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twst-drabbles · 9 months

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Soulmates AU: Idia

Summary: You were born with a run-on sentence for a soulmate mark on your arm, from wrist to shoulder. Now you finally met the man that utters these words by a trashcan.

(I was requested and wrote this long number. Over 4000 words all written within the span of four days. I wrote this for @twst-charity. Not gonna lie, pretty proud that I wrote this much in that span of time. Been a while since I could do that, though I did end up pulling a muscle in my neck. I hope this is a fun read. It's also on ao3 as well. Right here.)

The writings you were born with were practically illegible at birth. The font was rather fancy, overly so, and the words circled around from your wrist to your shoulder so tightly that your family was convinced it was a giant birth mark and not the words of your soulmate.

But you grew and so did the spaces in those words. It was a pretty spiral, but as age continued to feed you wisdom, you felt that this position was deliberate. Because, as far as you knew, this first sentence could very well be the ramblings of someone going mad or already is. But first words are hardly something to build assumptions on, especially when it comes to the subject of your soulmate.

These words covering your arm are about a fictional character named Alexius von Tuveria en Ris. Well, at least you hope it’s fictional. It’s kind of a silly name to give to a kid. And also you’re not exactly up for having a soulmate that’s this, uh, verbose and opinionated about an actual person. You’ve been exposed to the deeper parts of the celebrity fan culture and you’re good with staying far away from it.

…Alexius von Tuveria en Ris doesn’t deserve any of this, though not as if he’d do anything about it if he saw since that prince is just too kind-hearted and honestly kind of cheesy, though cheesy doesn’t mean cringe and cringe is something normies are so immune to it almost makes me sick…

That was only part of the sentence on your arm. Your soulmate, where ever they are, they sure do talk a lot. Like, a whole lot. You tried repeating the sentence on your arm in just one breath and you had to practice a few years just to get it right. Strong lungs on that one, probably.

And a whole lot of unique factors to help narrow down the pool of who is and who isn’t your soulmate. Alexius von Tuveria en Ris is a pretty unique name by itself. But, the uniqueness of it did return disappointment, since searching online for a character with such a name yielded no results. You made it a habit to search at least once a week or so, just in case it was a series that has yet to exist.

You were also sort of relieved to find out that there was no royal family with a similar name. Though, that still didn’t rule out the possibility. For all you know, this could be a fake name someone chose for themselves.

Either way, this name will come to exist at some point, someone or something will be Alexius von Tuveria en Ris, and you’d have to make sure to be on top of that.

But, then you couldn’t, because suddenly you found yourself in a place called Night Raven College. One minute you were living your regular life, and the next you found duty after duty from your “oh so kind” headmage with a cat that doesn’t learn to listen when he should.

It was… an adjustment certainly. The grating egos of everyone here, the casual and not so casual use of magic that can and will kill you if it hits you in just the right way, and large restrictions on your finances rarely left you with more than a few complaints, but all you could do was grit your teeth and trudge on.

At least, despite all of these annoyances and difficulties, there are some silver linings to the found here. Magic itself was something of a marvel to witness, you won’t lie to yourself about that. You will never say it out loud for anyone to head though, because you know the minute you do, people like Grim will gloat and unintentionally belittle you with a, “Well, something as simple as that would look amazing to you, huh?”

And out of a need to never hear those words uttered by anyone, you decided to use one of your privileges to lock yourself in the computer lab. It’s after curfew, so most of the students not in remedial classes are at their dorms by now.

Next to you were a couple of spiral notebooks, the blue one opened and already filled to the brim with notes about basic magic mechanics. Sure, you can’t do a single lick of magic as far as you can tell, but you don’t want to make the blunder of relying on your preconceived notions of it.

Though, as with all studying, even on a subject as interesting as this, your brain starts to fuzz up and suddenly you can’t even retain the current paragraph. Your eyes kept skimming over the same words over and over. Finally, you huffed and slumped back in your chair, setting your pencil aside.

Though, before you decide to call it quits and rest for the night, you felt one more search would be interesting. You pushed up your sleeve until you found the name of Alexius von Tuveria en Ris on your forearm, and typed that into the blinking bar.

Hehe, the name looked a little funny in this cutesy font this search engine uses. You weren’t expecting anything honestly. You’ve already cut your losses with meeting your soulmate young. You’ve had cousins and other distant relatives that haven’t met their soulmates until they were in their seventies. Knowing how that bird-brained Crowley works, you’ll probably return back home when you’re at least in your forties. Or fifties.

He’s really taking his sweet-ass time, huh?

Either way, you pressed enter and stretched. Nothing to come of it and nothing to lose with this simple search, right? You’ve already been through the phase of obsessively searching every day back when you were younger and had too much time. At this point, it does no harm to search at least once. You mean, why not?

But, it was a hit. Several pages of hits. At the top of the pastel blue search engine was Alexius von Tuveria en Ris in all bold. In fact, from the title of the website, you’d say it was an entire site dedicated to this character.

Here it was. The very thing you’ve searching for, waiting for, was right in front of your eyes.

You didn’t say anything, you just clicked. Paragraphs and paragraphs of detailed information about this person–a fictional character–laid before you. You nearly ripped your sleeve up your arm as you scrolled down the page, looking between the screen and your skin as you confirmed that what you’re reading is correct and not just a huge coincidence that’s made to make fun of you for having hope.

The name matches, the background of isolating himself in his castle matches, the huge blow out after attempting to revive his Kingdom of Paradise matches. All of it matches your arm.

You let go of the mouse, eyes burning from staring at a white screen with black text for too long, and just sat. You stared up at the ceiling…

…and quietly seethed.

