you said is terribly amusing to the Toymaker, but you don’t know why. “Ein handsome name indeed,” says the Toymaker. “But I am afraid zat vill not be enoughs to ge-save him. Poor Neil. Now…vill you complete your Dare?”

You take a deep breath. There was no turning back now; you’ve accepted the Toymaker’s game, and the predatory sheen in his eyes tells you that you can no longer just walk away. So you pick up Neil, grab hold of his little teddy bear ears—

And tear his head off, sending stuffing careening all over the table.

“Oh!” says the Toymaker with a false gasp. “Vot an unfortunate end for poor Neil. I did not know zat you have such ein cruel streak.”

“Shut up,” you say, trying not to look at Neil’s decapitated corpse.

Even though he’s just a teddy bear, you feel like you’ve just killed a defenceless animal. Neil’s lifeless button-eyes gaze up at you imploringly, as if asking why you’d do such a thing. You knock Neil’s head off the table and focus back on the Toymaker.

“That’s one point to me,” you say. “Truth or Dare?”

The Toymaker grins at you like a shark. “Dare.”

There are a thousand questions ricocheting around your head, but you ask the one which you know will keep you up at night: “Tell me how you did that thing with the doll.”

The violence of the Toymaker’s laughter makes you jump. He actually covers his mouth to quieten himself, but his shoulders shake even so. “Oh nein, nein, nein, you are ge-makings ein mistake!” he says. “You cannot be askings a question ven I have chosen Dare. Oh, meine Schatz, you have your lost your point…and must receive ein forfeit.”

Your veins run cold. “What? No! That was never in the rules!”

“It is a common rule,” says the Toymaker, suddenly serious. “What is the point of distinguishing between a Truth or Dare, if a Dare can be a Truth?”

You want to protest…but his logic is infuriatingly sound. It’s exactly the kind of argument you could see yourself making if you were playing the game against a friend. You try to think of some other get-out-of-jail-free card—anything which would allow you learn how the Toymaker made that doll look exactly like you—but you come up short. You slump in your chair, and resign yourself to waiting for the next round.

“Oh, do not ge-look so sad,” says the Toymaker. In mock sympathy, he makes a little tutting sound against his teeth. “Now, about zat forfeit…ah! I am ge-knowings just dee sing.”

The Toymaker snaps his fingers…and your clothes burst into a flock of doves.

You scream and leap up from the table, batting away at the birds scrambling over your skin. They coo and and flap in your face before struggling upwards and flying into the rafters. Shocked, you look down to find yourself still fully clothed…but with a wardrobe change. You are now clad in a beautiful, powder-blue dress. The fabric is inhumanly soft and threaded through with white ribbons.

“Oh my God!” you yell. “What did you do?!”

The Toymaker is doing his best to stifle a giggle behind his hand. “Do you like it?” he asks. “I think the colour is rather fetching on you.”

You clutch at the skirts of your dress, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. There is no way this is possible…you hadn’t felt anything, not even a shift of your own clothes or the sliding of new fabric against your skin. One moment you were wearing your own clothes, and the next you weren’t. It’s as if your clothes were merely a covering, and when they transformed into doves and flapped off, they left only your dress behind.

You move your legs under the layers of fabric, and blush when you discover you’re wearing a pair of frilly stockings. As you stick out your feet, you can see your feet are clad in a shiny pair of Mary Janes. It’s with a sick feeling in your stomach that you realise what the dress is.

It’s the same dress that the doll on the shelf is wearing.

"You're sick," you hiss.

The Toymaker cocks his head to one side. “Indeed?” he says. “How odd. I thought I was being rather generous, giving you a helping hand towards becoming your true self.” He snickers at you. “If I am sick, then I do wonder what that makes you. My mind is full of games, but the inside of your head is full of so much more.”

You ignore the Toymaker and hold your own arms, shrinking back down into your chair. Yet as you look down at the dress, you can’t help but feel a pang of longing. The dress is a perfect fit, one which could have been custom-designed, and the fabric is truly stunning in appearance and quality. With its puffy sleeves and shapely waistline, you know if you were alone you would have given your new skirts a twirl.

But you can’t let yourself get lost now. This is as much a mind game as it is a real one, you realise. The Toymaker is eyeing you like a piece of meat, and it’s clear that he is capable of so much more than a costume change. You must press on with the game.

“I want to keep playing,” you say.

“Wonderful,” says the Toymaker. "We’re currently still at zero points each, with two turns down. Unfortunately, your turn was taken due to the forfeit. I must ask you: Truth or Dare?”

You don’t allow yourself time to think about it: “Dare.”

The Toymaker’s smile is knowing. “It is a fool’s errand, trying to delay the inevitable. I believe my initial suspicions were correct…you do want the Truth to be pried from you, don’t you? Perhaps that makes the shame a little less potent. After all, the mean, scary Toymaker made you dress this way. It wasn’t your fault…you couldn’t help it. Am I getting warmer?”

Your face is getting warmer, and it’s getting increasingly hard to meet the Toymaker’s gaze. “It isn’t my fault that my opponent is insane,” you say, with venom.

Somehow, the Toymaker’s laugh is German. “Ah, zere is zat fire. You are quite dee entertaining playmate, meine Liebling. I am not ge-xpectings you to verstand games of dee mind…but I do find zem exhilarating. Dee expressions ge-crossing your face right now…I vish you could see zem.”

You scowl at the Toymaker. “Just give me your Dare.”

The Toymaker shrugs at you. “If you insist. I Dare you…to perform a dance befitting a fine young lady such as yourself.”

Oh, God, no. This is a nightmare of a Dare. “I—I’m not a dancer,” you say. You can feel your blush crawling up your neck. You envision yourself prancing around in your new dolly-dress, and the embarrassment makes you physically cringe.

“Oh, zat is not ein problem!” The Toymaker beckons you to look under the table. When you do, he taps his own shoes against the floor, performing a rhythmic tap-step. “Zose lovely Schuhe I gave you vill ge-helpen sie along. Provided you are villing to perform dee dare, your tanzen is all taken care of. All you are ge-needings to do is stand up, und take drei steps backwards.”

The Toymaker leans back in his chair and looks at you expectantly. The list of excuses which blossomed into your mind when he first suggested the Dare are dwindling rapidly, each one seeming more pathetic than the last. But…maybe there is a way out of this?

“What about music?” you ask. “Surely you can’t expect me to dance without music.”

The Toymaker shakes his head at you. “Do not ge-worry about dee musik! I have it all covered. Unless…you vish to forfeit once more?” The idea of any other part of your body spontaneously transforming into an animal is enough to make you scramble to your feet. Immediately, you are self-conscious: the dress is equal parts beautiful and ridiculous, and is so poofy and frilly that it gives your lower half the shape of a bell. You haven’t felt this kind of embarrassment since you were in school: the dry throat and sweaty palms before getting up on stage for assembly. Feeling like a silly child, you can’t help but look at the Toymaker, searching those mirthful eyes for guidance. But the Toymaker simply shoos you, indicating for you to step back. Hesitantly, you take one step away from the table. Then another. Then, one final, gentle step. Without warning, the floor of the toyshop erupts! From beneath your feet a wooden stage springs up, unfurls around you and traps you like a box. You shriek and try to stumble away, but your new dancing shoes root you firmly to the spot. A spotlight bursts into being above your head and illuminates your frozen self in all your newfound frilly glory. You look down from your new height to see the Toymaker sitting in what is now the front row of a vast auditorium; the toyshop’s interior has vanished. He whoops and grabs a fistful from a cartoonishly large bucket of popcorn. You open your mouth to yell at him, and maybe call him some horrible names you haven’t thought of yet. But before you can, music starts blaring from all sides of the auditorium. It’s a grating, repetitive tune: some ghastly combination of twee guitar and twinkling piano…and it’s so familiar . You know this song, but what is it? And why does it sound so…childish? The music hits a powerful note. Your mouth opens unbidden, and from your vocal cords a voice which is decidedly not yours belts out the opening lyric to a familiar nursery rhyme: “I’m a little teapot, Short and stout!” Your voice is loud and beautiful, and you project better than any Broadway singer. You can do nothing but watch yourself in abject horror as your knees bend in time with the music, and your shiny shoes send you toppling along the stage in time with the song. “Here is my handle Here is my spout!” You try to scream and stop, but your body is no longer in your control. Your arms bend at frightening angles, and your hips send your neck careening to the side with a crack . A rictus grin is firmly plastered onto your face, and your mouth stays open and singing: “When I get all steamed up, Hear me SHOUT!…” Your hands flap and your toes point and you screaming on the inside, begging for this to stop, stop, STOP ! But the infernal music is inside of your head and it’s pushing in on all sides, and no matter how much you cry and beg and plead your mouth won’t work except to belt out the final words of your song. “TIP me over and POUR. ME. OUT!” At the last line, your knees give out and you collapse face-first onto the stage. A grand cheer goes up from the auditorium. You twist around, trying to see if the Toymaker has conjured up an audience to witness your humiliation—but he is the only one present. The Toymaker is on his feet and giving you a standing ovation. “Vunderbar!” the Toymaker cries as he claps enthusiastically. “Oh, you are dee most darling little teapot, ja. Zis is a fine game we are ge-havings!”

“What—did—you—do?” you gasp on the floor. You feel like your lungs have been crushed. Something the Toymaker did seized up everything inside of you and folded them up like paper. Now it’s as if you really are a doll: crumpled up and discarded in the corner when your owner is finished playing with you. Although you’re quite sure the music has stopped, the melody is blasting in your head in a maddening loop. You try to move, but your legs won’t work.

“Oh, don’t be zo dramatik. Eversing I ge-make brings viele fun,” says the Toymaker. “Herzlichen Glückwunsch …das ist ein point to you.”

You don’t see the Toymaker get up on the stage, but the next thing you know, he’s crouching down next to you. Without warning, the Toymaker lifts you up under the arms and pulls you to your feet as if you weigh nothing at all. You try to stand but your rigid muscles struggle with the task and you stumble, falling right into the Toymaker’s chest. He chuckles, and you hear it rumbling softly in his chest. His skin is impossibly warm…and you can’t hear a heartbeat.

The two of you stand like that for a long moment, with you enveloped in the Toymaker’s arms. When pressed against his waistcoat, the maddening song infesting your brain quietens, and is replaced with an easy sort of calm. It’s strange…all the questions and anger and terror seem to just burn away. They’re forgotten in the simplicity of being held like a doll.

Eventually, your senses kick in. You manage to pull yourself away from the Toymaker, and you refuse to look at his face. “I just want to get on with the game.”

“Of course.”

The Toymaker waves his hand and the stage and auditorium vanish. You are transported back to the interior of the toyshop, with its familiar cuddly audience and the table taking centre stage. You sit back down at the table shakily. You know when you look up the Toymaker will already be sitting across from you…and you’re right, even though you didn’t see or hear him pull back his chair. His eyes are bright and curious.

“Okay…Truth or Dare?”

The Toymaker places his hand on his chin and pretends to be deep in thought. After a while, he says, “Truth."

You very nearly ask him the same question you were denied just before: how was he able to make that doll look exactly like you? But the momentary calm offered by the Toymaker’s embrace has had a quieting effect on your mind, and a spike in your critical thinking skills. You have to think strategically; if you want to win, you need to ask him a question which will throw him off-guard. Asking him about the doll wouldn’t be a challenge because he likes to gloat, and to tease. But if you win, you can have your answer to that question and an actual demonstration…

…plus, you get to keep your freedom. Don’t forget that.

So you stare at the Toymaker and wonder…what causes a man (creature, entity, etc.) to end up this way?

“Tell me about your childhood,” you say.

The smile is wiped from the Toymaker’s face in an instant. His mouth twists in discomfort and anger. For the first time since you’ve met him, you feel a pleasant curl of satisfaction in your guts. The game is on, you think.

“What’s wrong?” you ask out loud. “Do you have a problem with the question? Because you can always forfeit—”

“I. Will. Not. Lose.”

The Toymaker’s fists are on the table now: they’re clenched and shaking. Although he’s looking at you, his mind seems far away, trapped somewhere else. After a beat, he leans forward, grabs your head and brings your foreheads together so they’re just barely touching.

“You asked for this,” says the Toymaker gravely. “I will do more than give you the answer to your question. I will show you. Close your eyes.”

The closeness is invigorating: the Toymaker’s hands are strong against the sides of your head, and you wonder for a second if he could pop your skull like a balloon. You consider saying no and demanding he just tell you the answer, but the look on the Toymaker’s face is so intense that you cannot refuse. It’s that terrible curiosity in you, willing you to stand at the edge of the universe and take a step off the cliff.

So you do as your bid, and close your eyes…

…only to awaken in a void.

To say there is nothing around you is an understatement. Your idea of nothingness is very particular: blackness; emptiness, an absence of sound and light. But this is something else entirely. You can’t even feel the lack of something in this place because there simply isn’t anything to feel. From the moment you open your eyes you feel the contradiction of yourself as a physical being, standing in this vacant not-space. There is less than nothing here. There is zilch. There is negative zero. There is null.

