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the-daydreaming-show · 10 months

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❝baby mine, don't you cry❞ — Richard “Dick” Grayson

jason's version

The arrival of your first child and the chaotic energy he brings into your life (which is saying a lot, why chaos is a part of you). So imagine the gray hair you obtained thanks to your First Joy.

NOTE:

People forget that as Dick was a troublesome little sh*t and he still is. We love him but he is the chaotic son and @igotmessymind agrees with me!!!

This story is part or the BATMOM SCARLET WITCH UNIVERSE that i have create. I hope you enjoy!!!

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

WARNINGS: Dick's parents die; a boy who is very angry with the world; a very stressed new mother (you); Bruce is there, but that's not what this story is about, but he is a good father in this world.

Technically, the first time you met Dick was directly after his parents died, but he wouldn't remember that until he was an adult. And you never counted that as your first interaction with your boy because of the tragedy of the whole scenario.

You and Bruce had gone to the circus that day in the subtlest way a Wayne could go anywhere. It was a date night, one that both of you had recently defined as mandatory every week. First so that Bruce could have a break, and second because that way you guys started spending time together somewhere other than the batcave. Something that, according to Alfred, you both desperately needed as a couple.

You two were in the front row when Mary and John Grayson plummeted to their deaths in the middle of their circus act, leaving a horrified ten-year-old Dick. The boy's scream was something that, even years later, if you closed your eyes, you could still hear with terrifying clarity. Once the tent was evacuated and the crime scene isolated by the GCPD, the newly promoted Captain Jim Gordon arrived and, before you left, he very subtly approached you and your husband. He asked you if you could do something for the child. The forensics team will arrive at any moment now, and they will have to uncover the bodies. Nobody couldn't get Dick to move or to react in any way, and Jim wanted to spare the boy seeing his parents like this more than he already had.

Jim had been aware of your and your husband's identities for a while, so the request didn't surprise you. To the contrary, you quickly agreed. He took you back to the tent. Dick had been lowered from the platform, but he remained curled up in a ball on the floor, next to where the bodies of his parents were covered in white sheets, which were turning redder from day to day. Little with each passing moment. You approached him, with the most delicate step possible, and placed a hand on his hundred, entering his mind gently and gently guiding his consciousness out of the shock of the situation. It was superficial magic that didn't get you into the boy's mind very much, just enough to help him and not force him. In a few seconds the boy's head snapped up, and you let Jim quickly take control of the situation, allowing one of his detectives to guide you back out of the closed area, then back to your husband.

You had to help your husband out of his own shock that same night, forcing him to stay home and not go out as Batman, without accepting any complaints. Alfred helped, agreeing with the idea immediately. The death of the Grayson's in front of his own son was something that came very close to Bruce's heart, too many buried memories that arose uncontrollably.

The first official meeting that both of you remember is almost two weeks later. After you and Bruce had decided to take care of little Dick into your own hands. All because you find out how the boy kept sneaking out of the houses where the state put him at least once a day since that fateful night.

“Dick, this is my beautiful wife, y/n Wayne” Bruce introduced them both that day when the boy arrived with his suitcase and his eyes wide open, surprised by all the luxury that Wayne Manor represents. Smile at yourself and look briefly at your husband in reproach for his choice of words. He just shrugged, not at all sorry for his words. It's the truth. You ARE beautiful, and you are MY wife, he thought in his defence, knowing you would listen. You rolled your eyes and returned your attention to the child between the two of you.

“It's a pleasure, Mr. Wayne” The boy said suspiciously, but politely, not believing how good the situation looked for him and not trusting you or your husband at all.

“It's nice to meet you too, Dick” you told him, smiling sweetly “No need to be so formal, just call me y/n, it's fine”

Dick's mind couldn't stop thinking about how pretty you were. The way you were sweet in that first meeting was bittersweet for him, because he reminded him of his own mother, of that affection that she used to give him and that he would never receive from her anymore.

“Lunch is almost done” you tell him as you lean a little more towards Bruce for support, “Are you hungry?. Alfred prepared a buffet just to welcome you” you explained trying to push those thoughts away for now, you desperately wanted him to feel good and comfortable there.

“Alfred?” the boy asked, confused.

“Our butler” Bruce explained

“He's more like family than anything” you clarified, “Like a grumpy grandpa who won't let you touch the stove without breathing over your shoulder” you teased a bit.

“Did he say my name, Mistress y/n?” said the aforementioned, coming from the kitchen and looking at you accusingly.

“No, not at all” you denied it and Dick couldn't help but smile a little at the mischief, to which you winked at him and offered your hand.

“Come on, let me show you the dining room” you invited him and the boy left your hand dangling for a moment, thinking about his next move. But, since you didn't stop smiling or offering him your hand, Dick decided to take it last, mainly because he was hungry.

Dick let you guide him, serve him food. He talked to you a bit during the meal until Bruce had to go to Wayne Enterprises for a meeting, then you showed him the mansion and his room. You promised him that you would go shopping this week to decorate it to his liking so that he would feel more comfortable.

During that week was the honeymoon phase.

The social worker you and Bruce had meetings with before Dick arrived explained about the phase. It's when everything seems perfect and the child shares his best manners. Either out of fear of how you would react. Or hoping to see how long your stay in the house would last, if it's worth getting used to or not. But the act would end sooner or later.

And it was exactly one week later (a Tuesday to be exact), the day after Dick started attending his new school, that the boy act ended and the adjustment phase officially began.

“This stage is the most difficult, so I need you to be prepared for it, especially in a case like Richard's” the social worker explained to both of you with seriousness. You had taken every word she gave you with like it was the bible, but at the end you still weren't ready when it started and everything that happened hit you like a truck.

You were in your studio in downtown Gotham, having a meeting with the designers who work with you and discussing that winter's new clothing collection for the brand. When Nina, your personal assistant, enters the office after timidly knocking on the door with a worried face.

“Mrs. Wayne” she called out to you, to which you look at her, smiling kindly upon seeing her “I know that you asked me not to bother you unless it was an emergency” she said, remembering what you had told her, you frowned immediately worried, because Nina was extremely effective and if she was there it was because it was genuinely an emergency “Gotham Academy is on call, it's about your son” she told you, and you immediately called off the meeting before leaving on the phone.

It turned out that not only had the school called, but GCPD had called Bruce around the same time. Dick, your only ten-year-old boy, had run away from school and ended up being found in Crime Alley by an officer who recognised him from the news. The officer in turn informed Jim Gordon, knowing the proximity to the Wayne's, and he gave the order to bring the boy to his office in the centre of the city, to then call your husband. You never knew what god to thank for Dick that would have been found by one of the few good cops in Gotham, but you did anyway.

“What is he thinking?” you asked worriedly while talking on the phone with Bruce, already on your way to the police station, with Alfred driving, “Anything could have happened to him. If he didn't want to go to school he could have said, he insisted on starting this week, I don't understand!-” you stopped, passing your hand over your eyes and sighing heavily.

“That was probably the point, love” Bruce said softly. “He wanted you to leave him at school and not think about the matter anymore. It is likely that his plan would have always been to escape, surely he would have done the same yesterday if he had not been assigned a partner for his first day” he explained to you, his voice accompanied by the movement of papers on the desk in his own office.