For months you’ve been wanting to go back home, and often in the middle of the night, you’d find yourself wishing you never got transported here in the first place. Some part of you buried deep was starting to believe that you would never go home, and if you knew that the option of exploring a magical place came with the consequence of never going home, you never would have taken it.

But now your arm and this screen was telling you that you had no choice but to come here. That it was destined, preordained. No matter how hard you fought, you were going to be whisked away.

It… it sucked, you will admit that.

But you sighed out all the doubts and breathed in realistic optimism. You came here one way, there has to be a way out. It happened once, so it’s logical that it would happen again.

And so, with a light stretching of your sore fingers and wrists, you clicked and read as much information you can. Absorbing the series that’s apparently been running for a good twenty years with a handful of remakes and one live action that flopped on its face.

Before you know it, it was way past the dead of night and encroaching on morning. You took a minute to stretched and rub at your strained eyes before packing everything up. You’re going to regret doing all this in the morning, when classes start, but what can you say? You like living in the moment.

You walked out, locked everything up with the keys Crowley entrusted you with, and started down the path towards your dorm. Sure, you do have permission to use the mirrors on campus, but you’re pretty sure you need someone with magic to be able to use the thing. Or you probably don’t, for all you know, but you’re not in the mood to test the theory.

You found yourself on a cross section at the road that served as a nice resting spot before heading to Sam’s shop. It had a couple of fancy black benches with gaudy gold legs, a fountain so large you’re glad you don’t have to clean it, and a lot of foliage for that beautiful view and clean air.

With all these sights nicely lit by the evenly spaced lamps to take in, instead your eyes settled on someone that chose to huddle by a trashcan. You heard crinkling and, at first, you thought this person was riffling through the trash. You got closer, and while you can’t say you were wrong, the only thing in this man’s hands was a poster.

Then, finally, you were within earshot.

“And just when I found the perfect poster, I find it in a trash can of all things, wrinkled up and thrown away because some ignorant idiot thought this was only worth as much as a piece of paper,”

Kind a rambler huh? Sounds like he’s having a bad day. Or night. Should probably just leave him alone.

…

Hold on a moment.

You pulled up your sleeve.

“Couldn’t have the decency to give this limited edition poster back for people like me, who truly appreciate the series, to own, but no of course not, it would be inconvenient, horrible that they would wrinkle the main character’s Kingdom of Paradise that he’s always dreamed of, Alexius von Tuveria en Ris doesn’t deserve any of this, though not as if he’d do anything about it if he saw since that prince is just too kind-hearted and honestly kind of cheesy, though cheesy doesn’t mean cringe and cringe is something normies are so immune to it almost makes me sick–AH there’s a tear because of course,”

You were twisting your arm this way and that, making very sure that this random man’s rant actually matched your words. You almost pulled a muscle as he continued, eyes and neck straining to read the words on your shoulders.

You lost your balance and caught yourself just as the man before you stopped his rant with a huff.

Before he could possibly start again, you walked right behind him and said, “So you’re the dude that inked up my arm.”

Ah, you didn’t really have any special words in mind, like a lot of your classmates back in your younger days. Yes, you’re buzzing a little with excitement, but you’re so tired and drained from another emotional high that you’re in a fog. Besides, you already confirmed that this person’s your soulmate, whatever pops out of your mouth will be just as unique.

“Eep!” A high little squeak of a yelp. The student–his jacket held Ignihyde designs on it–retreated his arms to his chest, like he’s ready to either lash out or curl into a ball.

He would’ve fell backwards if your legs didn’t stop his fall.

“Whoops,” you pushed him to his feet with a hand to his shoulder, “sorry about that. You okay?”

Only then did he finally turn. His hood fell from his face and unleashed an absolute bonfire of hair. A luminous bright blue that almost blinded you.

And suddenly, his hair turned an almost violent mix of pink and purple.

He blinked, then his eyes flickered from your face to his wrist, where your words are. The man opened his mouth but his voice didn’t scream so much as it whistled before dashed to the left. He sped crawled on all fours for a moment before finding his footing.

This man, whom you would eventually find out to be called Idia, ran away upon first meeting you, his soulmate.

You weren’t offended in the least. You can understand that being seen mumbling like a maniac by a trashcan isn’t the best way to be seen by your fated soulmate. So, with that in mind, you didn’t search out for him for about three days.

By day four, you got impatient and decided to hunt down for Idia since he has not even left a hint hint about wanting to meet you. A week would’ve been the original waiting time, but this college really takes a toll on you and you just want this done before you get dragged into another magical situation.

The first day, you waited by a classroom you knew Idia attended. Well, Idia’s tablet. Being a housewarden and not a regular student, it’s rather easy to stumble upon information about him. Egocentric students love to gossip when it’s framed to either make their dorm or themselves look better.

You saw a peek of a magical tablet and grabbed without hesitation.

“Ha?” You heard clicking and felt the tablet attempt to leave your hands. You turned it around and faced the built in camera.

“Hey,” you greeted as causally as you could, “Idia, right? Met you a few nights before–”

Another click, and suddenly your entire vision went white with a flash of light. You dropped the tablet.

By the time your eyes went back to normal, the tablet was gone and you were alone again.

“So, that’s how it going to be, huh?” You’ve had your fair share of runaways. In fact, your little group was mostly made of them, running away for one reason or another, like not wanting to go to class, or avoiding cleaning duties for a mess they’ve made. This was not a new situation for you.

If Idia thinks he can run away from you forever, he has another thing coming.

The next day, you found the tablet floating in the library. You got a ladder to grab it from the bottom, but you weren’t quiet enough when you climbed it. The tablet floated right past your fingertips and dashed out the door with a “Sorry!”

Well, at least he apologized. But you still want to talk!