You try to get your bearings by looking around, but there are no bearings to get. This is a nothingness which exists beyond your comprehension. Just standing in this nothingness makes your jaw tighten and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. This is a phobic realm which is the antithesis to life.

And it is so, so cold.

“This is where I grew up.”

You jump. The Toymaker is standing beside you, arms folded behind his back. He surveys the nothingness with humble respect, the way a weary sailor surveys the ocean.

“How?” You try looking around again, but without anything to anchor gaze on, your eyes just swing back round to the Toymaker. “There’s nothing here.”

“Nothing except for me.”

The Toymaker sits down on the emptiness, cross-legged. Feeling discombobulated in the lack of space, you sit down too, next to him, and wonder how that’s possible. You hug your elbows, trying to fend off the omnipresent cold.

“We are outside of your universe,” says the Toymaker quietly. “Below it, as a matter of fact. We are in a pocket realm, like the hollow in a tree branch. Here there was nothing for a very long time…so long, that I do not know how to count it. The void is indifferent to such concepts.

“I was a child for an eternity, and many more eternities after that. Merely a conscious speck suspended in forever. At the time I had no form. No body, no face, and not really a mind. I was a collection of distant ideas and fraught, base emotions. There was no reason for me to have either a solid shape or a brain. I existed only in relation to the void, and the void went on forever. All I had to entertain myself were my games.”

With a flick of the wrist, the Toymaker conjures a ball into existence. Then another. Then another. He does this over and over again until he is juggling at least twenty balls. His hands move in a blur as he juggles the balls effortlessly. He tosses them higher and higher, so high that you have to crane your neck to see. Eventually you lose sight of the balls in the nothingness.

But then, the Toymaker sighs…and you notice that the balls are disappearing. This continues for about a minute, the balls growing fewer in number until he’s down to just three…and then there’s only two, so he’s not really juggling at all.

Finally, the Toymaker catches the last remaining ball and holds it up to your face. A frost has grown along its leathery side.

“Playing games can keep you warm,” says the Toymaker, “but only for a little while. Eventually, the cold gets in. And the cold devours everything."

“How did you survive here?” you ask quietly. You can’t raise your voice above a whisper: it feels disrespectful.

“Death isn’t something I am capable of experiencing,” says the Toymaker. “I can never die from the cold. But I can still feel it.”

The Toymaker looks at the ball in his hand, and it catches fire. You gasp and pull away, but the fire only burns for a few seconds: the flames are quickly extinguished by a new crop of frost, growing over the ball’s surface like a disease.

In moments, the Toymaker is holding nothing but a ball of ice.

“I’m…sorry,” you say.

It’s a feeble reply, and you know it. The cold here is wrapped into the environment itself. This no-space could well be made of nothing but a creeping, insidious chill. It’s worse than the kind of cold which slams into you, like the jump from the shower to a towel on a winter night, or the way your cheeks are slapped when stepping outside on a snowy day.

This cold is sinister.

It waits.

It seeks out warmth wherever it can, wraps itself around that spark of heat, and crushes it frozen.

The Toymaker runs hot, you remember with a shiver.

No wonder. The Toymaker fends off your weak sympathies with a shake of his head. He stares off into the nothingness, and continues to speak.

“I thought it would just be me and the void forever. But then one day, I heard laughter! It was a sound utterly foreign to me. I was so frightened, I spent millennia curled tight up into a ball, cringing away from the sound. But I could hear them now…beings, with shape and light and thoughts. As the epochs stretched before me and the void remained still, I found myself drawn to their laughter.”

The Toymaker’s eyes glitter with recollection. “I learnt how to poke small peepholes into the fabric of the void, and peer through at the shapes. And oh, the things I saw! These beings, they played games , just like me! Games which used pieces and strategies and all manner of wonderful toys. I wanted to have them all. Needed to have them. So I did. I fashioned myself fingers, and with those fingers I fashioned toys and toys and toys, enough to fill up every child’s toy room in every universe!"

You watch as the Toymaker trembles with excitement. His voice has swollen to fit the void: a rallying cry against the darkness. He looks so proud of himself…but only for a moment.

“After a while, my toys grew old,” he says sadly. “They say a boy becomes a man when he must throw his toys onto the fire in order to keep himself warm...and the cold never stops. I realised that wood and string were all well and good, but they had no personality of their own…and I had no opponent.”

The Toymaker turns to you then. There’s a manic look in his eye. “So I began to lure in the flesh-and-blood creatures,” he says. “It was easy enough once I learned to assume their shape…especially the early ones, who weren’t so bright. And what shapes I would become! I enjoy this shape so much that I’ve decided to keep it permanently, with the odd touch-up every half-century or so. Being handsome helps bring in the players.”

There goes that easy wink again, smooth and charming and drawing you in like the lure on an anglerfish.

“And…that’s why you’re here today?” you ask. “You just want to play games with us?”

The Toymaker’s laugh is mean. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “All that exists is to win, or to lose. I don’t want to play games with you. I simply want to win.”

The two of you stand in silence for a while, contemplating the nothingness. The longer you stay, the more you can feel the chill sliding its icy fingers over your flesh. It crawls up your socks and settles into the gaps behind your knees. It causes wet, cold dew to form at the edges of your eyelashes. It even seeps into the spaces between your skin and fingernails.

You wish you hadn’t asked for this Truth.

“One point to you, Toymaker,” you say through chattering teeth.

The Toymaker starts: clearly he’d forgotten all about you. The void has a sobering effect on him, it seems. How did a little boy manage to have any imagination in this place at all? “Yes,” says the Toymaker with a worn smile. “One point each.”

The next time you blink, the void is gone. You are returned to the familiar warmth of the toyshop, and are still sitting at the table across from the Toymaker. But now, even as the cold sloughs off your skin and your cheeks begin to heat up again, you can see the toyshop for what it is. The bright lights and colourful attractions are nothing more than decorative wallpaper for a frozen, ephemeral darkness, ever-creeping in on the corners of your vision.

When the Toymaker speaks again, his German is back in full force, and you wonder if he’s trying to stave off how frightened he really is.

“Zat is vier turns down,” he says. “Mit only zwei to go. I ge-believe it is my turn, ja?”

Oh, hell: he’s right. You’d gotten so caught up in the impossibility of the Toymaker’s mind that you’d forgotten you’re playing a very dangerous game. But the Toymaker’s smile looks fake now, and the way his eyes glimmer seems less like mischief, and more like withheld tears. For the first time you want to stop this game…not just for you, but for the Toymaker too.

But that’s not how this would be played. The rules are fixed, and you’ve seen what the consequences could be. Worse, you only have one response left to give. By the way the Toymaker is grinning at you, you know he’s remembered this rule too.

“Truth or Dare?” he asks.

You swallow, before giving the only answer you can: “Truth.”

The Toymaker laughs a little too loud. “Now, you had better nots ge-try to get out of zis one,” he says. “I vant you to tell me dee truth: vot exactly is your fantasy? I vill be requiring details.”

There it is: the question this whole game has been building up to. This situation is impossible and ridiculous. Here you sit, surrounded by beautiful toys in your gorgeous dress, playing a game with an unbelievable, broken man who can rewrite your entire reality with nothing more than a thought. Yet you still can’t just open your mouth and give him the answer. Somehow, even in the face of impossible adversity, you are still beholden to your human embarrassment.

“If I tell you…” you say slowly. “...Do you promise not to laugh?”

The Toymaker’s eyebrows knit together. He looks distressed by the question. “All players should be treated with respect,” he replies.

That’s not the answer I want, but it’s the only answer he can give , you think. But maybe that’s the key here. You would never willingly part with this information…but the Toymaker just did the same thing for you. He didn’t have to show you where he came from. He could have talked around it, given you the crib notes, and you would have been none the wiser. The Toymaker showed you vulnerability just by allowing you into his history.

You owe him that same level of respect.

“I didn’t get much attention when I was growing up,” you say. “It wasn’t a bad upbringing, but I was just kind of…left, a lot of the time. I wasn’t looked after. There was always some sort of problem that needed fixing, and my parents never had time for me. No one bothered to check on me, so I just had to figure things out for myself. I spent most of my time alone in my room…just me and my toys.”

“That sounds familiar,” says the Toymaker, and the sympathy in his voice is real. “How did you pass your time?”

“I took my toys apart,” you say. “I think my parents felt guilty for leaving me alone a lot, so there was never a shortage of toys. But I wanted to figure out how they worked. That seemed much more interesting than actually playing with them, you know?”

The Toymaker smiles with approval. “Dee keen eye of a toymaker is a gift,” he says. “But I sense you are delaying your real story…”

You curse inwardly: again, he’s right. You cannot hide any longer.

“I took apart all of my toys…except for my dolls.”

That gets the Toymaker’s attention: those bright blue eyes light up with interest. “Go on.”

“I had a set of five dolls,” you say quietly. “Generic dolls. Sparkly, brushable hair, and little swappable outfits. Nothing special. But even when I was really small I couldn’t hurt them. I was terrified of damaging them in any way. There weren’t any other kids around to talk to, and my parents weren’t home, so I just…talked to the dolls instead. I knew it was weird, but in my head the dolls were more sentient than my other toys. I thought they could really understand me.”

The Toymaker starts back up in his German voice: “Ah, zere is nothing more ge-saddening zan a lonely Kind. Zat is why decapitating poor Neil vas being no problem for you, zen?”

“Yeah. It still hurt, but not for the reasons it would hurt most people.” You swallow; this is the really difficult part. “The older I got, the more toys I had, but I never added to my doll collection. My parents would joke all the time about how I was becoming a ‘little lady’. When I became a teenager there was so much pressure to be pretty, and girly…and it made me feel sick. So I tried to fight back against it. I cut my hair, I swore off pink, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress.”

The words stick in your throat. You look up at the Toymaker, hoping for some kind of mercy, but you don’t find it. But he isn’t mocking you, either: he just sits and waits for you to continue.

“I locked my dolls away,” you say. “I pretended I had thrown them out…but secretly, I’d sneak them out, and play with them. I’d brush their hair, and mend their dresses. I still do.”

The Toymaker leans in. “Why?”

“I…I wanted to be like them,” you whisper. “They are so pretty. The long, flowing dresses and the perfect makeup…they’re dazzling in a way I could never be. I can never, ever be that beautiful.”

You twist the fabric of your dress between your fingers fitfully, and force yourself to say it:

“I always wanted to be someone’s favourite doll."

There’s silence in the toyshop. You stare down at your lap, your heart pounding and your face flushed. Stupid, stupid…! Your eyes well up with hot tears. You can’t bring yourself to look at the Toymaker.

“Und zen you arrive here,” he says. “Meine beautiful dollen drew you in.”

“Yes,” you say quietly. “If I can’t be loved like a doll, then at least I can give them love instead. If I were a doll, maybe things would be easier, you know? Maybe…”

You can’t help the little choke-sob which escapes your lips.

“...maybe someone would take care of me."

The tears fall freely into your lap now and stain the beautiful fabric of your dress dark. You feel disgusting: worthy of ridicule. I deserve whatever happens to me now, you think, your brain awash with old, dark feelings you’ve kept locked up just like the dolls in your closet.

But it’s the Toymaker who snaps you out of his reverie. You didn’t hear him move, but you flinch when his fingers slide under your chin and tilt up your face towards him. Your tears cast him in a watery halo.

“Mein Liebling, stop ge-crying,” he says. “I have made sehr many dollen over dee years, und many of zem have been beautiful. But you are somesing else entirely entirely. Ein living, breathing, villing doll, so cute und poseable. Oh, you und I vill have zo many adventures together! You could be mein prized possession, und I vill hold you and play vith you from dawn zu dusk.”

The Toymaker’s words send a shudder through your body. Blood thrums at the surface of your skin and pools in your cheeks and neck. The Toymaker leans in until your noses are almost touching. He’s so very close to you now…close enough that he could kiss you.

But just before he reaches your lips, the Toymaker moves to the side and whispers into your ear:

“Dee game is not yet over, meine schöne dollen. You have one final question to ge-ask of me. Do it, und zis vill all be over…one vay or another.”

You can feel him smiling gently against your hair, and it makes you want to sob. Oh, please let this torture end…! But you’re in the Toymaker’s grasp now, in the final throes of his game, and you know you have to finish this or your suffering will never be over. There is only one turn left. You have to try, one last time, or you would spend the rest of your life at the beck and call of this madman.

“Truth or Dare?” you manage to croak out.

The Toymaker lets your face go. “Dare."

You take a deep breath. This is your last chance.

“Let me go.”

The Toymaker takes a long, long moment to process your answer…and then he starts to laugh. Really, really hard. The tinkling arpeggio of his laughter builds and builds until it seems to shake the very walls of the toyshop. For a moment, you are terrified that it’s all going to come crumbling down like a house of cards.

