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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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uptownthots · 2 months

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Ok I’m curious:

*assume this is a neighbor you’re cordial / have no personal beef with. if applicable please put your gender in the tags as well 🫡

#rb for bigger sample size this is scientific research for me 🫡

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prepare4trouble · 9 months

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Settle an argument for me.

My mum and I disagree on something about OFMD.

In s02e04, I maintain that Ed didn’t actually mean to headbutt Stede, he really did just sit up too fast, and then later when there’s that whole “It was supposed to hurt, that’s the point of headbutts,” exchange, he just went with that because he was pissed off and wanted to express that. But I don’t think it was deliberate at the time, because the guy was literally dead a few seconds earlier, and very clearly not thinking things through rationally, and also because Ed wouldn’t hurt Stede.

My mum, however, thinks it was on purpose. She doesn’t think he meant to hurt him badly, and he didn’t, she just thinks he was pissed off at him for having left him because that hurt, and his first instinct on seeing him was to hurt him right back again.

So, what do you guys think? I don’t imagine your opinions will change either of our minds, but I’m curious which side of this the fandom thinks.

#ofmd #our flag means death #ed teach #blackbeard #stede bonnet #gentlebeard #blackbonnet

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noirandchocolate · 9 days

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Curious about this, ‘cause I’ve been doing headcanon stuff about my faves a lot lately.

No “combo of these” choice because I’m asking about the primary way, not for the only way or every way. Whichever you use/that happens most often, that’s your answer to the poll.

But feel free to tell me your combo in reblog text, tags, or replies!

Reblogging to send this to a farther audience would be very nice of you btw!

(Also, all the ways I put in the poll and any other methods people use are valid and cool. It’s headcanons—hopefully the main goal is to have fun and maybe share what you make with others! Just making sure you all know I think that. <3)

#kidk says stuff #poll #headcanon poll #personally I’m a combo of ‘chat with blorbo’ and ‘making it up on purpose but trying to keep from outright contradicting canon’)#the people for whom my tag ((laugh track for the people who know me well)) know which is primary and why lol #ps for the ‘inspiration from others’ one the implication is there that basic politeness is observed #such as crediting the op if a hc is borrowed wholesale/acknowledging the inspiration when asked by others/#not being like ‘I came up with this and nobody else can use it!’ when that’s demonstrably untrue #meanwhile for ‘ask blorbo’ the implication is there that it’s YOUR version of blorbo #and that you won’t be rude to others claiming only your hcs are good bc blorbo told you #be nice to each other! that’s the biggest rule of fandom in my book!

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mumms-the-word · 4 months

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When was Gale Chosen by Mystra?

I’m going to get so much hate for this but here we go

I’m looking at lore timelines for Faerûn (for fic purposes but also because it’s interesting) and I’m curious when people think Gale was named as one of Mystra’s Chosen. There's a poll at the bottom of this post for you to vote your answer!

Assuming, of course, that things like the Spellplague, Mystra’s death/disappearance, and the Second Sundering/return of Mystra happened, finding the exact year that Mystra chose Gale is tricky.

For context, here is a timeline of relevant things that happened according to Faerûn lore (I explain this more in this old post about Mystra’s timeline if you’re curious but that post doesn’t matter for this poll specifically)

1385 - Mystra dies(?) and anything resembling a goddess of magic goes silent for nearly 100 years; The Spellplague begins and the 4e rules for D&D kick in, so magic is different than normal; SUPPOSEDLY no gods name any (new) Chosens during the Spellplague era, but no one seems to agree on how long that rule lasted Early 1400s? - Elminster hears Mystra's voice but she seems otherwise silent for everyone else (her silence is explained mostly in Ed Greenwood's Elminster novels, in case you were wondering where I pulled that factoid from) 1457 - Gale is born (assuming he's 35 in the game) 1465 - Gale (age 8) accidentally sets fire to his neighbor's rose bush and meets Elminster for the first time 1479 - According to Bury Elminster Deep, Elminster meets Mystra's spirit trapped in a bear and begins finding/possibly naming(?) other Chosen of Mystra and gathering power for Mystra so she can survive the upcoming Second Sundering (Gale is 22) 1480ish - According to Elminster Enraged, Elminster restores power to Bear!Mystra and she Quietly Returns; we still haven't seen her with a physical body, she seems to be just spirit and stardust (Gale is 22-23) 1484 - The Second Sundering begins; various gods are returning and the magic rules of the Weave are changing back to pre-Spellplague normalcy (Gale is 27) 1487 - Mystra now has a physical body because she does this Big Reveal at the end of The Herald (another Elminster book) by physically entering a room where five of her Chosen are; this is known officially as Mystra's Return; additionally the Second Sundering wraps up, so all the gods are locked into their domains and the Weave is officially back to pre-Spellplague normalcy (Gale is 30) 1491ish - Gale (age 33-34) loses his Chosen status after searching for the Karsite Weave and getting plagued with the Netherese orb 1492 - BG3 begins (Gale is 35)

So if that's the timeline we're working with, when do YOU think Gale was selected as one of Mystra's official Chosen? Keep in mind that Chosens, according to Faerûn/D&D lore, are extremely rare and carefully selected, though Mystra does tend to collect and name more Chosens than the average Faerûnian deity.

You can base your answer off anything. Vibes, original lore, game content, Gale's dialogues, your gut feeling, idc. Just curious to see when people think Mystra made his Chosen status official.

I'm also curious whether you think Gale becoming Chosen happened before or after he started a sexual relationship with Mystra, but that's a separate question you can answer if you feel like it.

Curious to see the results!

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale dekarios #gale #gale of waterdeep #bg3 lore #bg3 meta #bg3 discourse #reblog for a bigger voting pool

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bwabys-scenarios · 1 year

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Reunited

Part 28

Illumi x Reader x Feitan

part 27

part 29

warnings: feitan is mega horny in this 👁️👁️

taglist: @tsukilover11 @mercyboluthecrazychicken @sxyriii @shidoni-san @living4tomrua @lemonslut @honeylunalove @sugarrushdaydream @canthebest1 @whorermoviestar

if you’d like to be ADDED to the taglist, please comment a red heart ❤️, make sure you’re able to be tagged/mentioned, and have your age in your bio(IF YOU ARE ALREADY ON THE TAGLIST, YOU DON’T NEED TO ASK TO BE ADDED AGAIN!!)

(Name) loitered in the doorway of Feitan’s room, barely holding back a squeal.

The man had fallen asleep, the kitten from before lying on his chest. The girl took out her phone and snapped a picture before closing the door behind her.

“So cute…”

She unloaded the supplies she had gathered from town. The news said the storm would hit sometime in the next two day. It would be its most intense for 3 days, before petering out by next Monday.

(Name) had bought a few candles, a battery powered fan and heating pad, some flashlights, and board games. She already had supplies beforehand, so she didn’t need to buy too much.

“I should start on dinner��”

An hour passed before (Name) heard the sound of Feitan’s door opening the closing.

“You’re back.”

Feitan was already right behind her, the girl jumping with a yell. “How the- how did you get behind me so quick?”

She held a hand over her heart, letting out a huff. He only shrugged, leaving to put the kitten back in its warm box.

He could smell the scent of lemons, knowing she was making the lemon meringue pie he had asked for.

“Dinner is almost ready. I’m hope you’re okay with soup.”

“That’s fine.”

Feitan pulled a chair out and sat at the dinner table, watching her whip a bow of meringue. She huffed, stretching her tired arms before mixing again.

“Give me.”

Feitan snatched the bowl out of her hand and sat back down. (Name) whined, saying he didn’t know when to stop and what to add. He rolled his eyes and pointed to the chair next to him. “Show me.”

He wasn’t the best at cooking, the only attempt of making lunch for himself resulting in a mushy substance he said was nutritional enough. Feitan, however, was strong and good at repetitive tasks, so whisking or mixing was easy for him.

Feitan could barely concentrate on eating dinner, the lemon meringue pie on his mind. He tried not to let people know how much of a sweet tooth he had, it was embarrassing to him, the interrogator of THE Phantom Troupe had a soft spot for sweet things.

One of them being (Name).

He watched as she brought him a piece of pie, her smile bright and beaming.

“I hope you like it!”

——————

The next day, Feitan and (Name) prepared for the upcoming storm. She picked as much fruit as possible, jarring some and leaving the rest in baskets.

Feitan helped her make sure the house was secure before leaving to jog and exercise again. He needed to be far away to practice with his nen, not wanting her to get caught up in any of his attacks.

It was two months into his stay, and Feitan was feeling restless. He didn’t go more than a month between mission if he could help it.

He pulled out his phone, going through his contacts and pressing on Chrollo’s

It rang for a few seconds.

“Feitan? How nice of you to call. Are you doing well?”

Feitan pushed his hair out of his face, sighing. “Doing okay. Arms are mostly healed.”

Chrollo hummed, the sound of people talking in the background telling Feitan he was either meeting with the spiders, or somewhere public.

“When do you estimate you’ll be back to your full strength?”

“Month at most.”

“I see.”

Feitan leaned against a tree. “What are your plans for the girl?”

“The girl? Who do you mean?”

Feitan frowned. “(Name).”

Chrollo laughed. “Why do you ask, Feitan?”

“Curious.”

The line was silent for a minute. Feitan didn’t often ask Chrollo these things, just listening to whatever orders he gave.

“Uvogin said she may have some information that could be useful to us. I will be coming to pick you up in a month, so make sure you’re better by then.”

“Chrollo.”

Chrollo paused, blinking. Feitan almost NEVER used his name, referring to him as boss.

“What do you plan to do with (Name)?”

Chrollo closed his book, his interest peaked. Uvogin had said him that Feitan was soft on that girl, but his tone of voice told Chrollo it was more than that.

“Oh, Feitan, I simply would like to meet her. I won’t harm the girl, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Chrollo could almost hear Feitan relax, a sigh leaving the dark haired man’s lips.

“She has taken care of a fellow spider, and for that we are in her debt. Be sure you’re gentle with her, Feitan.”

The short man grumbled. “Already gentle…”

Chrollo chuckled, glancing down at his watch. “I have to go, tell your girlfriend I said hi.”

“She’s n-“

Click.

Feitan’s face heated up at Chrollo’s words, pocketing his phone as he continued his run.

Chrollo placed his phone face down on the table, barely holding himself back from smiling. More than anything, he wanted to meet the girl that Feitan had so much affection for. When questioned about it, Uvogin said she was cute.

He couldn’t wait to see her.