Another day passes and you found the man physically just as you were about to walk out the classroom. He had a stack of papers in his hands, late assignments he had to turn in physically if he wanted a chance at passing apparently. He didn’t see you, so you retreated behind the door.

When you saw Idia’s figure pass by the door, you popped out and grabbed his shoulder.

“Idia,” you firmly said with a tightening grip on his frozen shoulder, “we need to talk.”

And you were meet with a tower of papers to the face and he was gone before you dug through the pile.

By that point, you were ready and willing to start dragging your other friends into the mix. You let this skittish soulmate of yours to run off the first few times because you didn’t want to stress him out too much. But, by this point in time, it would be better to throw caution to the wind if only so you two can actually sit down and have a talk.

But, by the next morning, before you could meet up with everyone, a robot kid you recognize as Ortho shot out of the sky and landed with surprising grace. At the price of leaves and dirt flooding your mouth.

“There you are!” His voice was loud but it wasn’t grating. It was a cute kind of loud, like he was happy to see you.

You spat on the ground and leaned against a tree, still groggy from waking up. “Ortho, right? Hello. You need something? I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“To make a plan to catch my big brother right?”

His accuracy left you stunned.

“Uh.”

“Then, please come with me!” Ortho grabbed your arm and enthusiastically, “I keep telling my brother to suck it up and meet you, but he just won’t!”

“I know that,” you gritted your teeth, feeling like your shoulder will pop out of its socket, “Mind telling me where you’re taking me though.”

“I’m taking you to–” Ortho paused, floated behind you and grabbed your shoulder, “Hold on, this will be faster. We’re going to Ignihyde!”

“Wha–?” But you were forced to eat your words, just when it was finally free of all dirt and leaves.

And before you know it, you were gently placed on your feet in front of the Ignihyde dorm.

“Huh.” If you delete the last few minutes from your mind, you’d say it was a pretty enjoyable ride. Quick, at least.

“So, future soulmate of my big brother,” You’re pretty sure he knows who you are, you’re not exactly a quiet presence with that monster fire cat always around, “I have to do other things, so you just have to go down these paths and you’ll be in front of his room! Just make sure he doesn’t run away, okay?”

Ortho even gave you a little note that straight up looked printed. A clear map of where Idia’s room is.

“Well, thanks,” you turned around to properly face him but Ortho was already blasting off into the sky with a wave.

You huffed out a laugh, just because the whole interaction was ridiculous, and went on your way. You don’t really have early morning classes to be late to, anyway. You just came early to prepare for chasing after Idia.

As much as you would like to take the time to admire the hallways of the Ignihyde dorm, you’re too eager to get this meeting over with.

And then you’re finally in front of Idia’s room. You reach out to knock but the door pulls open, as though avoiding your knuckles. Idia was there, hood over his head like he was going to sneak around again like the first time you’ve met him. He spotted you in a second and slammed the door right in your face.

You waited a few minutes just to see if some miracle would happen and Idia opens the door on his own.

He didn’t.

“I’m not moving from here, if you’re wondering.”

You heard a sharp gasp and then a heavy, shaky, defeated sigh.

“…of course you’re not…” And then heard the slide of fabric against the door before a soft thud at the bottom.

He sat down, and so you got yourself comfortable as well.

“So,” you leaned back on your hands, “you’ve been running away from me.”

“I have…” and then under his breath like he thought you wouldn’t hear, “…any normal person would give up but of course my soulmate would be more stubborn than that…”

You whistled and that caught his attention with a gasp.

“Hey, focus on me,” you knocked on the door for good measure, “Why were you running? That first meeting could not have been that embarrassing.”

“Says you,” his next words came out muffled, like he’s shrinking into his hoodie, “Of all the days to meet you, you just had to see me right next to a trash can like I was some kind of degenerate rat. Anyone would think I was a loser of a freak, stroking that wrinkled poster like that. Well, I’m not! Only true fans would love this series as much as I do. So if anything, you were probably seeing me at my best moment!”

“Huh.”

You can practically hear Idia deflate from behind the door. “’Huh?’ You say… Yeah yeah, think what you want, I can’t even begin to change it.”

You… have a doozy of a soulmate huh?

“Certainly didn’t help that you were flash banged me, almost made me fall down a ladder and threw papers in my face.”

Idia shrank further. “…sorry…”

“Hmm? What’s that?”

“Sorry!” It was a burst of a yell and you had to back up a bit, “I was terrified alright?! I mean, I played all sorts of scenarios and even made a game to prepare for this moment. I had all these scripts in my head and I thought I was ready to trigger the romance flag alright?! But instead, I was stuck in my own head and completely missed it! I messed up and I panicked! You have any idea how scary that is?! You weren’t supposed to see me like that! I was supposed to be at max level by the time I met you but instead, I’m just this unevolved mess!”

You opened your mouth but Idia cut in.

“Fate is inevitable, just as death is… I was going to met you regardless and I guess, I thought, that maybe I had more time. But I didn’t. So I just, wanted you to stay away until I thought I was going to be ready… Ha, either way, it’s my fault…”

…alright, how are you going to handle this? You’re not exactly the best when it comes to emotional comfort.

Well, may as well just use what you already have on hand. Or on arm.

“Didn’t Alexius von Tuveria en Ris think he was ready to rule his kingdom when he brought it back from the ashes?”

You heard a sputter. You continued.

“I mean, the dude was kind of young wasn’t he? Well, not like it matters, he brought it back and someone had to rule it whether he liked it or not.”

Then, you heard Idia actually honk. “No, that’s not what happened! Alexius von Tuveria en Ris wanted to bring back the Kingdom of Paradise not because he thought he was fit to rule it but because he thought it didn’t deserve that fate. It’s not his fault that he was put in that position when he brought it to life!”

