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roosterforme · 1 year

Text

The Younger Kind Part 3 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley goes on another unremarkable date before heading home early. You stay and have a drink with him while you fix up his dating profile. Maybe now he will find some more compatible matches.

Warnings: Angst, swearing, fluff, and age gap (eventually 18+)

Length: 4300 words

Pairing: Single dad!Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x babysitter!female reader

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Bradley started his Friday morning the same way he always did; by running around the house in a complete disarray.

"Noah, eat your waffles. We're going to be late," he said, his flight suit hanging halfway off his torso.

"I want cereal," he whined, and Bradley ran his hands over his face and sighed. Then he got a bowl of cereal ready and finished eating the waffles himself.

After burning his tongue on coffee that was way too hot and eating a handful of sour blueberries, Bradley was hauling Noah out to the Bronco and buckling him in.

"Is my babysitter coming again?" Noah asked on the way to daycare. He had been asking Bradley that all week.

"You had a lot of fun with her?" he asked as he pulled into the parking lot. "You liked her?"

"Yeah. Bring her back."

Bradley smiled and then he cringed. He liked you, too. And he'd made a complete ass of himself, flirting with you like you and he were the same age. You'd been sweet about it though. He wouldn't do it again.

"She's going to come over again tonight," Bradley told his son as they walked into the daycare. "You can play with her all you want."

At least Noah looked happy about it. Bradley had mixed feelings about the way he would be spending his evening. He was going out with a woman from the app, his first foray into online dating. Her photos looked nice, and she was a thirty-four year old publicist. He had no idea what he was going to talk to her about, but he was meeting her at a sleek martini bar at her suggestion. He didn't even like martinis.

"Bye, bub," Bradley said, kissing Noah and dashing back out to make it to base on time.

And of course he was already starving again. He kept meaning to leave some snacks in the car since he was always running all over town. The first person he saw as his stomach growled was Nat.

"Did you not eat breakfast?" she asked as they walked across the tarmac.

"I don't have any food at my house, and I don't have time to go grocery shopping," he growled, grabbing a smashed granola bar out of his helmet bag. "And I can't go tonight, because I have a date from that fucking app you put on my phone!"

Bradley was absolutely not in the mood to go on this date. However, Nat looked delighted.

"That's great!"

"Is it? Is it really? Because I'm meeting her at a fancy martini bar. I don't like martinis, and I don't like getting dressed up."

Nat rolled her eyes. "It's your first date using the app. It'll be fine."

Bradley headed straight for his F/A-18 and started to climb into the cockpit. He had the fleeting thought that he would rather be at home all evening, coloring and eating those peanut butter covered carrot sticks with you and Noah.

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

You woke up late on Greyson's couch with a stiff neck and a growling stomach. As you walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water before leaving for your first class, you found Greyson, hungover and eating Cheetos.

"Hey," he groaned, holding his head. "You coming back over tonight."

"No," you told him, reaching for a glass. "I'm babysitting later."

He pouted in a way that you used to think was adorable when you and he were in a relationship. "But we didn't even get to mess around last night," he whispered, wrapping his arms around you.

You managed to slip out of his grip before he got Cheeto gunk all over you. "Don't ask me to come over anymore if you're just planning on playing video games."

He just looked at you like you had two heads. "Isn't our arrangement to have fun together? You could have played too."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll text you when I'm free, Greyson. Maybe we can hang out then."

You ducked into his bathroom to get changed and get ready to go, and you just knew stopping for coffee wasn't going to be an option. You would have to hope like hell that you'd have time to get coffee and something to eat when you left campus and headed to Bradley's house later.

You already really liked it there. None of his mugs matched. The area rug in the living room had a snag in it. Noah had colored on the wall in the hallway. It was cozy, cluttered and lived in. And you liked the way Bradley and Noah filled the space.

"Stop thinking about him," you mumbled as you drove yourself to class.

Your day went by in a blur. You'd managed to get a snack and some coffee around lunchtime, but your last lecture ran late. You had the choice to stop for food or get yourself cleaned up a bit before heading to Bradley's house.

"Stop thinking about him!" you mumbled again as you stopped in a bathroom to fix your lipgloss and your hair. Surprisingly, you didn't actually look too bad for having slept on a couch. And now you could just make yourself some coffee in Bradley's kitchen using one of his silly mugs.

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

Bradley ran through the locker room like it was a race.

"What's your problem, Rooster?" Hangman asked him, looking like he had whiplash as Bradley dashed past.

"I've got more than one, I can assure you," Bradley grumbled, pulling on clean underwear, gym shorts and a tank. "I need to stop for groceries and get Noah and be home by 6. See you on Monday."

He only had time to stop at the store he didn't like, but it was on his way to get Noah. He grabbed some fruit, macaroni and cheese, a few frozen meals, pasta sauce, and French vanilla coffee creamer. Then he picked up Noah, out of breath by the time he was buckling him into his carseat.

"Can we see the babysitter now?" Noah asked with a smile.

Bradley kissed his forehead. "Yeah, bub. We can go see her now." Bradley was almost as excited about the idea as Noah was.

Your car was already there when he pulled into his driveway at 6:15. Shit, he had told you he would have dinner ready for you. Fuck, he was supposed to meet his date in less than an hour.

"Let's go inside," Bradley said, scooping Noah up with one arm and carrying the groceries and his flight suit in the other. You must have let yourself in, because the door was unlocked. "It's just us," he called out, and you poked your head out of the kitchen. Bradley was already grinning as you smiled at both of them and came to get Noah from him.

"Hey, Noah. Ready to color again?" you asked, taking the child in your arms. Bradley's heart skipped around awkwardly as you smiled at him over your shoulder on your way back to the kitchen. That lipgloss was like a beacon, and he followed right behind you.

"I started making dinner," you told him. "I hope you don't mind."

Mind? Bradley couldn't think of anything better than you, coloring with Noah and making dinner.

"I'm sorry. I was supposed to have done that."

You just shrugged and set Noah down on one of the kitchen chairs. There was an assortment of coloring and craft supplies in front of him, and he got right to work.

"I figured you two got held up. I'm just making spaghetti, nothing crazy." Bradley watched you stir the noodles. Usually when he did that, they ended up in a gigantic clump.

"Well, thanks. I did get some pasta sauce. And I think there are some meatballs in the freezer. Oh, and this is for you."

He watched you turn to face him, and your eyes lit up when he handed you the coffee creamer. It was as if he'd just handed you a bouquet of flowers or twenty bucks.

"Thank you," you sighed softly. "I didn't get enough coffee today."

Bradley turned on the coffee maker for you. "That's pretty much the only thing I always have here. Drink as much as you want, please." He ran his hand through his messy hair. "I could use some too, I think."

"What time is your date?" you asked, turning toward Noah and finding him coloring the page with the hippos on it.

Bradley's eyes went wide. "I have to be there in thirty minutes," he said, grimacing as you strained the pasta.

You laughed. "Guys have it so easy. You can throw on some jeans and a nice shirt. Run your fingers through your hair, and bam, you're ready to go out."

He watched you work from behind, taking in your jean shorts and tee shirt. He should really be getting ready to go, but he didn't want to move away from you. "Nah, women have it easier."

You looked up at him over your shoulder again, something that already made Bradley smile.

"Now this reasoning, I've just got to hear," you said, raising one eyebrow.

"Guys don't need a lot to work with. Makeup and all that stuff? Don't need it. Is it nice sometimes? Sure, I guess. But just hanging out at home, eating popcorn in my pajamas with the right girl sounds pretty good right now."

"Yeah," you agreed, scooping spaghetti into three bowls. "It does. Maybe that's what Noah and I will do later."

And now Bradley was jealous of his three year old child.

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

You watched Bradley inhale a bowl of plain spaghetti in his fitted jeans and blue dress shirt. He looked like any woman's dream date, and you were sure he would end up scoring a second date if he wanted one.

"Bye, bub. Be good," he said, kissing Noah on his forehead. And when he took a step closer to you, a brief flash of him kissing you on your forehead crossed your mind. You bit your lip to keep from gasping, and his eyes tracked the motion.

When Bradley's lips parted before he swallowed hard, you had to reach behind you for the edge of the counter.

"I'll have my phone on. Not sure how long I'll be out. Should be home by ten?"

"Sounds good," you told him in a soft breathy voice. "No rush."

As he was turning to leave he reminded you, "Seriously, you're welcome to eat or drink anything you find."

You just nodded as he strolled through the living room and left to go make some other woman feel like she just won the lottery.

"Hey Noah, wanna sing some songs while I do some meal prepping for you guys?" you asked.