——————

It wasn’t until after dark that Feitan returned. He was covered in sweat and dirt, pulling his shirt off as he walked in.

“Hi F- OH!”

(Name) jumped up from her chair when she saw the shirtless man before her, her eyes wide and cheeks heating up.

Feitan snickered at her reaction, throwing his shirt into the hamper. “Like what you see?”

(Name) stiffened up so quickly you would of thought she’d turned into a wooden board.

“I-um-“

She was looking everywhere but him, her face turning beet red.

“You’re… quite handsome! Sorry!”

The girl rushed to her room and closed the door behind her.

That was quite the resection. Feitan found his own cheeks turning pink. Did she really find him handsome?

He’d never cared much about his looks, besides the occasional bought of insecurity, but her words had him glancing at himself in the mirror.

His hair was in disarray and face covered in sweat and dirt. Feitan couldn’t really understand why she’d said what she did.

The two had a few inches of height difference, (Name) being taller. Did she mind that? He was used to being shorter than most of the women in his life, so why did it bother him now?

Feitan let out a huff before gathering a change of clothes and heading to the bathroom to shower.

Once she heard the shower start, (Name) left her room to make dinner.

——————

Feitan left the shower, his wet hair sticking up his face. “Dinner ready?”

(Name) looked up from the stove, smiling. “Almost! Oh, Feitan, your hair!”

She rushed over, pushing him into the bathroom. “I swear, you’re gonna catch a cold one day.”

She dropped a towel on his head, ruffling his hair as she hummed.

Feitan sat patiently, leaning into her touch. The man wasn’t stupid, he knew to dry his hair after a shower, but he let (Name) believe he didn’t so she’d do it herself.

(Name) was always so gentle, as if she had a lot of experience doing this.

“You’re the oldest sibling?” Feitan asked as she brushed her hands through his damp locks.

“Yep! I have three younger siblings, all girls.”

Ah, that explained her awkwardness around men, and her soft nature.

“All of my sisters are such tomboys, they’re always coming home filthy and never remember to dry their hair.”

She pouted, grabbing a comb and pulling it through his hair.

“But…”

(Name)’s eyes softened. “I love them, so much. They’re the reason I keep on going. I send back most of my earnings to make sure they grow up with more than I did.”

Feitan stayed silent, allowing her to pull his hair into a ponytail using a pink scrunchie. There was so much about (Name) he didn’t know. She’d never told him about her sisters or how much she really cared, what else was he ignorant to?

“I’m thinking about becoming a hunter.”

Feitan’s head shot up. “What?”

“Since I don’t have a birth certificate, it’s next to impossible to get a decent job. Anyone can become s hunter, and along with it paying well, you can travel so many places with just your license!”

Feitan gripped the fabric of his pants. He couldn’t imagine this soft and gentle girl surviving the Hunter Exam. Even Shalnark, a fellow spider with tremendous strength struggled with it.

“Shouldn’t. It’s very dangerous.”

(Name) giggled, poking his cheek. “Since when did you care if I was in danger or not?”

He grabbed her wrist, his grip tighter than he’d meant it to be. “F-Feitan, you’re hurting me!”

He loosened his grip, rubbing his thumb against her knuckles. Feitan didn’t want to think about all the things that could go wrong if she were to go through with the exam. Would those fragile hands be capable of defending her?

Even if she survived and became a Hunter, she could die or be seriously injured during missions.

“… just don’t, okay?”

(Name) didn’t answer, but slipped her hand into his.

“Let’s go eat dinner.”

——————

After dinner, (Name) pulled feitan to the couch to watch the news with her. The storm was coming, and she’d need to him be aware of it.

The storm would be upon them in only a few hours, a thunderstorm warning making (Name) stiffen.

She switched to the Blu-ray player, her legs wobbly as she waddled over to put a movie on. Feitan was usually in his room by then, but (Name) insisted on watching a movie together before bed.

“Is a ghibli movie alright with you?”

“Ghibli? What’s that?”

(Name) sighed, pushing a dvd into the Blu-ray player. “Feitan, do you ever feel joy?”

“No.”

(Name) had to turn around to see his smirk to know he was joking.

The pair sat on the couch, a decent amount of space separating them. (Name) picked Howls Moving Castle, cuddled up under a plush blanket and smacking on popcorn.

Feitan glanced at her throughout the movie, raising an eyebrow as she giggled every time Howl showed up.

“Why are you giggling?”

(Name) shushed him. “Shh, Howl is on screen.”

Once the scene was over, she turned to Feitan. “He’s the perfect man, that’s why I’m giggling. Although I think he’s more handsome with black hair. Oh, that’s a spoiler.”

She turned her attention back to the screen, but Feitan couldn’t help but pull a strand of his black hair forward, a ghost of a smile on his lips. So she liked black hair, huh?

He didn’t pay any attention to the movie, (Name)’s reactions were way more interesting.

She would blush and giggle every time Howl appeared, of course, but also seemed to sigh when Sofie said she wasn’t beautiful, a strange nostalgic look on her face.

She’d laugh at every joke, even though she’d seen the movie a hundred times. Her hands gripped the cushions of the couch when the movie got more intense, on the edge of her seat.

As the movie came to an end, a few tears brimmed in the corners of her eyes, quickly swiped away as she smiled at the couple finally together.

“Did you like it?”

Feitan blinked, realizing the movie was over and (Name) was waiting to hear his opinion.

“It was… good. Interesting.”

She giggled, leaning against his shoulder. “It’s my favorite movie, I’m glad you liked it!”

Feitan felt a little guilty for not actually paying attention to the movie, but that guilt vanished at the feeling of her on his shoulder.

“Touchy again.” Feitan pushed her off, snickering. Although he wanted her touch, he had an image to keep up.

“Meeeaann!”

She laughed, snuggling up under her blanket as the credits played. Feitan watched her for a moment before standing up and stretching.

“I’m going to bed. See you in morning.”

(Name) shot up, grabbing his wrist. “W-wait! Are you sure you want to go to bed so early?”

“Nearly 11 pm?”

(Name) scowled. “Yes but…”

Feitan pulled his wrist away and flicked her forehead. “Go to bed.”

He turned before he could see her frown deeply, anxiety written across her face.

—————

Feitan woke up to the someone knocking on his door.

The faint sound of raindrops hitting the window told Feitan that the storm had begun. He glanced at his alarm clock to see it was only 1 am.

The short man groaned, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and walking across the floor, rubbing his tired eyes.

(Name) stood on the other side of the door. Of course it was her, who else could it be.

“Sorry for waking you up…”

The girl fidgeted with her oversized shirt, staring at the floor.

“… what do you want?”

Before (Name) could answer, a booming clash of lighting struck outside, the thunder shaking the house. (Name) jumped at the sound as all the color faded from her face.

She was trembling, tears starting run down her cheeks, unable to speak.

“… scared of storms?”

She could only nod, reaching out to grab onto his sleeve. Her hands were uncharacteristically cold, Feitan able to feel it through his shirt.

“Can…”

She looked away again in embarrassment.

“Can I sleep with you?”

A silence overtook the two, Feitan barely able to breathe.

“Repeat that.”

(Name) reached her hands up to cover her face.

“Can I sleep with you?”

Feitan felt his body warm at her words, gripping the doorframe so tight he felt like it might break.

One look at her scared face was enough for him to groan and pull her into his room.

“Fine. But stay on that side.”

He pointed to the left side of the bed, watching her climb in and make herself comfortable. He climbed in as well, his eyebrow raised when he saw she was facing him.

“… turn around.”

(Name) tilted her head. “Why?”

Feitan scowled and pushed her away. “Because I said so.”

(Name) grumbled as she turned, looking quite cute all cuddled up under his blanket. He rolled his eyes and watched as her breathing slowed, the girl falling asleep within 5 minutes.

How could she sleep so easily in the same bed as a man, a bad man at that? He turned around before he could think about her being next to him any further, trying to calm down his racing heart.

Feitan was again woken up, not to a sound, but to a feeling.

He felt the distinct weight of a limb plopping down on his waist, pulling him closer. When he turned back around to see what the hell his bed partner was doing, he was a bit surprised(and turned on).

She was still asleep, but had wrapped her leg around his waist, pulling him towards her. Her arms were reaching out, patting the bed next to her, seemingly searching for something.

Now that he was turned to face her, her leg pulled him ever closer until their hips were pressed together and her hands could reach him. She sighed in content then, her fingers brushing through his hair slowly.

Feitan was having an internal struggle. On one hand, he knew he should push her off and go back to sleep. On the other…

Feitan grabbed her by the waist and pulled her even closer, letting her head rest against his chest. His nose buried itself in her hair, his hands trembling as they gripped the fat on her hips.

He had never held someone before, panting softly into her hair. Feitan wasn’t sure how to feel, finding comfort in her warmth, but discomfort in her being so close, so vulnerable to his touch.

He would never try anything indecent, especially after she trusted him enough to sleep next to him. But he could feel a certain part of him harden against her hips. He bit the inside of his cheek, gripping her waist harder.

His eyes flitted down to her face. She looked so content in his arms, a cute smile on her lips. Would she be smiling if she were awake to feel he was getting hard just from her being pressed against him?

In the morning, Feitan would push her off of him before she woke up and try to forget the feeling of her body pressed against his, but tonight he lost himself in her scent, letting his hands hold onto her hips and waist.

As if she was his, and his alone.

——————

Unfortunately, (Name) woke up before he did.

Although Feitan had drifted away from her in the night, his hand was intertwined with hers, and there was a certain… bulge in his pants that stood up a bit too high for (Name) not to notice.

The girl pulled the blanket over his body, trying not to look at it. She had learned in Sex Ed that men could get morning wood, but she hadn’t even thought that could happen to a man like Feitan.

At the feeling of the blanket brushing against his chest, Feitan awoke, blinking open his eyes and turning to see (Name) hovering near him, her boobs right above his face as she attempted to cover him up without waking him.

“What you doing?”

The girl squeaked, her hand supporting her slipping on the sheet.

Feitan didn’t process what was happening until her boobs plopped down onto his face.

And he really couldn’t complain.

“Oh my- Feitan I’m so sorry!”

She quickly pulled back, scurrying off the bed. The man laid there, just taking everything in. Feitan could really get used to this, these small intimate moments of her body against his.

But Feitan knew he couldn’t allow his thoughts to wonder, instead pushing the girl off his bed.

“… out.”

—————

(Name) felt very embarrassed. Not only had she seen him hard, she’d also fallen on top of him. Had she hurt his face? (Name) knew she wasn’t exactly a small woman, but he was a smaller than average man.