“Oh, perhaps becoming ein dollen hast eroded deine brain, ja?” says the Toymaker, the arrogance flashing in his teeth. “I am not ein genie you kann outsmarts. I am afraid zat since letting you go ist your prize, you cannot request it of me. So, you have lost ein point, putting us at a tie…und you must complete ein forfeit once more.”

No. No. NO! “That’s not fair!” you yell. The tears are streaming down your face in earnest now; all of the distress of this game and the Toymaker’s psychological torment can no longer be contained.

“Oh, und here comes dee tantrum,” says the Toymaker with a sigh. “I hates it ven zey get like zis. You must have ein forfeit…und I think I have dee perfekt idea to stop your ge-crying.”

The Toymaker snaps his fingers again. You open your mouth to scream at him…but nothing comes out.

You try again, but your mouth just flops open like a fish, with no sound attached to it whatsoever.

The Toymaker has stolen your voice.

“I have assisted you in another core aspect of your doll transformation,” says the Toymaker, the British swooping in over his tongue with ease. “I do not think most dolls can talk, do you?”

You awful…! But the words can’t even die on your tongue, because they never reach your tongue in the first place. There is a total disconnect between your mouth and your brain. Although you can fashion your lips into the correct shapes and try to push the air into forming syllables, none of them can escape your mouth.

The Toymaker has silenced you, taking away perhaps your only remaining asset in this game.

You mentally tally up the points, and realise he’s right. You are now tied, and six turns have passed.

“But I cannot tolerate a tie. Dee rules dictate zat ve must perform a tie-breaker challenge…” His accent ripples between the German and British easily, as if he can’t decide between childish delight and cool professionalism. “Do you have any suggestions for a tie-breaker?"

The devastation of losing your voice almost made you look over this detail. Yes, he’s right: for all of your suffering, the Toymaker hasn’t actually managed to get a point over you. That means all is not lost.

That means you still have a chance to win.

But you cannot strategise in a vacuum: much less when you can’t speak. The Toymaker looks at you in amusement, as if expecting you to try and talk anyway. You could have written a message down on a piece of paper, or typed it on your phone, but you decide not to give him the satisfaction. The Toymaker has already gotten you on the rules twice: you are going to play within his boundaries and win fair and square.

You don’t see where he produces the hat from. A flourish of the arm, and it’s suddenly in his hands: a beautiful top hat which would have gone perfectly with a tuxedo. The Toymaker flips the hat over and proffers it to you.

“Ladies first,” he says with a sly smile.

You reach into the hat and are surprised to find a variety of small, paper tickets. After some rustling around, you pull one out and read it. When you do, your eyes go wide.

WHOEVER HOLDS THEIR BREATH THE LONGEST IS THE WINNER. “Vot fun!” exclaims the Toymaker, clapping his hands together in excitement. “I must ge-varn you, I am a very gut schwimmer, and kann hold mein breath for ein long time.”

But do you even have a lung capacity?! is what you would have asked if you could. How was this fair? The Toymaker is clearly an extradimensional being, and his physical body doesn’t seem to conform to the laws of physics, space or time…anything that would put a real challenge to this game. But you can’t say so: you have no way of telling him.

Besides…is it cheating if that’s just how he is? Is it cheating if he’s just better at the game?

A loud tick-tocking draws your eye to the right side of the toyshop. Against the wall (where it definitely didn’t exist before) is a grandfather clock. Both of the clock’s hands are almost at the 12. This was news to you; you’d arrived at the toyshop sometime around 8pm.

“Ve vill begin when ze clock strikes twelve,” says the Toymaker. “Zere are no fancy rules…ve just start ge-holdings our breath, until eins of us cannot anymore.”

The grandfather clock ticks closer to your demise. You look at the Toymaker in desperation, clasping your hands together in a silent plea…but he just looks at you coolly. Now, you are nothing but an opponent to defeat. You are an obstacle ready to be demolished.

Well, I am not helpless. If anyone is going to decide the winner of this game, it’s going to be me. With only thirty seconds remaining, you fish around in the pocket of your backpack and pull out your phone. You set up your video camera, prop the phone up against a toy monkey holding a pair of cymbals, and hit the record button.

“Ah,” says the Toymaker. “In case of ein photo-finish. Gut idea.”

There’s a cold fire in his eyes now: something which ignited when he took you into his personal void. You have no moves left, and no gameplay strategies to implement. It is clear that he is the master of games, and you may as well already be his doll.

But hell, you are going to try your best.

The grandfather clock strikes twelve with a loud, booming chime, and you suck in the largest breath of your life. You don’t balloon out your cheeks: instead you opt for a subtle approach learnt from musical training, where you draw in the oxygen deep into your lungs and will it to sit there for as long as you can handle.

By comparison, the Toymaker doesn’t look like he’s holding his breath at all. You merely hear him stop breathing. He looks totally at ease.

The first ten seconds are child’s play.

The first twenty seconds are fine.

The first thirty seconds are acceptable.

But by the forty-second mark a playful fire start to burn in your chest, and the urge to take a breath begins to beg. Inside you curse yourself, wishing that you’d practised— but why on earth would I have practised such a useless game?! You look at the Toymaker. Big mistake. He waggles his eyebrows at you silently, rippling them in an over-the-top-sultry manner. You feel your lips quirking up into a smile…You can’t believe it! He’s trying to make you laugh!

So much for respecting the rules, you think to yourself. Your chest is really starting to hurt now. But then you wonder, is that really cheating? If the Toymaker can try to make you laugh, what if you can make him laugh too? But you shut down that idea immediately: if you prancing around in a frilly dress singing I’m A Little Teapot didn’t make him laugh (just clap!), you didn’t have a chance in hell.

Oh no. What is he doing now? While trying to focus on holding your breath, the Toymaker had conjured two familiar puppets on the ends of his hands: Punch and Judy. With a final, victorious wink, the Toymaker begins a silent, over-the-top slapstick routine with the puppets. Even without dialogue you recognise the beats of the show; Mr Punch is a mess of a man, overwhelmed by the demands of his wife and baby (the latter brought into being with a tiny, adorable puppet the Toymaker wears on one of his thumbs). His hands move with such finesse that the puppets almost look real.

Such a gaudy routine wouldn’t have been enough to make you laugh by itself, but the Toymaker brings a whole new dimension with his wonderfully expressive face. Each time the long-suffering Judy begins a voiceless tirade of her husband (i.e., throwing little puppet-objects at his face), the Toymaker supplements Punch’s depression with a frown worthy of a theatre mask. When Punch manages to land a hit on his wife or baby (My God, were these shows always so violent?), the Toymaker grins with such deranged glee that you can’t help but find it hilarious.

Oh no. You look at the clock: it’s been a minute, and your chest is really starting to hurt. The Toymaker and his puppets make your cheeks puff out with the effort of not laughing.

He smirks at you as Punch picks up his wife and baby and tosses them into the air, punting them like footballs. It’s so absurd and ridiculous that you can feel the giggle rising up in your chest. You desperately want to open your mouth and suck in oxygen but you can’t, you simply can’t, because if you do you’ll lose the game and he’ll keep you here forever…!

As your remaining seconds tick closer to your inevitable failure, you close your eyes. You want to have one last moment to remember yourself as you are, because you are sure whatever the Toymaker is going to do to you will not be pleasant.

Your chest aches. Your cheeks bulge. Your will starts to unravel.

And then, you have the idea.

It’s a stupid idea, and with barely any seconds left to execute it, you have no guarantee that it will work. But as you open your eyes and look at the Toymaker’s smug ‘I’ve already won!’ expression, you know you have no choice but to follow through with your mad plan.

So, holding on to every last bit of breath you have, you lunge at the Toymaker—

—and envelop him in a bone-crushing hug.

Several things happen at once:

The first is the Toymaker exclaiming in surprise, his breath clearly lost, and dropping his puppets, which dissolve into ash as soon as they hit the floor.

The second is your desire to breathe finally overpowering you as you collapse against the Toymaker, and the two of you tumble to the floor.

The third is the grandfather clock exploding. Just as you hit the ground the clock bursts apart, firing out wooden shrapnel with a horrifying bang! On reflex you huddle yourself against the nearest form of safety, which in this case happens to be the Toymaker’s chest.

You weren’t expecting him to hold you back.

The two of you stay like that for some time: you and the Toymaker, on the floor together, breathing heavily and wrapped up in each other’s arms. Despite your own adrenaline, you can’t understand the Toymaker’s terror: surely he caused the clock to blow up? He certainly wasn’t in any danger.

But then you hear a sound you couldn’t hear before. It’s the thrumming of the Toymaker’s heart, loud and insistent and desperate to survive. You hear it through the fabric of his waistcoat, and feel it in the pulse of his neck. For just a moment, the Toymaker seems to be just as human as you.

You wonder if the Toymaker’s mortality is contextual.

Eventually, you manage to disentangle yourself from the Toymaker’s limbs. You peek at the smoking remains of the grandfather clock, and are relieved to see that nothing has caught fire: there’s just a scorched, black mark where the clock once existed. The shards of wood which exploded out from the clock have disappeared.

Thankfully, your phone is untouched! You pick it up, pause the recording and watch it back. A smile stretches across your face.

“Oh, Toymaker!” you say, and you are so very pleased that your voice has returned. “You’re going to want to take a look at this.”

When the Toymaker climbs to his feet, you are immensely amused to see that his perfect curls have been knocked a bit by the explosion. For the first time since you met, the Toymaker is dishevelled and confused. It’s a cute look on you, you think.

“You broke my game,” says the Toymaker incredulously. “How did you do that?”

“No idea,” you grin. “Maybe it was an unexpected outcome. Still within the rules, still a valid way to win, just…unorthodox.”

You show the Toymaker the recording. You watch as his expression turns from bafflement, to despair, to outright blazing anger.

“No!” the Toymaker cries. “You can’t have beat me!”

But the camera never lies. The footage on your phone clearly picks up the Toymaker gasping in shock as soon as you hit him with your hug…whilst you don’t gasp for air until a few seconds later, just before the grandfather clock explodes.

“Seems like I have!” you say happily.

“But I…you…” The Toymaker’s fingers flex in the air meaninglessly, as if looking for a straw to grasp. “But that’s cheating!”

“No it isn’t,” you say with confidence. “There was nothing in the rules about us not being able to make each other lose our breath. If you making me laugh was a valid strategy, then me hugging you was too. Either we both cheated, or no one did.”

The Toymaker looks like he’s been slapped, and it is a delicious feeling. You almost want to pinch his cheeks. With a pout fixing his lips, the Toymaker snaps his fingers…and your clothes return to normal. Your dress is gone, replaced by the clothes you entered the shop with.

(Is it a little silly to be regretful of that fact…?)

“I still say that shouldn’t count,” says the Toymaker sullenly. “That was an underhanded tactic. I’ll be writing that into the rules next time.”

But you’ve turned away from the Toymaker now—he obviously needs to work through his sore-loser feelings in his own time. You trot over to the doll shelf, pick up the beautiful doll in the powder-blue dress and cradle her in your arms. She truly is a wonderful prize.

When you turn back around, the Toymaker is sitting on the floor with his hands hugging his knees. You feel a pang of sympathy for the man…it seems this really is his whole life.

“But why did you hug me?” the Toymaker asks, baffled. “That’s not a winning strategy. You just surprised me. You were so…”

The Toymaker looks up at you with shining eyes. This time, his eyes really are wet with tears.

“...Warm,” he whispers.

The triumph of your win quickly sours on your tongue. The way the Toymaker is looking at you gives you a powerful feeling…and it’s not one that you like. Even though every part of you is telling you to make a run for the door while you have this post-win window…you don’t.

Instead, you sit down cross-legged on the floor next to the Toymaker, just like you did when in the void. You even bump your shoulder against his.

“I’ve been sad a lot in my life,” you say. “But I’ve never felt as much sadness as I did in your void. And it made me wonder if…you’d ever been held before.”

The Toymaker looks at you with flashing eyes. His bottom lip trembles as if he’s trying to hold back a lifetime of grief. He doesn’t say anything, but those eyes tell you all you need to know.

“I wouldn’t mind coming around here sometimes,” you say gently.

The Toymaker looks at you like you’ve got two heads. “You would voluntarily subject yourself to my life-or-death games?”

“Maybe not the life-or-death part,” you say hastily. “But I had fun today. Weird, horrible fun. You’re kind of a weird and horrible guy…and I’m pretty weird too.”

To your surprise, the Toymaker actually laughs at that. “You are unique, meine Liebling,” he says, German once more. “To out-ge-smart me, you must be.”

“Well…maybe it’s a good thing we met,” you say. “Maybe you don’t need to keep luring in suspecting people to your shop, Toymaker. Some of us might actually want to stick around and play. And maybe…”

You rest your head against the Toymaker’s shoulder.

“...Maybe I could help keep the cold out for a while.”