He was now sitting in the middle of the floor with his blocks out. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star!"

"Good choice." You sang song after song, occasionally stopping to help him with his building projects. You sipped your coffee out of a mug that said My best friend went to Glacier Bay and only bought me this stupid mug while you portioned out spaghetti and meatballs. At least this way Noah and Bradley would have something to get them through the weekend.

You found some frozen chicken, and next time you could make them some fajitas or something with it. But this was the saddest kitchen you had ever seen. Well maybe besides Greyson's.

And that was the first time you had thought about him all day. You hadn't stopped thinking about Bradley and Noah.

"Another song!" Noah exclaimed, and you started Old MacDonald for him. You put the containers of spaghetti into the refrigerator and sat on the floor with your mug of coffee. After building a few towers, you got Noah to agree to make some construction paper crafts.

"Can you make me a dog?" he asked, and you made him a sad looking red dog. That was followed by a weird looking yellow cat and a blue moose.

"Let's make you a crown so you can be Prince Noah," you said, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He looked a lot like Bradley. He was so cute, you wondered what his mom looked like. You wondered what happened to her. She didn't seem to be involved at all, and Bradley never talked about her.

"And you can be a Princess!" he shouted.

"Sure," you said with a laugh. And half an hour later, there was a mess of construction paper all over the floor and a giggling child in your arms.

"We can watch one short cartoon, and then it's your bedtime," you told him. He already looked sleepy, and he couldn't stop yawning. He sat next to you on the couch with his yellow crown crooked on his head. Your own purple crown was a little crooked too, but you didn't want to take it off yet.

You didn't want to bother Bradley on his date, but you snapped a quick photo of Noah in his crown and texted it to him. You got an immediate text back.

Bradley Bradshaw: He looks cute. Where's your crown?

You pressed your lips together. Should you send him a selfie while he was on a date? Before you could change your mind, you took one and checked it before sending it to him as well.

Bradley Bradshaw: A crown fit for a princess.

You led Noah into the bathroom to get ready for bed with a gigantic smile on your face. You helped him brush his teeth and get changed into pajamas. You read him three books and got him a sip of water, but you were still smiling.

"Let's leave your crown on your dresser," you told Noah, gently taking it off his head as he sank back onto his pillow. "Good night," you whispered, but he was already falling asleep.

You felt soft and warm inside as you cleaned up the mess on the kitchen floor. You emptied the dishwasher and cleaned the counters. You picked up the toys on the living room floor. When you opened up a bag of Skittles and just started to settle in with a textbook, you got another message.

Bradley Bradshaw: I'll be home soon. Didn't want to scare you again.

It wasn't even 9 o'clock yet! Why was he already coming home? You weren't going to complain. The idea of him kissing his date goodnight or bringing her back here left a weird taste in your mouth. You popped a few Skittles to try to make it go away.

A couple minutes later, when the front door opened, you nearly choked on your candy. God, he was so hot. He was carrying a six-pack of beer and a bottle of wine, and you couldn't help but wish he'd invite you to hang out longer.

"You're home so early," you said from your spot on the couch, and his eyes met yours immediately. "Was your date awful? Or did she take one look at you and bail?" you asked, barely able to contain your laughter as you adjusted your paper crown.

His lips parted as he huffed out a laugh. Then he glared at you as he headed your way. "Okay, Princess. First of all, yes, she was awful."

You were about to ask what happened, but he continued on.

"And second, no woman has ever taken a look at me and decided not to come back for a second one." He was staring down at you on the couch, and now you couldn't remember what you were going to say.

You pressed your lips together as heat flared through your body. "You know, I believe that," you said softly, making him chuckle. "What was wrong with her?"

He just shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Doesn't like kids."

You scoffed. "Well she'd like Noah if she gave him a chance. He's an angel."

Bradley smiled down at you before taking a seat on the couch so that his thigh was rubbing yours.

"Was he good tonight? No tears at bedtime?"

"Mmm, he was perfect," you managed to say as his body heat radiated through his pant leg.

"That's good. Hey, I need a drink. Do you want something?" he asked, holding up the wine and the beer. "I wasn't sure what you liked, but I sure as hell wasn't about to drink a thirty dollar martini."

He had thought about you when his date ended. He had thought about coming back here and having a drink with you. He had thought about what you might like. You needed to catch your breath. "Sure. I'll go grab some glasses." When you started to move, Bradley pressed the wine bottle against your leg.

"No, I'll go. You stay here."

You watched him walk away, and then you buried your face in your hands. You'd never make it out of here with your dignity intact if he kept being so sweet.

"You cleaned the kitchen," he called from the next room. He returned with two mismatched glasses and a corkscrew. "You didn't have to do that."

"I made you some meals, too. Your refrigerator reminds me of my ex-boyfriend's fraternity house," you said, pretending to shudder as he looked at you.

"Ex-boyfriend, huh? Is there a current one?"

You were going to melt. You were going to slide onto the floor and pass out. "No." You were surprised your voice came out as steady as it did. He looked pleased. He was smiling as he sat down next to you again.

"That's good. Wouldn't want to keep you here in the evenings and make him miss you. Wine or beer?"

It took you a second to realize he was asking you a question. "Um, wine." Your mouth felt dry as you watched him open the bottle and pour some for you. "So did you just ditch your date and stop at the liquor store?"

Bradley snorted as he poured himself some wine as well. "Pretty much. I should have known it would be bad from the get go, you know?" he asked, setting the bottle down and clinking his glass to yours. "She likes the opera and martini bars, and I... don't. Not that I can't hang, but I would just rather-"

"Eat popcorn on your couch in your pajamas. Yeah, I know," you said with a smirk. He just looked at you again like he couldn't quite make sense of you. "So where did you meet her anyway?" You picked up your bag of Skittles and ate a few before handing them to him.

"On an app," he said before he dumped a few directly into his mouth.

"You're on a dating app?" You were surprised.

"Yep. My friend hijacked my phone and downloaded it. I don't even know what all she put in my profile."

"Gimme your phone," you said, holding out your hand. "I want to see it."

He just entered his passcode and groaned. "Fine, but I get to finish the Skittles." He handed over his phone and then dumped all of the remaining candy into his mouth. You watched him chew for a moment before you looked down at his phone.

"Holy shit," you whispered.

"What's wrong?" he asked, leaning a little closer to you.

"Nothing, it's just your photo."

"Is it bad? Nat said all my photos were terrible."

You laughed right at him. "No. It's very good."

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

Bradley was not going to be able to keep his cool for much longer. He just sipped his wine, wishing there was more candy for him to stuff into his mouth.

"It's good?" he asked you as you scrolled through his profile.

"Oh yeah. Both of them are. But you need more photos than just the two. Wait, golden retriever energy?" You burst out laughing and let your eyes wander all over his face. "Yeah, I can see that."

"I still don't understand what that means," he grumbled, leaning closer again as you opened the tab for his matches.

"You have almost three hundred women trying to chat you up!"

He just scratched his mustache. "I do? Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Look," you said, holding the phone up. "That's insane. Didn't you set any filters?"

"Huh?"

"Filters," you mumbled. "There's gotta be... oh, here we go. You need filters. Otherwise you look desperate. Or like you just want to hook up." You met his eyes, seemingly searching for an answer.

"I'm not desperate. And I don't want to just hookup," he promised, leaning back against the couch and watching you work.

You leaned back too, nearly resting your face against his shoulder. He wished he could just match with you on the app and call it a day.

"Okay, what's the age range you're into?" you asked softly, your purple crown sliding down a little bit on your forehead as you juggled his phone and your glass of wine.

"Um, I guess my age?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "You're only interested in women who are specifically thirty-six years old?"

"Well, no. I guess broader than that," he replied. He was about to say twenty-five to forty, but he changed his mind at the last second. "How about twenty-four to forty?"

You looked at him and smiled. "Okay," you murmured, typing something into the app. "Now there's a little checklist where you can make different selections. Would you date someone with kids?"

"Yes."

"How about a smoker?"

"No."

"What about...."

Bradley listened to you ask him each question, and he answered all of them for you. But he couldn't stop looking at you, curling up closer and closer to him. Your face was so cute and animated. Your eyes were so expressive.

"And now," you said, grinning at him. "It's time for some more pictures. You don't have any other photos saved to your phone?"

"You can look. But it's all just pictures of Noah," he said, realizing too late that when you opened his photo gallery, his most recent one was the selfie you sent him.

"Oh," you whispered, grinning down at his phone before pressing your lips together. Bradley was too embarrassed to say anything, so he just let you swipe through his photos. "Mostly Noah," you said softly, still smiling at all of them. "Looks like I'll just have to take some."