She busied herself with making breakfast, jumping at the occasional sound of thunder. Feitan exited his room about 30 minutes later, his face flushed even worse than last time.

“Feitan, are you alright? You’re all red.”

(Name) leaned forward and pressed her lips against his forehead, the man’s hand immediately shooting out to grab her shoulders and push her away.

“What are you doing!?”

He could feel his face turn an even brighter red, the tips of his ears scarlet. (Name) seemed confused by his reaction, Feitan’s mouth agape.

“I’m checking your temperature? My hands are too warm from cooking to get an accurate read.”

She gently leaned back forward, pressing her lips to his forehead again. When she pulled back, the man couldn’t speak.

“You’re warm… why don’t you just rest for today? I’ll bring you breakfast when it’s ready.”

She patted his shoulder before walking back into the kitchen. The man rushed back to his room, groaning.

It was annoying, the way his body reacted to her touch. Feitan couldn’t help but wrap his hand around his leaking cock, panting as he jerked off to the lingering feeling of her lips against his skin.

——————

Feitan didn’t open his door when she brought breakfast to him, yelling out for her to leave him alone.

He continued to stay in his room until an hour later, grabbing his(now cold) breakfast and scurrying back to his room, refusing to even glance in (Name)’s direction.

Feitan hated how much of an effect she held over him. His body craved her, in both a loving and sexual way. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, but also slip his hands into her panties and-

He smacked his hand over his face, groaning. What had gotten into him all of a sudden, he was acting like some kind of pervert. Feitan never had such a strong reaction to a woman’s touch before.

A knock on the door distracted him from his thoughts. Thankfully his boner had finally gone down, allowing him to answer the door without too much embarrassment.

“Feitan, are you okay? You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

Fuck, he’d gotten her worried over him while he sat in his room jerking off to the thought of her. He sighed, moving past her and walking into the living room.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Oh, did I do something to keep you up last night?”

He paused at this, glancing back at her. “Why you ask?”

“Oh, supposedly I move a lot in my sleep. Sorry, I should have warned you.”

The girl fidgeted with the fabric of her shirt, looking down in embarrassment.

“Yeah. Threw your leg on me and wouldn’t let me go.”

Her face shot up, now as red as him.

“Oh my god, Feitan I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you? Is that why you aren’t feeling well?”

He scoffed and sat down on the couch, crossing his legs. “You can’t hurt me. Light as a feather.”

(Name) leaned over the back of the couch to look at him, still worried. “Are you sure, I know I’m-“

Feitan grabbed her arm and lifted her into the air with ease. He stood, holding her up by her butt and giving her a smug look.

“Light.”

She gasped out in shock, wiggling out of his grasp and falling onto the couch. “Wow… feitan you’re so strong! I mean I already knew you could pick me up but…”

She looked up at him in awe. He hadn’t strained at all when lifting her, as if she was made of air. Feitan couldn’t help but feel a little proud, plopping down on the couch next to her.

“See? No problem.”

It was (Name)’s turn to look confused now. “Then why did you have trouble sleeping if it wasn’t because I was heavy?”

He didn’t answer that one.

——————

The next few days went on the same, with (Name) joining Feitan in his bed at night as the storm raged on. He was slowly getting used to her sleepy cuddles, leaning into it more than he cared to admit.

The sun came out for the first time Monday. A sigh of relief came to (Name)‘s lips when she woke up to clear skies, stretching out across the bed like a cat before waking Feitan up.

“Feitan, the storms gone!”

Feitan grumbled, half awake. “Go back to sleep.”

(Name) gave him a sly smile. “Oh, you want me to cuddle up with you and go back to sleep? As you wish!”

The girl crawled over and attempted to snuggle up into his chest, but was quickly pushed away so hard she went rolling off the bed.

Feitan turned back over and attempted to go back to sleep, but he was now wide awake.

‘How dare she tease me… stupid girl.’

“Feitan..?”

He groaned and turned to look at her, the girl having crawled back into bed.

“What you want?”

She peeked at him, using a pillow to prop herself up. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

He paused for a moment, then nodded. “In three weeks, boss will come pick me up.”

She looked down, frowning into her pillow. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Feitan sat up. They had caught his full attention.

“Why?”

She played with a loose string coming from the pillow case. “Well… your job is dangerous right?”

Feitan tried to think of how to answer that. Of course his job was dangerous, he risked his life for every mission, but did he want her to worry?

“… it is, but I’m strong. Don’t have to worry about me.”

(Name) sighed, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. How was he going to tell her they may never see each other again after Chrollo’s questions were answered?

“I think I’ll always worry about you, because you’re important to me.”

Feitan’s resolve began to crumble. How did she always know what to say to pull at his cold heartstrings?

“I…”

Words did not come easily to the black haired man, especially words to explain his affections for her.

(Name) smiled and grabbed his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just being together with you for the time we have left will be enough for me.”

But it wouldn’t be enough for him. Feitan squeezed her hand back, not able to answer.

In his heart, he knew that she was important to him, someone he couldn’t bear to lose. He just hoped Chrollo would understand that.

They were thieves after all, and who was Chrollo to deny Feitan of something that had caught his eye?

—————

The next week passed by quickly, with (Name) scurrying around in a frenzy. Feitan spent most of his time training to recover his strength, leaving in the morning and returning at night.

He could tell that the girl wanted him there with her more often, but part of him wanted to drift away slowly. Maybe it would make his departure easier on her. After all, their continued friendship wasn’t something that was guaranteed. Chrollo may have said he would owe (Name) a debt, but that didn’t mean Feitan would get to have anything to do with her.

The past two days (Name) had been uncharacteristically quiet, giving him short responses and always in the kitchen.

She was up to something, he just knew it.

As the week ended, Feitan came home near dark to (Name) in the kitchen, hovering over something.

Using In to hide his presence, Feitan snuck up behind her to see what she had been hiding from him.

“What are you hiding?” Feitan whispered into her ear.

The girl jumped up in fright, icing flying from a small piping bag. “Hey! I thought I told you to stop sneaking up on me! I’m gonna pee my pants one day and I WILL make it your problem.”

Feitan rolled his eyes, glancing over her shoulder to peek at what she was making.

It was a small cake, with the words “Happy Birthday Feitan” written in her messy handwriting. He was shocked, physically backing away.

“Why?”

All he could do was ask why. He hadn’t been the kindest to her during her stay, so why did she feel the need to make him such a thing? He couldn’t understand.

“I just felt like it. Everyone deserves to have a day where their birth is celebrated. I’m happy you were born, Feitan.”

So many things were racing through his mind. Him hurting her, the softness of her touch, the way she smiled at him with such love and adoration that it made his stomach hurt. It was all too much.

Feitan was out the door before he could think, slamming it behind him.

Was being with her really worth it? He felt so weak in her presence, like he would do anything she asked of him.

His heart pounded in his chest, tears falling from his eyes as he processed her words.

She was happy he’d been born.

He felt like he was going to throw up. She didn’t know the real him, the Feitan that had killed hundreds and tortured countless more without blinking an eye.

Her Feitan was grumpy and mean sometimes, but she didn’t pay any mind to that.

Would she still wish he’d been born if she knew all the lives he’d snuffed out? Did her care for him outweigh his sins?

He didn’t want to care so much about someone he wasn’t completely sure about.

Then he remembered something (Name) had said to him.

“You’re good enough to me.”

He knew she wasn’t stupid, in fact (Name) was incredibly intelligent, if a bit ditzy at times. She knew he was a thief, and was capable of murder, she’d witnessed him cut off a man’s arm.

Yet (Name) treated him the same.

Part of him wanted to hate her for that. What kind of idiot would allow a man who cut off someone’s arm right in front of her to sleep next to her in bed with no hesitation? It was frustrating. Feitan wasn’t ever supposed to feel this way about a person, his heart had hardened long ago.

But he knew she didn’t care about that. She knew he had done it for her sake, her touch still gentle and kind.

He didn’t need to know if she would still smile at him if she knew his true self. Feitan wanted to be in her presence for as long as possible, soaking in her warmth in hopes to retain some of it in his heart.

‘I want her…”

Feitan paused, blinking. He… wanted her? Why her? What made that girl so special to him?

His heart couldn’t lie and tell him anything but that. He wanted her, and her alone. In his mind she was his, and he was hers.

Feitan turned back around, the soft evening breeze helping to cool him down. He needed to get back to her.

And he knew she’d be there, waiting for his return.

——————

When Feitan got home, she was there. He’d already known she would be, not even having to sense her presence. She was always there, a consistency in his inconsistent life.

The house had been decorated for his birthday, his favorite meal on the table. A few gifts sat next to his birthday cake, wrapped in black wrapping paper with purple bows.

“Happy Birthday Feitan!”

Although he’d been gone for over an hour, (Name)’s smile didn’t lose its shine, only growing brighter when he walked in.

The man didn’t say anything, only sitting down next to her and leaning his head against his shoulder.

Right now, words couldn’t describe how he felt. He could only show his appreciation through actions.

Feitan planted a kiss on her forehead, bringing her in for a hug.

The two didn’t speak, but (Name) did giggle and squeeze him tightly as she did, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

When they broke apart, (Name) looked at him with such love and adoration that Feitan couldn’t help but give her the first smile he’d worn in years. (Name)s eyes widened, her hands gently cupping his cheeks.

“You look nice when you smile, Feitan.”

He wanted to say it was her smile that was beautiful to him, but he only nodded and leaned into her touch, his lips brushing against her hands in a secret kiss.

“Let’s have dinner, yeah?”

The two ate quickly, both excited to eat cake and open presents.

After she sang happy birthday to him, he blew out the candles.

“Make a wish! But remember, you can’t tell anyone what it is, or it won’t come true!”

Feitan closed his eyes, thinking of what he really wanted in that moment.

‘I wish… that I’ll see (Name) again.’

That was the only thing his heart wanted.

After eating their fill of cake and ice cream, (Name) placed the first of the three presents in front of him.

“Go ahead, open it!”

Feitan pulled at the wrapping paper, glancing up at her to make sure he was doing it right. “You’re doing it! Look!”

It was a brand new journal, bound in leather with his name embroidered on the front. The journal would be perfect for keeping track of heists and dates he’d need to meet up with the spiders. It looked expensive.

“How you get this?”

“Oh, I traded some of my jams to a local leather smith! He makes leather bounded journals, and he’s a sucker for homemade goods!”

She plopped the second present into his lap after he set aside the journal.

Feitan opened it up, his face lighting up.