The day before, which had been Dick's first day of school since the death of his parents, the school had assigned one of its older students to guide him on that day, so he had been watched all day. But that day had been different, and your son had gotten up in the bathroom in the middle of the first class, and had not returned to the classroom. So the school had called you when they realised the boy was missing. And Jim had called Bruce shortly after when the patrolman found him. And Dick had taken a cab to Crime Alley, of all the places.

“He's safe, you need to calm down, love” Bruce continued, getting up from his desk, to walk up to the large windows in his office and look out over the city, as if he could see you from the top of Wayne Tower “We'll talk to him when he gets home, before dinner, but upsetting you like that won't help” he advised you, even though he was just as worried about what had happened.

“Alright, alright” you whispered while taking a deep breath.

At the door of the police station you were met by a uniform who was waiting for Jim's orders, who took you to the captain's office where, sitting with his head down and his arms crossed tightly across his chest, you found Dick.

“Richard Grayson” you started in a stern tone, walking towards him and crouching down in front of him, to check that he wasn't hurt. “¿What were you thinking?¿Why do you think of getting in Crime Alley alone?” you asked calmly but firmly, looking at me as the boy avoided returning the gesture “Dick, look at me” you insisted, looking for his gaze, but the boy continued to refuse, almost tempted to close his eyes to make his denial clear.

“Mrs. Wayne” Captain Gordon called to you from his desk, where he had been watching the interaction, and you quickly stood up to greet him.

“Jim, you don't know how much I appreciate you for this. I almost had a heart attack when the school called me to say that Dick was missing” you told him as you shook his hand.

“Don't worry, your boy was just taking a walk, a bit of a dangerous adventure, but he came out without a scratch” he reassured you while looking at the crestfallen boy sitting next to you, and he did not miss the way your hand trembled slightly “Gomez” the officer who had brought you to the door looked at his boss ready to receive his order “Why don't you take little Dick to get something to eat from the vending machine down the hall?” and his question didn't need an answer. Dick left with Officer Gomez without saying a word, as you watched his back walk away through the glass in the office door.

“Y/n, please, sit down” Jim asked as he approached one of the chairs on the guest side of his desk, sitting down across from you immediately after you did.

“I'm sorry, I just-” You tried to apologise for how upset you were, but the man stopped you with an understanding smile.

“Don't worry, y/n. I was close to an aneurysm the first time my Barbs ran away from school” he told you trying to calm you down, to which you giggled at the thought of the adorable red-haired little girl who was the only daughter of the Gordon family.

“They start younger and younger” you plead, with a mixture of amusement and concern looking at the older man.

“Well this is Gotham, our kids have to grow up faster than others” he explained to you, while he served a glass of water from the jug that he had on his desk “Your butler had the same reaction when I found your husband walking in the same place years ago, shortly after the death of Thomas and Martha” he remembered, offering you the glass, which you accepted with anguish.

“God, he already acts like Bruce, and he hasn't even been with us for two weeks” you lamented, to which Jim couldn't help but chuckle a bit at your concern.

“Welcome to parenthood, your heart gets used to it sooner or later” he comforted you, running his hand down your back reassuringly.

Things got worse before they got better. Dick started running away not only from school, but from home, and he started yelling at you at unexpected times. There was no way for you to figure out what was making him mad because it was different what you did or didn't do every time he started his tantrum.

That was the case for more than two months after the first incident. Alfred told you that Bruce had been the same for a full year after his parents died. Bruce told you it wasn't your fault, despite what the kid was yelling at YOU all the time. But you could do more than feel guilty. You didn't want to fix things with your magic. When you retired you decided that your life could not be what you did with your power, it was more than just your power, and it was time to start accepting it, enjoying it. But you don't know how to help him without that power, either, at least not in a very deep way. So you did the only thing you could think of, you kept offering your hand to little Dickie, even though half the time he seemed to want to bite his hand.

It all came to a head one afternoon after you brought a very angry Dick to Wayne Manor from school. Gotham Academy had called you to talk after he tried to escape again. They informed you that maybe it was time for you and Bruce to look for another school for the boy, since his behaviour was not appropriate for the establishment.

“Dick, we need to talk” you called out to the boy, seeing him run towards the stairs as soon as you closed the front door. Alfred was shopping for dinner and Bruce was at League HQ, so you were the only one to argue with the kid that day “Dick Grayson, come back here, we're going to have a talk about this sooner or later” you said, going after the boy with a calm step, but Dick heard you coming and ran to his room at the moment he made the second floor of the house, slamming the door shut before you managed to finish climbing the stairs.

You sighed heavily as you stopped at the sound of the door slamming. You wanted desperately to go into the room and demand that the boy tell you what was bothering him so much, you wanted desperately to fix whatever was bothering him so much. But you knew you couldn't really fix the source of his problems, even if you had the magical potential to do so. You learned long ago that death is something even you must let take its course, for the sake of the very existence of the whole. You also didn't want to enter the boy's mind with magic, it wouldn't be fair to him to do that, so your options were limited at the end of the day. So you stood there, helpless.

You were having a hard time, not because you didn't want the task of taking care of Dick, but because it was a mixture of situations that seemed unfair to you. First the poor boy lost his parents together in front of his eyes, and he did so after the death of the Scarlet Witch, after you decided it was better to start a life without the chaos magic that characterised you. If the boy had crossed your path a couple of years earlier, neither Mary nor John had fallen to their deaths that day, you would have stopped it right there in that tent of the circus without much thought. But it hadn't been.

Although, you didn't need to read his mind to know one thing: Dick hated you. Totally and intensely. He had made it clear to you on more than one occasion.

And yes, he did. Dick hated everything about you. He hated the way you made his room look like the ideal in his mind of what he wanted. How you personally prepared his lunches for school. How you wore it and personally attracted you everywhere. How you smile with affection, how you patiently accept every insult and scream. I also hated how you tried so hard that he wouldn't notice that Bruce wasn't there much. Or how you always found him when he got lost in the halls. Also, when you brought him cookies and hot chocolate when he couldn't sleep, even though sugar didn't really help him sleep at all. He only made him happy for a while.

Why couldn't you be like the wicked stepmothers of the stories?

It would be easier for him.

He hated the way you loved him, because it made him want his mom back, and it made him remember that she was gone, it made him want to accept you and Bruce as his family too. But he didn't need a new family. He necessitated his family, his parents, and his circus friends. He wanted his life back.

He hated you. He hated you. He hated you.

Dick curled up on the bed, with the blankets you personally picked out with him, which were Superman, and hid his head on the pillow. There he remained. At eleven years old, Dick had never been the type to be capricious or suspicious. His parents had always taken pride in saying that his son was very well-behaved and fit in wherever they went with the show. But now he just wanted to hate and never stop doing it, he didn't want anything else because the world was cruel, and it didn't deserve more than his hate. You didn't deserve more than that for being so good that it made him want to feel like before, and it pulled his mind to a better place every time you caressed his hair lovingly and made him feel at home.

That night, after eating the sandwich that Alfred had kindly given him when he refused to come down for dinner, he went to sleep without expecting you to come and say good night, as you had done since he arrived at the mansion. Usually, he didn't go to sleep easily, but his desire to avoid you overcame the fear of his nightmares, so he quickly fell asleep.