You held up his phone and took a picture of him before he could stop you. "Oh, please don't post that," he told you, reaching for his phone, but you held it up over your head in an effort to keep it away from him.

"What? You looked okay," you said, glancing up at the screen. "It needs a little something extra though." Carefully, you removed your paper crown and set it on his head, your fingers brushing through his hair. They were gone in an instant, but now he was craving your touch. It was insane how close you were to him. You shouldn't be this close.

"How's it look?" he whispered.

"So cute," you said with a laugh, and he let you snap a photo. "We could post this one and say A Prince looking for his Princess."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on! I'm sure anyone would jump at the chance for a second or third date with that!"

Your whole face was lit up when you talked, and Bradley just wanted to play along. "Nope," he said. "It's your crown anyway. Maybe I'll just stick with calling you Princess." He gently set it on your head again, letting his fingers graze your hair.

You sucked in a deep breath. "Only for you and Noah. He did tell me I was a pretty Princess earlier."

Bradley wanted to kiss you. He really thought you would let him if he tried it. He let his knuckles brush against your cheek before he pulled his hand away, causing your eyes to flutter closed while your lips parted.

"Looks better on you anyway," he whispered, memorizing the way your eyelashes brushed your cheek where his hand had just been.

Why couldn't he feel even a fraction of this attraction to either of the women he'd gone on a proper date with? Women who were his age. What was he even thinking here?

It was as if you could read his mind when you opened your eyes. "Well, if you'd just sit nicely for me, I could take an additional photo for the app. That plus the filters should have you matching with people who you're more compatible with."

Bradley swallowed hard. "Fine," he agreed, and you were smiling so much, he couldn't help smiling too. When you showed him the photo, he had to agree that he looked pretty good, and then you were adding it to his profile.

"There," you said, finally handing back his phone as you stood and stretched in front of him. Your arms were high over your head, and your back was arched like some sort of depraved ballerina from his fantasies. Jesus, he knew he could get hard for you instantly, and that thought terrified him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, his voice so deep and raspy.

"Now, instead of a million pointless messages and matches, hopefully you'll have a handful of good ones."

Your words made sense, and he mulled over them as you gathered up your things and headed to the front door.

"You'll text me when you want me again?" you asked softly, and Bradley nearly moaned.

"I will," he agreed, closing and locking the door behind you with a soft groan.

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

Good job, Princess. You just made him more likely to find a match online. Enjoy your babysitter fic @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 4

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quintinh43 · 2 months

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BFF's 4 Life

Set in the world of Loving You Is As Easy as ABC 123

Here are my head cannons, on before Quinn and the reader became a couple.

You and Quinn lived together for eight months before he finally found a place for himself. In that time the two of you grew very close.

Quinn was very sad to leave and debated just staying with you, but in the end he decided to go through with the move because his new place was closer to Rogers arena.

He did try to convince you to move in with him, but you didn't because your apartment was closer to the university and work.

Quinn would come into the coffee shop that you worked at every time you were working. And every time, without fail, you would present him with some obscene concoction of sugar and caffine that no one had ever heard of.

"I swear to god, i'm gonna get diabetes because of you." Yet without fail he would drink every last drop.

During covid, you started going on morning runs because otherwise, you would've gone crazy. Especially having all of your uni classes online.

Quinn started joining you after a while because he was also going crazy, and the runs really really helped, especially because he got to do them with you.

You were also the one who taught Quinn how to cook during this time. And you were genuinely infuriated when he became a better cook than you. "I'll never forgive you" you grumble, while Quinn cackles as he pulls burnt aspargus out of the oven. "Student becomes the master" he shrugs, and you throw a handful of asparagus at him.

When Quinn got covid, you showed up at his apartment covered head to toe, complete with gloves, a mask, and eyewear, holding a container of chicken noodle soup.

Quinn laughed, immediately took a photo and then proceeded to launch into a coughing fit so bad he turned the colour of a tomato.

At which point you took a photo of him. The two of you keep the photos as blackmail, and if either of you were to ever use them, all hell would break loose.

You own so so so much canuck gear, it's unhinged (courtesy of Quinn of course.) You joked about starting to sell some stuff on eBay, and Quinn looked so genuinely distraught that you never made that joke again.

When you officially started teaching, all the canuck gear came in handy. Especially when you were being lazy and didn't have time to pick an outfit.

At first everyone thought you were just a Canuck super-fan, until one day Quinn had to drop you off at work because your car was in the shop.

Then of course everyone though the two of you were dating. Which got really annoying.

The first time you officially brought Quinn to class was because he had a full day off and didn't know what to do with himself. He begged you to take the day off to spend it with him, but "Some of us have real jobs Quinn."

"Hey! My job is real"

"Well, unfortunately for you I can't just not show up. You had to have given me at least a two day notice so I could've found a substitute."

"Y/nnnnn," he whined, flopping off your bed dramatically while you finished getting dressed. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

" If you're really so concerned about being bored to death, get dressed and come help me be a glorified babysitter for the day" you snorted

Quinn's head snapped up excitedly "wait seriously?"

You were joking, but it happened anyway.

The kids were so well-behaved that you debated bringing Quinn to work with you every day.

Whenever you were on a break, Quinn pestered you to be hanging out with him the whole time. Which usually ended up with recipe expiramenting, Quinn helping you mark papers and lesson plan, or Quinn dragging you along to practice/games/events etc.

One time, he even pestered you to come on a week long roadie with him during winter break. To which you declined - because that was definitely stepping over a 'best friend' relationship line, and you were under the firm impression that Quinn would never love you the way you loved him.

The guys always teased him mercilessly about being in love with you.

"For fucks sake, Huggy. Are you blind? Do you see the way she looks at you?"

After Quinn became captain, whenever his teammates threatened to tell you that he was in love with you he threatened to make them do bag skates for an entire practice.

They shut up really quick after that.

The team loves you, and they always say that whenever they have kids they are sending them to the school you teach at.

Whenever Quinn watched you interact with Kids he gets a little starry eyed and drooly.

Quinn is a very common topic of conversation in your classroom. You often use him as your muse whenever you're doing projects.

He loves it, and he keeps every single piece you've done on him. From art projects, to Health projects.

You even managed to use him in a math project once. (You used little cutouts of his head as addition blocks, he laughed so hard he was crying.)

If Quinn has a game on a week day, you try to wear some form of his merchandise, and he always asks for a fit picture.

Quinn never ever ever let you pay for anything. "You don't even make 1/10th of my salary"

"Way to make a girl feel good about her job,"

"Wait, I didn't mean it like that im sor- no wait. I'm not insulting your job, I'm insulting the people that pay you. You are literally raising our future generations, and the government pays you like trash. If anything, our salaries should be reversed. I basically work in the entertainment industry."

"Ok, well I can still afford to pay for my own shit" you grumble.

Quinn rolls his eyes. "Don't be so stubborn. Put your plastic bank card away. it's insulting in my presence"

"Sorry we don't all have metal fucking credit cards that make noise when we drop them" you spit back.

It continues to be a fight every. single. time.

Whenever you do somehow manage to pay, Quinn is fuming and throughly debates not talking to you for a week.

He never lasts more than a couple hours.

Whenever Quinn left for the summer, you got really lonely. Especially because as a teacher, you had the whole summer off.

He always invited you to come to Michigan with him, but there was always a nagging in your head about "crossing the best friend line"

One summer, you decided to teach summer school for high-schoolers to keep yourself busy. And it was fucking hell. Hormonal sweaty teenagers trying to learn a subject in three weeks rather than four months was so so bad.

Quinn gladly listened to you complain every day, "shoulda come to michigan with me." He would shrug

"Mom and dad have been asking about you," he would throw in quietly.

Which leads us into your relationship with Quinn's family.

Over the six years that the two of you have been friends you've met his parents and both his brothers.

Luke was fourteen, and Jack was sixteen when you met them for the first time.

They both fell IN LOVE with you.

They would call you to ask for homework help, often saying something like, "You're a teacher, what do i do?"

"I'm not a teacher yet, guys. I still have to finish my degree, you know." You would laugh awkwardly and help them anyways.

You blamed both Jack and Luke for the dreadful summer you taught high-schoolers. Simply because you had enjoyed teaching Jack and Luke so much, you thought it would be the same.

They had much the same response as their shithead older brother "you should've come to michigan"

As they grew and saw how you and Quinn looked at each other, they would tease him mercilessly as good brothers do.

"Dude, if you don't confess, I'll marry her." sixteen year old Luke would smirk

That had Quinn seething, and it was quite funny. "You fucking imbecile."