It was the newest volume of the sci-fi manga chrollo had introduced him to so long ago!

“I saw you liked that manga, so I got you the newest volume! You said you were caught up, but I found the author online and saw he would be releasing a volume soon, so I preordered it! You have one of the first copies.”

Feitan held the book to his chest, sighing in contentment.

The last present was opened slowly, Feitan blinking down at it.

It was a dark purple scarf, with a little skull embroidered at the edge.

“I know it’s summer, but since you’re leaving soon I made you a scarf in case you get cold in the winter.”

It was soft, sewn together with love. Feitan also noticed, much to his surprise, that it smelled heavily of her perfume. Had she sprayed it with it?

“Thank you.”

(Name) only smiled in reply, giving him a sideways hug.

The two ended the night by watching a scary movie Feitan had picked out, (Name) nearly jumping into his lap several times. He almost wished she did, wondering if she’d mind something poking into her butt as she straddled him.

(Name) ended up falling asleep before it ended, leaning against Feitan’s shoulder and snoring. He snickered, taking a picture of her messy face and saving it on his phone.

After that, he carried her to her room and tucked her into bed, not able to hold himself back from climbing into bed with her.

It was his birthday, so it wouldn’t be so bad to spend it cuddled up next to the woman he loved, right?

As he drifted off with her right next to him, he imagined a future with her.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

259 notes · View notes

maladaptive-day-dreams · 2 years

Text

Wet Dream

Eddie x fem!reader, smut 18+, 2.8k words Inspired by these lyrics from Wet Dream by Wet Leg: What makes you think you're good enough / To think about me when you're touching yourself?

CW: mutual masturbation, sub!Eddie and then not so subby Eddie(so technically switch!eddie?), praise, enemies to lovers vibes, hate sex (unprotected p in v, wrap it up kiddos)

here ya go ya filthy animals (me included bc I wrote this and am feelin a lil depraved rn)

Eddie Tags: @eddiemunsonfuxks

You and Eddie Munson have had a rivalry since he started at Hawkins Elementary in 5th grade. Neither of you are sure how it started or why but both of you were always so annoyed with each other whenever you were in the same room with each other—so much so that the Principle was on a first name basis with your parents and Eddie’s Uncle Wayne, and they were on a first name basis with each other.

You won’t deny that Eddie is hot. You even agree to it when your girlfriends all fawn over him and his hair and his voice and his waist and his hands, god his hands. But you only ever admitted to you slight attraction to Eddie in the secrecy of girl’s night—and all your gal pals know not to say a word about it to anyone.

And then, Eddie started dealing drugs once you both started High School and Reefer Rick stopped selling to you and other high schoolers since he had an inside guy now. Taking away your go to dealer gave you a new reason to dislike Eddie. Now your attraction was annoyance and while picturing his lithe body and rough hands had definitely become a part of your ‘self care’ routine, just the thought of him soured your mood.

Your friend Paul was happy to be your little deal mule once you offered to throw in an extra $20 for his ‘services’ though. But then Paul got a lil greedy and only gave you half of your order the last two times you asked him to get you weed from Eddie. You obviously gave him a lil knockabout that might’ve resulted in a black eye and a busted lip, and you having to get your weed yourself now.

So that’s why you’re here. Pounding on Eddie’s trailer door at 11pm on a Friday night after you worked up the guts to get your own weed since you smoked your last mini joint—your attempt at making your last ounce last—yesterday night. But Eddie won’t open the fucking door.

“Eddie!” you berate through the door as you knock again.

No answer.

“Stupid, fucking asshole, he probably won’t open the door because it’s me. What a dick,” you mutter under your breath. “Paul mentioned a key somewhere on the porch for in case Eddie was asleep or in the bathroom or something when he came by. But where the fuck did he say it was?”

You lift up the doormat, nothing. Check in the mailbox by the door, nothing. Raise up one plant, nothing, next plant, nothing. The only thing left is a giant stone that looks way too heavy, but as you go to lift it it comes right up.

“Styrofoam with a wood insert for weight. Clever,” you laugh as you remove the key from its spot under the fake rock.

You knock three times again before giving a warning, “Eddie I’m coming in! You’ve got 20 seconds to put away any porn magazines!”

Putting the key in the handle, you turn it until theres a click and open the door. Stepping inside, you notice that it’s surprisingly clean compared to what you thought Eddie’s place would be like. You walk further inside and drop the key on the table by the door. Shoving your hands in your jean jacket pockets you call out again.

“Eddie? I know you’re here, your van is parked outside.”

You don’t get a response but you do hear noises coming from a room down the hall. Curious, you move towards it. The giant DIO poster on the door obviously means it’s Eddie’s room, but you could also tell because the door was cracked just enough for you to see Eddie face twisted up in concentration, forehead a little slick with sweat.

Realizing what he’s probably doing, you turn around quickly and start to step away and towards the front door but you stop dead in your tracks because Eddie just moaned your name.

“Y/N, fuck me, yes.” His voice was rougher than usual, laced with lust. You squeeze your thighs together, because even though you despise him that was fucking hot as hell to hear. But then you remember that you despise him and instead of walk away you swing open his door and ask a very hard and very surprised Eddie a question.

“What makes you think you’re good enough to think about me when you’re touching yourself?”

Eddie’s eyes are wide as he removes his hands from his hard dick and quickly tries to cover himself with a blanket.

“Fuck! Y/N what the fuck are you doing here?” He asks frantically.

“I came to get weed because I ran out and can’t trust Paul to give me what I pay for anymore.”

“You could’ve fucking knocked!” he yells in annoyance.

“I did! A lot! For like 10 minutes straight! It’s not my fault you were horny and too busy thinking about me to stop touching your cock and come sell me an ounce of weed!” Your chest rises up and down quickly after your outburst. “And again, Eddie. What makes you think you’re good enough to think about me when you’re touching yourself, huh?”

Eddie shrinks beneath your domineering gaze, trying to curl away from you. “I–“

“Ah ah ah,” you tsk, shifting closer to the edge of his bed. “Look at me, and answer my question.”

Eddie’s eyes meet yours and you can tell he’s a little subby baby, which brings a smile to your face.

“I–I’m sorry. I just, I won’t, I–“

“Why are you such a nervous lil boy, Eds? Do you think I’m mad at you?”

Eddie looks at you slightly confused, “you’re not mad?”

“Oh no baby, I’m not mad. I’m just surprised, and a little upset you didn’t ask for permission first.” His eyes go wide as you toe off your shoes and sit in front of him on his bed.

“‘m sorry,” he whimpers, bowing his head. “Can I?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you say, running a hand up his bare leg towards the blanket bundled on his lap. “Do you think you deserve to imagine me sucking you off when you rub yourself?”

His leg twitches under your soft touch and you can see his lower stomach muscles tighten at your dirty question.

“Tell me, Eddie baby, do you think of my mouth on your cock or my pussy?”

He groans and bucks his hips into the blanket slightly, muttering a silent apology.

“Answer me.”

“Both,” he gasps as your hand finds its way under the blanket, fingertips brushing his balls.

“Good boy,” you praise and Eddie whines. “I think I’ll let you finish fucking your hand.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide again, big brown eyes searching your face for a lie.

“But,” you pause. “You have to follow my directions, and look at me the whole time. Ok?”

He nods silently and eagerly.

“Words, Eddie. Gimmie your words.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now take off the blanket and let me see you.”

Eddie’s hand reaches for the blanket covering himself and removes it slowly, dick jumping as he does.

“Fuck, your cock is so pretty Eds,” you say shifting a pillow behind you so you can sit comfortably, legs criss crossed. “You wanna touch yourself?”

“Please.”

“Ok, go ahead and stroke yourself, but keep it slow. Don’t want you cumming too soon.”

He does as you say, his dominant hand coming to grip himself at the base of his dick and slowly bringing it to the tip. He repeats the motion three times, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“Good, now squeeze at the top this time.”

He does, and lets out the deepest groan you’ve heard from him yet. It grows from the center of his chest and releases as he squeezes his sensitive tip. You shift your hips at the sound, slightly grinding yourself on his bed. His eyes flick to your center as you do so and you decide in that moment to give him some fodder for his imagination. His eyes follow your hands as you reach down to rub yourself over your jean shorts, your strokes matching Eddie’s speed.

“Slow down baby,” you say as you unbutton your shorts and pull the zipper down. He doesn’t follow your directions and instead moves a little faster, so you halt your own movements. “Hey, Eddie, eyes up here.”

His eyes flick up immediately to meet yours. “Good boy. Slow down.” He nods and does as he’s told.

“Eye’s up still okay?” you half say, half ask. Once you’re certain he won’t look away, you resume your movements, placing your feet on the bed and lifting your hips to remove your shorts and panties. Settling back into the pillows with your legs butterflied to make sure Eddie can see you, you nod at him, allowing him to watch your hands as they trail down your clothed stomach to your mound.

You lightly trail your pointer and ring fingers down your lips, and run your middle finger through your slit on the upward stroke, Eddie sighing at the sight and sound of your arousal. You tease and circle your clit a few times before giving him his next instruction.

“Play with your balls while you watch me.”

Eddie’s free hand that was previously strangling the sheets to his side reaches below his dick to play with his heavy sack. The two of you stay like this for a few minutes, watching each other intently. Eddie touching and teasing and squeezing his balls while you circle and pinch your clit, working yourself into a heady haze, the coil in your belly starting to tighten.

“Ok baby. Stroke yourself to my rhythm,” you gasp shifting your fingers from your clit to your entrance. You circle yourself once, twice, before inserting a finger.

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters at the sight of you fingering yourself. His hand resumes it’s place on his throbbing cock. You match each other’s pacing, Eddie fucking his hand as fast as you ride your own.

Both of you are panting as you watch each other, Eddie’s eyes glued to where your fingers disappear into your cunt, and yours glued to the rough fuck of Eddie’s hand on his dick. “I–fuck–I’m close baby. Are you almost there? Are you ready to let go?”

Eddie can’t talk, his hazy desire covers him in want, but his eyes meet yours, his mouth dropped open in a moan. “Let go, Eds.”

He does, covering his stomach in his release as the coil in your stomach snaps and you coat your hand with your own release. Your moans echo through the room, paired with the wet sounds of you finger fucking yourself through your orgasm, Eddie’s eyes still glued to your glistening cunt.

“Fuck,” you say, pulling your fingers from your pussy and wiping them on Eddie’s now very dirty comforter. A sigh falls from your lips as you smile at Eddie.

“I want to be in you so badly,” he admits in his post-nut haze.