Ah, there we go. Switching the subject, your best skill!

You egged him on. “But shouldn’t he have been prepared for that, then? The series did say that he likes to prepare for every thing imaginable because it was a kingdom he was reviving.”

“What the–that’s stupid! He can’t see the future! No matter how much he reads or writes, there’s no way he could’ve predicted that! And even if he did, it wouldn’t have mattered! He couldn’t have stopped the tragedy anyway!”

“Oh that’s right!” you clapped your hands, “Thanks for reminding me. Totally slipped my mind.”

“As long as you know. I hate it when people don’t pay attention.”

Huh, he sounds huffy. That’s cute.

“Sorry, it’s kind of hard to remember with all the stuff that happens in the latest Red Sky Arc, where Alexius just–”

You heard a hard slam against the door. “No spoilers! I haven’t gotten to that arc yet!”

You closed your mouth, almost biting your tongue in the process.

A few seconds, then a minute, and then you burst out laughing.

Idia, meanwhile, was stunned. “W-what? What did I do?”

“No no,” you relaxed, “that’s just the loudest you’ve been.”

“I… I guess that was a bit too loud.” The tone in his voice made him seem bashful. “But I’m seriously not at that part yet. I don’t want to get a head start just yet.”

“Alright, I’ll keep my mouth shut then.” You pushed yourself up and dusted your pants. “I think I’ll be taking my leave here. Don’t want to bother you too much. I just needed to hear an apology and an excuse.”

“Wait, what?”

You turned around, stuffing the map Ortho gave you into your pocket. “See you later, Idia.”

“Wait!” The door slammed open. You turned around.

Idia’s hair was pink at the tips, but at least he didn’t look like he was going to explode. He did look like he was going to collapse though. Poor man looked out of breath.

“I-I,” the pink began to climb upwards the longer he looked at you, “I, uh, I happen to have that season downloaded… on my PC… so if you want to, you know, update your out of date stuff then, maybe you could, you know… watch it with me?”

His head practically disappeared in his hoodie and hair, but you heard him clear enough.

You could tease him, but you don’t know each other well enough so…

You nodded, “Sure, I have time. A lot of time actually.”

That one is a bit of a lie, but you just want to spend time with Idia. You have a number of excuses on hand anyway. You’ll send one off right before settling down.

“Huh? Oh, uh” Idia moved to the side, holding the door like it’ll protect him from his feelings, “C-come in then.”

You stepped inside.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst-drabbles #short story #twst charity #ignihyde #idia #idia shroud #soulmates au #reader insert

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iridescentdove · 1 year

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What about a Platonic! BSD x Child! Reader is very smart, like almost Ranpo-level smart, but they don’t use their smarts and intellect for anything at all except for online video games, board games, etc., and they’re lazy and don’t go outside at all. Plus, the first time Reader and Dazai had a game of chess, Dazai literally lost two moves in, and Dazai was rethinking his entire life choices in that moment because how the fu-

(How Dazai and Reader’s game of chess went *REAL* link)

WHY DO I HEAR BOSS MUSIC?

platonic!bsd x child!smart!reader

A/N: I for an odd reason, love it when characters are humbled and seen inferior 😭 I love this request too! Here it is~

Everyone loves you.

I'm so jealous rn /j

Well as a kid it would be expected to be like that! Although, it was a little different as you were ... considered unique to other children around you. How so?

ULTRA DEDUCTION BABY.

No but for real. FUKUZAWA merely took you into the agency since you seemed to have had no parents by your side to take care of you. As such, he took on the responsibility himself. The agency takes care of you now! <3

Anyways, let's say you were basically rivalling RANPO in terms of deduction and overall smartness capabilities, as he now thinks you are a worthy opponent.

But even he himself lost to someone like DAZAI.

Yes. Of course it was true, the suicidal detective just seemed to be way too good. The so-called 'world's best detective' had lost to a man, in which who, flirts with women 24/7 and asks for double suicide everywhere he went.

But to say the day came when brunette's demise lurked around the corner ... because of a chess game.

The agency had nothing important going on in particular as the peace of Yokohama was maintained in the meantime. Simply put, you guys were on vacation. So what else to do other than some old family bonding?

There were lots of activities planned that day, and everyone had enjoyed it to the fullest. You did also find it fun, but ... of course, for someone your age – you were mature as fuck.

And so, you did what everyone wouldn't have the balls to do.

Challenge DAZAI OSAMU himself to a chess match.

So obviously, everyone got a bit nervous. Pretty sure you had no idea how smart the suicidal maniac was, nor did they ever believe you would last a good 'ol round even once. By some experience of a certain detective – there is absolutely no one better than DAZAI himself.

The chess game went on. You looked so cute and innocent! Maybe he should go easy on you?? After all, you're just a kid.

And yet ... he was downright horrified.

In a matter of four turns in, the death-craving young man was absolutely OBLITERATED by you. Upon the match ending, a pin drop silence was heard. Eyes widened in shock, whom even RANPO himself never imagined such. Everyone never spoke, not even coughed for a solid 5 minutes.

But it was true. You DID defeat him. FUKUZAWA had the face of a very proud parent – he really didn't think you'd emerge victory in this small innocent match.

The president promised to treat you out next time a successful mission was in tow. Of course, DAZAI couldn't believe he had lost to you! A little child!

It would definitely take a lot of time for him to wrap his head around that – but once he does, oh boy.

I think you a little crazy there uncle ahaha

He almost literally brags about your existence everyday to anyone. You can't tell me he hasn't literally shoved in and mocked in front of people's faces with that shit eating grin of his oh my fucking God 😭

Then again, no one is safe. An even better gifted than the two greatest treasures of the Armed Detective Agency.