"Mom! Quinn called me a bad word!"

Jack was often cackling in the background or telling Quinn to stop being the world's biggest dumbass.

The day you saw Luke in person and he had grown taller than you, you collapsed dramatically into his arms and pinched his cheeks aggressively. Crying about your favourite little kiddo being all grown up.

Ever the awkward teenager Luke just blushed and grumbled about not being a baby.

Whenever Jack and Luke visit Vancouver, they always ask to visit your classroom.

The first time all three NHL superstar hughes brothers were in your classroom it was fucking chaos throughout the entire school. You got yelled at by the principal, and they had to leave while the cops chased away reporters.

The four of you will never forget the dressing down you got in the principals office that day. It felt like you were a group of playground bullies getting scolded for pushing kids off the slide.

"This is getting brought up at ALL of our weddings." Jack grins as the boys hug you goodbye and head over to Quinn's place.

"Yeah, all three weddings," Luke says with a mischievous grin.

Both you and Quinn blush and choose to ignore Luke's statement.

Until he's winking at you over dramatically and making duck lips at you. The Quinn is dragging him towards the car by his ear and promising to pick you up when school is out.

The way luke can swing between awkward twenty-year old and Youngest child menace is so funny to you.

Now onto Ellen and Jim

They also absolutely love you.

They have loved you since you were freshly nineteen and offering up your apartment for Quinn, when all you knew about him was that he was an anxious teenager.

Jim gives the best advice. He's especially knowledgeable when it comes to kids, "its not very different than dealing with grown men who strap blades to their feet and call it a job." He says teasingly, while all his kids protest.

Ellen is the sweetest angel of a human you have ever met. She takes no nonsense from her kids, and always makes sure Quinn is good to you.

She has a knowing twinkle in her eye when she sees you and Quinn together and it makes your chest ache a little.

Her hugs are always long, and her words sweet, and she always reminds you that you have a family with the Hughes no matter what.

---

Hey guys! Guess who's back and better than ever 😎 we're getting a fic between tomorrow and Saturday, so stay tuned. Anyways, I hope yall like this! If there's anything from here you'd like to see turned into a blurb/fic let me know! I've been super inspired for this universe as of late. Also I am going through the requests in my inbox. So if you requested something it's hopefully coming soon! I've been super busy with school, but it's calming down for a couple weeks and then finals will be in full swing! I love you all and I hope you enjoy this! As always comment comment comment! And I hope you guys are doing amazing.

Love Soph 🫶🏼🫶🏼

#qh43 #quinn hughes #hughes brothers #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #quinn hughes x reader #vancover canucks #jack hughes #luke hughes #nhl blurb #nhl x y/n #nhl x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #captain quinn #best friends to lovers #loving you is as easy as abc 123 #headcanon #love soph

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oftlunarialmoon · 6 months

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Online Games for Age Regression - Free to Play Internet Games for Agere on a Budget

Ciao lovelies! Today’s blog post topic was requested by Bee via our request form! I am working my way through the others, thank you all for your suggestions so far! Today I’ll be sharing a collection of links I’ve found to online games you can play for free! A lot of age regressors are out here on a budget after all, and not all of us can afford to buy new games all the time. But playing our same old games can be boring after a while. Luckily with the ideas below, you can have plenty of free online games to try the next time you are small and bored! Alright, let’s dive into this list!

I want to begin the list with Educational Game sites. These will have a learning component in the games, as they’re intended to help teach kiddos cool new facts about the world! On this section we have:

Educational Games:

Cool Math Games https://www.coolmathgames.com/

USA Mint (currency) Learning Games https://www.usmint.gov/learn/kids/games

Math Playground https://www.mathplayground.com/

NASA Kids Club https://www.nasa.gov/learning-resources/nasa-kids-club/

National Geographic Kids https://kids.nationalgeographic.com/games

Animal Jam https://www.animaljam.com/en

ABCya! Learning Games https://www.abcya.com/

The next section I’ll go into are game sites based on tv, like shows or networks specifically.

Television Games:

Nick Jr https://www.nickjr.com/games

Nickelodeon https://www.nick.com/games

Disney https://disneynow.com/all-games

PBS https://pbskids.org/games

Cartoon Network https://www.cartoonnetworkhq.com/games

Boomerang TV https://www.boomerangtv.co.uk/games

Sesame Street https://www.sesamestreet.org/games

This next section is my favorite, and I’m sure tons of you will realize exactly why, and maybe you’ll have similar nostalgic memories. But let me lay out the scene here. Picture this, you’re in your room/computer room and it's friday night, you’ve just had pizza for dinner, Rihanna is playing on the radio and you’re about to do your favorite activity- dress up games! So nostalgic…

Dress Up Game Sites:

Doll Divine https://www.dolldivine.com/

Azaelea’s Dolls https://www.azaleasdolls.com/

Girls Go Games https://www.girlsgogames.com/

Picrew https://picrew.me/

Pastel Katto https://pastelkattogames.com/

Girl Games https://www.girlgames.com/

Dress Up Games https://www.dressupgames.com/

Meiker https://meiker.io/

eGirl Games https://www.egirlgames.net/

Dress Up https://www.dressup.com/

Lastly, here’s some more online games that I couldn’t figure out a special category for:

Unsorted:

Webkinz https://www.webkinz.com/

Chess Kid https://www.chesskid.com/

Poptropica https://www.poptropica.com/haxe/play/

Kidpix https://kidpix.app/

Webkinz Guide https://webkinzguide.com/wiki/Main_Page

Sanrio Daily https://www.sanrio.co.jp/dailyapps/

CBC Kids https://www.cbc.ca/kids/games

Landing https://app.landing.space/@kasaimoonfox

Wordle https://www.nytimes.com/games/wordle/index.html

I hope you found some new games today! Thank you again to Bee for suggesting this idea!

Thank you all for reading! If you’d like to find more OFT content, check out our official sites:

OFT Website: https://www.onlyfunthings.org/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/onlyfunthingsblog

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/onlyfunthingsblog/

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@onlyfunthingsblog

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2McunegwpRjgAEz3Snc8wA

Redbubble: https://www.redbubble.com/people/lunariamoon/shop?asc=u

Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/oftlunaria

Gumroad: https://lunarialmoon.gumroad.com/

Email: [email protected]

Tumblr: https://oftlunarialmoon.tumblr.com/

Amazon Affiliate: https://www.amazon.com/shop/onlyfunthings

Etsy: https://www.etsy.com/shop/OFTMerch

Thanks again for reading, please remember to stay awesome and love yourself!

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dragonnarrative-writes · 4 months

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Autumn Embers Verse

Omegaverse AU where people who are compatible have complementary scents.

Your friends assure you that the bar they’re dragging you to is nicer than it looks online. You highly doubt that, but you’re willing to go along until the three of them get bored and decide to get a car to the club district. And they will get bored, because you recognize the name and address that they’re trying to go to. You’ve never been, but some of your new coworkers on the base have invited you out for drinks and pool.

When Christie flounces out in a bright pink mini-dress, you can’t help but grin. “You look great. Super cute. But I don’t think that’s the vibe of the bar.”

Admittedly, you’re dressed a bit less conservatively than the bar might call for. But you feel cute in your black skater skirt and white top. Styled with floral lace stockings, boots, and silver jewelry, it’s more dressing up than you’ve been able to do in the last 6 months.

“I’m not dressing for the military bar,” Christie says, checking her makeup in the hall mirror before dropping on the couch next to you. She tosses her brown hair over one shoulder and pulls out her phone to order a car. “I’m dressing for when Mel and Jack decide they’re done shopping for alphas and want to go to the club.”

“Military packs are already cohesive,” Jack sniffs, emerging from the hall in cute jeans, a mesh top, and a sensible jacket. Behind him, Mel is dressed very similarly, though they’ve opted for cargo pants. “It’s not impossible that we might find a couple of someones who might be interesting.”

“If nothing else, they’ll buy you drinks,” you concede. “Pretty sure they have pool tables. If there’s one open, maybe we play a couple of rounds. Give Jack a chance to bend over and show off.”

The car, when it arrives, is a little small, but the four of you pile in gamely. You sit in the front, since your hips need the room. The driver gives a smile and a nod through his cloth mask and starts driving as soon as your seatbelt is secure. You reflexively drop the window a bit, though it’s already open. It makes sense - driving groups around all night definitely lends itself to a lot of conflicting scents.