“Is that so?” you tease, shifting your legs behind you and getting up on your knees. “Wanna feel my pretty pussy on your cock? Squeezing you so good?”

“I fucking hate you,” he laughs as his dick begins to harden again.

“Mmm but you were such a good boy just a few minutes ago. Doing as your told? Such an obedient baby.”

Eddie’s eyes flick to yours as you crawl closer to him on the bed.

“I wouldn’t mind riding your pretty cock,” you say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You hover just over his dick, hands braced on his bare chest, and you can feel the heat of it on your pussy as you slowly lower yourself onto him, running your wet cunt over him. He hisses as his tip catches your hole.

“Just fucking ride me already, Y/N. Stop fucking teasing,” he says through gritted teeth.

“What happened to my nice boy that was just begging for permission to think about me while he touched himself?”

“He came. And now he wants to fuck you.”

“Ah what a real gentleman. This is why I don’t like you,” you spit out, rubbing yourself over his cock again to rile him up.

“You don’t have to like me to ride me,” he smirks up at you.

“Yeah but I don’t know if I want to give it to you now. I kind of want to make you beg—oh fuck.”

Eddie didn’t let you finish. He grabbed your hips and slammed up into you, knocking the air from your lungs in a throaty moan.

“Not so hot when you’re not in control huh?” he teases. Smiling up at you as he fucks up into you. You move your hands from his chest to his thighs behind you, and start to bounce on his hard cock.

“Fuck Eddie, you’re so fucking big,” you gasp as his mushroom tip hits your g-spot with every bounce. Eddie’s hands grip your hips tightly, sure to leave a bruise.

“Yeah? Do I feel good?”

“Shut up.”

“Awe but I wanted another compliment,” he laughs as one hand leaves your hip to find your clit. He rubs circles around the engorged bud and lets you ride him at your own pace now.

“I still despise you Munson.”

“Feeling is still mutual, Y/L/N. We’ll just fuck and go back to hating each other. No big deal.”

Your thighs begin to burn and your movements slow. Eddie notices and lifts you up and off of his cock.

“What are you–?”

He flips you on to all fours and kneels behind you, lining himself up and entering you again, slowly this time. You squeeze around him once he’s buried to the hilt, and then he’s pounding into you at a relentless pace. His body engulfs yours as he leans over you, hand pushing your upper back into the bed as he continues to bottom out with every thrust into your wet pussy.

The sounds in the room are animalistic. The squelching from his dick moving in and out of your cunt, your moans muffled in the comforter, Eddie’s hot and heavy breath coming out in puffs on your shoulder. He leans back up, wrapping one hand in your hair to bring you up with him. Untangling his hand from your hair he wraps it around your stomach to keep your back to his chest while his other hand reaches down to give attention to your clit again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you pant out, coil in your belly tightening again. “I’m so close.”

“Yeah,” he laughs teasingly. “I can tell, your cunt is gripping me so hard right now.”

“Shut it, Munson, and make me cum.”

“Fuck, fine, but god knows I’ll bust as soon as you do so where do you want me?”

“Inside, I’m on the pill and impatient.”

“Shit,” he mutters into your neck. Eddie puts more pressure on your clit as his thrusts become sloppier. “Cum, come on, let go.”

And you do. You both do. As soon as Eddie feels your release cover his cock, his release coats your walls. He ruts up into you a few more times before pulling out of your warm, wet cunt and leaning back on his headboard. “Never took you for a domme-type, Y/N.”

“Never took you for a hard switch. I definitely prefer you as the sweet little obedient sub from earlier though.”

“Not a word of that to anyone, okay. I’m the dom with most hookups, you just caught me in the moment.”

“You really think I’d admit to people that we fucked?” You reach for and grab your panties and shorts before sliding off the bed to slip them on. “I can’t let people know I caved,” you laugh. “So, how much for an ounce?”

Eddie laughs, “not gonna lie, I forgot that’s why you were here.”

“How much for an ounce, Munson,” you sigh slipping your shoes back on.

“Why do you want so much?”

“The fewer times I have to see you outside of school the better.”

Eddie feigns heartbreak, “ouch, Y/N, that hurts.” He pouts as he reaches into his bedside table and pulls out a bag of weed. “I’ll do it for $80. We can call it the Wet Dick Discount.”

“This is another reason why I don’t like you,” you mutter, handing him the money.

“Listen, I got off, you got off, I got money, you got your weed. I think it was a solid interaction.”

“Yeah well, don’t expect it to happen again.”

“Have $160 next time then. Or plan to see me a little more often in your free time.”

…it definitely happened again…a few times…of course the Wet Dick Discount was only ever given to you…

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #sub!eddie munson #switch!eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut fic #eddie munson st4 #stranger things smut #stranger things smut fic #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson smut oneshot #eddie munson smut one shot

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youareinlovetv · 5 months

Text

also put the song in the tags if you want i’m curious!!

#tom polls #taylor swift

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meiliarotten · 1 year

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Libido

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Paring: Medic x Fem!Reader

Summary: Medic creates an aphrodisiac, and it goes exactly how you would expect.

Tags: Aphrodisiacs, masturbation, edging, teasing, hair pulling

Word Count: 5k

The Masterlist

Whenever Medic called you into his lab you knew to prepare yourself for the unexpected. It was becoming an increasingly regular occurrence for him to ask you for assistance with whatever odd, and usually ethically dubious experiment he was working on. These could often go on far past midnight if the two of you were invested enough in the results.

However tonight seemed to be going in a different direction. Medic had sought you out, not to request your help, but to show you something he had already finished working on. It was, as he described it, ‘the result of weeks of testing and research,’ and you couldn’t help but be intrigued.

When the two of you entered the lab Medic immediately approached a counter, picking up two small vials full of a bright red substance. He shook them slightly and you instinctively took a few steps back. It wouldn’t have been the first time one of Medic’s creations spontaneously combusted, and you had learned to take precautions.

“This is something I have been working on for quite some time, my dear,” Medic said, turning back towards you and lifting one of the vials as if it were a glass of champagne.

The crimson liquid splashed within its container slightly, but showed no signs of bursting into flames, so you cautiously looked closer.

“Alright,” You said, sitting back and preparing to wait out the usual fanfare that came with most scientific breakthroughs that Medic made. You didn’t mind, though. Seeing him get so excited when sharing a new creation was something you found rather charming.

“It took a bit of trial and error- well, actually a lot of trial and error- but now it’s finally complete,” he declared with a flourish and an eager grin.

“And what exactly is it?” You asked, mirroring Medic’s grin as you waited for the ‘big reveal.’ Perhaps it was for a new weapon, or an additive for the Medigun. Maybe it was just something for yet another experiment that you could help with.

“It’s an aphrodisiac!” Medic said enthusiastically. He was so confident, as if he had said something completely mundane.

“Um- I’m sorry? A what?” You asked, slightly taken aback. Surely you had heard him wrong.

“An aphrodisiac,” he repeated. “It’s a substance that increases one’s sexual drive and stimulates-“

“No, I know what an aphrodisiac is,” you said, quickly cutting off his explanation. You tried to figure out how to pose your next question in the most polite way you could. “ Why exactly did you make it?”

“Well, I assumed that much would be obvious, meine kleine Labormaus,” Medic said, turning to you with a smirk. You smiled at the use of that little pet name, but you were still curious about what Medic planned to do with the substance that he had created. It wasn’t like desire was lacking between the two of you.

“I would like to propose a little experiment, one that I think you would be willing to participate in,” Medic said, his smirk never wavering.

“I’m listening,” you said, leaning in as your interest grew.

“We would both take a dose of this first thing tomorrow morning,” Medic explained, holding up the vials once again for emphasis. “Then we will simply see how long we can go on as normal before temptation becomes too much for us.”

You barely kept yourself from rolling your eyes at his clinical language. What he really wanted was obvious.

“So, you just want to see how horny we can get before we inevitably end up jumping each other?” You asked, fixing him with an incredulous look.

Medic’s proud expression faltered slightly. He almost looked bashful, which was certainly an odd emotion to see on the normally self assured doctor.

“Well, when you put it like that it hardly sounds scientific at all,” he said.

“With all due respect, it didn't sound very scientific by your description either,” you retorted, a playful smile on your lips.

Medic scoffed, but he couldn’t hide the soft blush that confirmed your suspicions. This was, in fact, just a way to spice up the sex for one night. It wasn’t the first time Medic had proposed some bedroom related activity under the facade of an ‘experiment.’ Plus he loved to test your limits, so the idea of holding yourself back probably made this whole idea even more alluring to him.

Not that you minded, of course. Ironically, the clinical language sometimes made it sound more appealing to you, and you were always up for a challenge.

“My dear, do you want to try it or not?” Medic asked, seeming to give up on trying to justify the situation as anything remotely professional or scientific.

“Sure,” you said, not hesitating for a moment. “It sounds fun.”

***

The next morning you met Medic in his lab bright and early. You rubbed your eyes, trying to fight off the drowsiness that permeated your entire being. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, barely lighting up the sky. Every fiber of your being wanted to fall back into bed and return to the unconscious bliss of sleep, but Medic had insisted that this all had to be done at the break of dawn. Something about the aphrodisiac taking effect at the right time. You didn’t quite understand his logic, but you accepted it.

“Now, I can assure you that this drug will not result in any kind of intoxication. It will heighten desire and arousal, but I promise, you will be in full control of yourself while under its effects,” Medic explained as he handed you your dose of the aphrodisiac.

You nodded, still eying the vial with some suspicion. Medic’s strange concoctions rarely worked as planned, but he had apparently been testing this extensively. Plus, he seldom led you astray when it came to his experiments. In fact, he had only ever left a dove in your rib cage once. That was a pretty good track record, especially for him.

“Well then, I guess there’s no point in stalling,” you said. With a nervous, but eager smile, you raised your vial as if to give a toast before drinking the medicine within.

It tasted bitter, but not in an overwhelming way. It was the kind of bitterness one would taste in very expensive dark chocolate. That eventually gave way to a sweet aftertaste that lingered on your tongue for quite a while.

Now all that was left to do was wait.

You were surprised at how long it took to feel anything. The sun rose and breakfast passed by with no signs of the drug taking effect at all. By the time Medic and the others were preparing for the upcoming battles, the only symptom you noticed was a pleasant warmth, as if you were curled up next to a campfire.

The countdown to the first round of the day would begin any moment now. Medic approached you just before leaving with the rest of the mercenaries, pulling you aside to speak in relative privacy.