The Toymaker and you sit in silence for some time, listening to the gentle whirs and clicks of the toys going about their business. You keep your new doll tucked between your legs, and your cheek resting against the Toymaker’s shoulder. He’s so warm that you find your eyelids fluttering: you could easily fall asleep right here.

It’s a surprise when you feel the Toymaker’s fingers sliding into your own. You look at him, and see those telling blue eyes alive with fresh excitement.

“It’s a deal,” says the Toymaker, with an enormous, brilliant smile.

You let the Toymaker pull you to your feet. To your amusement, he grants you a deep, formal bow.

“Run along now, meine Schatz…today must have been ge-xhausting for you. But I shall be seeing you again soon, ja?"

Other people would not have caught it, but you know what loneliness sounds like: you hear the edge of desperation at the edge of the Toymaker’s voice. You take a step back and return the bow with a curtsey.

“Ja, genau,” you grin.

The Toymaker’s smile could have outshone the sun.

That night, when you return home, you take all of your dolls out of your closet. You line them up with care on your shelf, making sure to pose them prettily and smooth out the creases in their frocks.

But you keep your new doll in your hand, and clamber into bed with her. Before you turn out the light, you look one last time at her perfect, dimpled face.

Oh, what games will you and the Toymaker play next?

#the toymaker x reader #the toymaker x you #the toymaker #doctor who #the celestial toymaker #dw #the giggle #fanfiction #x reader #starleskawrites #i don't know what came over me but it sure was fun to write 🥰💖#long post

204 notes · View notes

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

Text

Light the Way - Part One

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x female character (third person) Warnings: Angst, date rape/roofies, slight BDSM Word count: ~4k Series masterlist

Chapter summary: Starting a new job is never easy, it's even worse when your boss is an arsehole. When he unexpectedly comes to the rescue though, the relationship dynamic changes drastically.

She graduated from university a year ago with a Bachelor’s degree in PR and Marketing, and still has no idea what she wants from life, although the last twelve months of working as a barista have proven to her that a career in hospitality and customer service is definitely not it. Having happened across an online advertisement of a vacancy for the position of a personal assistant at a private law firm, she applied on a whim, never expecting to hear back. It’s not like she was qualified anyway, so she had nothing to lose

Yet, here she is, almost four weeks later, standing in the foyer of Red Keep Legal, preparing to begin her first day. The office building is sleek and modern, minimalist in decor, yet the polish of everything suggests it is incomprehensibly expensive. A handsome, bearded, older man, dressed in a sharp suit collects her from reception. She learns his name is Otto Hightower and he is a partner at the firm. They are high end solicitors and only take on the most exclusive of clients. She turns his business card over in her hands, the thickness of the smooth, matte black cardstock is high quality, with ornate golden lettering and a blood red logo of a three headed dragon. She knows she has seen that logo before, but can’t place where exactly.

“You’ll be a personal assistant to my grandson, Aemond.” Otto tells her. “He’s working on a particularly tricky case at the moment, so you’ll be responsible for ensuring he has everything he needs. I imagine he won’t ask you to do much more than get him coffee.”

So there it was, the reason she’d gotten the job. She was hoping her coffee making days were behind her, but no such luck. She sighs inwardly, the bitter irony is almost comical.

“Anyway, if you have no further questions, I shall introduce you to Aemond.” Otto concludes.

She smiles and nods politely as he turns on his heel and leads her towards the elevator, stopping on the second to last floor. She follows him along a marble floored corridor, before he gently raps his knuckles against the rich mahogany of an office door. After a few moments the door swings open to reveal the most ethereal being she’d ever laid eyes upon. He is impossibly tall without being gangly or awkward; his long, lithe limbs flow like water as he props himself against the doorframe. His silky, silver locks are perfectly coiffed and she feels self conscious as the bright blue of his right eye scans all the way from her feet to the top of her head, analysing every inch. She notices the skin around his left eye is lightly scarred - the only indication that the realistic prosthetic that sits within the socket isn’t something he can actually see out of. The simple long sleeved top and black trousers she’s wearing suddenly feel drab in comparison to the well tailored navy blue suit he wears, and she fights the urge to hide herself.

“Aemond, this is your new personal assistant.” Otto informs him, gesturing towards her. “Your mother and I worked hard to find this one, so perhaps you could try being a little more cordial than last time.”

She doesn’t stop to think about what that could possibly mean, letting out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in and rushing forward, smiling wide and extending a hand.

“Hi Aemond! It’s wonderful to meet you!”

His plush, full lips remain unmoving, as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, not returning the gesture and continuing to study her.

She drops her hand, feeling deflated and laughs nervously.

Clearly not picking up on the awkwardness, or simply not caring, Otto glances between the two of them, before giving a curt nod and striding back towards the elevator.

Aemond watches him go before returning his attention back to her.

“Wonderful to meet me, hm?” he finally says, quirking an eyebrow.

Before she can respond, he continues, “Look, I’ve told my grandfather I don’t need an assistant and I like my own space. I’m looking over some contracts at the moment, so I would prefer it if you could make yourself scarce.” He disappears from view, allowing his office door to close behind him.

She immediately feels miserable. Her shoulders slump as she stands in front of the closed door. The first day of a new job should feel exciting, especially when your boss is so breathtakingly handsome, but this guy is rude and has declared her useless within minutes of meeting her. For a moment she considers just walking out and not returning.

She spends the remainder of the day sitting at her desk that’s positioned to the outer left of Aemond’s door. No one goes in or out, and not once does she catch sight of him. As far as first days go this is undoubtedly the worst she has ever experienced. As tempting as it is to just bail and head home, she desperately needs the cash, so she watches the hours slowly tick by on the off chance her stand-offish boss may suddenly decide he needs something. By the time 6pm rolls around, and she stands to gather her things, her legs have cramped from sitting for so long and she curses herself for only stretching her legs on the few occasions she went to the bathroom.

Arriving home, she finds her flatmate isn’t back yet and breathes a sigh of relief, knowing she’d be bombarded with questions about her first day and not have a positive answer for any of them. She uses the opportunity to pace the flat, rifling through the contact sheet and paperwork she has been given. She sighs when she happens upon the number listed for Aemond - what was the point of having the number of someone who seemingly wanted nothing to do with her? She saves it to her phone anyway, tomorrow was a new day after all. Perhaps she’ll score a few brownie points if she texts and offers to grab him coffee on her way to the office. She still can’t figure out why he’d been so cold towards her. Flopping down on the couch with a glass of wine, she boots up her laptop, deciding to do some research on Aemond Targaryen, as she realises that beyond meeting him today and knowing he works for one of the most prestigious law firms in all of Westeros, she really knows nothing about the man she is supposed to be working for.

She wakes up early the next morning, armed with a plan. Her evening of wine-fuelled research had been fruitful. She’d discovered that Aemond was from a family of famous Valyrian legal, political and business figures. Her recognition of the logo on Otto’s card was because it was regularly splashed across all of the major tabloid and broadsheet newspapers. She’d read through a few old articles regarding family drama, disputes over assets, and the death of his father to get an idea of who he was, before deciding his cold demeanour is likely attributed to the combined stress of his job and seemingly endless rifts between his mother and half-sister. She decides that if she is to break down his walls then she will do so with kindness, but she also wants to look the part - if she is to fit in with such sophisticated people then she needs to start dressing like one. She slips into a pencil skirt so fitted it looks like it has been painted on, alongside a sheer white blouse and a killer pair of black stilettos. She completes the look with perfectly styled hair and a thick coat of blood red lipstick. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t vying for more than Aemond’s professional attention, but she’d try anything at this point just to get him to acknowledge her presence. Giving herself a last once over look in the mirror, she fires off what she considers to be a breezy good morning text to Aemond, before heading to the coffee shop she used to work at. “Good morning Mr. Targaryen! Hope you’re well today. I’ll grab you a coffee on my way to the office. See you soon!”

Arriving exactly thirty minutes later, coffees in hand, she is disappointed to see that she’s been left on read. Nevermind. She has gone all out with the coffee order, asking for the special roast of beans with an extra shot and foamed milk. This was sure to win him over. She knocks timidly at his office door and after a long moment is about to knock again when it swings slowly open with a perfectly poised Aemond on the other side. God, he was breathtaking.

She realises she has gone too long without saying anything when he snaps out an impatient “Yes?” She jumps slightly, stepping forward into his office without an invitation. Aemond cautiously backs away, his brow furrowing with suspicion and confusion.

She thrusts one of the cups towards him, “Umm…I text you. Did you - uh - coffee?” Great, now I’ve lost the fucking power of speech.

Aemond gingerly accepts the cup from her, without saying thank you. “Are you always this articulate?” He says flatly, before taking a sip. His nose instantly wrinkles, “Ugh, does this have milk in it? I’m allergic to dairy."

Her eyes widen in horror, "Oh gods,, I’m so sorry! I should have thought to ask, I can always get you-"

"Forget it.” He cuts her off, “That will be all for the day, before you try to poison me any further. Close the door on your way out.”

Fantastic, another day sat at my desk, except this time I’m dressed like a cheap escort.

The confidence she’d felt when she stepped out of the door this morning had been crushed flat by Aemond in a matter of seconds. She sits with her hands clasped tightly in front of her on the desk, willing her unshed tears away. Did he want her to quit? She’d placed everything on this job and she didn’t want to give it up without a fight. Sje simply couldn’t understand why Aemond seemed to hate her so much.

After a few hours pass by, she notices it is lunch time - he has to take a break some time. She decides that now is when she’ll make her move. Standing purposefully, she sniffs back her tears and checks her make-up in her compact mirror, before strutting back towards Aemond’s door. She’ll give that arsehole a piece of her mind. It was about time he learned to respect her.

She bursts into Aemond’s office without knocking. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?!” she rants, not waiting for his reaction to her sudden intrusion.

He looks up from the documents he has been reading and stares at her, but his expression is unreadable.

He stays silent, so she continues her tirade. “I didn’t have a fucking clue who you were when I accepted this job, despite that I’ve treated you with nothing but respect and you can’t even extend me the same courtesy!” She paces as she yells at him, gesticulating wildly. There’s a part of her telling her to stop, that this behaviour will likely get her fired, but at this point it would have been like attempting to put toothpaste back in the tube. “I know you think you’re hot shit, but that doesn’t exempt you from behaving like a decent human being.” She stops and looks at him then, his face still a mask of neutrality as he gazes up at her from his seat at the desk. “Why aren’t you saying anything?!” She demands.

“Oh, are you done?” He replies sarcastically.

She throws her hands up in exasperation, eliciting a huge sigh at his complete lack of emotion.

Accepting her reaction as affirmation, he diverts his attention back to his paperwork and mutters “Well, if that’s all, you know where the door is.”

It takes all of her willpower not to grab the nearest object and launch it towards his head. She storms outside, slamming the door as she goes. Fuck this. Walking purposefully straight to the elevator, she lets it take her to the ground floor before hastily exiting the office building. There was absolutely no way she was spending another second in this godforsaken building.

Arriving home she throws her keys a little too aggressively onto the kitchen counter and heads straight towards the fridge, grabbing for the can of whipped cream. As she loudly squirts an unhealthy sized swirl of it into her mouth, her flatmate, Rhea, looks up from her laptop with an amused smile and asks “Rough morning?”

She hadn’t noticed her sitting at the dining table, too engrossed in her own foul mood to have any awareness of her surroundings. “Think I lost my job.” She slurs without bothering to swallow.

Rhea closes the lid of her laptop and rushes to pull her into a bear hug. Finally releasing her, she smiles kindly and wipes cream from her chin, before saying “First of all, you’re gross, and second, how has that happened? You’ve been there less than 48 hours!”

“It’s a long story.” She sighs, “The short version is that my boss is an arsehole, so I yelled at him and then left the office.”

“Oh.” Rhea winces, “That’s bad.”

“What the fuck am I going to do?!” She whines, rubbing her temples.

“Well, it might not solve your impending unemployment, but we could go out tonight?”

“Are you high right now, Rhea?! The only thing I’ll be doing tonight is looking at the classifieds!”

“Come on, you were miserable for so long in your last job and don’t seem to be faring much better in this one. You deserve a little fun!”

“I dunno…”

“I’m not taking no for an answer! I’m working from home today, so having a reason to leave the flat later will keep me sane. Plus you don’t even need to get changed - you are wearing that outfit!”

“Fine. I guess one drink couldn’t hurt.”

Rhea squeals with excitement, clapping her hands. “Amazing! Now be a doll and fuck off until 7pm, I have to concentrate.”

Rhea returns to her laptop while she retreats to her room, wondering if there will ever be a point this week where she isn’t being told to go away by someone.

The bar they end up at later that evening is loud and overcrowded. Despite that, she can feel herself relaxing. Perhaps it was the second white wine she was sipping or the steady beat of the music causing her to sway your hips involuntarily, but for the first time in two days she wasn't thinking about Aemond. She sighs contentedly, draining her glass and flashing Rhea a toothy grin as she pushes through the crowd with their next round of drinks.

“Having fun?” Rhea half shouts over the cacophony of noise.