In the back, Chrissy’s floral omega scent plays well with Jack and Mel’s sweet beta and omega mix. The very subtle floral notes of your own scent don’t clash too badly, but the base note of charcoal does sometimes leave people’s noses a bit confused. You catch the moment the driver catches a hint of your scent and darts a look at you, but he doesn’t say anything. You occupy yourself on your phone for the fifteen minute drive, tuning out Chrissie and Jack’s complaints about work.

When you arrive, the bar is just about what you expected. Run-down in a lived-in kind of way but clean. Dim and quiet. The exact opposite of Jack and Chrissie, but that doesn’t stop them from swanning in through the doors and making their way immediately to the bar. You and Mel follow behind. You make eye contact with a couple of people you kind of recognize, give a quirk of a smile as a greeting.

By the time you’ve decided what to drink, Chrissie and Jack have already charmed a trio of alphas into conversation and a promised game of pool. Mel leans into Jack’s back and introduces themself in their quiet way. You give your name with a wave before ordering a whiskey sour.

“Put their drinks on our tab,” one of the alphas says. He holds his hand out to you to shake. “Daniels. I’ve seen you on base before, yeah?”

“I’ve been working admin for a couple of months,” you confirm as you shake his hand. He’s polite enough not to try to rub wrists on a first meeting, at least. His scent reminds you of the bakery near your house. “It’s not a bad job.”

Once everyone has their drinks and the group makes their way over to one of the open pool tables, you think you could have a pretty good night. Daniels and his friends, Bennet and Bakshi, are actually pretty fun. They’re obviously flirting with Chrissie and Jack (and Mel, by extension), but they’re not ignoring you. Daniels and Bakshi, at least, include you in the conversation and ask questions about your job, how you all know each other, where you’re from.

When Bakshi manages to pull Mel into a conversation about video games and cyber security, you and Chrissie excuse yourselves to the restroom.

“I should have worn jeans,” she sighs. “This is really fun, but kind of a waste of an outfit.”

You’re about to laugh when you pass by a table and make eye contact with a man you’ve only seen in passing before. You recognize Sergent MacTavish by his mohawk, and give him a little half smile. Then you notice Captain Price and Sergent Garrick. The blond in a skull themed cloth mask can only be Lieutenant Riley. You give all four of them a startled little nod of acknowledgment, and then Chrissie is tugging you into the bathroom.

You’ve never met anyone from Task Force 141 before. Any time you’ve heard of them, at least two have been sent off somewhere across the world. You don’t have the clearance to deal with any of their reports, but you know enough to understand that they’re practically rock stars.

“Five quid, Jack and Mel have all three of their numbers by the end of the night,” Chrissie interrupts your musing as she checks her makeup in the mirror. As usual, she’s perfect, and you hear her take a selfie.

“Ten quid, Bennet asks for yours,” you counter from the stall.

“No bet, he’s already asked.” Chrissie answers. “But he’s a tool.”

“You like tools.”

“That’s true. It’s the muscles.” she agrees. “If he asks me on a proper date, I won’t say no.”

“Not a waste of a dress, then,” you point out before flushing and making your way to wash your hands. “Is he wearing scent blockers? I can’t get a bead on him.”

“He’s a subtle bit of tobacco leaf. Bakshi is nutmeg and Daniels-”

“Daniels smells like fresh bread,” you finish.

“Oh, ho, ho,” Chrissie chuckles, leaning her hip on the counter as you wash your hands. “Took notice did you?”

“We shook hands.” You roll your eyes. “Kind of hard not to notice.” When you step out of the bathroom, you’re startled to see Sergent MacTavish leaning against the wall on his phone. His eyes snap up to yours and he stands up to his full height. He’s bigger than you expected, and you find yourself helpless to hold his stare. When he smiles, you feel yourself flush.

“Evenin’, bonnie lass,” he says, after a moment. “C’n I get a moment of your time?”

Chrissie practically skips the couple of steps away to stand at the entrance of the hall leading to the bathrooms. She doesn’t quite abandon you with a strange alpha, but she does turn her back and pull out her phone.

Before you can comment on her absence, or introduce yourself, or even think about what to say, MacTavish has stepped close. His scent, something warm and earthy and somehow also floral, floods your senses. At the same time, he leans down to hover his nose just short of touching your temple. You can’t help but blush harder at how bold he’s being. The way he takes your scent into his lungs is just this side of vulgar.

“So it has been you we’ve been scenting around base,” he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back and leaning back against the wall again. He crosses big arms across his chest and smiles. “Gaz’s been tying himself in knots trying to catch more than faded hints near the caf’.”

What are you supposed to say to that? “…Sorry? I’m new to the base.”

He grins. “Well, I’m glad you’re around. Sergent MacTavish.” He doesn’t offer his hand, but considering the how rude he was before, it’s not like he needs to.

You stammer an introduction and decide to make your retreat. “It was, um, nice to meet you, Sergent. I have to get back to my friends.” “Be seeing you around, hen,” he says, and doesn’t move as you make your retreat.

As soon as you’re clear of the hall, you make the mistake of looking that the 141’s table. All of their eyes snap to your face as soon as you’re visible. You almost freeze under their attention, but Chrissie rescues you. She takes your arm and practically marches you across the bar to rejoin Jack and Mel, who immediately pull you close to drag you into some debate about music.

You can’t contribute much to the conversation. Thank goodness for Chrissie, who gleefully carries the discussion. You’re too distracted to do much more than give vague agreements for a long time.

At the end of the night, when you and your friends leave the bar, you chance a glance toward the 141’s table. Four pairs of eyes stare back.

#dragonnarrativewrites fanfiction #poly 141 #omegaverse #autumn embers verse #named after the fragrance oil i looked up to decide the 141 pack scents

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starleska · 5 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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cerise-on-top · 4 months

Note

Hello! Can you write something with Valeria garza with f!reader (as her wife) who wears classy dresses, expensive jewelry, heels, hair and makeup always done, with a sassy but lovingly attitude? Thank you <333

Hey! Yeah, sure!

Valeria with a Fancy!Reader

Most of what you’re wearing was probably bought by Valeria since she’s supportive like that. Whenever she sees something you might like, she’ll buy it for you, whether that be online or in a store she just so happened to walk by. The vendors likely know her by then since she does, more often than not, go out of her way to find something you might like. And when she’s operating internationally? She’ll find the fanciest clothing out there and buy it for you. And if they don’t have it in your size for whatever reason she’ll have it tailored, anything for her beloved little spouse. You don’t need to lift a finger in order to get something nice you might want.

However, if you do want to, then you can. She’s more than happy to go outside with you and look for some lovely dresses, jewelry and whatnot. Her sense of fashion isn’t that bad either, so she can advise you perfectly fine. She knows her colors and how well they would go with your skin color, your eyes and any other accessories you might want to wear. But don’t always force her to go outside just for clothes shopping, sometimes she just wants to stay inside, unwind and maybe take a nap. During those times you might not want to drag her outside too much, because no matter how much you sass her, she will always sass you back twice as bad. She also has the advantage of being very threatening when she wants to be, so don’t annoy her too much.

Valeria has quite the amount of jewelry herself, from brooches with sapphires in them, to earrings with genuine amethysts. Whatever you want, she likely has some variation of it. Since she started her business, she doesn’t always have the time to wear everything anymore, but you’re more than welcome to take whatever you want in this case. If she’s home, you might want to tell her, though, so she won’t start wondering where her necklace of real pearls has gone. As long as you return it to her, everything is alright, though. She’ll give you everything but one item in her possession: It’s a silver necklace with a locket. It doesn’t have a picture in it or anything, but it holds sentimental value to her. If you take it she’ll yell at you, but everything else is fair game.

Valeria doesn’t really wear makeup herself, she’ll just look stupid when it starts getting runny as she’s sweating. Besides, she’s here to fuck things up, not to look pretty. Valeria is a businesswoman, which means she won’t do much paperwork, that’s for her lackeys, but instead she’ll kick ass if she needs to. Therefore, she doesn’t know too much about makeup, so you’ll have to tell her what she needs to look out for and what may look good on you. While she may know which clothing looks good on you, she’s a bit lost with makeup. If you tell her what you want, then she’ll get it for you, but she might not always go out of her way to buy some new mascara, eyeshadow or blush for you. Again, you’re better off just telling her.

As for heels and hair: You can get your hair done however you want to. While she may not particularly be helpful in that regard, aside from paying for your visits at the hairdresser, she doesn’t have the time to learn how to do your hair either. She can braid it if you want, in a simple manner, but it doesn’t really go beyond that. Heels, though, she’ll look out for what she can find. In fact, if it’s your cup of tea, she might get you a matching purse while she’s at it as well.