You arrived after he began to snore softly, already sunk in sleep. You entered, opening the door as quietly as possible, to see him spread out on his bed, with his pyjamas on, and the sheets almost falling off the bed due to his movements. Likewise, you couldn't help but feel the tenderness warm your heart, thinking to yourself that this should be a good step on the right path, because the boy hadn't slept well since he arrived at the mansion and since before, according to the reports of the social worker. So that he was sleeping at that time was good. You took victory silently and closed the door to the room, using the surface of your powers to close the curtains that let the moonlight into the room before walking away.

You went down to the cave after that, where Bruce was getting ready to go out for the night.

“How is he?” he asked while putting on his gloves, as soon as he heard you walking out of the elevator.

“He's asleep” you told him with a big smile, happy for the small victory.

“Really?” Bruce asked, pleasantly surprised.

“Yes” you answer, reaching her side, unable to contain the smile of happiness, for that reason “I know it's not much considering what happened today-” you started, but your husband stopped you by placing his hands on your cheeks affectionately.

“It's a good thing” he assured you, smiling at you, and you kissed his lips lightly “We still need to talk to him tomorrow though” Bruce said, gently breaking your bubble, to which you sighed.

“If it makes you feel any better, Mistress y/n” Alfred began from the chair in front of the batcomputer “I could make you a list of the number of private schools Master Bruce was expelled from before he finally calmed down” he offered to what Bruce rolled his eyes in amusement “It's including Gotham Academy, of course” he clarified with amusement.

The night passed as normally as it could. But around one in the morning you went upstairs to check on Dick, as you always did at night when you stayed in the cave. It was the third time you'd checked, and he'd been fine the first two times, having started snoring louder on each visit.

So you expected to hear the boy snoring when you reached the hallway of his room, instead, you were met with crying. You stopped in place for a moment, because it was the first time you had heard Dick cry since he had arrived at the mansion.

“Mama” the boy cried, half awake and half asleep, “Mama” kept calling between sobs that shook her little body violently.

The most instinctive part of you walked quickly towards the door with a soft step, but the same logic made you stop at the door before even touching the handle, apart from that he told you that the boy was calling for his mom, for Mary. Not for you, he didn't want you. And for a moment you decided that you would not go in, and we let him cry all he needed, and tomorrow you would try to get him to talk about it. It might be a good time to suggest therapy. Yes, that was the best option and the best way to handle the situation.

“Mom, mom” you heard. Now fully awake, Dick continued to sob with his broken heart, and he broke yours with the sound of his cracking voice. So the institute won.

You walked into the room ready to be yelled at almost immediately. But you did it anyway, sure-footed and ready to do whatever it took to make your precious boy stop suffering once and for all. You knew that that would never leave him, but you would still try.

“Dickie, baby” you said as you approached the bed, to sit on the edge of the mattress next to him, running a hand over his back as he continued to cry and sobbed loudly “My joy, it's okay, you're-” and then the force of the child colliding with your chest stopped you.

In the time Dick had been there, he had never allowed you or Bruce or Alfred to get any closer than to hold his hand or stroke his hair. So when the boy threw himself at you crying and hugging your waist as if his life depended on it, he surprised you. He was hugging you as if he was afraid that you would disappear from one second to the next (theoretically you could do that, it was part of your powers, but that wasn't what the boy was afraid of). He sobbed into your chest as his knuckles turned white from clinging to you.

“It's okay, my joy” you comforted him, hugging him back and kissing his hair “Everything will be alright” you promised him, not quite sure what else to say to make him feel better and hugging him tighter to match his strength, so he would understand that you won't be leaving soon

“I want my mum” the boy sobbed, not with an internal intention to hurt you, but as if asking you to do something. You were an adult, you could fix anything, that's what adults do, and the ten-year-old was practically begging you desperately for a solution as he felt.

“Oh, I know, Dickie. I know” you said hugging him tighter “I'm so sorry, baby” you apologised, feeling bad for having no more than words to handle the situation, knowing that nothing will bring that child back to his parents, no matter how much you want to make it happen for him.

You would do anything for that boy. You would destroy yourself, and you would build yourself up again. Not only that, but you would empty out entire universes and kill God himself if necessary. But for now, you just held him while he cried, while he called out to a mother who lay twenty feet under. You knew, at that moment, that there would never be anything you wouldn't do for that boy. And Dick decided that night that maybe you weren't so bad.

Dick Grayson couldn't believe he was standing in the Batcave. He also couldn't believe his adoptive father was Batman. Now he understood why he was always missing for so long, it wasn't that Bruce was ignoring him, it was that he was down there, being a hero for Gotham City. His mind was racing as he walked around the place asking your husband questions and inspecting every nook, artefact, and blemish he found in the place. You and Bruce watched him from a distance, grinning like fools at the uncontrollable excitement of the boy who had long felt like he was your own.

“This is AMAZING” Dick would say whenever something particularly struck him, which means he said it every few seconds.

“See, he told you he would be excited” you told your husband while you took his hand, he smiled at you and brought your clasped hands to his lips to kiss your knuckles affectionately. A silent way of telling you: You were right, love.

“WOW” exclaimed the boy, he was now standing on the platform where the different suits that your husband had used as Batman are displayed “With all due respect, Bruce, but it's good that you left behind the combination of purple and yellow, it was too much” the boy scoffed, pointing at the first suit on display behind him.

“It was the eighties” your husband defended himself with a grimace, rolling his eyes at how similar the comment was to the one you had made the first time you set foot in the cave several years ago. You just laughed as you looked at him, happily remembering that moment.

“Purple looks amazing on you, my love” you assured him, caressing his cheek with your free hand. “Very intimidating” you said, to which both you and Dick chuckled, while Bruce continued to regret his fashion decisions.

“I tried to talk him out of it, Master Dick” Alfred commented, joining the bandwagon of teasing Bruce about his old fashion decisions. “But he insisted,” he shrugged gracefully.

“Okay, I'm going to throw him out of my cave if you don't leave my purple suit alone” Bruce complained, to which you and Dick shared an amused look before the boy returned his attention to the suits on display. Alfred smiled as he watched you kiss your husband in compensation, earning me a goofy smile from him, the one the butler had seen a lot since you two got married.

“HOLY SHIT” Dick suddenly exclaimed, to which you and Bruce turned to look at him wearing it, your husband ready to spring into action at your son's exclamation “You've got the Scarlet Witch suit here!!” the boy exclaimed excitedly, looking at your husband in disbelief before running to stand in front of the glass where your old suit is on display. Well, the word suit was an understatement, because it was a red bodysuit, with a belt, the cape, and high boots. An outfit that was not the best choice for fighting, but you never question it too much, because you were always comfortable in yourself and in that outfit, too.

Bruce and you shared a look. It was time to drop the second bomb on the boy. Now you were the one worried about her reaction.

“How did you get it?” Dick asked excitedly, his nose glued to the glass, pawing it with his breath “I thought the Justice League couldn't get her body back from the Dimension of the Damned after she closed the portal to save us” he said, thinking aloud, while analysing the garment.

Up close, he could see the details of the fabric, the way the cloak had a texture and wasn't smooth as it seemed watching it from the television. It was as if magic was embedded in the fabric, and it moved even when she was still on the mannequin. The boy was fascinated, definitely marking this as the best day of his life.