Nodding, she grabs her hand, dragging her towards the dance floor. She chugs her drink as they both move to the rhythm of the song playing. She feels woozy and attributes it to drinking too much wine too fast.

“You want water?” She shouts to Rhea, making a drinking motion with her hand. Rhea nods gratefully and she staggers her way to the bar. She can feel her vision shifting in and out of focus and getting her legs to work the way she wants them to is proving difficult. Changing course, she heads outside, deciding a few lungfuls of fresh air will help set her straight.

As she slides down the brick exterior of the building she barely notices the dark figure that has followed her outside. “Easy.” A gruff male voice says, though in her mind it sounds far away, “Just relax.” Rough hands paw at her as her head flops around on a neck that feels boneless.

“Get the fuck off her.” She hears a familiar voice snarl demandingly. The man is gone in a flash and replaced instead by someone crouching in front of her, cupping her cheeks and coaxing her to look up into a concerned blue eye.

“Aemond?” She slurs.

“Keep looking at me.” Aemond says, cradling her head, “I’m fairly certain that that prick spiked your drink. I’m going to make sure you get home safely, but you need to stay awake, okay?”

Her eyes are glassy and Aemond blurs and duplicates in her vision as he keeps her face tilted up towards him. “Rhea.” She mumbles groggily.

As if summoned by the utterance of her name, her room mate pushes her way out of the bar, phone in hand, looking left and right. When she finally catches sight of her slumped on the ground with a man crouching over her, she shrieks and runs towards her. “What are you doing to her?!”

“Helping her.” Aemond replies flatly, without looking away from her. “Pretty sure she’s been spiked.”

“Jesus!” Rhea squeals, kneeling at her side, before finally looking over at Aemond. “Holy shit! You’re Aemond Targaryen! Your uncle is so hot!”

Aemond rolls his eye, hooking his arms around the body of the semi-conscious woman in front of him and slowly lifting her to her feet.

“Should we call the police?” Rhea asks, slowly realising the gravity of the situation.

Aemond turns to stare at her. “It will take an hour for them to get here.” He explains. “And when they do they’ll just file a report which they’ll never follow up on. Our time is better spent getting her home, so she’s at least safe. I’m assuming you know where she lives?”

Rhea nods. “We’re flatmates.”

Aemond momentarily supports her weight with a single arm as he fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it and passes it to Rhea. “Order an Uber”.

“Thanks for helping her.” Rhea says, as the Uber finally pulls up to the curb. They waited in total silence and any excitement Rhea had felt at having met Aemond was rapidly dissipating into awkward discomfort. “I can look after her from here.” She moves to take her from the supporting hold he has on her.

“Because you’ve done such an incredible job of that so far.” He retorts icily. “I’m coming with you.”

He maneuveres her limp form into the back of the car as Rhea makes her way around to the other side to sit next to her. She is surprised to see Aemond fold his tall frame into the backseat beside her, fully expecting him to ride shotgun. The drive back is tense and uncomfortable. She sits unconscious, sandwiched between the two of them, her heading lolling against Aemond’s shoulder.

“So…” Rhea begins, attempting to break the silence, “You’re the arsehole boss then?”

It was intended as a joke, but Aemond’s humourless chuckle instantly makes her cheeks burn at having said something so rude. “Is it true you’re going to fire her?”

Aemond seems surprised at that. “No,” He says simply. “I won’t expect to see her in the office tomorrow, she’ll need a day to recover, but tell her to be there at 9am sharp on Thursday. And I take my coffee black.”

“Sure.” Rhea smiles meekly. By this point, the Uber has pulled up to its destination. “Would you like to uh…?” She asks, gesturing towards the block of flats.

“No, I think you’ll be fine from here.” He responds, “Goodnight.”

With that, Rhea is left to help her out of the car, which pulls away as soon as she's closed the door.

The next day she awakens with no memory of the evening before, feeling like she has the mother of all hangovers. She swears loudly as she looks at the time and realises it’s almost midday. If she wasn’t fired before, she certainly was now.

Hearing she is awake, Rhea sweeps into the room with a tall glass of water for her. She fills her in on the details of the previous evening and she listens in stunned silence. She spends the rest of the day in bed, struggling to process what has happened to her and the fact that a man she’d assumed hated her had come so valiantly to her rescue.

Thursday morning rolls around quickly and she dresses simply in black trousers and a sensible cardigan. She heads to grab Aemond his morning coffee; black coffee. No sooner had she deposited the cup into his hand had apologies begun tumbling from her lips, saying sorry for how she’d spoken to him, sorry for storming off, sorry for him having to look after her. He cuts her off, sliding a sheet of paper towards her.

“This,” He begins, “Is a list of things I need you to do for me today. Think you can handle it?”

She nods, stunned at finally being asked to help him out.

“Perfect. See you later.”

The day passes in a blur and she struggles. This is the first day she’s actually performing the job she has been hired to do and the busy, demanding nature of a prestigious law firm was worlds apart from the past two days of sitting at her desk and sulking. She gets lost trying to deliver documents to various people’s offices, forgets to seal contracts in confidential envelopes and accidentally hangs up on no less than five clients while trying to transfer their calls. It is a complete disaster.

She sits, highlighting every instance of the word “Harrenhal” in a document, feeling totally overwhelmed. How could anyone manage to be so bad at a relatively simple job?! The truth was, she kept finding herself distracted, thinking about what had happened to her two nights ago. What would have happened if Aemond hadn’t shown up? She caps the highlighter pen, resting her head in her hands and fails to suppress a sob.

Hearing his office door open, she turns to face Aemond as he exits, attempting to compose herself, but knows he has likely already seen her crying. “Sorry.” She whispers. “I’m just having a bad day. Ignore me.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes.

Silently Aemond beckons her into his office, maintaining eye contact as he does so.

She follows obediently, dread gnawing at her insides, certain he’s going to fire her.

“Kneel.” He quietly commands, once the door is closed behind them.

“What?!” Her eyes widen in shock.

“Trust me, you need this. Kneel.” He insists.

She does as she is told, kneeling before him, gazing up at his impossibly tall frame with curiosity.

He slowly reaches out a hand, fingers gently grazing her jawline, before running a thumb over her lips. He pushes gently, parting them and meeting the resistance of her teeth. “Open”.

This time she doesn’t question his request, silently accepting the alien intrusion of Aemond’s thumb into her mouth. Instinctively she feels herself sucking on the digit and gradually relaxes. The sensation sends a throb of arousal straight to her core. She’d never experienced anything like this before, but seeing him tower over her, offering his thumb for her to suck was strangely erotic.

“Better?” He asks.

She simply nods, doe-eyed and staring at him in awe.

“Good.” He smiles slightly, stooping down until his lips are ghosting the shell of her ear. It makes her shiver. “I much preferred Tuesday’s outfit, by the way. Maybe that can make a reappearance tomorrow?”

461 notes · View notes

danikamariewrites · 7 months

Text

Binx

Azriel x reader

A/n: I didn’t clarify this in the hc but Az gives reader the stuffed bat when he goes on his first mission after the ddlg relationship is established :)

Warnings: ddlg

As Azriel passed one of the many shop windows on his way home from the market, something caught his eye. Backing up to look at it properly his eyes went wide with excitement. It was a perfectly sized stuffed bat.

He had never worried about leaving you for long missions before. But now with this new dynamic Azriel was nervous about how much you’d miss him. And the perfect solution was sitting right in front of him.

~~~

Azriel tied off his snow covered boots in the entry way as he called out to you, “y/n/n!”

“In the kitchen Azzy!” He went straight to the kitchen with his shopping. You turned from the stove and your face lit up at the sight of him.

Azriel placed the bags down on the table scooping you up in his arms. You lean up and kiss him to show him how much you missed him.

“Did you get the extra stuff we need for dinner?” “I did. And I got you something.” He says in a loving tone.

You tilt your head, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Of course princess.” Azriel puts you back down on your feet as he heads over to the brightly colored bag on the table. He pulls out your present, his back to you so you don’t see it just yet.

Azriel turns to you with a loving smile on his face holding out the cutest stuffed bat plush. Your face changed from curious to happy in seconds. It was perfect! It was the same reddish/gold as Azriel’s wings, cute pointy ears, and it’s wings even stuck together like it was hugging you.

You bounced forward, screaming with joy at the thoughtful gift. “He’s so cute!” You took the bat from his hands and hugged it to your chest. “I thought I’d get this for you so you could still have a bat to cuddle at night while I’m away.”

Your mood dips at the reminder of Azriel going away. You feel a pang in your heart. You don’t want Azriel to go. Truthfully you’re a little scared about him going away this time. How would you adjust? Would you be ok this time?

Of course you would be. You had been before and you will be this time. And Azriel always came back home to you.

Azriel senses your sadness and worry he wrapped his arms around you, resting his cheek on your head. “You’ll be ok princess. I promise the week will fly by and I’ll be home before you know it.” You nod against his chest. “Plus,” he adds, trying to refocus on your gift, “you got this little guy.” Azriel lightly pulls on the little bats ear.

You look down at the plushy, running your thumb over its soft face. “What are you going to name him?” You let a hum in thought. Your lips twisted to the side and your nose scrunched up. All Azriel could do was smile at you. You’re just so cute when you think.

“Binx!” You yell out excitedly. “I wanna name him Binx.” You smile up at Azriel, hugging Binx to your chest again. “I’m going to put him upstairs. When I come back can we make dinner together?” “Of course we can princess.”

~~~

The day came for Azriel to leave for his mission. You were trying your best not to cry, but you couldn’t help the thick tears that escaped your eyes. Azriel wiped them away with a scarred thumb, frowning at you.

“Oh princess don’t cry. You’re breaking my heart.” You sniffle. “Sorry daddy.” He cups your cheek and gives you one last kiss before leaving. “I love you.” “I love you to princess.”

You watch Azriel fly away until he was a tiny, dark speck among the stars and early morning snow fall.

Climbing into bed later that night you pick up Binx and cuddle him. Inhaling, you can scent Azriel on him. You smile for the first time all day. Unwrapping his wings you find a little note from Azriel reading, Princess, I hope Binx keeps you company while I’m gone. Remember that I love you and I’ll be thinking of you everyday.

You start to cry again. But these are happy tears. You’re happy knowing that Azriel thinks of you as much as you think of him. It’ll make the week go by faster, especially now that you Binx to comfort you.

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel x you #azriel #acotar azriel #azriel fluff #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel imagine

336 notes · View notes

theywhowriteandknowthings · 7 months

Text

Trying Something New - A Doctor!Joel x PharmaRep! Reader Fic

Murder Daddy Kinktober 2023 Day 1: Trying something New.

NSFW 18+ minors DNI. Warnings: This is mostly just porn, very little plot, Joel is mean, Manipulative!Joel, Mean!Joel, fingering, edging, smut, praise kink, dom!Joel, dark!Joel, reader insert, public sex/voyuerism, dirty talk, Joel’s mouth, Joel is a sleaze bag, transactional sex (implied), sex work (implied), power dynamic, coercion (if you squint). Let me know if I missed anything! No Reader description, no use of Y/N.

You chew on your bottom lip as you wait outside the conference hall. Your stomach in knots as you tap your foot impatiently against the abstract carpeting that looks like a piñata vomited into the ocean. Swirling vortexes of confetti are baked into the threadbare carpet in hues of orange, pink, and yellow; like rancid sprinkles on a stale sheet cake.

Your head snaps up as the rumbling baritone of Doctor Miller’s voice, bracketed by a gruff chuckle, catches your attention. He strides through the double doors, hair slicked back, dark glasses atop his brow, and patchy facial hair trimmed and purposeful.

His white dress shirt is open at the collar, way too many buttons undone to be justifiable at the conference. But this man is a legend on the Pharma circuit, so no-one dares challenge his laid-back approach to fashion. Tight black slacks fall over his toned legs and his dress shoes gleam like polished black mirrors.

Fuck he’s even hotter up close.

You almost forget to speak up as you watch him glide past you, other, less important, doctors trailing after him like lost puppies. Desperate for some of the Miller charm to rub off on them too.

“Excuse me, Doctor Miller?”

He stops dead in his tracks, one of the other doctors almost crashing into him at the abrupt halt. He turns to look at you with an eyebrow raised, his lips pursed into a hard line as he unashamedly looks you up and down. He lingers over your exposed cleavage, and you try not to smile too obviously at that.

I knew this dress would work.

You think to yourself as you feel vindication at spending two hours planning your hair, make-up, and outfit this morning. It was worth losing those few hours of precious sleep over.

“Hey there,” He drawls, his dark eyes raking over you, slower this time, as he addresses his entourage, “I’ll see you gentlemen later, golf in the morning yeah?”

The groupies nod eagerly in unison, like they wouldn’t miss it for anything. It’s almost pathetic, until you realise what you’re about to do is much, much worse.

You’re drowning in debt from college, your hopes and dreams crushed by an oversaturated job market in journalism, rent is due, and you’re behind on your sales quota. You’re running out of options, fast. So, trying something new had seemed like your only option when you booked into this conference weeks ago.