Again, as mentioned previously, if I were you, I wouldn’t give her too much attitude, she knows how to deal with people like that. She sees something like that as a challenge, you sass her, she’ll put you in place. She’ll be far from violent, but your cocky behavior needs to be toned down a bit, especially when she’s tired. You’ll do as she says eventually, no matter how long you resist. And when you do finally listen to her? She’ll smirk and call you out on it. It’s a game to her, and she always wins in the end. Whether she needs to trap you between the wall and her, holding your face between her thumb and index finger to guide it, or revoke any and all rights for kisses until you’re desperate for one doesn’t matter, she’ll get her way eventually.

#cod #cod x reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #also I'm only gonna do the two other requests in my inbox for now and then I'll take a break #nothing serious but I don't know how long it will last. I just really wanna focus on something that isn't writing for once #it's been really draining and I've been forcing myself to do it more so than enjoying it #I just really wanna do other things right now #plus I'm also sick on the day of writing this which isn't fun either #I'm gonna queue this and write a post regarding all of this on the day I'm writing this #so today #also gonna close my inbox for a little I don't wanna be overwhelmed with requests when I get back #fem!reader #barely. better safe than sorry

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erikahenningsen · 19 days

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Random Regina headcanons because I have time to kill

Regina didn’t just keep the rainbow pin. She’s kept all of her mementos from her friendship with Janis, including assorted drawings and handmade jewelry and silly things like goofy bobbleheads from vacations Janis took with her family. They’re mostly in a bin hidden in her closet with specifically ordered items stacked on top of it so she’ll know if someone (her mom) went through it.

After the bus, Regina had to start dressing more for comfort. She’d previously rather have died than wear athletic shoes to do anything other than work out but as a coping mechanism she online shops for sneakers and soon her sneaker game becomes legendary. There’s an anonymously run Instagram account documenting her sneaker collection.

Hates animals, especially your ugly dog. WILL yell at you if you let your dog jump on her. (“He’s friendly? Well I’m not.”) After months of relentless asking she finally goes with Cady to the zoo. Regina complains the whole time but secretly she finds Cady’s excitement endearing. She takes one (1) photo with Cady in front of the lions and she looks so over it that it becomes a group chat meme.

When she turns 18, Regina gets a small tattoo of a butterfly over one of her surgery scars that Janis designs. If anyone asks Regina will say she just thinks it��s pretty but to her it symbolizes her metamorphosis/personal transformation after the bus.

Regina needs glasses but she absolutely will not wear them in front of another human being, even if it means she’s squinting at the board in class, because she thinks she looks bad in them. Cady starts wearing her glasses to school to show Regina she’s being ridiculous, but it has the unfortunate (for Regina) effect of making Cady hotter, somehow.

She gets into long-distance running for not entirely healthy reasons and starts doing 5Ks and half marathons, but it actually ends up encouraging her to eat more as she’s training and it becomes a weirdly healing experience. Everyone makes signs to cheer Regina on which she gets emotional about—except for Damian’s relentless Forrest Gump jokes, which she finds SO annoying.

Regina loves reading, and she reads even more while she’s in the hospital/recovering. She loves classic literature especially and Shakespeare, which she bonds with Damian over, and Janis nonchalantly gives her a queer YA novel that Regina pretends she doesn’t want but reads in one night. She secretly buys a bunch more. (I Kissed Shara Wheeler hits a little too close to home.)

As Regina heals her relationship with her body and starts letting go of some of her fears of judgment she starts experimenting more with her appearance, wearing jeans for the first time in years (big for her!), not wearing makeup every day, even cutting her hair a bit shorter and dyeing some of it pink (Janis helps).

#waiting for bestie to finish work so we can see a movie because i bullied him into joining amc a list 🥳#mean girls #regina george #mean girls 2024 #mean girls the musical

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astroismypassion · 2 years

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Social media poppin’

Or how to use the energy of your MC while on social media

Credit goes to my astrology blog @astroismypassion

Aries MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 1st house, Aries degree (1, 13, 25)

Post a picture of you hiking, climbing or being at the top of the mountain, photo of you in action/while doing something or intensely focusing on something, work out photos. Fresh starts. Selfies or where you are on the photo on your own. You in athleisure or work out clothes. Reaction videos. Live TikTok videos. TikTok challenges. Gym selfies. Running videos.

Taurus MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 2nd house, Taurus degree (2, 14, 26)

Post flowers, food, meals that you cooked/baked, new clothing. Photos of homemade goods (jams, pie, pizza). Photo of you in the grass or field of flowers. Photos of you at a coffeeshop with baked pastry. Teenage photos. Landscape photos. Photos of nature. What I Eat in a Day videos. Dance video. Cooking videos. Photos of you with a bouquet of flowers. Singing videos. Doing my makeup video.

Gemini MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 3rd house, Gemini degree (3, 15, 27)

Post a photo of what you did with your hands (pastry, vase etc.), what you’re currently learning (coding, pottery), show your face without makeup, start a blog, start a running journal and post it online. Sell things you don’t need. Facebook Marketplace. Write a short story. Or the story of when you almost gave up. Photos in the library. Hands photos or couple holding hands. Whiteboard videos. Unboxing videos. Gaming videos. Animated videos. Tutorial videos. Language channel. Grammar video. Photos of you at your old elementary or high school. Live stream.

Cancer MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 4th, Cancer degree (4, 16, 28)

Showcase your close friend, family members (especially your mother) and other siblings. Photos of you in childhood or your home, before and after photos, photos of your family members generations ago, whatever you’re collecting. Family game nights. Photos of the rain. You in a vineyard or a wine gathering. Baby photos. Photo of the Moon. Post about children’s rights. Christmas video. Home/family videos. Birthday collage of photos. Singing videos.

Leo MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 5th house, Leo degree (5, 17, 29)

Show your doodles, drawings, the latest creative project. People just love your personality, so showcase whatever makes your personality stand out more. Photos from a date, a picnic. Soft launches. Photos from a live concert. Photos of you at a theatre. Love song. Love poem. Photo of you doing something creative with children or young adults. Posts about politics. Photos of your back. Music video. Short film. Lip-sync (singing) videos. Post about education. Dance video. Video essay. Fan made video.

Virgo MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 6th house, Virgo degree (6, 18)

Showcase your drawings, doodles, paintings, sculptures, collages. Review foods, describe your daily duties and reaponsibilities at your workplace, start a blog, photo of you in an actual shop. Journaling, news. Content about how to organize, eat in a more balanced manner. Masquerade photo. Photo with you reading in it. You on the bicycle. Workout videos. Ask me anything videos. Educational videos. Draw my life videos. Product reviews. Study with me video. Study with me video. “Choki” type of comforting videos. Etiquette videos. Language channel. Day in my life video. Video about a job profile.

Libra MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 7th house, Libra degree (7, 19)

Post cakes, cookies, pastries, you enjoying your meal in a nice restaurant. Couple photos. High-key launching of your partner (people LOVE to see who you’re paired with), wedding photos, engagement photo. Furniture pictures in your home. Photos celebrating love. Dressed up photo. Autumn photos. Photos of nature. Photos of jewellery. Brand deals. Lifestyle blog. Dance video. Doing nails. Get ready with me video. Beauty vlogs. Make-up artist videos. Cooking channel. Sip’n’Paint videos. Couple cooking recipes. Relationship advice videos.

Scorpio MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 8th house, Scorpio degree (8, 20)

People love to see you wear leather, black matte clothes, stockings, tight clothing and everything black or red. Working out photos, ‘just ran a marathon’ photo, black cat photos. Photos of you from behind. You staring directly in the camera. Halloween photos. Photos of your eyes. Photos with a scarf. Swimsuit photos. Transformation videos. Weightloss journey. Behind the scences videos. Short documentary. Storytime/Tea time videos. “Haunted house” video.

Sagittarius MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 9th house, Sagittarius degree (9, 21)

Post videos, vlog, diary entries from your travels (especially long-distance ones), show that photo of your college degree, photo of you in an airport or in a foreign country. Motivational quotes. Inspiring stories from your life. Travel vlogs. Challenge videos. Study with me video. Representing your University (like those Day in life at University of Cambridge etc.). Language channel. Day in my life video. Videos about your native country. Geography channel. Travel vlogs with a friend or a partner (videos from date trips). Photos of you at your university. Graduation photo.

Capricorn MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 10th house, Capricorn degree (10, 22)

People love to see you in a uniform, full on suit, they love when you give off CEO AND parent energy. Post new career milestone that makes you look like a good provider. Photo of you being presented an award. Photo from the workplace. Photo with your parents on your birthday. Photos of mountains. Photos of your (grand) parents. Study with me video. Day in my life video.