“Well that's true. The League was unable to recover her body after she closed the portal” explained Bruce, as he hugged your waist, pressing his fingers against you at the memory of those events that still haunt him “But the suit is here for its protection, nothing more, it still belongs to its owner” Bruce finished, letting the boy think a little about his words.

“Wait,” Dick said, frowning and turning away from the video, to walk to the railing of the platform. And how do you have it, if she never left the Dimension of the Damned?” the boy frowned, thinking hard that how could it be that this was the original costume.

“It's more like early retirement than death” Dick jumped in place when you appeared next to him, speaking sweetly to him “But yes, the Scarlet Witch never made it out of the Dimension of the Damned” you explained to him, while you crouch in front of him, the boy turned to face you still confused by what he was saying “Dick, do you remember that we told you that we had to tell you a couple of things?” you asked him and the boy quickly nodded “Well first we wanted to tell you that Bruce is Batman, as you already deduced” you pointed to your husband on the lowest platform “And the other one is that I'm-” Before you could say more, Dick squealed with excitement again.

“YOU ARE THE SCARLET WITCH, HOLY FUCK!!” the boy yelled with his eyes as wide as his eyelids would allow.

“Language, Master Dick” Alfred scolded absently from below.

“OH-MY-GOD” The boy yelled again, looking at me as if you were hanging the stars from the sky, throwing himself on you, hugging you with his arms around your neck “I knew you weren't dead, I argued every day with my friends about this, it didn't make sense for YOU to die just like that, no amount of spawn could kill the Scarlet Witch, it's absurd-” The boy began to ramble as you picked him up in your arms, he hug your hips with his legs intuitively, and you walked down with him in your arms. Smiling softly at the boy's excitement, it was Bruce's turn to give you the Told you so look “This is the BEST day of my life” Dick finished his ramblings as you pulled up next to Bruce, with him still sitting on your hip, and proceeded to grab your husband's neck and hug you both tight. The pull made your husband laugh at the boy's sudden outburst. “My parents are the coolest people on the planet next to Superman, this is the best” the boy declared proudly, ignoring the surprised looks you and Bruce shared immediately after that.

It was the first time his parents had called you, and Dick didn't even think about it much longer, it came out of him so naturally that you two didn't say anything else either. You were mom after that and Bruce was dad, as if the boy had forgotten how to say his name from one moment to the next. And he did it with the greatest happiness in the world.

That night, after Bruce went out on patrol, and you dragged a still very excited Dick to bed, as you tucked him into bed, tucking the covers over him, your son's face suddenly scrunched up at a particular thought.

“What's up, Dikie?” you asked, as you ran your hand over her forehead, concerned at the sudden change in expression.

“Weren't Batman and the Scarlet Witch supposed to hate each other?” he asked you confused, looking down with his head tilted from his pillow.

You laughed, relieved and amused by the question.

“That, my boy, is a story for another day”

And that was it.

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hawkinstales · 3 months

Text

He's perched on top the counter — arms squeezed around your middle. His unruly curls tickle the nape of your neck while his chin rest on your shoulder.

You were partly listening to Steve, chewing at the rim of your cup as he drones on and on about his date with Brenda. Eddie was a bit too stoned, almost passing out behind you.

He gets clingily when he's like this, using the excuse that you keep him from floating away — keep him grounded. Truthfully, Eddie was a big ole' softie.

Only for you, of course.

The party was quickly dying — the clock ticking close to twelve o'clock, many of the Hawkins social scene have called it a night. A few stragglers remain, scattered about the house.

You could feel her gaze on the pair of you — the familiar feeling of someone watching you has been a common occurrence tonight, ever since she walked in.

Your suspicion proved correct, glancing behind Steve to lock with a pair of striking blue eyes. The blonde is quick to look away, trying to play it cool like she wasn't just caught in the act — again.

"I think Chrissy has a crush on you, Eds."

"That's nice." He yawns, arms hugging you tighter — a delicate kiss to your skin, his face nuzzles into the crook of your neck. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter!" You gasp, pulling away to look at him. "Why's that?"

His lips pull into a playful grin, knowing the game you were playing. The two of you have yet to put a label on your relationship, but everybody knew.

It was clear as day, you two were together. Eddie Munson's heart belongs to you as yours does to him. The pair of you didn't need a label, faithful to the other.

That didn't mean it wasn't nice to hear every once in a while.

He turns you to face him — a smile on your lips, arms gliding around his neck, fingers weaving into his curls. "Don't want her." His forehead rest against yours, lips hovering dangerously close, nose nuzzling yours. "Only you, sweetheart."

Your smile tugs wider, stretching ear to ear. You lean back slightly, admiring the man who stole your heart so long ago. "I love you, Eddie Munson."

"I love you." His callous fingers caress your cheek — sweet, auburn eyes captivating, placing you deeper under their spell, staring at you as if you hung the moon and stars.

It was in these moments — when the rest of the world just fades away, leaving just the two of you. Nothing else mattered, only the love between two souls.

Love — extraordinary, rare, and beautiful. So, so beautiful.

"My girl." His soft, plush lips press to your forehead, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest — his ring covered hand grazing up and down your spine.

You don't waste a second, snuggling into him. Yeah, fuck a label — you didn't need it anyways. Eddie was yours, and you his.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x fem reader #fanfic #fluff #girlfriend!reader #finally had an idea guys #let me know what you think #one shot #i hope this makes sense #*emoneshot #*emfics

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itsmealaiah · 4 months

Note

would you be able to do a switch Johnnie smut with a reader who has a scene bimbo type style

yes i can! 💗 💋

I think you're hot

Tags/ warnings: reader having a bimbo style, sub! johnnie, riding johnnie, begging, holding hands during sex.

MDNI ⚠️

pairing: johnnie with a goth bimbo girlfriend

summary: after a tiring day of filming a video, johnnie comes to reader and his shared bedroom, needing intimacy.

Your POV:

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I waited for him to come into the bedroom. It was always like this after he finished filming one of his videos. The anticipation, the excitement, the need for him to be inside me. It was more than just physical; it was like we were two halves of a whole, always seeking completion in each other's arms.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I felt my breath hitch in my throat. There he was, my Johnnie, his hair mussed from running his hands through it so many times while he filmed. He looked at me with those familiar eyes, filled with love and desire. Without a word, he crossed the room in a few long strides, his strong hands cupping my face as he leaned in to kiss me tenderly. Our lips moved against each other, a dance of sorts, and I could feel the heat between us building with each passing second.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down my neck to my collarbone. "You are so fucking beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His hands moved lower, unbuttoning my top slowly, revealing more and more of my skin to the cool air in the room. I arched my back, wanting him to touch me, needing him to make me feel wanted and desired the way he always did.

As his fingers brushed against my breasts, I gasped, my hips pressing forward into his touch. "Please," I whispered, my voice trembling with need. "I need you, Johnnie." He smiled down at me, his eyes darkening, and then he was there, kneeling in front of me, his strong hands cupping my breasts as he took one of my nipples into his mouth, sucking gently at first and then with more urgency.

I cried out, arching my back as the sensation overwhelmed me. I could feel myself growing wet between my legs, aching for him to be inside of me. "Fuck, Johnnie," I moaned, my voice barely audible over the sounds of our heavy breathing and the wet noises he made as he sucked on my nipple. "Please, I need you." And then, without another word, he stood up, guiding his hard length to my entrance.