“What can I do for you sweetheart?” Joel’s dulcet southern drawl snaps you out of your thought spiral and you look up to see an amused smirk painted across his plush lips. His cheeks dimple and the rush of arousal that floods straight to your core is almost embarrassing.

“I-, I know this is bold, but could I buy you a drink?”

He pauses for a moment, and your heart sinks as the prospect of rejection hangs over you like a guillotine. Ready to cleave your last-ditch attempt at evading eviction in twain. Then the corner of his mouth twitches up and his eyes crease at the corner as he shrugs his broad shoulders.

“I think it would be mighty crass of me to accept such an offer, how about I buy you a drink?”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to-!”

One of his broad fingers presses firmly against your lips and every shred of feminism and self-respect leaves your body as his rough skin catches on your own. It’s like the pad of his finger is searing your skin, branding you with his mere touch.

“I won’t take no for an answer. Let’s go.”

He drops his hand only to move to your side, his broad palm splayed across the small of your back. It’s intimate, disarming, and suddenly you feel like you have lost all control of the situation. Your lips tingle at the ghost presence of his finger on your lips.

Joel guides you through the hotel lobby and into the bar, settling on a booth in a dingy little corner of the room. You slide into the booth, expecting him to take the seat opposite you, but he follows you, crowding you in towards the curve of the U-shaped seating.

Your heart all but bursts out of your chest when you feel the rough, hot press of his hand on your leg. He’s not even trying to hide the way he digs into the meat of your thigh, riding the hem of your dress up with the heel of his palm. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache that pulsates through your cunt.

“Doctor Miller-!”

“Joel. Call me Joel sweetheart.”

His voice is low in your ear, and you can smell his expensive cologne as his lips brush the corner of your jaw, his breath fanning against your skin as he hails a waiter with his other hand. The bridge of his glasses presses against your cheek and you can’t help but pine at the way he is too eager to even take them off.

“Joel, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like sweetheart? I’m giving you exactly what you came here for, a quick fuck in return for me prescribing those nasty little pills of yours right?”

Your cheeks flush with heat and your ears burn as you feel the shame of being caught out so easily. You want to protest, deny the accusation that pours into your ears, soaking into your bones with shame and arousal. But you can’t.

“I’ve never done this before, sales are down, rent’s due. I needed to try something new.”

You plead as you watch the waiter get closer, his smile bright as he looks at the two of you with a glimmer in his eye. Joel’s broad hand pushes further up your leg and you feel a thick finger ghost the lace of your panties and you gasp. Joel nips your earlobe painfully and you stifle the noise threatening to spill from your lips at the pain and tumbling pleasure that follows it as his tongue kitten licks against the sore skin.

“Shh, keep that dirty little mouth shut, don’t want him seeing what ‘m doing sweetheart. Can you be a good girl and stay quiet for me?”

Your lip quivers as he grazes his knuckle against the already drenched material of your thong. You should be embarrassed, maybe deep down you are, but the white-hot drip of arousal down your spine takes priority as you nod silently.

“Words sweetheart, come on, he’s almost here, ‘f he catches us I’m out of here.”

“Yes Joel,” You whimper, legs trembling as he eases a finger under the fabric, pulling it to the side as he growls in your ear at the way your slick paints his thumb as it glides through your obscenely wet folds, “I’ll be good, keep my mouth shut.”

“Good girl.”

Those two words make your brain short circuit. Your legs spread of their own accord as you feel him smile into your skin, his strong nose pressed into your hairline before he turns just in time to address the waiter. You can barely breathe as a thick finger teases at your entrance.

“Hey there, what can I get for you both?” His nasal twang barely registering as you focus on the sound of your own ragged heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“I’ll take a double of Lagavulin sixteen, neat.” Joel says with a syrupy sweetness that makes you want to roll your eyes. But you hold firm, smiling sweetly at the waiter as you order.

“Same for me.”

“Coming right up.” The waiter nods as he turns on his heel, seemingly oblivious to the depravity unfolding just below the table edge.

“Good taste in scotch.” Joel grumbles almost absently as he buries his face in your neck once more. His lips catch on your skin as he mouths a trail of kisses up to your ear. It’s excruciatingly slow, and your pussy clenches in anticipation as you silently beg him to just get on with it.

The waiter returns with your drinks, but they’re forgotten as soon as they’re set down as Joel slides a thick finger inside you. Your eyes roll back as he stretches your tight cunt out deliciously. He hooks his finger up against your g-spot with precision and he hums in your ear as he feels you clench around him.

“So wet. So desperate.”

His voice vibrates through your jaw as his facial hair burns against your skin, you’re so fucked out you wouldn’t care if he ripped you off the seat and fucked you over the table. You buck your hips to meet his thick finger and he chuckles against the shell of your ear.

“Being such a good little slut for me. Going to fuck you so dumb, fill up this tight little cunt with my fat cock until you’re leaking out around it. You want that sweetheart?”

“Yes, I want it, want it so bad, Joel.” You whimper as his thumb swipes lazily against your clit. You’re so close, your pussy flutters around his finger as he picks up the pace. Your eyes close as your spine crackles with electricity, flooding through your core as you feel the white-hot wave of pleasure crest—

Joel pulls his finger out of you harshly, knocking back his whiskey in one with his other hand before sliding out of the booth without so much as a look in your direction. You’re reeling as you look up at the broad span of his shoulders as he throws a few bills on the table along with a keycard. You clench around nothing, feeling painfully empty as you suppress a whine that tickles up your throat.

“Meet me upstairs in twenty minutes, and maybe you’ll get to come.”

Your chest heaves as you snap your legs shut, slick coats your thighs and drenches your ruined panties. You watch him as he stops at another table and your eyes go wide with shock. Your boss Chris, an utter sleaze-ball of a human is standing up to greet Joel. Your blood runs cold, and you swallow around the lump in your throat as both men turn to look at you.

I’m so fucked.

You think as a few words are said before Joel extends his hand to him and you watch in mortified horror as he shakes hands with the one that was only moments ago buried inside your cunt. They part ways and you sit there, unable to move as Joel reaches the elevator at the other end of the bar.

Your boss flashes you an uncharacteristically friendly smile and gives you a double thumbs up. Your eyes return to the elevator to see Joel’s eyes locked on you. You notice his middle finger buried to the knuckle between his plush lips as his cheeks hollow. He’s sucking himself clean of your arousal and you groan softly to yourself as your desperately empty pussy clenches at the sight. He winks as the elevator door closes and you slump back against the seat with a heavy exhale.

You wait fifteen minutes, checking the time on your watch every few seconds, until you can’t wait any longer. You finish your drink and snatch up the keycard. Your heels click loudly on the wood flooring and before you can reach the elevator you hear your boss call out your name. You turn slowly, anxiety bubbling up in your throat as you wait for that guillotine of shame and regret to fall.

“Not sure what you did, but Doctor Miller just agreed on a partnership deal with us. You’re getting a raise and a bonus honey, keep up the good work!”

Your smile is tight as you try and process the words coming out of his mouth. You lick your lips as you nod slowly, your head spinning and you look down at the keycard, then back up to your boss.

“Thank you, Chris. I’ll do you proud.”

You stumble into the elevator with an elated giggle spilling out of your mouth. You don’t know what the hell was waiting for you upstairs, but you do know that whatever it is, it’ll be worth it.

Tag List: @yvonneeeee @notsosecretspy @jadealicious06 @famouslyanonymous @harriedandharassed @casa-boiardi @pimosworld @brittmb115 @bitchwitch1981 @cool-iguana @beefrobeefcal @lucyeyelesbarrow @anoverwhelmingdin @beskarandblasters @wannab-urs @pastelnap @patti7dc @gasolinerainbowpuddles @jksprincess10 @gracieispunk @toxicanonymity @chloeangelic

162 notes · View notes

ghostofskywalker · 4 months

Note

hellooo! i'm really excited about your winter ficlets and wanted to request something!

what about “I don’t think either of us are qualified for this, but sure, go for it” with tech? i'm really wondering what he wouldn't be qualified for. 🤭 and i don't mind about the reader's pronouns, you can write what you're up to!

hello! this was such an interesting and fun prompt for him, i hope you enjoy my interpretation!

words: 840

summary: omega's in a bad mood, and neither you nor your boyfriend know what to do about it.

note: the mechanics of this fic rely on the idea that when they're on Ord Mantell, the batch rent an apartment so that they're not on the ship all the time.

Not Qualified

clone troopers masterlist || request a winter ficlet

The sound of Omega’s door slamming shut echoed throughout the tiny apartment, and you could have sworn you heard some of the plates in the cabinet rattle. Not sure what to do, you looked at Tech. “Any idea what that’s about?”

Looking as confused as you felt, he shook his head. “I understand that Omega may be worried that Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo haven’t returned by now, but this behavior is far from normal for her.”

“Do you want to check on her and make sure everything is okay?”

He looked at you like you had just suggested that he wrestle a gundark with his bare hands. “What?”

“Someone should check on Omega,” you said, a confused look on your face. “She clearly needs to talk to someone right now.”

“What about you?”

Your eyes widened. “I don’t know how qualified I am for something like this. Usually bounty hunters can just kill their problems, and that’s definitely not what needs to happen here. Besides, you’re her brother.”

“Look, I don’t think either of us are qualified for this,” Tech said. “But we should still go for it.”

As you looked at his face, you could see a glimpse of something in his eyes that you didn’t quite recognize at first, until it came to you. Tech was nervous. It made sense of course, because Hunter, Wrecker, and Echo had embraced their newfound role of “big brother” a little easier than he did, because he had always been a little bit less social than the rest of the crew. Hells, it had taken you what felt like forever to finally get him to realize that you liked him, and the relationship you had with him was still just barely out of the friend zone. You knew it had to be nerve-wracking right now, to be the only one of his brothers here and having a issue that can’t necessarily be solved with cold hard facts, and you reached out to take his hand. “Come on, let’s go together.”

A gruff “come in” sounded through the door moments after you knocked, and the door opened to reveal Omega laying face down on her bed, with the plush Aiwha you had gotten for her at a market laying haphazardly on the floor (which was likely launched into the air from the momentum of her throwing herself on the bed).

You were definitely not prepared for this, but it would be much worse to just turn around and leave, so you took a few steps into the room. “I can tell that something is bothering you honey,” you said gently. “Do you want to talk about it? It may make you feel better.”

She pulled her body upwards off the bed, and you could see the way her eyes shined with tears. “When is everyone else going to come back?” she asked, and your heart broke.

Growing up where she did and being watched over exclusively by Kaminoans clearly affected her, and now that she had found something of a family it had to be hard to watch some of them leave. Even if it was simply for a mission, part of the team leaving meant that she still had to spend more time without the people she cared so deeply about. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly. “But they won’t be gone forever, I know that.”

Tech looked like he was going to open his mouth to say something, but you shot him a quick glare. Yes, you knew that every mission meant the chance of serious injury or death, and Omega probably knew that too, but technicalities were not what she needed to hear right now.

Thankfully, he seemed to get the message. “Yes, Hunter, Echo, and Wrecker will be back as soon as they can,” Tech said, and you watched as Omega ran over to him. He definitely looked a little shocked as his sister threw her arms around him, and you could see the way he looked to you for help. You mimed wrapping your arms around something to give him a little hint of what to do in this moment, and he nodded quickly.

You watched as Tech followed your hint, and you could see Omega’s tears start to stop. You knew that her heartbreak wasn’t something that could be fixed right away (or maybe at all), but with some time (and maybe a little bit of ice cream), you might be able to help make this a little less difficult for her.

It was impossible to ignore the smile that crept over your face at the sight of Omega clutching onto Tech like he was going to disappear, simply because he looked really surprised when it first happened. You had a feeling though, that he would be settling into his newfound role as big brother a little easier from now on.

And maybe, later you would get to gleefully inform him that he was wrong about neither of you being qualified to help in this particular situation.

- the end -

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

#winterficlets23 #tbb tech #tbb tech x reader #tbb tech x you #tbb tech x gender neutral reader #tech x reader #tech x you #the bad batch x reader #star wars x reader #clone trooper x reader

70 notes · View notes

bluetorchsky · 17 days

Text

Happy (Belated) Birthday to Andy, the beloved Postman!

I had finished this yesterday for his birthday, but I like adding stories to my art, so here it is now with the story! (under the read more!)

Andy Vinke and Squeaks the Duck belong to @yunaisky

"Here you go, kid. Your...pet, safe and sound."

Squeaks honked angrily, ruffling their feathers as the gruff Toppat passed them to Andy, who carefully cradled them in their arms while juggling the clipboard he held.

"Thank you, sir. I apologize again, I swear she was at home with my cat." Andy said, a blush of embarrassment on his cheeks. He coughed in his hand before handing the clipboard to the taller Toppat. "Please sign here and I'll be out of your hair in just a bit."