Aquarius MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 11th house, Aquarius degree (11, 23)

Photos of a nature scavanger hunt. Photos of you volunteering. Photos of group gatherings. Astrology tiktoks. You coding or learning something new. Photos of you at a protest or a social activism gathering. Photo of the night sky or of the stars. Influencer content. Webinar. Drone shoots. Space food videos. Videos about electric cars. Tarot. Videos explaining astrology placements. Trailer. Zoom call video. Conference video.

Pisces MC, ruler of the 10th house in the 12th house, Pisces degree (12, 24)

Songs, poems, your love letter to someone, illustrations, tarot videos or tiktoks. Do yoga and document it. Selfcare videos. Movie night. A sleepover. Photos of you at the sea. Of you painting. Photos of the rain. Photos of you in a gallery, museum or a hospital. Astrology tiktoks. You at the movies. River/ocean/sea/waterfall photo. Animated videos. Short film. Paint with me video. Acting video. Open love letter to someone/your boyfriend.

Credit goes to my astrology blog @astroismypassion

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atinycafe · 11 months

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hard hours thought LORD all I can think about is cocky and mean dom wooyoung who teases the poor reader until their overstimulated and crying (if you can't tell I'm a slut for mean doms oh my god I'm foaming at the mouth)

warnings: nsfw under the cut, fem bodied reader, dom wooyo, slight dumbification, clit play, use of pet names (woo, wooyi, baby), mean wooyoung!!!, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, unprotected sex (don't do that), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, reader lowkey has a degradation kink, cream pie, slight hair pulling, slight manhandling, 3.3k wrds author's notes: yes yes YES, bae you're a visionary i was alr writing something like that be4 you even wrote that request, mean doms r the best masterlist

"you're not going out wearing that dress," he says, as you step out of your hotel room and into the living room, having just finished getting ready with your makeup and hair done, holding your heels in your hands. perplexed, you glance down at the small, flowing white dress, then back up at him.

he sits on the white couch before you, legs spread wide, meticulously adjusting one of the cuffs of his snug white dress shirt. the shirt clings tightly to his well-defined chest and biceps, which flex as he tries to fasten a button at his wrist. you try to ignore the effect his physique has on you and focus on the matter at hand.

"what's wrong with it?" you inquire, a hint of uncertainty in your voice. you gaze down at yourself again and then turn to the floor-to-ceiling mirror beside you, searching for any flaw in the dress.

"you're just not going out dressed like that," he repeats, his eyes fixated on your exposed legs. the dress barely covers your buttocks, accentuating your thighs. once again, you shift your attention to the mirror, puzzled about what he finds objectionable.

"but it's a cute dress, bought it especially for our trip in venice," you reply tentatively, unsure if he genuinely dislikes the garment. your hands smooth over your stomach and love handles in an attempt to flatten any bumps caused by the fabric. "don't you think it's pretty?"

"yes, baby," he sighs, rising from the couch. he runs a hand through his purple locks and approaches you from behind, standing tall and strong as he gazes at your reflection in the mirror. he places his hands atop yours, just above your navel, and leans in to whisper in your ear, "the dress looks stunning on you. that's precisely why i don't want you to wear it outside. don't want men seeing all this, only i can do that baby"

suddenly, realization dawns upon you, and what wooyoung thought would be a sweet compliment strikes you in the wrong way. you push his hands away and turn to face him, gasping and lightly hitting his firm chest.

"you bought it for me!" you exclaim indignantly, and he responds with equal surprise, a pout forming on his face.

"i gave you my card, but i didn't buy shit," he places a hand on his chest, playfully brushing off imaginary dust.

"i showed you the picture before i ordered it!" you remind him.

both of you were lounging on the couch in your south korean home, shoulders brushing against each other. he was engrossed in the game displayed on the large tv screen, controlling virtual players as they chased after a basketball. his thumbs moved forcefully over the buttons of his controller, while you found yourself fixated on an online shop, absentmindedly nibbling on your thumb as you scrolled through various dress colors. "babe, should i go for the pink dress or the white one?" you had asked, holding the phone up to his face, partially obscuring his view of the nba 2k23 game. he whined, shifting to the side and slumping on the couch in an attempt to get a better glimpse of the ongoing match. you playfully straddled his lap, feeling the strength of his thighs beneath the shorts he wore, pouting at the lack of attention. when he continued to ignore you, you reached out and placed your hand on his bulge, successfully capturing his focus as he turned to you with surprise. he pushed his gaming headset microphone up, muting himself completely, and raised an eyebrow at you. biting your lip, you ground against his bulge, your skilled fingers knowing just how and where to apply pressure. he tossed the controller aside onto the couch, his now-free hands finding their way to your waist, pressing firmly against your flesh. just as he leaned in to kiss your neck, you pushed his chest away, firmly holding him against the couch. you thrust your phone in front of his face. "pink or white?" you scrolled between the two dress pictures, and wooyoung glanced at you, a hint of annoyance in his expression. he quickly glanced at the phone in a disinterested manner before snatching it away and tossing it beside his controller. "white, baby. now move and let me fuck you. my dick hurts," he exclaimed, his voice filled with desire.

wooyoung rolls his eyes, fully aware of what you're trying to do. "you damn well know i wasn't looking at no picture."

you move past him, making your way to the couch he had occupied just a moment ago, and begin slipping one heel onto your foot, struggling with the pesky little latch. you bite your lip, forcefully closing your mouth, briefly contemplating asking wooyoung for help with the heels. "i'm not changing, woo," you assert, not even bothering to look up from your task.

"baby, come here. let me show you something," he calls out in a gentle tone, beckoning you with two fingers. reluctantly, you get up, leaving one foot bare on the floor.

once you're within his reach, he swiftly grabs you and maneuvers you so that you're facing him. he bends you slightly, placing a hand on your shoulder and another on the lower part of your back. as you're bent, he moves his nearest hand to your face, forcing you to turn and gaze at your reflection in the mirror.

as you continue to stare at yourself, your eyes fall upon the edge of your dress, which does absolutely nothing to conceal the flesh at the bottom of your buttocks. you were aware that the dress was on the smaller side, but you didn't realize it rode up this high.

embarrassment floods your face as you imagine how mortifying it would have been to walk outside like that and only notice later. you notice wooyoung's smirk as he witnesses your expression crumble, and you bite the inside of your cheek. he's right, but you'd rather perish than admit it. so, you push his hands away, feigning indifference.

"my butt looks cute," you shrug nonchalantly, staring back at him. he gazes at you with annoyance, clenching his jaw, "i don't mind if people look at it." his tone is firm and leaves no room for argument as he issues his order.

"well, i do mind, so go put on some pants."

"or what?" you smirk internally, observing how his ears start turning red and the veins in his neck become more pronounced. he's so adorable when he's angry, and you can't resist challenging him. besides, he always fucks you exceptionally well when he's like this.

"watch your tone, i'm not playing with you."

bingo. now all you need to do is push him a little further until he snaps, and you know you're in for an unforgettable night.

"you're so insecure. do you think 'm going to find someone better than you out there? is that why you're acting like this?" you giggle mischievously, managing to attach the little strap to your ankle, stretching your foot as you admire your recent pedicure.

"one more word," he reaches for his patek watch, unlatching the lock and removing it. you stare at him, letting out a small hum of confusion. he remains silent as he places the silver watch on the nearby furniture, gripping the wood tightly until his fingers turn white. he chuckles, "one more word, and i'll fuck you until you're crying on my cock."

he notices the subtle clench of your thighs, but his expression remains composed, his gaze piercing through you. innocently tilting your head, you look up at him with big doe eyes for a moment before dropping the act and revealing a sly smirk.

"do you think i'll find a man with a bigger dick than yours out there?" you ask, resting your chin on your palm. in just two strides, he's in front of you, gripping your hair tightly in his fist. you bite your lip, fighting the urge to smile.

"such an attention whore," he whispers, and you hold your breath in anticipation. "should i fuck the attitude out of you? you'd like that, would you?"

you nod, and he snorts, but there's no amusement in his eyes, and his laughter feels purely mocking. "what a slut. i bet you're already soaking," he mutters, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. he lifts you up by your hair, making you whine before ordering you to be quiet.

he turns you around and forcefully bends you over the sofa, your delicate hands finding their place on the armrest. without giving you a moment to think, he swiftly pulls your dress up and yanks your lacy panties down to your heels. a dry chuckle escapes him as he notices the glistening trail of your arousal connecting your panties to your swollen pussy, and you flush with embarrassment.

"don't tease," you whisper as you feel him collect your wetness on his finger, gliding over your folds but intentionally ignoring your throbbing clit. he delivers a harsh slap to the inside of your thigh before tightening his grip on your hair.