As he pushed inside of me, I let out a deep, shuddering breath, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as I held on for dear life. He began to move, slowly at first, his hips meeting mine in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. I threw my head back, lost in the sensation of being so completely connected to him, my body responding to his every touch. "Johnnie," I breathed, my voice ragged and raw. "I love you." And with those words, we fell together into a passionate, all-consuming love affair that only seemed to intensify with each passing moment.

His movements grew more urgent, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed deeper inside of me. I could feel my own orgasm building, growing closer with each thrust, each touch. I arched my back, meeting his thrusts with my own, our skin slapping together in a wet, desperate rhythm. "Oh God, I'm close," I gasped, my fingernails digging into his shoulders as I tried to hold on to the feeling, to the moment, just a little longer.

And then he groaned, his hips stuttering as he came inside me, his warmth filling me up in a way that made me feel whole. I could feel my own orgasm crashing over me in a wave of pure pleasure, my body convulsing around him as I cried out his name. "Johnnie," I moaned, my voice cracking with emotion. "Oh, Johnnie."

As he held me close, his strong arms wrapped tightly around me, I felt my breath begin to steady, my heart rate finally returning to something resembling normal. But even as my body recovered from the intensity of our lovemaking, I couldn't help but savor the feeling of him inside me, of being so completely connected to him.

He leaned in, kissing me softly on the lips, his tongue tracing the outline of my mouth. "You're amazing," he murmured against my skin. "I love you so much." And then, with a final groan, he pulled out of me, rolling us over so that I was now straddling him. His hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples as they hardened to peaks.

I arched my back, feeling the sensation of being so close to him, of having his body wrapped around mine. My breasts swung gently with the movement, teasing his face, and I couldn't help but let out a small giggle as I watched his expression change from one of tenderness to one of desire. "Like what you see?" I asked, a mischievous grin spreading across my lips.

He growled, his hands moving lower, his fingers slipping between my legs. "God, yes," he breathed, his voice rough with need. "You're so fucking beautiful." He thrust his fingers inside me, finding my sweet spot with ease, and I moaned, arching my back further, meeting his touch with a desperation that seemed to fuel his passion.

As he touched me, as I felt the warmth of his skin against my breasts, the wetness of his mouth on my nipples, I couldn't help but feel a sense of power, of control that was as intoxicating as it was addictive. I could feel the tension building inside me, a tight coil of desire that threatened to unravel at any moment.

I leaned forward, my body pressing against his as I rocked my hips against his fingers, the friction sending waves of pleasure through me. "Fuck, Johnnie," I gasped, my eyes locked on his. "I need you inside me." And with that, I positioned his hard length at my entrance.

He groaned as I guided him inside, the tightness of my body enveloping him in a warm, wet embrace. I threw my head back, arching my back as he began to move, his hips meeting mine in a rhythm that was as familiar to me as my own heartbeat. He kissed me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine as our bodies moved together in perfect harmony.

The sounds of our lovemaking filled the room, echoing off the walls and mingling with the scent of sweat and sex that filled the air. I could feel the tension building inside me, my body on the verge of surrendering to another intense orgasm. I tightened my grip on him, my nails digging into his shoulders as I urged him on, desperate for the release I knew he could give me.

His thrusts grew deeper, harder, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to maintain control. I could feel the tension building inside him as well, and with each passing moment, it became clearer and clearer that the passion between us was only growing stronger. His pace began to quicken, his hips slapping against my ass in a rhythm that was both brutal and beautiful.

With a final, guttural groan, he tensed, his body going rigid as he let out a long, shuddering breath. His seed spilled into me, filling me up in a way that made me feel completely and utterly connected to him. As his hips stilled, I could feel the aftershocks of our passion coursing through my body, my muscles twitching and contracting in response to the overwhelming sensations that raced through me.

He collapsed below me, his weight pressing into the mattress, his breath hot and fast.

I lay on top of him, our sweaty bodies still connected, my heart racing from the intensity of our lovemaking. I couldn't help but smile as I felt the warmth of his skin against mine, the firmness of his muscles beneath my fingers. He looked up at me, his eyes still glassy from the pleasure that had just consumed him.

"You're incredible," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You'd find a way," I teased. "But it might not be nearly as much fun." I leaned down, capturing his lips in a tender kiss.

a/n: my first fic abt johnnie, can't wait to write more for you all 💋 love yall

#johnnie guilbert smut #johnnie guilbert #johnnie guilbert x reader #jake and johnnie #itsmealaiah #emo #scene #punk #love #smut #first johnnie post!

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buckgasms · 1 year

Text

Dr's. Barnes and Rogers (Part 1)

Don't worry I am already writing part two I just needed to set the scene before we get to the goooood stuff 🩷

This is doctor kink territory y'all 💦

Tagging @biteofcherry for being a wonderful enabler. Thank you for bringing this out of me and many others with one simple question 😂

@zonkie-bee

Just note this part contains mentions of pregnancy, fertility talk and a gaslighting ex-husband (he's not in it tho). If that might trigger you just give me a day and the next chapter will be just pure filth.

You sat in the waiting room of the Barnes & Rogers Clinic, feet tapping nervously. You were here to have a fertility check up, already feeling like you knew the sad truth.

Your ex husband had been certain that you couldn't have children, that the process of trying to have a baby had been made more painful for your failures. He was a dick. But the doubt and worries continued to plague you.

Finally a friend gently suggested you go to the best fertility clinic in the city. Then you could get actual answers and real solutions. It took some persuading but you decided to try it. What did you have to lose?

At that moment the office door clicked open and Dr. Barnes popped his head out. "Are you my 10am appointment?" You nod and he steps back, and you shuffle in, hoping he doesn't notice how flustered you are at how absolutely gorgeous he is.

You take a seat on the comfy couch, as he sits in an armchair across from you. You try to relax as he welcomes you and picks up his paperwork.

"So, your papers say you're worried about your ability to conceive? Are you married or trying for a baby currently?" He asks, a strand of hair falling into his face as he looks at you with kind, professional concern.

"Um... No not married anymore. That's um.... That's why we split. I just wanted to know...if it was...me? My ex said.... It was me..."

He nods, a glimmer of anger seems to cross his features. "It's never anyone's fault sweetheart..." you smile a little, a flutter in your stomach but then he moves on. He asks questions about your diet, physical activity, and of course your previous attempts at trying to get pregnant. It brings up some painful memories and he is very sympathetic and gentle with you.

"I know this is hard, you're doing so well. Don't worry sweetheart, we'll sort all this out together ok?" You look at his sweet, handsome face and smile. You feel better already. After a further few questions he leads you into his consultation room and explains the tests he's about to conduct.

The big examination bed with stirrups looks a little intimidating but his hand presses at your lower back and guides you with more confidence. "I need to take a sample, which might be a little uncomfortable but I'll do my best to be gentle ok. Just take off your skirt and underwear and get comfortable in the stirrups." He heads out of the room and you hear him chatting to another man in the corridor.

After a few moments you are legs akimbo and feeling a bit ridiculous. But the leather beneath you is soft and smooth, and the room is warm so you feel as comfortable as you'll ever be. He comes back in and he clears his throat at the view of you.