The Toppat snatched the clipboard from his gloved hand and signed it, mumbling under his breath. As he did, a female Toppat came out of the shop and spotted the postman.

"Oh, you are the postman, hm?" She asked him in a thick Danish accent. She motioned for him to come closer. "Wait here, there is something for you."

Andy raised an eyebrow as the clipboard was shoved back into his hands, making poor Squeaks honk repeatedly in annoyance at the sudden action. The postman did his best to soothe his feathery friend when he was presented with two objects from the female Toppats.

"Ta-da! A couple of packages for the postman himself!" She helped Andy rearrange the items he had, letting Squeaks stand on his shoulder, while she pressed the two boxes into his hands.

Andy looked down at the packages, carefully gauging their weight and making mental guesses on what could be inside them. "For me?" He said softly, bringing one of the boxes up to shake it a little. "I wasn't expecting anything from the Toppats...well, there is one I can think of but–"

The female Toppat giggled and patted his other shoulder. "No, it's not from your little flower man. You should learn to do your work and read the name on there, silly!"

The grey-haired postman blinked in confusion until he heard a jingle playing over the intercom in the underground black market. Looking at the time, he gasped and tipped his hat to the Toppat. "S–Sorry, I have to go! But I'll check it out soon!" He shouted as he turned and ran to the train station, hoping the last train would still be there when he got there.

---------------

He sighed and sat down in an empty spot in the train car. "That was close." He murmured to himself as he set Squeaks on the plush seat next to him. He took his mailbag off and placed it on his other side, before looking at the two packages he received from the female Toppat earlier. Now that he wasn't running to catch train to leave the underground market, lest he be stuck there for the night surrounded by criminals, he had a chance to breathe and inspect the boxes.

Both were cardboard boxes, almost as long as his mailbag and big like Squeaks in size. They were securely taped but had no return address. All it had was his name and the names of who the packages were from. Well, they weren't really names, but they were actually initials that Andy recognized from the sea of signatures and names he kept filed away in his brain.

"From Mr. Accordion and Mr. Violin?" He questioned out loud to himself. "What could they have gotten for me?"

Squeaks took the opportunity to honk at her master, nudging his left hand towards the box he held. He chuckled and smoothed down her feathers, making her quack softly and bury her head into her wings to rest. "Alright, I'll at least open one of them."

Andy pulled out his cutter tool from his bag. Double checking his gun was still in the bag (with the safety on), he turned his attention back to one of the boxes. He carefully sliced through the packing tape, being mindful of the jostling of the train car. The train made its way out of the underground tunnel and back out into the outside world, passing through green fields on one side and the deep dark ocean on the other.

After a minute, Andy carefully pulled apart the flaps of the box and peered inside, gasping at what he saw. Inside was a penguin plush, dressed up in a version of Andy's postman uniform, covered in a plastic wrap and additional white foam pieces to keep it secure. He carefully pulled the plushie out of the box, tore off the plastic wrap and set back into the box before closing it tightly and setting it aside. He stared at the plushie, admiring every detail of it, until he noticed a birthday card stuck to its back with a white bow.

He pulled the bow off, kept it in his pocket, and opened the card with his left hand while he held the penguin plush close to him with his right. Inside the card was a message that read:

"Happy Birthday Andy! We hope you're not working too hard. We wanted to thank you again for delivering our packages to us in the past, as well as the new ones you delivered to the space station recently. The twins are enjoying their new toys, and we have you to thank for that. Fredrick did slip that your birthday was soon, so we wanted to give you something for all the hard work that you've done, and to show our appreciation for everything you do. We're sure he has something for you already, but we'll let him be the one to deliver that to you.

We hope you enjoy the plush and the sugar cookies we made for you. Have a great time, Andy, and please take care and stay safe!

From, The ArcCoil Family (Accordion, Violin, Aurelia, Florence)"

Andy reread the card again and smiled at the squiggly doodles that were no doubt drawn by the twins. He leaned back in his seat with a soft sigh. "I almost forgot about my birthday." He said softly as he flipped the card over to look at the front that had a yellow decorated cake on the front. "I got caught up in both my jobs again, I didn't notice. Guess that's why the boss gave me an extra slice of cake at the cafe today."

Looking up at the time that flashed on a screen above him, Andy pocketed the card into his mailbag and pulled Squeaks and the other package, which had the duck-shaped sugar cookies inside, closer to him. He would worry about Fredrick later, but now the day's work was catching up to him and it would be another forty minutes until his station arrived. With a yawn, he looked down at the penguin plush and brushed his thumb against the soft polyester. "Thank you." He whispered to the plush and closed his eyes to rest until the train conductor would announce his destination.

---------------

(For some context, in my AU there is an underground black market owned and operated by the Toppats called The Ivory Market. Big Boss Joe of the City Division keeps an eye on it (and where one of his offices are set up), and lets other criminals into the market area but only those who are approved by the clan and Reginald. People like Andy are allowed in since he has to deliver mail that can't be delivered by the Transportation Division. He is protected inside the City Division, but he still has to leave at a certain time and watch his back just in case a non-toppat criminal tries to get him.)

34 notes · View notes

lizzyk137 · 1 year

Text

Baby's Secret- An Agent Gibbs Fic (Gibbs X Reader)

Description: After keeping your relationship a secret, what will it take for Gibbs to admit your his. Warnings: Mentions of bombings, swearing, hospital, fluff

(Part One) Want to read more, visit my Masterlist!

Dinner at Gibbs place was great, and it certainly wasn't food you both were devouring.

The next few months kept you busy with new cases, therapy sessions and at-home date with Gibbs. Gibbs wasn't one to leave his house much when he was home from work. He was stubborn, stating he goes out enough at work that he doesn't need to on his days off, and he stays with that statement no matter how much you try to change his mind.

Now you didn't mind staying home with Gibbs. It was relaxing and brought a calm over you that you needed after a stressful job, plus, some of the activities were very entertaining. But you wanted more.

As time went on, and your relationship stayed a secret from the team, due to Gibbs breaking one of his own rules, you were starting to get irritated that it didn't seem like he wanted people to know about you. On cases he always stayed a far enough distance away from you so no one could assume and reserved to checking on you when you were out of work when you got hurt. He also never expressed how he felt about you. He was a man of few words and you could feel that he cared about you when you were alone but you also know that things could be very much different as they were presented to you. And as good as he made you feel, he also equally was hurting you.

"Where are you going?" He asked six months into your relationship. It was a quiet Sunday morning, and it was gorgeous out, so you thought of going out and enjoying it.

"I'm going to the farmers market with Tim." You had answered back as you grabbed your purse and a reusable bag.

"McGee?" You could hear him getting up from his chair.

You turned around to meet his eyes, "Yes McGee, we always go to the farmers market on our days off."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. We've been doing it for the last year." You laughed.

"Oh." You walked up to him and gave him a peck on the lips, hoping his scowl would wipe away from his face, but it stayed.

"I'll be back in a few hours. See you!"

You didn't realize that day would leave to you two having to expose the very secret Gibbs had hidden for months.

"Y/N, look at this!" McGee was holding up a poster for an old video game.

"Wow, twenty dollars? I don't know if it's a steal or a rip-off." You laughed as he handed you the framed poster and reached into his wallet for cash. He paid the merchant and grabbed the poster back.

"Defiently a steal for me, the starting price online for this is $100. So where to next, Y/N?"

"There is a cute little stall selling plushies that I was eyeing, if that's okay?" He nodded, and let you lead.

You headed over to the stall when you felt a pair of eyes on you in the crowd. You scanned the area but didn't seem to find anyone out of the ordinary. You reached your stall, and you and Tim were checking out the plushies when you felt the same feeling as before on you.

"Tim, I think someone is watching us." You whispered as you held up a small plush bat.

"Really?"

You showed him the plush bat, "Yeah, while we were walking over here and now. No one seems out of the ordinary. I might just be paranoid. What do you think for Abbie?"

He nodded, and you held the bat in your arms. "I'll keep an eye out." You nodded back to him and grabbed a cute orange kitten plush.

"I think I want this!" You smiled up at him, trying to make the air a bit lighter.

His lips morphed into a smile, "Well then, I guess we better get it. It's on me since you bought me coffee."

"Aw, Tim! That's sweet of you, thanks!" You showed the merchant your items and they tallied them up and you both paid. "Alright, I think it's lunch time!"

Tim stood next to you, looking around. "I feel it too. Lets head to another stall, I don't like this feeling of being watched.

"Sure." You took a step forward when you felt and heard a sudden blast behind you. Warm air hit you, shoving your body forwards as you flew through the air, body tumbling as soon as it touched back down to the ground. Wood flew everywhere around you, as you tried to get up to look at the damage, when you felt another blast from another stall besides you as the world grew black.

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

Gibbs was frightened. He hadn't been this frightened in a long time. Two of his teammates were lying unconscious in the hospital from some lunatic setting of a bomb and your condition wasn't the greatest as he watched your heart monitor bounce around irregularly.

"Hey, boss." Tony's voice interrupted his thoughts. "McGee just woke up. The doctor is checking him over and once he's done, we can talk to him."

The doctor came out an hour later and let the team know they could go in to see their friend.

"Take your time but what happened, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"Everything was normal until we got to our last stall. Y/N said she felt like someone was watching us but she didn't see anyone, and neither did I. I felt it as we were leaving but it was too late." McGee looked worried as he explained what happened to Gibbs. "I didn't see anyone but if I had just suggested we leave right off then she wouldn't here."

"Hey, nothing could have stopped those bombs from going off." Tony said gently, seeing McGee getting worked up as his heart monitor started beeping louder.

"Bombs? There was more than one? I only remember one of them."

Ziva nodded, "There was two. One at the stall you went too and one that was behind it."

They eventually left McGee after calming him down, and headed back into the waiting room.

"Tony, see what Abby has on the bomb. Ziva, figure out what stalls McGee and Y/L/N visit every week this past year."

"Past year? McGee didn't say anything about the past-"

"Just do it, Ziva!" Gibbs barked out.

"On it."

Gibbs circled around back to your room and watched you lying there. "We'll get them for you. I won't stop until I catch those bastards. Wait for me just a little longer."

Gibbs didn't visit the hospital for the next few days as he stayed up going over every little detail they had and trying to discover new leads. You still had yet to wake up, which fueled him even more to find whoever did this to you.

"Gibbs, I found something." Abby said over the phone.

"I'll be down." He said and ended the call. "Abby has a something, let's go."

The elevators chimed and as he and the team stepped off and into Abby's lab. "Whatcha got, Abs?"

"I found something in the security cameras. The shop that Y/N went to every week was this one here," Abby pulled up the shop's logo on the screen, "it's a small business that sells stuffed animals. She had been eyeing this cat for weeks. With my findings on the surveillance and evidence from the bomb, it looked like whoever made the cat used it as a trigger. Once out of the safe zone, it set off both bombs. The second one was delayed due to the stall being moved slightly during set up." She showed a few slides of the stuffed cat, one that looked similar to her cat that had just past away, and then to a video display of how the bombs worked. "I did some more digging, and found that the maker for these stuffed animals come from a company located just out of D.C."

"We spoke with the shop keepers and they said they draw up the designs and then send them out to a group that then goes around to manufacturers." Tony said.

"Tony, Ziva, go to the factory and interview the workers."

"Wait! I can do you one better." Abby said. "I managed to hack into their surveillance cameras, courtesy of McGee, and found exactly who worked on the stuffed cats for our small business. He goes by the name, James Harrington." Abby hit a key on the keyboard pulling up his James' social media. "It looks like Y/N and him had gone out a few times but about six months ago they haven't communicated or gone out."

"Let's bring him in." Gibbs said through a clenched jaw.

Gibbs was pumped for the interrogation and with a bit of yelling and one slam of the desk, James was putty in his hands. Spilling everything from how you rejected him after a few dates, and that you were always around McGee and he was furious that you could be with anyone but him.

"She always was with him. It was disgusting to watch them together every Sunday. I had to teach her boyfriend a lesson." James spat.

Gibbs eyes narrowed at the word boyfriend. "Well lucky for you, her boyfriend gets to ruin your life. Have fun in prison, while I get to continue dating her." He got up and slammed the interrogation room door closed and headed straight to the hospital, ignoring the shocked looks from Ziva and Tony.

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

Gibbs pulled your hand closer to him and rested his cheek on it as he clasped it in his. Ever since he got the confession out of James, he had been by your side waiting for you to wake up.

Ziva, Tony and McGee watched from the door way, Gibbs oblivious to the three of them watching which was very much unlike him.

"I can't believe they're dating. How did we miss this?" Ziva whispered.

"What I wanna know is how." McGee answered back.

Tony chuckled, "I bet it was after they went 50 Shades of Grey during that undercover mission."

"Do you think they've been together that long?" Ziva questioned. "That was like half a year ago."

"It explains why Gibbs avoids her during cases."

"But why keep it a secret?" McGee asked.