“If you would be willing, I would like to add a rule to this little game of ours,” he whispered, glancing around to assure that no eavesdroppers were nearby.

You nodded rather than answering aloud, as you were also nervous about anyone listening in.

“I will be away for most of the day, obviously,” he said, motioning to the Medigun he currently held. “The effects will most likely take full effect while I’m gone.”

He leaned in even closer, his breath tickling your ear and sending a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t want you to touch yourself. I want to be the one to give you all the pleasure you crave. Do you understand, mädchen?”

You tried your best to calm the blush rising in your cheeks. It was difficult to fight the urge to hide your face in your hands to keep anyone from seeing how flustered you were.

“I understand,” you finally managed to respond, voice shaking slightly as you accepted this new challenge.

“Perfekt!” Medic said, backing away and immediately returning to his normal, jovial tone. Some might say it was a bit too jovial for a man who was about to venture onto the battlefield to hack away at his enemies with a bonesaw.

As he practically bounded away to join the rest of his team, you tried to assure yourself that you could handle this. If anything, he had it harder than you, needing to concentrate on fighting the rival team while also withstanding the effects of the aphrodisiac. Surely, it wouldn’t be too difficult to resist temptation until the end of the day, right?

***

It was around mid morning when the drug began to truly take effect. You occupied yourself with various books you found in the infirmary. Most were medical textbooks, detailing various injuries and diseases. That type of content managed to quell your arousal for a while.

You also managed to catch glimpses of Medic between rounds, and allowed yourself a satisfied smirk at how he seemed to get more disheveled and less focused with each battle that went by. You also noticed how he seemed to hold his Medigun a bit lower than normal, as to cover anything that might arouse suspicion or cause some unwanted stares.

That was one advantage you held over Medic in this situation. While the constant arousal was uncomfortable for you, at least it couldn’t make itself obvious to anyone else.

Still, it wasn’t long before you found yourself struggling to concentrate on the books you were reading. You skimmed mindlessly over the words, far more focused on the heat building between your hips, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort a bit.

“Are you enjoying your reading, schatz?”

You jumped, not realizing that Medic had come up behind you during a break between rounds. You tried not to shudder at the feeling of his hand on your shoulder. It would be mundane or comforting in any other situation, but right now it just made you think of all the other places you would rather have him touching.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” You replied, rather proud that you kept your voice from trembling.

“How interesting. Especially since that particular text is in German, dear,” Medic whispered, trailing his hand further down your arm. You were so focused on not letting yourself react to the feeling of his touch that it took you a moment to actually register his words. You looked down at the page. Damn, that certainly was German.

You blushed, shutting the book. Medic laughed as he rejoined his team for yet another battle and you tried not to let your frustration show. Had you really become that distracted? You were at the point where you were staring blankly at books you couldn’t even understand.

You were worried that your resolve would begin to crack soon if you didn’t get some kind of alleviation, and so, a little after noon you retreated to your room. You just needed a bit of relief, and it wasn’t like you were breaking Medic’s rule. No, you were just bending it a bit.

You removed your pants and underwear, tossing them haphazardly to the floor before kneeling on your mattress. You stroked yourself very slowly, reminding yourself that self control was key. You couldn’t let yourself come yet. You bit your lip to keep from moaning as you pressed your fingers into your soaked entrance.

A small sigh of relief managed to escape as you savored the feeling. It felt so good to finally have something filling you, even if it was just your fingers. It was so tempting to curl them into your g-spot, to just fuck yourself with your own fingers, but you were already bending the rules, and you weren’t about to outright break them. You wanted to keep your promise.

Besides, it would feel so much better for Medic to do this to you. His hands were so much larger than yours, and they never failed to make you feel good. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have the patience to do anything other than fuck you outright, stripping you and slamming his cock into you the moment you were alone in his room, or maybe even his lab.

“Fuck,” you gasped, moving your hand away just before you were able to tip over the edge. You hadn’t even realized when you started desperately grinding against your own fingers. That was close.

You were panting and quivering from the thrill of edging yourself. With a sigh, you shakily reached for your discarded clothing. You glanced at a nearby clock to see that it was only 2:00 pm. It would still be a while until you had the chance to get Medic alone. You gritted your teeth to keep from moaning in sheer frustration.

“Medic should consider himself lucky if I don’t jump him the moment he gets off work,” you muttered to yourself as you got dressed again. “To hell with the others watching. Maybe he’s even the type that would enjoy an audience.”

Another jolt of arousal ran through you at that thought. You really weren’t helping yourself. You shook your head, trying to clear your mind. A quick reality check reminded you that, even in this condition, you probably wouldn’t have the confidence to pull a move like that anyway. Probably being the key word there.

***

As it turned out, you did not end up throwing yourself at Medic the moment the daily battles ended. The temptation was most certainly there, though. Especially at dinner that night, when he reached out to you from beneath the table, gripping your thigh whenever he thought no one was looking. You practically spent the entire meal with your jaw clenched and your hand over your mouth, praying no one would notice how red your face was.

Medic had to be feeling the same way you were. Despite this, he seemed to be holding himself together relatively well. It was all the more frustrating.

When he finally excused himself it took all of your willpower not to immediately chase after him. That would be much too suspicious. You stayed to help clear the table at least, but the moment that was done you found an opportunity to slip away, marching to Medic’s quarters with one purpose in mind.

The sun was already beginning to set by now, and you were sure the other mercenaries would soon be settling down for the night. They probably wouldn’t hear you, but even if they did, you didn’t care. To be blunt, you could not fucking take it anymore.

You almost laughed when you reached Medic’s room and found him at his desk attempting to do paperwork, of all things. Perhaps he thought the boredom that came with doing something so mundane would somehow drown out the arousal.

If so, it didn’t seem to be working. You only got a glance at the paper, but it was enough to see that the doctor had barely filled out a few sentences. All it took was a simple touch on Medic’s arm to set things off. He quite literally flung the documents off his desk the moment he was aware you were there, turning to face you with surprising speed.

You could barely get a word out before Medic was upon you, pressing a rough kiss to your lips. When he pulled away you could see how flushed he was, and that desperate, lust-filled look in his eyes took your breath away.

This was the culmination of what you had been hoping for all day. You leaned in for another kiss eagerly, desperate for his touch after such a long day of abstinence. You needed all of him.

You moaned and begged softly between all consuming kisses and wandering touches. However it seemed that Medic was already way ahead of you, maneuvering you so that the back of your thighs were pressed against the edge of his now empty desk. Frantically, he started to push your pants and underwear down, simply letting the garments fall to the floor before he hoisted you onto the desk with ease.

“Schönes Mädchen, endlich…” he muttered, fumbling desperately with his belt until it finally came undone and fell to the ground, the metal buckle clattering loudly on impact. His pants soon followed suit, finally freeing his cock, which had no doubt spent most of the day straining against the fabric.

You took a moment to look down at yourself, noticing just how drenched you were. You hadn’t known it was possible to be so wet. You reached down to stroke along your slit, sighing at the stimulation. It didn’t last long, as Medic quickly grasped your wrist, pulling your hand away despite your whine of protest.

Quickly, he brought his own hand down to stroke you, sliding his fingers along your entrance. You immediately bucked against him and you saw a self-satisfied smirk stretch across his face.

“You’re positively soaked, liebe,” he purred as he continued to rub teasing circles around your entrance, just barely dipping his fingers into you. “You barely need any preparation, do you?”

“No! I can take you now, please!” You gasped, desperate for him to stop toying with you. Logically, you knew that Medic didn’t have the patience to postpone this any longer either, but rationality had fled your mind long ago. The very suggestion that he may try to drag this out any more was enough to reduce you to a begging mess.

Medic moved his hand away and you squirmed at the loss of sensation. However, you quickly went still as you watched him lick his fingers clean with a delighted expression that sent another impossibly strong pang of arousal through you.

“So süß, meine liebe,” he sighed before leaning forward and finally pushing himself into you.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, but even that wasn’t enough to completely stifle the shrill moan that ripped from your throat at the feeling of finally being filled by him. You had waited for this for so long, and after craving it all day it was impossible to keep yourself quiet. Medic had thrust in to the hilt and stilled for a few moments, his eyes rolling back and his breath hitching as he savored the sensations he had been longing for as well.

“Gott, so nass und eng. Fraulein, you feel so good,” he moaned, leaning down to catch you in another passionate kiss.

It wasn’t long before Medic was thrusting into you at a rapid pace. You wrapped your legs around his hips as he drove into you. One of your hands held a white knuckled grip on the edge of the desk while the other was still at your mouth, smothering your moans.

“Oh nein, my dear. Don’t do that,” Medic said, taking your hand and pulling it away from your mouth. “I want to hear you. I want to hear every sweet sound you make. I want to listen to you cry out for me.”

“What about the others?” You asked, some concern peeking through your lust laden tone. Admittedly, a few moments ago you couldn’t have cared less what they heard. But you also hadn’t expected to be so loud, to lose yourself so thoroughly in the pleasure like this, and with that came a certain amount of shyness.

“Let them hear us,” Medic growled, gripping your hips tightly, almost possessively. “Let them know that I’m making you feel this good. I want them to know that I’m the one making you moan like this. I’m the only one who can make you feel this way.”

That was way more of a turn on than you expected it to be. Then again, in the state you were in, almost anything could be a turn on. You let your hand fall away from your mouth, no longer smothering the sultry noises Medic drew from you.

You wrapped your arms around Medic’s shoulders, pulling him close to you. His thrusts grew harder, faster, and more frantic. Both of you were so pent up, and neither of you were going to last long at this rate

Medic moaned in your ear in a manner that was almost feral. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you responded with your own animalistic cry as you felt yourself come undone.

“Oh Gott, mein schatz, mein gutes mädchen,” Medic groaned through clenched teeth as he finished soon after you, stilling within you momentarily as he rode out his own climax.

You went limp on the hard wood of the desk, panting as if you had just been running for miles, and thoroughly blissed out. It wasn’t until you caught your breath again that you realized Medic wasn’t stopping.

“Medic? What-” you were cut off once again as you were lifted off the desk. Within moments you found yourself pressed up against an adjacent wall, being held up with surprising strength. Your legs remained wrapped around Medic’s hips as he rutted into you, not softening at all despite his previous orgasm.

“Oh, you didn’t think I was finished, did you, meine liebe?” He asked, starting to kiss and suck on your neck, leaving small marks in his wake. You could only gasp and moan in response, grasping desperately at the thin shirt that he couldn’t be bothered to remove.