"do you really think you’re in a position to give orders? know your fucking place," he growls, his voice laced with a commanding edge, as he swiftly retrieves the abandoned panties and tucks them away in the depths of his pocket. asserting his dominance, he places a strong hand on your back, urging you to arch your body in submission. enthralled by his forceful touch, you release blissful moans, your face seeking refuge in the shelter of your forearms.

"no you don't get to hide."

he raises you from your previous position, effortlessly hoisting you onto his shoulder, your body perched upon his frame. in a bold display of dominance, he delivers a stinging slap to your butt, evoking a surprised squeal to escape your lips. as he strides into the room, you find yourself airborne for a moment before landing upon the bed, the impact causing a playful bounce. your dress rides up, revealing your bareness, laying it bare for his eyes to behold.

with a gaze filled with smoldering intensity, he casts his eyes upon you. nonchalantly, he unfastens the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of his chest, and methodically rolls up his sleeves, exposing the sinewy veins on his forearms. the sight of his pulsating veins elicits a whimper from deep within you, anticipation building as drool pools within your mouth. without hesitation, he seizes your ankle, firmly dragging you towards the edge of the bed.

"didn't shut your mouth when i told you so i'll shut it for you," he asserts firmly. swiftly retrieving your black lacy panties from his pocket, he presses them into your mouth with a forceful intensity, effectively stifling your cries, while the taste of your essence lingers upon your tongue. unzipping his pants, he exposes his fully aroused and throbbing member, its vibrant hue accentuated by its eager glisten, "so fucking loud."

he positions the tip of his member, allowing it to penetrate only an inch before he locks eyes with you, "beg." a smirk dances upon his lips, knowing full well your current predicament leaves you unable to utter a word. the fabric restricts the passage of air, pressing against the beginning of your throat. as he catches the sound of your muffled whimpers, he feigns concern and queries, "you don't want this dick? thought you were my dumb cockslut, thought you were my cum dump, you don't wanna beg?"

as you begin nodding frantically in response to his words, a smile creeps across his face. he observes the tears streaming down your cheeks, evidence of the ache within your pussy. despite his proximity, there remains a tantalizing distance between you, heightening your sense of helplessness. as you clench around his crimson tip, you feel the faintest of thrusts, the motion minuscule yet undeniably present, intensifying your sobs. his grin widens as he witnesses the drool spilling from your lips, relishing in the control he holds over you. "fuck, i love it when you cry, makes me so hard."

responding to your fervent plea, he swiftly retrieves the panties from your mouth, granting your desire to speak. without missing a beat, you launch into a desperate plea, your voice filled with longing and need. "pleaase please pleaseee, wooyi i need it so bad, give it to me." your begging appears to have an effect, as he places a hand upon your trembling thighs, parting them gently to create more space, heightening the anticipation. yet, despite the enticing position, he remains motionless.

"who's my dumb slut, mmh?" he grunts. in response, you mumble a string of submissive affirmations, your voice barely audible as you confirm your role with each whispered "me." finally, yielding to his desires, he thrusts deeply, fully penetrating you. "i've been too nice with you, too lenient you forgot your place." with each snap of his hips, you emit a piercing cry, your fists clenching tightly onto the blanket beneath you, lost in a whirlwind of overwhelming sensations.

"such an attention whore," he moans, "i thought you were mine alone, but clearly, for a cock-hungry slut like you, nothing is ever enough." his relentless thrusts reverberate through the room, the rhythmic collision of thighs filling the air, while his pubic bone grinds harshly against your sensitive bundle of nerves, sending waves of pleasurable fuzziness cascading through your body.

"'m sorry nngh only you," you whine, feeling the tightening in your stomach as your next orgasm looms near. "please, let me…mngh, cum. please, please?" you babble out, your desperation evident in your words. wooyoung responds with a hearty laugh, his large hands pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs.

"you're so fucking dumb, i can't even understand you. always talking back now look at you, y'can't even speak," he pants, his tone dripping with a mix of condescension and control. bringing his thumb to your swollen clit, he rubs it with a cruel and unyielding pressure. "baby wanna cum?" you nod eagerly, your hair swaying with the movement, tears streaming down the sides of your face, "then cum."

in just a matter of seconds, the overwhelming intensity engulfs you, causing your stomach to tighten and a high-pitched whine to escape your lips. expecting him to cease his actions and provide respite, you attempt to take a deep breath, but to your dismay, he continues without relenting. panic grips your senses as you desperately try to convey that it's becoming too much, that you need him to stop. yet, as you lock eyes with wooyoung's hooded gaze, a smirk playing across his face, the realization dawns upon you. this is your punishment. you should have known better. it had been far too easy to coax him into fucking you. normally, he would relish in being just as much as a brat as you, drawing out the tantalizing foreplay for hours, until your begging reached the point of voicelessness. fighting fire with fire.

"s'too much, woo, no, please," you plead, the desperation heavy in the room. however, since you haven't used your safe word yet, wooyoung's pace remains unyielding. he pinches down on your swollen clit, causing a silent scream to escape your lips, your back arching from the bed. your nails dig harshly into the skin of his hands. "why would i listen to you?" he taunts, his words laced with a hint of retribution. "you're nothing but a brat who refuses to listen to me, s'only fair if i get back at you, don't you think so? isn't that what you wanted."

you find yourself devoid of the strength to respond, only broken gasps escaping your trembling lips. your eyes roll back into their sockets as he lifts one of your legs, positioning your white heel on his shoulder, allowing him to hit a deeper spot.

the climax engulfs you once more, sweeping you away in a torrent of pleasure and desperation. a cry escapes your lips, a fusion of ecstasy and yearning. as you gaze back up at wooyoung, your chest rising and falling rapidly, he returns your gaze with a gentle smile. his cold hand brushes against your cheek, caressing it tenderly. finally you're done. you smile back, matching the softness in his expression. however, his laughter startles you, shattering the illusion. "you really thought we were done huh." your eyes widen when he snaps his dick into, the collapse harsh on your clit which makes more tears come out of your face.

the pain courses through your body, causing tremors to ripple across your trembling form, yet you know that the discomfort will soon transform into pure pleasure. wooyoung tenderly takes hold of your ankle, planting a gentle kiss upon it, momentarily offering a contrast to the intensity of his actions. a flicker of hope ignites within you, driving you to beg once more, maybe he'll stop after this one if you manage to convince him. "w-woo, baby, please," you stammer, your voice fractured and strained, your tongue heavy and uncooperative. "i c-can't do it anymore mnngh 'm sorry so sorry sorry s'too much,"

"my baby's so dumb, of course you can take it. i know your body more than you do. you can give me another one. acted like a slut now you get to be one, so take it." with a hand pressed firmly against your stomach, his thrusts begin to slow down, each one deep and forceful, "need to cum in you baby, can't stop until you're filled with my cum, need to see it dripping from your pretty pussy, need to see you cry."

as you nod, you release uncontrollable sobs, your tears intermingling with the shared intensity of the moment. your desperate desire to please him consumes you entirely. as he begins to vocalize his own pleasure, moans escaping his lips, you know that he's nearing his climax. your mind flickers in and out of consciousness, the sheer magnitude of pleasure rendering you temporarily lost in a blissful haze.

"you're so good for me, so fucking good around me, fucking made for me. only me, nobody else," he rambles, as he releases himself inside you, his head falling back to reveal the inviting expanse of his neck. the sensation of his warm seed filling your quivering walls pushes you to the precipice. overwhelmed by pleasure, your body convulses in a powerful climax, marking your third orgasm of the night.

after withdrawing from you, he maintains a firm grip on your ankle, using his thigh to keep your legs open. as he tucks himself back into his pants, his gaze remains fixated on the sight of his cum slowly oozing out of your well-used hole. a silent contemplation lingers in the air before a smile graces his lips. he tenderly pulls your dress back into place, ensuring your modesty is restored. bending down over you, he gazes at your exhausted visage, wet with tears and traces of drool clinging to your chin.

he affectionately licks your chin, savoring the remnants of drool before capturing your lips in a passionate and messy kiss. despite your exhaustion, you muster the energy to respond, your tired lips meeting his. within the intimate embrace, he smiles, his satisfaction evident.

"did so good for me baby, next time just shut your mouth when i tell you to."

#sade.requests #NEED HIM 2 PUT ME BACK 2 MY PLACE!!!#wooyoung.thirst #ateez #x reader #hard thoughts #hard hours #wooyoung #thirst #brain rot #x y/n #x you #imagines #scenarios #smut

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