"Maybe it's because they're happy with just each other." Tony replied, watching Gibbs gently kiss your forehead.

Gibbs watched as you slept peacefully. You looked like an angel, to him you always did, but especially now because you looked so peaceful. You were always peaceful when you slept. He could watch you for hours, running his fingers through your hair as you cuddled into him, your head on his chest.

He closed his eyes, feeling days worth of no sleep catching up to him.

"Jethro?" He thought it was your voice, but how could it be? You've been unconscious for the past week.

"Jethro?" The voice was clearing up and it definitely sounded like you. But it had to be a dream, he thought.

"Jethro!" Your voice was much louder this time, enough that Gibbs' head sprang up off the mattress and his eyes opened to meet yours.

"Y/N?" Gibbs said shakily.

You were sitting up, your hand still in his, with a big smile on your face. "You've been asleep for a few hours, you're quite cute when you're sleeping." You giggled.

Gibbs looked at you in disbelief for a second before he crushed you to his chest, holding you tightly. "Don't you ever leave me like that again." He whispered. "From now on, anywhere you want to go I'll follow. I can't lose you."

You pulled him away and cupped his cheek. "Are you okay with that?"

"This whole thing has made me realized how much I care for you. I'm not letting you walk out that door again, especially when you want me there."

He watched you smile, cupped the back of your head and placed a sweet kiss on your lips.

"No more hiding?"

"No more hiding."

Taglist:

@crimeshowjunkie

@slxmw

So sorry this took forever! So many things in my life popped up half way through writing this! The second half of this doesn't do the story line justice. Let me know what you think down below!!

#yjethro gibbs x reader #ncis gibbs #jethro gibbs #gibbs #ncis x reader #ncis imagine #ncis fandom #ncis #gibbs x reader

356 notes · View notes

femalefemur · 5 days

Text

The Illusion of Freedom: Part One

part two

warnings: kidnapping, cannibalism, dead dove do not eat, please let me know if I missed anything!

word count: 2.6k

A/N: This is the first part of this work, while there is no actual cannibalism in this part there are some allusions to it and there is actual cannibalism in this work overall. I have also tried to make reader as gender neutral as possible with no real defining features, so I hope they do actually come across as gender neutral.

The weather was cold, wind howling as rain poured down in heavy sheets outside, making the night seem even darker than usual. There were no stars in the sky that you could see, no shining beacon in the darkness that was slowly seeping in all around you. All you had were the torches that lined the walls of your chambers, sitting on the bed before two loud thumps on the heavy wooden door brought you to your feet.

Two of the men you had become familiar with guided you out of your room, the skull adorning the taller one’s face no longer scaring you as it once had and the unusual hairstyle on the other becoming normal. It had been months since you had been here, months of being pampered and fawned over, months of preparing and now the night had finally arrived. Your eyes focused on the torches and candles that lined the hallways of the castle as you walked towards the ceremonial chamber.

The castle was ancient and had stood there since civilisation had started. It had stood tall and proud since humankind had learned to carve stone to make structures, back when everyday people would still sacrifice to the Gods. It housed you now, not royalty of any kind but the castle didn’t care as it had not been built to house royalty, even if they had occasionally taken residence in it. No, it was built to house magic, forces that humans still didn’t fully understand even if they dabbled in the mystic arts. Forces that were neither good nor evil but forces that demanded rituals and sacrifices. The magic was why you had been taken from your life and brought here to your demise.

You had been walking to the market, it was early morning and the dew was still settling on the grass as you walked past the few fields of your family’s farm. The walk to the market was a long one and you hadn’t been able to take the horse as he was needed for another errand, so there you were, walking at the crack of dawn to the market. All of this just so you could sell some milk and hopefully buy a cake from the baker as a special treat for your younger sibling’s birthday. That dream had gone down the drain when you were about halfway to town. The gentle clinking of the milk bottles in your bag had been your only companion as you’d softly hummed to yourself and kicked a small rock, wanting to see how far you could take it without losing it. You hadn’t noticed the shadows lurking in the woods that grew on the side of the road, hadn’t noticed the odd silence that came from them. There was not a single bird nor insect chirping to signal a new day, just complete and total silence emanating from the tall trees that had stood like guards beside the road since the beginning of time. It had come as a surprise at the very least when a leather gloved hand had covered your mouth and muffled any attempt of a scream. Your teeth had no effect on the large man as you managed to clamp down on his fingers while you kicked and flailed, your bag crashing onto the road and the milk bottles shattering. Your last thoughts were of how disappointed your younger sibling was going to be with no cake as you watched the milk seep through the bag and onto the dirt road.

When you awoke you had found yourself in a plush bed, the sun high in the sky and a hulking figure watching you intently from the one dark corner in your room where the sunlight did not reach. You’d stared wide eyed as the figure stepped forward, the skull on his face causing you to take a sharp breath and clutch the duvet. You were sure you had died on that road, that this was the afterlife and the reaper was here to collect. It had to be. Why else would you be in such comfort? As the figure stepped forward and you remained frozen in place, you had realised that no it was not in fact the reaper coming for your immortal soul but rather a man. A large and imposing man who stared at you with honey brown eyes that seemed to hold a reverence for you that you had never seen before in your life. His gaze had made you shudder almost uncomfortably as you stared back at the man, watching him as he approached you and placed a hand gently on top of yours, that were still gripping the duvet with enough strength to leave your knuckles aching.

“It’s alright, I won’t hurt you” his voice was rough and deep as he spoke, like stones grinding against each other but it wasn’t unpleasant, rather the opposite.

“Where am I?” Your tongue had felt heavy and thick in your mouth, words seemed difficult to form and you had realised that your head had a dull thumping ache to it.

“Home.” It was the only answer he had given before he’d picked up the glass of water on the bedside table and pushed it into your hands.

You had stared at the water for a moment before deciding there was no harm in drinking it. If it was drugged then at the very least you wouldn’t be awake for whatever this giant of a man had planned. Nothing happened though, the water had slid down your throat cold and calming as you’d greedily drank every last drop. A pleased smile had stretched across your captor’s face before he’d placed the glass down and hoisted you into his arms, carrying you out of the room as you’d stared in shock.

“Where are you taking me?” it had come out a lot softer than you’d intended and you had mentally kicked yourself for sounding so weak.

“To meet the others,” he replied.

“The others?” You’d frowned in confusion as you looked at him.

The faint sound of people chattering had filled your ears the closer you’d got to the room at the end of the hall. Intrigue had filled your mind and you’d stared intently at the doors as if you were willing your ears to make the muffled words clearer and listen to the conversation that had been so raptly taking place. The man whose arms you were in had pushed the heavy door open with ease, and the chatter had immediately stopped as all eyes had fallen onto you. You’d watched as the three other men in the room stood, all of them tall, though not as tall as the man who held you in his arms, and all of them handsome, almost devastatingly so.

“Well aren’t they bonnie?” the shortest of them had grinned as he’d approached you, his blue eyes sparkling like crystals.

“What are you going to do to me?” you’d stared at them all and curled a little further into the man who was holding you.

“Nothing little lamb, nothing yet” a gruff chuckle had come out of the man closest to you, a beard on his face and deep blue eyes like the ocean that sucked you in, threatening to drown you if you looked too long.

Your brow furrowed at his answer but you nodded slightly despite your confusion. You were safe, for now at least, and that was all that mattered. You could devise a way to escape in the time you had and hopefully be gone before they did whatever it was they had planned.

You’d watched them warily for the next few days as you explored the castle looking for an escape. You’d learned their names over the meals you all shared. The man with the skull on his face was known as Ghost, the shortest was Soap, the prettiest man you had ever laid eyes on was Gaz and the man with the beard, their leader, was John. You didn’t know any of their real names besides John’s and you’d suspected that they’d prefer to keep it that way. They were mages you had also learned and they were quite powerful, this castle was their home or rather they were custodians to it for as long as they walked this earth. It was their sacred duty to care for the castle, to protect it, fight for it and feed it. In turn they were given access to knowledge beyond the average human’s comprehension, knowledge so powerful that it was kept under lock and key at the hands of those who had long since left this plane of existence.

During your exploration you had been followed by Gaz, he was the most trusted John had assured you, waving off Soap as he stared at you with hungry eyes and an open maw. Still you had felt slight discomfort as the beautiful man followed you and pointed out the architecture or priceless works of art that seemed to move when you looked at them from the corner of your eye. His gaze was too sharp, too keen as he watched every move you made, every twitch of your fingers and every breath that expanded your lungs. You felt like prey being watched by a predator that was far too smart to let you know it had been tracking you. A predator that would rather befriend you and lure you into his gaping maw with honeyed words and gentle gazes. Rather than a predator that would corner you as you shook from terror and sink its teeth into you, as you suspect Soap would do, given the chance.

“Do you like the castle?” Gaz had asked one afternoon as you’d climbed the spiralling stairs of one of the towers.

“It’s beautiful…yes…” you’d nodded as you’d stared out beyond the castle grounds, squinting against the sunlight only to see the vast forest that surrounded the castle.

Gaz had laughed at your baffled expression, giving you a knowing look as you both stood there and looked at each other.

“There’s no escaping here little lamb” he’d grinned at you, teeth sharp and glinting in the sunlight for a split second before he schooled his expression.

You had just nodded and swallowed the lump in your throat, staring out at the sea of trees and unfamiliar landscape. Even if you’d managed to leave the actual castle itself you’d never be able to exit the forest. It was too large, unnaturally so which made you suspect that there was magic at play in there. You would probably be found too quickly, which would be a mercy considering the other option would be to starve to death in the forest, or die from the unknown creatures that lurked in its depths.

So you had accepted your fate, like an animal awaiting its slaughter at the hands of those who had raised it with love, fed it when it was hungry and sheltered it when it was cold. You were never told what exactly would happen to you, but from the snippets of conversations you’d overheard, you had gathered it was some kind of ritual and you were to be the sacrifice. You’d spent that day sitting in whatever sunlight you could find, desperate to soak in the warmth and hoping it would rid your mind of what you had heard. Gaz was by your side as usual as you stared up at the clouds and watched the shapes they made. Your mind drifted back to laying in the fields with your siblings and pointing at the clouds that were shaped like rabbits and cows. You had all laughed when you had spotted one shaped like the mean goose on a neighbouring farm, who would chase you if you so much as walked past their fence. Its toothed beak nipping at your heels as you ran as fast as you could to escape the tiny devil and reach your destination.

Gaz had watched you intently as you both sat on the warm stone of the castle steps, his eyes glinting in the sunlight and making them seem like deep pools of amber that you could swim in forever. You’d stared back at him after a while of feeling his gaze on you, turning as he’d pointed out a cloud that looked like a horse. A small smile had graced your lips as you nodded and in turn pointed out one that looked like a house with a puffing chimney. That was how you had spent that afternoon, in the company of a man who was one of your captors but had also become a friend, or as close to a friend as you could have in this strange place. It had brought you some happiness and distracted you from the words you had overheard earlier. You had talked with Gaz for the rest of the afternoon as you both watched the clouds and pointed out interesting shapes to each other until the sun had finally set and you were ushered back inside, warmed from its rays. That night at dinner the others had picked up on your lightened mood. Soap had hounded you about what happened to make you change, at least until John had finally told him to leave you alone. You and Gaz had exchanged a look before laughing, all while Soap had looked between the two of you curiously.

The following days passed much the same, spending it with Gaz as you two talked, he’d ask about your family and you’d share all the details of your upbringing. In turn you had asked about his family but all you had gotten was a shrug and a wave of his hand as he told you that mages rarely ever knew their families, if they even had one to begin with. His words had piqued your curiosity but you’d decided not to push the man as you saw the glint of darkness behind his eyes as he had talked. Eventually Soap and Ghost joined you and Gaz, Ghost holding back Soap any time he got too close or pressed you too much for details of your life.

You had settled into a semblance of a routine, you would wake up, make yourself presentable, adorning yourself in the fine silks and hand embroidered garments that lined your closet, have breakfast and then spend your day with the three men who now seemed to be permanently glued to your side. Most days you would have a picnic on the grounds with the other three, a plush blanket laid out under the giant oak tree and enough food to feed an army. You would laze in the warm air and watch the sunlight dance on the blanket as it filtered through the leaves of the tree. The three of you would often spend far longer than just lunch sitting on the blanket, either talking or in more recent days, the men would read you stories of far away lands and battles of old. This would last until you all decided it was time for an afternoon nap, a decision that was never discussed but rather occurred naturally as you each slowly fell asleep together on the blanket, huddled against each other in a snug pile. On days when you all had too much energy you would chase each other, running through the garden and the intricate maze as you all laughed and pushed against each other. This would last until the sun had set and you were forced to go inside. Blanket in hand as you all cleaned up before dinner, one of two meals where you would actually see and converse with John. After dinner you would retire to your chambers and the others would follow John to who knows where. You suspected they’d gone to hone their craft and read from texts that were transcribed in now long dead languages, to gain knowledge from those beyond the veil.

22 notes · View notes