From his perspective the most beautiful perfect angel is laying spread out on his chair, her most intimate parts there for him to enjoy, but for you, you just feel nervous.

"Ok sweetheart, just relax while I check you over. Don't be embarrassed about any reactions you might have. Totally normal." You huff out a laugh and scoot down at his guidance, goosebumps breaking out as you feel his warm breath fan over your intimate area.

The way he probes you makes you bite your lip as you try not to moan. It's honestly the best pelvic exam you've ever had. By the time it comes for him to take a sample you are almost totally unaware of why you are there in the first place.

When he announces he's finished you are mortified to hear yourself whine in disappointment. Thankfully he either doesn't here or pretends he doesn't so you can chide yourself for being such an embarrassment as you get dressed.

"Ok sweetheart, I'll give you a call once we get the results." You shake his soft hand and he squeezes it gently as you smile and make you way out of his office.

⚕️

So here you were a few weeks later. You felt so nervous because when Dr Barnes called you he didn't actually tell you the results. He just told you to come in because he needed to discuss things face to face.

Finally the door clicked open and you were greeted by the handsome face of Dr Barnes. You smiled tightly as you walked in but were surprised to see another doctor sitting in the office on the couch. "This is Dr. Rogers, I wanted to have him here for this consultation, I hope that's ok?"

You nodded,trying to ignore how gorgeous both these doctors were before dropping your bag to the floor and sinking into the seat. It must be really bad if it takes two hot doctors to tell you what's written on that paper.

"Are you ok sweetheart?" Barnes asks, looking concerned at you, reading your mood as Dr Rogers turns towards you, his face also reading concern. Your eyes well up and you sink backwards into the cushions. "Can you just get it over with and tell me I'll never.... That I can't...." You broke into sobs and they both came over to you, rubbing gentle hands over your back and shoulders.

"Oh honey! No! I'm so sorry, it's not like that at all!" Barnes curses and squeezes your shoulder. You hiccup a sob and look up at them both. "What do you mean?" Dr Rogers tuts and grabs the paper from his colleague. "What my partner has stupidly failed to mention to you is that, you are in fact very much able to have babies and you don't have anything at all to worry about in terms of your fertility..."

You glance between them both, Barnes looking sheepish and Rogers looking concerned before collapsing into a combination of sobs and giggles. You can't stop laughing from sheer joy and tears of relief slip down your cheeks. Both of the doctors chuckle in surprise at your reaction. Once you calm down a more comfortable mood fills the room.

"I've always wanted a family of my own. Thank you, I feel like I can have that again now..." You smile at them both and they smile back, "just need to find the right man huh?"

"Well what about another route?" Doctor Rogers draws your attention his way and you cock your eyebrow at him. "What would that be?"

He settles back emanating confidence and professionalism, Barnes reclaims his seat and watches. "We have a trial programme, you can sign up for an insemination and we will monitor you from now until the birth of the child or children. There is considerable remuneration and you can even be provided with new accommodation should you desire it..."

You were dumbfounded. You'd never heard of anything like this before and it certainly sounded life changing, but pretty amazing at the same time. "There has to be a catch?" You say suspiciously, unable to believe this is actually real.

"Well, the insemination process is... revolutionary so it requires some open minded thinking..." Barnes says and you feel a bloom of excitement in your stomach as he looks at you.

"And once the baby is born? Is there still help or monitoring? Or are we just out in the world alone?"

You chuckle but they seem to take it quite seriously. "Absolutely not! We... I mean the programme is very interested in the life span of the child. Besides if you are successful you might want to have another perhaps?" Rogers tries to act casual but you feel like you've stumbled on something there.

Barnes hands you an envelope. "Inside is all the information plus the potential candidates for the donors. Take it home, read it and if you want to take part, call me. If not, no harm done."

⚕️

At home you spent a little while pretending to ignore the envelope but finally you caved and had a read through.

There was very little information about the medical procedures other than the things you might expect. Thorough examination process, compatibility, tests and so on. The next set of documents were mostly about the remuneration which almost made your eyes pop out of your head. Thirty Thousand dollars for the first year! All medical costs covered! It also detailed the new accommodation which sounded like the most luxurious apartment on earth. It was almost too good to resist as you looked around your rented studio flat, your instant ramen going cold as you read.

Finally there was a piece of paper that detailed the potential donors. Only two in fact. A tall blonde, with blue eyes, physically fit and a doctor! The other was a slightly shorter brunette, with blue eyes, physically fit.....and a doctor....

Oh...

⚕️

Part two

#doctor barnes #doctor rogers #stucky x reader #doctor bucky #doctor steve rogers

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pitchsidestories · 3 months

Text

The Beautiful Game II Lia Wälti x Reader

masterlist I word count: 3754

a/n: based off this request here. We hope you enjoy this one, we definetly did while writing it ! ❤️

“How many times do we have to tell you Lee that this cap is not working as undercover outfit?”, Lia Wälti clicked her tongue. She and a few of her Arsenal teammates were on their way to meet the girls school football team, you and your best friend Jenna coached together.

Pouting Leah Williamson folded the arms across her chest:” Leave me alone. I love my flat cap.” “Aswell as your grandpa shoes.”, Laura Wienroither kept teasing. Grinning the English defender elbowed her playfully: “You’re just jealous.” “Yes, we just know what’s cozy.”, Kim Little tuned in as she loved them as much as the younger player did.

Cheekily Leah turned to face her friend:” Don’t you have some leaves to rake up anyway, Wally?” “First, I promised to say hi to my girlfriends’ team.”, the Swiss midfielder reminded them why they came to visit in the first place.

As if Kim was reading her thoughts she said to the blonde defender: “That’s why we’re here, Leah.” “I know, Kimmy.”, Leah rolled her eyes at her. Clearing her throat the Arsenal Captain replied:” Just saying. Lia, you go first, it’s your girlfriend.”

Warmly Jenna greeted the brunette:” Lia, hi.” “Hi.”, Lia beamed at her and you. Delighted you told her: “The girls are so excited to meet you, love.” “I hope you didn’t make too big of a deal out of it.”, she laughed. Innocently your best friend shook her head:” No.”

“Great undercover look, Lee.”, you winked at the blonde who was one of the closest friends of your girlfriend. Relieved about your words, she answered: “Thanks. The others gave me shit for it.”

One of your girls, Hazel who was wearing a white bow in her brown hair exclaimed cheerfully:” Girls, this is Leah Williamson!” “Oh, here we go.”, Kim groaned in frustration while the little footballers quickly surrounded England’s captain. Excited Leah waved at all of them:” Hi girls.”

“Do you want to show them what we practiced?”, you asked your players. Curious Lia glanced at you:” You practised something?” You nodded with a deep smile on your face: “Yes. Hazel, Daisy, do you want to go first?” “Yes!”, Daisy shouted back motivated by the presence of the Arsenal players.

As they were showing their football skills in front of the women who played professionally, Leah looked at them in admiration: ”Oh my god, that’s so cool.” “Impressive.”, Leah commented equally fascinated.

With a shy smile Hazel went to the grown-up teammates:” Can we play with you.” “Sure. Let’s go.”, Leah clapped into her hands before pulling out her football boots ready to join the little girls in their play.