FYODOR better be shaking in his fugly ass boots.

You're coming for him alright. (and so am I)

Honestly, the ADA cannot be anymore proud to have an ally like you by their side. Missions and war would cease to exist from how well you managed to help them. And even moreso, combined with RANPO himself.

World destruction who?? I only know (Y/N) (L/N) 😍

Your existence is known, everyone knows about what you've done and how respected you are despite your young age.

Who tf let the Port Mafia fuck ya'll up?? Oh nevermind they were destroyed because of ur amazing little ass. The Hunting Dogs tryna tear apart the ADA which was mistaken as terrorists? Umh chill anyways so you already had a plan– RANPO doesn't know what to do for once? You're already there to help. Decay of the Angels? Lives up to their name, they're decaying under your superior brain and intellect.

You're just found to be the lifeline of the agency. In return, everyone treats you very well (spoils you even), making sure you lived your days as a child to the best extreme possible.

And to be frank – no one dare underestimate you anymore.

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #platonic bsd #armed detective agency #ada x reader #bsd #decay of angels #port mafia #ranpo edogawa #dazai osamu

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starleska · 9 months

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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

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buckbuckbarnesstuff · 2 months

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One-Shots - part ll

Get yourself a snack, enjoy the second part of these wonderful one-shots and leave some love for the creative writers :)

♤ - includes sexual themes

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Road trip [1.6k] @munsster

Bucky x reader

Summary: You think Bucky is shallow for rejecting a pretty stranger in North Dakota. Little do you know.

{personal comment: We love oblivious idiots interacting with each other. This is lovely}

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Pick Up & Delivery [5.3k] @sweetascanbee

Modern!Bucky x reader

Summary: You order pizza from your favorite shop, and a little surprise comes with it.

{personal comment: This is endearing and I had so much fun reading it. Also, I enjoy fics that include Bucky's sister and I love her character here}

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Life starts all over again [4.9k] @fatbottombucky

Biker!Bucky x reader

Summary: "Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall" Promt: Farmers Market

{personal comment: Such a cute fic. I love Bucky with a leather jacket and that date was the sweetest}

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Pucker up, Buttercup [6.9k] @witchywithwhiskey

Sunshine!Bucky x Grumpy!Reader

Summary: It's been a long day of working at your lemonade stall during the town's busy summer festival and making the day worse is all the unwanted attention and come-ons you've gotten from customers. By the time bucky barnes tries his own tired pickup line, you've had enough—but then he goes and spills a fresh pitcher of lemonade and offers to make a new one. You're reluctant to admit bucky might not be like all those other guys. in fact, he might be someone you could see yourself spending the rest of your life with.

{personal comment: Love how the reader is the grumpy one and how she warms up with his help. Also, this has really great summer vibes}

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Set me free [6.4k] @intrepidacious

40s!Bucky x Nymph!Reader

Summary: Once upon a time, a soldier fell from a train. Thankfully, this time, he is found by gentle hands, and a beautiful voice keeps him safe from the cold.

{personal comment: This is so mystic and captivating and incedibly beautiful written. I love the idea of this fic, it’s so unique and creative, I enjoyed every second}

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When you’re ready, come and get it @nickfowlerrr ♤

Bucky x reader

{personal comment: I enjoyed the bickering and the way Bucky grows concerned. There is so much heat in this, I love it}

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Blurred lines [43.2] @ellemj ♤

Bucky x reader

Summary: When choosing a female agent to send back in time to gain young Sergeant Barnes's trust, everyone's in agreement that it should be Sharon. Until Bucky, the man that you barely get along with, speaks up and lets everyone know that it could only be you.

{personal comment: Got blown away with this piece, it's fantastic! I was so enamored, I couldn't put my phone down for a second. This idea had me hooked before I even started reading it and it didn’t disappoint in the slightest}

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Hint dropped @rocketrhap3000 ♤

Bucky x reader

Summary: While looking at rings online, you accidentally click a “send a hint” feature addressed to Bucky’s email, despite never having that conversation with him and not even knowing whether or not that’s something he wants, but his reaction surprises you

{personal comment: This is so good! I felt the nervousness so deeply but Bucky is such a sweetheart and definitely husband material}

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Six days [4k] @tmpestuous

Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You make the effort to avoid Bucky during a mission after he upsets you in an argument, but things quickly take a turn for the worse.

{personal comment: This tugged at my heartstrings, but I'm so glad there's a happy ending! It was exciting to read}

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A Night of Frights & Delights [7k] @elixirfromthestars

Athlete!Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader (College AU)

Summary: It’s Friday the 13th and the college kids in town decided to host a weekend camping trip on the outskirts of town. Your best friend convinced you to go much to your reluctance. What could go wrong when the one guy you can’t stand is also there?

{personal comment: Got so excited over this, such a lovely fic. Their banter is endearing and Bucky being smitten and protective is just chef's kiss}

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Treacherous [16.8k] @scrumptious-delusion ♤

Outlaw!Bucky x Reader

Summary: you’re asking yourself why he keeps coming back, he’s asking himself why you keep letting him in. it’s a treacherous slope but neither of you can turn back now.

{personal comment: I'm stunned with this work! Everything is so beautifully described and detailed. The story is so creative and enchanting, I enjoyed every second. I'm smitten with Outlaw!Bucky and isn’t he just perfect here}

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Fight me [1520k] @writingcroissant

Bucky x Reader

Summary: Bucky and you get in a fight. You go to sleep on the sofa and Bucky refuse/can't go to sleep on fighting terms.