“After waiting for this all day- this entire torturous day- did you honestly think I would be sated with just one round?” He moaned as he continued to mark up the sensitive skin on your neck and collar, his grip on you tightening and holding you firmly aloft as you were pressed against the wall.

As the merciless thrusting continued, you couldn’t help but notice that you felt no sense of overstimulation. You would have expected at least a little discomfort, but it was pure pleasure. You squirmed and even tried to buck up to meet his thrusts, desperate for more.

Medic’s hands were holding onto your thighs firmly, his grip tightening in response to your movements. His strength, coupled with the adrenaline that currently coursed through both of your veins allowed him to hold you up with relative ease.

“Don’t squirm too much, mädchen,” Medic said, playfully scolding you with a devilish grin. “I wouldn’t want to drop you.”

You tried to obey and keep yourself still, but sometimes you couldn’t resist the urge to grind against him. You just weren’t content to lay back against the wall and take it, and Medic noticed this, laughing wickedly as he watched you writhe.

“You’re so desperate, aren’t you. Does it feel so good that you just can’t keep still?” He teased, whispering in your ear and punctuating his words with soft kisses against your jawline.

“Fuck, I want more!” You cried, barely able to get the words out, as most of what you tried to say came out as unintelligible moans.

“That’s right, beg for me,” Medic said, spurred on by your desperate plea.

“Please Medic, please keep going! I want you to fuck me into this wall, I need you to!” You said, blushing at the crudeness of your own words. His shirt was wrinkled in your grasp as you felt him speed up.

“That’s it, liebe,” Medic said, wrapping one of his arms around your waist, pressing you against his body to better support you. Now with just one arm holding on beneath you, you wrapped your legs more tightly around his hips, doing your part to keep yourself aloft. Once he was sure he wouldn’t drop you, he moved the arm that had wrapped around your waist, his hand traveling down to your clit and rubbing firm circles around it as he continued to tease you.

A sharp moan tore from your throat as Medic thoroughly ravished you. You wouldn’t be able to stifle your noises even if you wanted to at this point, and all you got in return was a low, knowing chuckle.

“Yes, that’s it, my good girl. Look at you, with your eyes rolled back like that. I can feel you still bucking up to meet my touch, like a little lust-ridden beast,” he said. You knew Medic was just as desperate as you were right now, and yet he somehow managed to keep enough composure to continue teasing you with vulgar words like that. It would have amazed you if your mind wasn’t so clouded with pleasure.

“It’s not like you’re any better right now,” you said, trying your best to offer some kind of comeback. However, the fact that you basically moaned half of the words probably dampened any effect they could have had. There was no real bite behind your retort.

“Gottverdammt,” Medic groaned, once again starting to lose control. You felt his thrusts grow uneven. “I want you to come for me again. Bitte, arch your back against the wall and scream for me, liebling!”

You didn’t need to be asked twice. The feeling of being ruthlessly fucked coupled with the firm ministrations on your clit soon became too much for you, and you were overcome by a climax just as powerful as the first. Medic finished very soon after you, the feeling of you clenching around him driving him over the edge.

This time Medic did pull out, apparently sated for now. He was still holding you aloft, although his arms were shaking with the effort, and also probably from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

But still, despite having just been thoroughly fucked up against the wall like an animal, you found yourself tempted to grind against his abdomen. You still wanted more, and of course, Medic took notice, feeling your legs tighten around his waist as you squirmed in his arms.

“Still so needy, hm?” He asked, chuckling softly. Your face would have flushed with embarrassment, if it could have gotten any redder.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I just need more,” you said in a breathy voice, averting your gaze. You rested your head against Medic’s chest, and you felt the soft vibration of his laughter just as much as you heard it. Hesitantly, you looked up to meet his gaze.

“Don’t apologize, meine liebe. I love seeing you desperate like this,” Medic said, and you yelped as he suddenly moved you from the wall. He carried you to the nearby bed, laying you down on top of the sheets. He remained leaning over you like that, simply admiring the sight. “So gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything so alluring.”

With you beneath him like this, there was no way to hide your flushed face. However, you found that you no longer wanted to. In a moment of boldness, you wrapped an arm around Medic, pulling him in for another kiss. You felt him smirk against your lips as you bucked your hips against him, still desperate for some kind of stimulation.

Medic moved from your mouth, peppering kisses all over your face, then your neck, and then down to your chest. You smiled down at the doctor as he gradually traveled lower, gradually making his way over your body until he was on his knees, gently kneading your thighs in his hands with you on the bed in front of him.

“You must be so sensitive still,” he said, admiring you in an almost clinical manner. “And so wet as well. The aphrodisiac worked just as planned.”

He observed you like that for a moment before finally leaning forward to drag his tongue along your slit. He held your hips to keep you from bucking up against his mouth.

“Just sit back, liebling. Let me do all the work for now,” he said, before quickly returning to his ministrations.

You reached down, tangling your fingers in Medic’s hair and gently tugging whenever he did something especially good with that mouth of his. He glanced up at you with narrowed eyes before delving his tongue deeper into you. You gasped in response, throwing your head back against the mattress.

He moved one of his hands lower, and soon those talented fingers were working circles around your over-sensitive clit. His other hand also released your hips, traveling down his own body to palm at his cock, which was already becoming erect again. Apparently the aphrodisiac greatly shortened refractory periods as well.

Now with nothing holding you back, you wrapped your legs around Medic’s shoulders, pressing him against you as your one hand continued to pull his hair, becoming slightly more rough as you felt the pleasure begin to build again.

Medic groaned, both at the feeling of his hand on his cock and at the rough tugs you continued to inflict on him. As he stroked himself faster, he became more vocal, and each moan sent pleasant vibrations right against your clit. You gasped, finally releasing Medic’s hair to grasp at the bedsheets as a third orgasm overtook you.

It wasn’t as mind blowing as the previous two, but you found that it was a welcome change, a gentle pleasure that flowed over your body in waves. You trembled and moaned softly as it overtook you, savoring the feeling of warmth and contentment that remained.

Below, you heard Medic groan as he released into his hand. You removed your legs from his shoulders, allowing him to clean off with a few tissues from the nearby nightstand. Rolling over, you reached out to pull Medic onto the bed with you the moment the tissues were discarded in a conveniently placed wastebin.

Finally satisfied, and thoroughly exhausted, you felt yourself giving in to sleep the moment Medic joined you. You sighed softly as you were pulled against his chest, strong arms wrapping around your body.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable liebling,” Medic whispered. Your eyes snapped open almost immediately and you looked at him incredulously.

“Excuse me?” You said, the idea of sleep having been completely forgotten for a moment.

“The effects of the aphrodisiac may be dulled for now, but there’s a chance you and I might be waking up to ‘take care of things’ far into the night,” Medic explained, coyly refusing to meet your gaze as you narrowed your eyes at him.

“God damn,” you muttered. With an exasperated sigh, you settled back down into Medic’s embrace. “Well then, that’s all the more reason to get what little rest we can.”

Closing your eyes, you tried to focus on sleep rather than the pervasive heat already working its way back into your core. You could tell it was going to be a long, but highly pleasurable night.

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canarias-stuff · 1 month

Text

Phases of Love / Kuroo Tetsurou X Fem!Reader - Chapter 3

Summary:

They lower the net by Coach Nekomata’s request, and Kuroo doesn’t lose time going near it, but this time he doesn't go alone, you go there too. You throw your initial self-consciousness aside and starts jumping to get the ball, it’s a trial and error process, you can feel your fingers grinding on the ball, you can see Kuroo trying to jump as high as he can, and when you and Kuroo finally spikes the ball to the other side of the net, you knew that you would never forget that feeling.

Just like you would never forget the smile that appeared on Tetsurou's lips.

Author's note:

It took sometime, but I finished the chapter! It's longer than the other 2 too!^^ So, I hope that you have fun!^^

Tags: Romance; Eventual romance; Slow Burn; cross posted Ao3.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Elementary School

You were right, Kuroo Tetsurou is cute in several senses of the word.

He is a cute kid in appearance. He is taller than other kids their age, has chubby cheeks, big and sparkling hazel eyes, and then, there’s the bed head hair.

You can’t stop yourself from asking him about his hair when he finally sits at the end of Kenma’s bed still holding the volleyball.

“(y/n)...” Kenma’s voice sounds like he is trying to warn you, to be mindful of your words (he wouldn’t admit that his first thought of Kuroo was how funny his hair was), but you are too curious.

Kuroo doesn’t seem to be offended by the question.

“It’s…natural.” He answers sincerely.

“What?!” And this time, even Kenma looks surprised.

A few months later you would learn that the hairstyle was a result of the way he kept his head between the pillows (a bad habit of his), but this is just months later.

…

After that day, you become friends with Kuroo too.

The less shy he becomes around you and Kenma, the easier it is to talk and interact with him. He laughs, and you can’t stop yourself from laughing at his hyena-like laugh. He yells while running after you and Kenma, he yells when he tosses the volleyball or tries a spike and fails, and yells when he loses or wins a round of games.

“You’re loud, Kuro.” Kenma says an afternoon, when the three of you are sitting on the grass, looking at the orange sky.

You look at the youngest boy, curious at the slightly different way that he calls the older one. A nickname , you think surprised and happy that Kenma was leaving his shell one step at a time.

“I’m not!” Kuroo retorted, not realizing that he wasn’t Kuroo anymore, but just Kuro.

“You are.” He insisted.

“I’m not!

“You are.”

And you smiled fondly at the two, because it looks like Kenma wasn’t the only one leaving his shell.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Yes, you are Tetsu .” You say, giving him a nickname too, because (in your childlike brain) there’s no way that you are the only one that would stick with “Kuroo” or “Kuroo-kun”. There’s just no way that you would be left aside from this small group of friends.

This time, he blushes, realizing that you changed the way that you call him.

Kuroo Tetsurou's reactions are cute, be it when he is excited, gets complimented, and especially when he gets embarrassed.

“I’m not!”

…

Golden, hazel and (e/c) stare at the broken flower vase on the floor of your mother garden.

“I told you it was a bad idea.” Kenma is the first one to open his mouth after you accidentally knocked the vase with the volleyball.

“B-but I really thought that I was getting better at receiving the ball…” You try to justify the reason why you choose to play volleyball in your garden instead of the riverbank.

“W-what should we do?” Kuroo asked, slightly panicked. It was the first time that he got involved in trouble since arriving in that neighborhood, and he really, really, didn’t want to get scolded.

“Glue! I need glue!” You suddenly say. “I just need to put the vase together before mom comes back.”