You watched from the sidelines as the girls ran around the field with the injured Laura cheering from the side. Lia snuck up next to you, putting her hand around your waist; “You and Jenna are doing a great job here, love.“

“Thanks, Lia.“ You turned your head towards your girlfriends for a quick kiss. Amy, one of the youngest in the team, pointed at the two of you; “Ewww, Wally kissed Coach!“

“Girls can kiss girls too, idiot!“, Daisy yelled back at her, her dark ponytail swinging angrily from side to side. “Yes, don’t be weird about it. Love is love!“, Hazel agreed.

Amy rolled her eyes in an exaggerated way; “Ugh, I know that. But kissing is ew.“ You stifled a laugh, not sure if you should scold or be proud of your young players.

Kim ruffled Amys messy blonde hair; “I found that ew at your age too.“ “You did?“, Amy asked with big eyes. The Arsenal captain nodded gently; “Yes, you’re still young. That’s okay.“ “You should come play with us.“, the little girl suggested, tugging on Kims sleeve and pulling her with her back to the others.

Lia grinned at you; “I think they like the girls.“ “And the girls like them.“, you added, your eyes on the scene in front of you. “It’s cute.“ Jenna interrupted you, bumping you with her elbow; “Stop looking at them like that.“

“Like that?“, you repeated, hoping that your assistant coach would elaborate. Instead, she shook her head; “You know.“ “Jen!“, you exclaimed. “What?“ “Girls? I invited your team to our next game.“, Leah yelled over from the other side of the pitch.

Daisy cheered in excitement; “It’s going to be amazing!“ You watched Jennas face drop; “Wait, what?“ “You did?“, you also asked, caught somewhere between surprise and confusion. The defender beamed; “Yes, they are so excited.“

Jenna gave Leah a murderous glare before turning towards you in exasperation; “Oh, we’re f-… How do we explain that to their parents?“ Hopeful that this situation can be solved, you shrugged; “We’ll find a solution.“

“Please, we want to go!“, Hazel begged, trying her best attempt at puppy eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it happen. I promise, Hazel.“, you assured the young girl somewhat confident.

She nodded and proposed; “We can talk to our parents too.“ Laura smiled at the group of girls; “We’d love to see you there.“ “We’ll be there. Somehow.“, Jenna sighed in defeat. Lia pressed another quick kiss on your temple; “Can’t wait.“ “Promise.“, you winked at her.

Weeks later, you and Jenna were headed to the Emirates Stadium, followed by your group of young footballers. Impatiently, Amy jumped up and down; “We need to hurry up or we’ll be late!“ “Amy, it’s fine. We won’t be late!“, Jenna reminded for the third time and heaved an annoyed sigh.

“We’re right on time.“, you explained as you entered the stadium. Even Daisy began to get nervous; “Are you sure?“ You nodded as you lead them to their seats; “Yes.“ The girls went suspiciously quiet, only letting out a few gasps at the sight of the pitch. Hazels eyes lit up in awe; “Wow, that’s huge!“

Baffled Daisy turned her head to face your girlfriend:” And you really play here?” “We do.”, Lia nodded. Excited Amy cheered:” That is so cool!” “It’s, right?”, Leah beamed at the sight of the overjoyed girls. Big eyed Daisy agreed: “It is! It’s so big.”

“I didn’t know girls could play in such big stadium.. I mean the lionesses yes but another girls team.”, Amy mumbled deeply impressed by the size of her surroundings. Next to her Hazel dreamed out loud:” Maybe we can be here too one day!” “That would be awesome.”, her friends admitted.

A big smile was on your lips while you told them:” Everything is possible.” “Feel at home girls. We got to go warm up.”, your girlfriend said softly. Grinning Amy wished her good luck. “Thank you.”, Lia replied, waving at them before joining her teammates for the warmup session.

Delighted, you shouted after her: “See you later.” The way the Swiss woman interacted with the children you were coaching warmed your heart which didn’t got unnoticed by your best friend who pointed that out:” I saw that.”

“What?”, you asked blushing even though you knew exactly to what she was referring to. Amused she threw her eyebrows up: “That look.” “She’s my girlfriend how am I supposed to look at her?”, you wanted to know playing innocently with your hair. With a dirty grin Jenna answered:” Not like that.” “Oh, please.”, you laughed.

You let out a relieved sigh when Hazel announced:” The game start!” Drawing back the attention on them made you get away from the teasing of your friend. Clearing your throat, you changed the topic to a lighter theme:” Right, do you have a favourite player, girls?”

“Kim Little!”, Amy was the first to answer, remembering her lovely meet up with the Arsenal captain. You gave her a knowing look:” She made quite an impression on you during our training, right, Amy?” “Yes. She’s so nice.”, the blonde girl declared. Humming Daisy continued:” I like Leah the most.”

“That’s a great choice too who do you like Hazel?”, you curiously glanced at the girl who wore a red bow for the game today. With a tone of deep admiration, she confessed:” I like all of them.” “Yes, they are a great team like you girls.”, you winked at them.

That was the moment Jenna decided to tease you again:” Now ask your coach who her favourite player is.” “Oh, that’s easy.”, Amy rolled her eyes at that question, the answer seeming too obvious for her to say out loud.

Much more motivated Hazel chirmed:” It’s Wally!” “Yes, they are so cute!”, Daisy added giggling. In disgust, Amy wrinkled her nose: “No, they’re ew.” “Amy stop being such a hater.”, Hazel elbowed the younger one playfully.

The cheeks of Amy turned hot red:” I’m not. Only when they kiss.” “Same.”, Jenna agreed with her. Laughing you told them:” You two made that very clear.” “Good.”, the young girl seemed satisfied with your reaction. “Rude.”, you replied but you couldn’t really be mad at her.

Hazel interrupted your discussion, bouncing up and down while she pointed towards the pitch; “They scored! You missed the goal!“ “No, we didn’t!“, Amy protested loudly. “Yes, you did!“

While Hazel was still trying to prove her point, the stadium erupted in cheers again. “They scored another one!“, Daisy commented, her eyes big with excitement. Hazel stood up on her seat to get a better view of Alessia Russo; “That was so cool!“ “A pretty goal, right?“, Jenna agreed while pulling the girl back onto her seat. Hazel nodded; “I want to try that in training.“ “We can do that.“, you promised. “Good.“

With a shrug, you suggested; “Maybe Lessie can show you girls at some point.“ “Can she come visit us too?“, the girls asked impatiently. You tilted your head with a wink; “I’ll ask her, okay?“ “Okay.“ “I’m sure she’ll come.“, Jenna said, smirking at you.

You were grateful that the girls’ attention was mostly on the football game. “Another goal!“, Amy announced happily. Daisy raised her arms in the air, almost hitting Hazel in the process; “Yeay!“ Jenna leaned over towards you; “At least your girls team is winning. Imagine if we came here with the girls and Arsenal lost. I wouldn’t want to dry all those tears.“

Her eyes widened like she was horrified by the thought alone. You glanced at your players; “Yes, you’re right about that. But their eyes are sparkling right now.“ “I’m just surprised that they can sit still for that long.“, Jenna remarked, watching the young girls with a wrinkled nose. “They never do during training when you try to teach them tactics.“, you grinned back at her.