{personal comment: This is so sweet. I love Bucky so much}

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Together [2k] @valkyriesryde

Bucky x Reader

Summary: You've got some news but are too scared to tell Bucky but he’ll find out one way or another

{personal comment: I don’t read a lot of things about pregnancy, but this did me in. I'm loving this relationship}

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One More Night [3.4k] @marvelouslizzie

Bucky x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes are fuck buddies for a while. The problem is you have feelings for him but you don't think he reciprocates and it just makes it impossible to continue your relationship. Little did you know how much he wants you and how hard he's trying to keep it casual.

{personal comment: That conversation was everything! It was authentic and genuine and I highly enjoyed it}

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky fic rec #buckbuckbarnesstuff fic recs #bucky oneshot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you

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pterribledinosaurdrawings · 9 months

Note

How did you learn to sew and make such cool historical outfits? Do you know any good online resources for beginners? I was into sewing some as a kid but have forgotten most of what I knew and would like to be able to make some fun unique clothes for myself.

I first started learning how to sew clothes in grade 11 (which was in 2011) when I took an elective sewing class, and then after high school I took a 2 year fashion course in college where I learned a lot of sewing and pattern drafting stuff. (And after that I took 2 years of textiles and did dyeing and spinning and printing and lots of other stuff.)

But the historical stuff is completely different from modern sewing, and I learned that mainly from books, the internet, and lots of trial & error.

Here is a link to my 18th century menswear resources post. (which I keep meaning to reorganize and make into a proper blog post, but keep not doing because it's a very large task and also I keep forgetting.) I also have some other posts linked on the FAQ page of my sewing blog.

#ask #sewing #not dinosaurs

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natewriteslol · 5 months

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Creepy Crawlers

Summary: You and your college roommates decided to play a fun game of ouiji board. But what do you do when the devil wishes to make a deal for freedom? Will you be able to reach ends meet and be free from this malignant spirit, or will you be forced to join him amongst the ranks in hell?

Demon!Cater x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: talk of demons, pain, horror themes

It was a hazy Friday afternoon and you were head over heels excited to head to your apartment after a long day of work. Your roommate, Vil had just finished his classes at his university and you had gotten off of work from the coffee shop. You were both waiting for Kalim to head home from his mother’s house. She always got lonely when her son was gone for too long, so he had been gone for about 3 days, spending quality time with his mother.

Mesmerized by your phone, you finally snapped out of the trance once you heard the familiar knocking pattern from Kalim, you and Vil welcomed him back home as he energetically started catching you guys up on what he was up too back in his home country. You both had aided in assisting him with all of the baked goods and gifts that he was given by his family. But once he got to unpacking different trinkets his mother gave to him, Kalim had brought out some sort of board?

You and Vil had glanced at one another before breaking the ice.

“Uh...Kalim, what is that?” your blonde roommate inquired, pointing at the box. It was a deep wine red, with black, bold letters in a slightly curled font.

‘Ouija, Mystifying Oracle: Look into the Unknown for your Answers or Desires.’

You grew anxious, you didn’t know too much about ouija boards, but you sure knew enough to not mess around with them.

“C’mon guys, why not just try it out? You’re telling me when you were kids you didn’t play around with stuff like this?” Kalim asked, excitedly taking the board out of the box onto your apartment floor. He found the directions, attempting to read the letters that were enscribed in ink on the paper, but they were far too faded to even be legible.

“You have completely different ideas of fun from Y/N and I,” Vil retorted, looking completely turned off from even glancing at the board. Yet as Kalim messed with the board, it caught more of his attention, keeping an eye on the object and not saying a word. Which in the blink of an eye, Vil had negated the dangers of the board by continuing on with, “But... I’m no chicken, I’ll play. What about you, Y/N?”

You felt immense pressure as you couldn’t fumble this. Your two roommates who you're on the brink of reaching friend status want to play a game, you can’t just leave them in the dust and be the one odd one out from a possible bonding experience.

You gave a quick nod and that was all they needed to proceed with the game.

They laid out the ouija board flat on the ground, rubbing off the dust from the red board. It was no cheap looking ouija board you get from Toys R. Us, you observed that from the black letters engraved on the red board with all the letters of the alphabet. Of course the wooden planchet followed the theme as well, a dark red with a petite glass bulb in the middle.

"I can’t find this thing anywhere on the web” Vil inquired as he scrolled on his phone, scratching his head looking for directions online.

“Yeah, but that’s what makes this one more unique!” Kalim cheered, excited to start playing, his palms on each side of the board as he talked to the princely blonde in front of him.

It was strange, they almost seem entranced by this game, it wasn't complete obsession but it was certaintly out of the ordinary for both of them. Kalim always was afraid of horror, wanting you to turn off movies when he was in your company and Vil would never make a decision this "stupid". The look in their eyes was just odd, they couldn't rip their eyes away from this thing...

And soon enough, neither would you as soon as your eyes laid on this board you were transfixed on playing.

You laid your fingers on the board, unfortunately becoming the leader for this session after drawing straws with your two roommates.

“Go on, ask some questions,” Kalim urged with a smile, adjusting his fingers on the board.

“Uhm, what’s your name?” You questioned, awaiting for the chip to start sliding. The letters started moving, making all three of you freak out, you couldn’t tell if they were playing some type of trick on you but you felt extremely afraid regardless.

“CD?” you asked, confused on what type of name that would be.

“Maybe, it’s the initials? ,” Vil suggested, staring at the board, trying to gauge some form of sense from it.

“Whatever, just keep asking questions,” Kalim said, trying to get some more fun energy flowing, which had always been something he excelled at.

“Okay, let’s ask something only we would know. What is Kalim’s favorite color?”