Kenma stares at you with a frown, and Kuroo looks at you as if you are a genius.

“That’s…”

But the bed-head boy cuts the other boy.

“...a good idea!”

“No…really, we should just…”

“Okay! I will get the glue!” But Kenma’s words fall to deaf ears as you go inside your house to find the sticky material.

“...apologize…”

When your mother comes back, the three of you get scolded not only for breaking the vase but also for trying something as dangerous as to glue pieces of glass.

That day, Tetsurou finds out that you are a troublemaker, and Kenma is the voice of reason. Does it make him reconsider your friendship? Absolutely not. It just makes him think that everyday would be an adventure.

…

“Hey…why don’t you find better people to play with?” Kenma asks when they decided to go back home. “Playing volleyball with newbies like me and (y/n) has to be boring…”

“Hey!” You exclaimed, slightly offended. “I’m not so bad at it!”

“Nope! Nuh-uh! Playing with you isn’t boring at all!” Tetsurou denied it, shaking his head. “You two learn it quickly and are super smart!”

You couldn’t stop sending your best smug smile in Kenma’s direction, who just rolled his eyes.

“Oh…really…?” The youngest one of you said.

There was a short pause before Tetsurou continued.

“Actually...I played in a team before…” He says, staring at the ball in his hands. “But then I had to move.”

“Oh…hummm, but I think you could find more people to play with here, if you looked.” The younger boy commented, but judging by the other silence, Kuroo didn’t really want to, and neither Kenma nor you couldn't blame him, because neither of you wouldn’t want to do it either.

“H-hey!” The black haired exclaimed, surprising you both. “Do you have free time this saturday?”

…

“A gymnasium?” You muttered, staring at the big building.

It’s the place that Kuroo decides to bring you and Kenma along on that sunny saturday morning.

“You ready? Cause here we go!” Kuroo says excited, but there is still some uncertainty there. “I meant it! We're gonna go there right now!”

“Then go.” Kenma replies dryly.

Thump. Bamm. Baf. Bomm.

It’s loud. There were a lot of people and volley balls. Some volley balls almost hit you (you and Kenma flinched with the force), but Kuroo's eyes were sparkling, and instantly you knew that that boy found a refuge in the middle of a place that he barely knew.

An adult approached you three, and with a smile, invited you to play together. Kuroo doesn’t need another invitation, he is already running to the middle of the court, Kenma declines, he prefers watching people play, and you…you decided to stay with your younger friend, because you don’t see any girl and suddenly you feel self conscious.

Kuroo plays with the beginners while you and Kenma look around. The older kids are training in a different area, and you are really impressed by them.

“That over there.” Kenma says, pulling the sleeve of your shirt to draw you attention. “That looks cool.”

“What?” And you turn your head to look at whatever caught Kenma’s attention.

BAMM.

The boy’s hand slaps the ball, and it goes to the other side of the court. It’s really cool.

“Ooh!” Kuroo approaches you two again with a big smile. “That is spiking! It’s super cool!”

“Why don’t we do that?” Kenma asks, and you are surprised that your younger friend is actually showing some interest in volleyball.

“But you can only do stuff like that if you’re really tall.” Tetsurou answers.

“I can see on your face that you want to try, Tetsu.” You comment, and his face goes red.

“W-well that…”

“Oh? So why don’t we lower the net then?”

And you three turn in the direction that the new voice came from.

“Oh! Hey, Coach Nekomata!” The instructor that was playing with the beginners exclaimed, approaching the short old man that just showed up from behind you three.

“The first and most important lesson to teach is how fun it is to succeed at something.” The old coach, Nekomata, continues as the three of you keep looking at him, not really sure with who he is talking to.

“It’s been a while, sir! I didn’t know that you were coming.”

“I just happened to be passing by today, that's all.” He smiles.

Coach Nekomata? You wonder if he was also a volleyball teacher.

“Do what you love, and success will come.” Nekomata says, and you are almost sure that he took a look at the three of you. “Have you heard that saying?”

And something inside you stirs hearing that.

Just like you would never forget the smile that appeared on Tetsurou's lips.

…

After that day you can see how volleyball grows on Kuroo, and as much as you would deny it, it did to you too, but the volleyball neighborhood association has only a boy’s volleyball team (there wasn’t any girls playing aside from you) so Kuroo is the only one who actually plays on a team, you can only go there and train tosses and receives.

“Aren’t you upset?” Kenma asks once, joining you on your train, while Kuroo plays with other boys.

“Why?” You tilt your head holding the ball.

“I mean…you can’t play in a team…”

You hummed, pondering the question.

“Yes, but I can see Tetsu’s smile, so it’s okay.”

Kenma stares at you like you grew another head, and really, you can’t see any problem with your answer, because it was true that you were happy for Tetsurou.

…

Eventually summer vacations end, and the time that you can spend together is cut to half (it also means that the chances to get in trouble decrease). It’s the start of the second week of august and the three of you have to return to school, at least you all attend the same elementary school, but Kenma is one year younger, and you and Kuroo are in different classes (or so you found out when you help Kuroo find the school board’s room).

Tetsurou doesn’t look as nervous as you thought that he would be, actually, that morning, Kenma looked 10 times worse, but could you blame him? Kenma wasn’t exactly the best with people, he didn’t even want to interact with other people, but still, you knew that he was concerned at how people view him.

“Are you okay?” You ask, tilting your head a little bit to take a good look at the black haired boy’s face. Because right now, even if you were worried about Kenma, you were also worried about your new friend.

“...yeah…” Kuroo answers, but you can feel some insecurity in his tone.

“Don’t lie, Tetsu!” You point a finger at him.

“Hahh?!” He immediately reacts, stops walking and turns to look at you. “I-I’m not lying, (y/n)!”

“You are lying again!”

“I’m not!”

“You are!”

“I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

You stare at each other, hazel eyes glaring at the direction of your (e/c) eyes and vice versa, and then…

“Pfftt.”

You can’t hold your laugh, and neither can he.

The other children passing by stare at you two weirdly and with arched eyebrows, wondering what was so funny.

“Thanks.” Kuroo says as soon as his laugh dies.

“No problem!” You grins.

…

As expected, Kuroo fits well with his new classmates, you could even say that he becomes kind of popular among boys and girls from school. But by the end of the day, the three of you would walk together to get home, retelling fun facts of your day (in Kenma’s case he would gladly ignore you two to play his game) and sometimes stopping to get ice cream at a convenience store.

The three of you would still go to each other's houses or play volleyball by the riverbank together because neither of Kuroo’s new volleyball teammates lives nearby, so your bond gets stronger day by day, and you start to understand how each other works.

…

“THERE! DID YOU SEE?!”

Kenma is the type who speaks low, it’s really rare to see him so excited about something that’s not a video game, so you almost fall from your place in his bed when he cries.

“Hum?” You say trying to suppress a yawn.

“What?” Kuroo blinks, eyes focusing on the TV.

Tetsurou brings videos of professional volleyball matches to watch together, for an hour or two, you can say that you and Kuroo are excited to see it, but after three or four hours you both are almost sleeping. Kenma is the only one who doesn’t nod off while watching game after game, on the contrary, he is the one who gets excited. Like now.

“He looked over to the right for just a second, making you think he’d set it there, but then he put it to the left!” The younger boy points.

“Is t-that so?” You say, but honestly you can’t really see such a thing.

“Ugh…come on, that’s enough watching games!” Tetsurou grumbles. “Let’s go outside and play one!”

“You were the one who brought those DVD’s though.” You commented, and this time he doesn’t have a good comeback.

“Oh…speaking of…” Kenma suddenly says, pausing the video and turning to Kuroo. “Remember the one you brought last week? Bring that one again.”

“Hum?!” Tetsurou and you exclaimed.

Oh no! Okay, you and Kuroo like volleyball, but you don’t want to rewatch hours of the same game again. You turn to Tetsurou, eyes begging for him to change subjects, begging him to find something to distract Kenma.

“Kenma!” And Kurro seems to get the message. “I really think that you should be a setter! It’s really cool! You get to be…like…the mastermind and stuff!”

What is stuff? You wonder, but who cares? Kenma already looks distracted.

“Not only that, setters don’t have to move around too much either! It’s a super awesome position!” The bed-head boy continues.

Lies. You know for sure that Tetsurou is saying that just because he wants Kenma to join the team so they can play together.

But the “I’m considering this now” face that Kenma is making is just so funny, that you can’t suppress your laughs.

“What?” They both ask.

“Nothing!” You giggled. “Come on! Let’s go play outside!”

“Let’s go!” Tetsurou beams.

“Ehhh…really?” But Kenma is not as excited.

The next time that you go to the gymnasium, Kenma, for the first time, play volleyball with other children that are not you (and join the team), and you can’t hide the prideful expression on your face

…

Sometimes after school, Kuroo goes out with some classmates to play football. On those days, you and Kenma decide to stay indoors, playing video games, because you don’t really like the sport and your younger friend definitely isn’t the type to run after a ball (except for volleyball, because if he really hated it, Kenma would have said something already).

But Kenma’s father wanted to see his son go outside.

“Tetsurou-kun.” He called.

Said boy stopped, and his friends went ahead.

“Yes, Uncle Kozume?”

You and Kenma are going down the stairs to get some snacks when you hear the conversation, and for some reason, both of you stopped to hear it.

“Say, do you mind taking Kenma and (y/n) with you to play football sometime?”

There’s a pause, and you exchange a look with Kenma.

“But I don’t think that they want to go, sir.” Comes the answer, and Tetsurou really sounds like he gave a lot of thought to that. “I understand not wanting to go out sometimes. If they want to go even a little, I’ll definitely invite Kenma and (y/n), but right now, I don’t think they want at all.”

Oh. You were caught off guard. Tetsurou knows you and Kenma for less than 2 months, but he does understand how you two feel.

“When Kenma wants to do something, he tries as hard as he can, though. So I don’t think you have to worry Uncle.”

“Ah, okay.” The older man accepts with a slightly surprised expression.

Kenma has a small smile on his lips too.

“And (y/n)...” Tetsurou continues, and you wonder what his thoughts are about you. “...well, she hates football, so I take back what I said. I won’t invite her at all. Also, she is really bad at it.”

“Hahhh?!” You yell, startling everyone. “Say it again!”

That day, Tetsurou didn't play football, he played hide and seek.

Ao3 Link

#haikyuu #ao3 #fluffy #fanfic #romance #kuroo tetsuro x reader #female reader #kuroo tetsurou #reader #kuroo x reader #nekoma #kozume kenma #slow burn

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