“Listen, if you guys want to play a bit on me that’s cool, but I kinda wanted to see if it would work by itself,” Kalim pouted, looking disappointed in you both.

“Kalim, I thought your favorite color was light blue?” Vil asked quirking up an eyebrow, as they had this conversation only two weeks ago.

“Yeah but…I changed my mind only a couple of days ago…” Kalim answered, he had never told anyone about his change in opinion.

“Okay, I guess than put something down only you would know, not anyone else '' Vil suggested, and both of you complied.

“What is the color of the bag under my bed?”

“Which customer always orders the frappe, carmel drizzle on the side, cinnamon sprinkle on top, with an espresso pump?”

“What did my art teacher assign for homework last night?”

Black striped.

Mrs. Han.

Essay. Da Vinci.

“No fucking way, are you sure you guys aren’t playing a prank on me? Y/N, I put that bag under my bed two days ago. Did you go snooping?”

“Vil, I’ve been too tired from work to go and look at what's under your bed. I haven’t set a foot in there since last week when I told you to vacuum,” you answered, completely honest with your hands by your head in defense, almost offended at such accusations.

“I’m the only one besides you who has a good memory, but there’s no way I could remember all that shit. I-I only remember events, not orders,” Kalim said, his voice wavering.

“You weren’t even home to talk about what homework you had assigned last night," Vil looked, a tone of disbelief and shock lining his voice.

It all seemed too real, so you decided to ask something you had never told anyone except for your family. The reason why you even moved from your old complex.

“Mrs. Jameson...she died, what was her room number?”

All of a sudden, the vintage alarm clock that sat on the quaint stand near your couch struck 12:30am. So did the grandfather clock Kalim thrifted ages ago, both of which you didn’t even know could make noise.

You both rushed to turn it off so you wouldn’t disrupt anyone in the complex since it was already close to 1 am, the rancorous groan echoed through your apartment, completely snapping you two out of your trance.

You finally pulled the lever on the side that silenced elderly clock. But your peace did not last for long, you soon heard a heavy crash. Sounding as though all of your windows had broken and all the glasses in your cabinets had descended on your kitchen floor. All three of you picked yourselves off of the floor rushing to the kitchen, only to see absolutely nothing.

You had all attempted to locate a source of the noise, this whole event made you so irritated and frightened that you couldn't pin point a source as to who or what was causing this torment. It couldn't be that this phantom was real, that shit only happens in movies after all.

Except as you searched throughout the room, your eyes noticed something on the ground. The paper was worn out parchment with vermillion ink reading the numbers 123.

Freaked out from this "coincidence", you quickly dropped it on the floor, the paper then slowly started to singe, becoming only a small particles of black on the ground right before all of you.

You didn't stick around for long and neither did the two boys, as you all knew you had to get out of this house for if you had stayed who knows what would happen to the three of you.

Which lead you to the nearest burger joint to discuss plans, and possibly how to fix this at 2am. Kalim took responsibility for paying for a baptism from a priest, while Vil pointed out the mistakes your group had made over burgers, nuggets and fries even though he too had participated.

Once the baptism had commenced a couple of days later, Kalim and Vil felt as though the weight had been lifted off of their shoulders. The weird happenings like open cabinets, broken dishes, your computer turning on by itself, the lights flickering on and off had completely stopped.

There was no more evil in your home, yet why were you still haunted?

It wasn’t complete anxiety, you were never looking over your shoulder to see what was going on, but something just felt off. You were having strange dreams of the same night of playing the ouiji board, except you were all alone. However you just toughed it out, and blamed it on nerves.

Three months later.

Vil’s courses at his university had gotten a lot more rigorous, he was spending more time at the library to the point it became a second home. While Kalim had been swaddled with work at the art emporium his parent's owned, needing to adopt some responsibility for one of the many family businesses they owned. So for the time being, you were left alone for an extensive amount of time, yet it seemed as if someone were always there, no matter what.

Just watching...you.

But it was all just nerves, right?

Maybe some creep from an apartment building over was watching you?

But you had absolutely no time to be worrying over things that were all in your head, as you were in a financial pickle to say the least, You were working a shift at the coffee shop, “The Barista’s” . It was an incredibly packed and fast day and you were working front and center, and like always you were understaffed. The order was an online order, which requested a coffee, totally black which was a little out of the regular since but there was no time to pass judgement and it had made your life easier. Who were you to complain?

Once you finished you looked over at the second coworker on your shift and asked her for the order name to put on the cup to call out into the crowd.

“Oh, um it’s CD? That’s it.”

Your eyes shot open wide, looking at the screen of placed online orders, your eyes scrolling down to the latest one.

Damien- 12:30pm

Amy- 12: 45 pm

Jamie- 1:00pm

Maria- 1:12pm

CD- 1:23pm

No fucking way. This had to be some sick prank maybe from the guys. You never talked to anyone but them about this, not wanting to spread word or make you look crazy and alongside be made fun of for your ignorant mistake of playing that game period. It seemed as though this force had become upset that you wouldn’t acknowledge their existence enough, becoming insistent and infringing on your life. Afterall, how dare you blame this damage on nerves?

A man came inside, you felt a shiver down your spine, he was dressed in all black, a button up with black pants and boots to match, adorning black circle sunglasses. It felt like he was concealing something, the way he moved seemed ominous and calculated.

He smirked once he caught your gaze, you both knew that you were afraid, afraid to call out the two letters on that damn cup.

“Order for…C.D?”

The man rose up from his seat, ready to grab his coffee that you left on the counter to avoid contact with him.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said in a honeyed voice, and right as you instinctively turned around.

There was no trace of him, he had vanished into thin air.

Not one customer had called you by name today, not even the sweet old ladies that make sure to call you by it when placing their orders. Whilst getting ready today you had been neglectful of the lack of weight on your chest, quickly realizing why.

You had forgotten to wear your nametag today.

So how did that complete stranger know your name?

Timeskip

You had gotten off of work at 6:30pm, and your roommates hadn't gotten home yet and probably wouldn't for at least two hours. As you slipped your key into the hole and unlocked your door, you felt an icy breeze hit your face. It was near summer, yet this room managed to be frozen over in temperature. You had turned on the lights, the yellowed lighting bringing you slight ease.

Yet it felt as though there was a presence in the room with you, it was unnerving and unbearable. It had been this way for months, yet it showed no sign of stopping and you grew tired of this never ending feeling. It was isolating that you were the only person within your apartment to feel this way, with Kalim and Vil only giving you a "no" to asking them if they feel anxious. You couldn't stand driving yourself insane so, against all of your best judgement you decided to face your feelings head on.

“Listen, I know I’m not alone in this house. Show yourself to me, now,” you commanded, yet your voice seemed to betray you. Wavering in tone and assertiveness, exposing your true feelings of being afraid and overwhelmed. The ceiling above you started to creek and moan, almost testing the waters of your nerves.

“I know it’s you…C.D.”

The ground began to rumble and quiver, the lights once bringing a reassuring light shook alongside it. You grew completely terrified, falling to the floor, catching yourself with your own hands as lightbulbs crackled and hissed as they hit the wooden floors, leaving you in complete darkness.

The only safe haven that allowed you to see in this abyss of your apartment is right where you were standing. A gray light above your head, only providing a circle of illumination where you stood.

“You are quite brave, I'll give you that, human.”

A pure black hand with nails as sharp and long as knives, gripped your wrist from the pool of darkness surrounding you. Screaming, you shook and wriggled your arm fiercely allowing the grip of the hand off of you. Your resistance had made the demon cackle.

“W-who are you?” you exasperated, clutching onto your wrist wrung with red marks from the struggle.

“You already know my name, you summoned me after all,” the darkness retorted.

“What...What do you want?!” you asked, trying your best to appear tough, despite shaking from fear.

“Ah, so many questions... but I’m willing to answer. It’s something that all demons from hell crave-,” the demon said, letting the vintage radio Kalim had bought two weeks ago finish.

“A soul,” the old timey voice sang from the fuzzy speaker making the demon giggle.

“Isn’t it funny how we can do that? I think it’s a great party trick” the archfiend jested, “hoping” that you would agree. As the creature of darkness joked, the voice began to inch closer and closer. There was no way to run from whoever this thing was.

“Now, mortal I will give you two decisions. One; you may surrender your soul to me your soul. Or you must subject yourself to a long lasting search and you get me my memories,” the shadowed room stated.

“What happens if I get you your memories?” you asked, most definitely wanting to keep your soul.

“Well, I am proclaimed innocent, no longer needing to serve the underworld and I am free. You see, my family was cursed by an ancient witch, and every single son within the family is doomed to spend their days in hell. Once you get to hell, you have all of your memory wiped and it is manifested into actual items on Earth,” this spirit C.D explained to you from the shadows. “If you manage to get all seven of these items, we’ll both be free. Fail, I get your soul, I stay in hell.”

Weighing your options, you realized that they both ended with you losing. But even if you had the slightest chance of winning, you’re going to take it.

“I...will help you find your memories,” you said hesitantly, making him laugh.

You could hear the smirk extend on his lips, he was highly entertained with your act of resistance. It was surprising and in a sadistic way, a great form of amusement for him. "Hm...very well then, mortal. Extend your hand, we need to shake on it for it to become an actual done deal,” C.D explained, making his elongated, obsidian stained hand into your circle.

You took his hand into yours, shaking it only for a couple of seconds only for you to feel a painful burn on your wrist where his fingers lay. You were tattooed with the numbers “123” on your wrist with a shade darker of your skintone.

“What did you do to me?!” you exclaimed, holding your wrist once more, an electrifying pain seeping throughout your arm.

“You need my vision in order to see the artifacts. And don’t worry too much, only you can see the marking and can make others see it if you wish. It’ll go away once our deal is done,” the demon explained, thinking that it was quite obvious.

“Oh, and it’s also a part of the deal that I have to live in this home so-”

“No fucking way you’re staying here in my house,” you growled angrily, completely exasperated from this ordeal of horror.

“Woah, woah, woah I’m not the one whose soul is on the line here. I don’t need to eat or drink anything so I rarely do it. And again same rules apply, if you want to let Thing One and Thing Two see me then you can. If you want to keep this a secret, then again, you can,” CD snapped back.

“But, why C.D and why this damn number?” you asked, staring down at your wrist.

There was a silence in the room before C.D answered, “It was my lucky number... supposed to be angel number when I get to heaven. Whenever you see it, just know that I’m around somewhere. And C.D is a nickname, the only thing the devil left me was my name from when I was a human, Cater. Cater Diamond.”

There was a snap, light had entered your apartment completely. The once popped lightbulbs were restored back to normal, alongside with other disturbed items like picture frames and furniture. There was no sign of the body that belonged to the voice that was speaking to you.

Only once you turned around to see him in his human form sitting on the small black sofa in the corner. Spooked by his presence as you let out a yelp, it made him let out a chuckle.

“Now, we have a deal, don’t we?” He asked for the final time, making you nod your head.

The demon lowered his blacked out sunglasses, revealing his amber-colored eyes.

“Excellent. It was good doing business with you, Y/N.”

~~~

Coming soon- Chapter Two: A New Roommate

Let me know if you want to be in the taglist! This was fun to write and I hope I can create more content for you guys :D<3

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