Jenna sighed in annoyance; “One day I’ll get them to understand what I want from them.“ “I’m sure you’ll.“, you nodded politely but failed to suppress a smile. “I’ll take the girls home after the game. You can go with your girlfriend.“, your assistant coach smoothly changed the topic. You looked at her in surprise; “Are you sure?“ “Sure.“

“Thank you, Jenna.“, you thanked her which she only acknowledged with a raised eyebrow; “You owe me.“ “What do you want?“, you laughed. With a shrug, Jenna replied; “I’ll tell you when I need something.“ “Okay.“ Her eyes were trained back on the football pitch when she casually mentioned; “Maybe I’ll ask you to set me up with one of the players.“

Your jaw dropped and you turned towards her, your face caught in a state between shock and laughter; “With who?“ “I don’t know. I was just joking.“, Jenna grimaced, obviously weirded out by your excitement. You slapped her on her upper arm; “Man, I thought you were serious!“

Your friend shook her head at you; “You would have wanted to set me up? Our little girls wouldn’t allow that.“ “Only Amy wouldn’t allow it.“, you rolled your eyes with a smile. “Yeah, probably.“, she had to agree. “See?“ Jenna gave you one more disapproving look; “Oh stop it. I’m not going out with one of the Arsenal players. That’s ridiculous.“

“Why not?”, you kept asking innocently. Jenna tried to shrug it off:” I’m not dating a football player.” “That’s what I said too and when Lia stepped into my life.”, you thought out loud with a nostalgic tone. A small smile crept onto the other woman’s lips:” That’s something different.” “Is it?”, you raised an eyebrow.

Amused she shook her head:” Focus on the game, girl.” “Lia scored!”, you interrupted her blushing. Dreamily Daisy sighed: “Only for you. That’s so romantic.” “Ew, disgusting.”, Amy wrinkled her little nose. Enthusiastically Hazel disagreed:” No, she threw a heart at her direction.”

And indeed, Lia did that little gesture which melted your heart. Meanwhile Amy repeated herself:” Yes, disgusting.” “Some things will never change, right Amy?”, you laughed. Now giggling too, the small girl nodded in agreement:” Never.”

After the match ended Jenna was looking at your girls:” Come on girls time to go home.” “Already?”, Hazel pouted, she didn’t want this fantastic day of football to end anytime soon, the air still tasted sweet from Arsenal’s win.

Concentrated your friend was careful to lead them to the exit of the stadium: “Yes, let’s go.” “See you, tomorrow!”, you said your goodbye to them. Smiling Jenna turned around:“See you.” “Tell the Arsenal girls they played great!”, Daisy shouted grinning. You replied quickly:“I’ll, promise.” “Now move, girls.”, your friend said to them.

Swooning Hazel answered:” I’d love to be her.” “No, you don’t. Let’s go.”, Jenna pleaded. Disgusted Amy reminded her: “Honestly they must smell bad right now.” “You smell bad.”, Hazel rolled her eyes. “Jenna, she said I smell bad!” “No one smells bad and if anyone says that again, I’ll make sure you smell bad for weeks.”, their coach groaned.

Still beaming from the win Lia greeted you: “Hi, where are your girls?” “Jenna offered to take them home alone.”, you explained to your girlfriend. The brunette seemed happy about those news:“That’s nice of her.” “She asked me to do her a favour in the future.., so is someone single in your team?”, you wanted to know from her. A crooked smile lit up her face:” You want to set her up.” “Maybe.”, you played with a string of your hair which escaped your neat ponytail.

Lia who loved to play matchmaker answered: “I’ll ask around.” “Thank you.” “Did you enjoy the game?”, the brunette changed the topic swiftly. “I did. The girls loved watching the game too.”, you reassured her.

As you mentioned them the eyes of your girlfriend sparkled:” That’s great. I’m happy they liked it here.” “Your goal and celebration for it was amazing.”, you winked at her. Delighted she confirmed:” I don’t usually score goals so that was a great coincidence that I did today.”

“It was really sweet.”, Laura Wienroither interrupted your conversation smiling. The Swiss glanced at her:“Thanks, Laura.” “You’re welcome.”, the younger player responded. Hopeful Lia turned back to face you: Can you wait? I’m just taking a shower quickly and then we can go?” “Sure.”, you agreed.

“I’ll hurry up.“, Lia promised, turning around to disappear into the dressing rooms. “Please!“, you called after her.

Your waiting was significantly shortened by Leah walking towards you; ”Hey!“ “Lee, hi.“, you pulled her into a quick hug. “Did you like it?“, the defender asked. “Yes, why?“ “Just asking.“ You shook her head, knowing that the football player had some kind of ulterior motive for her questions; “Leah, tell me.“ “I was genuinely curious if you and your team liked the game.“, she shrugged in response.

Moved by the thought of how happy your players were to see their idols filling out a stadium, you smiled; ”They did, it was so cute.“ “We have something for the girls.“, Leah finally admitted. “You do?“, you asked softly.

The defender pulled a red Arsenal jersey out of her sports bag and held it up for you. The back was covered in signatures. “We all signed this. You can hang it up in your dressing room or something.“, she explained.

You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from getting too emotional about this thoughtful gesture. Gratefully, you took the jersey from her; “Thank you, Lee. The girls will love it.“ Leahs face was lit up by a smile; “You’re welcome.“ “Appreciate it.“ “Lia is done.“, Leah remarked as her team mate appeared next to her, freshly showered and her hair still damp. You waved at the remaining players; “Perfect. See you, girls.“ “Let’s go home.“, Lia suggested with a yawn.

As soon as you arrived, you carefully took the jersey out and placed it on your desk; “I can’t wait for the girls to see the jersey you all signed.“ Lia dropped her bag and appeared right behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist; “It was a cute idea, right?“ “Definitely.“, you agreed, turning towards your girlfriend so you could kiss her cheek. “Leah came up with it.“

“I already thanked her.“ Lias eyes searched for yours; “If your team needs anything, we could help out.“ With a sigh, you removed yourself from her embrace; “I know. There’s still so much to do until the girls get equal opportunities to play that game..“ “But they have better chances than we did. That makes me incredibly happy.“, Lia responded truthfully. You nodded; “Me too. Also I love working with Jen.“

A smile tugged on Lias lips; “I can tell.“ “Also who knows, maybe one of them will become a future lioness.“, you continued enthusiastically. “That would be great.“, your girlfriend agreed. “Jenna would never stop bragging about it.“ Lia sceptically raised an eyebrow; “You wouldn’t either!“

“Yes, true.“, you smiled but a thought rushed trough your brain, making the smile fade far too quickly. “I saw how you looked at the girls…“, you started. The midfielder didn’t seem to follow you. She frowned; “How did I look at them?“ “Like you wished one of them was yours.“ There was silence between the two of you. Lia blinked a few times; “What? No…“ “No?“, you echoed. “I don’t know.“ Taken aback, you apologized; “Sorry… maybe I completely misread it.“

“No. I wasn’t aware that I was doing that.”, the brunette mumbled stunned. Confused you replied: ”You weren’t?” “No.”, she emphasized her answer. You couldn’t think about anything adequate to say so your lips only formed an ,oh’.

Quickly Lia added: “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m just disappointed you didn’t say anything about wanting children.”, you said to her. Thrown off by your sentence the midfielder asked:” Who says I want children?” “Your eyes.”, you pointed out. The Swiss whispered:” That doesn’t make any sense. It’s stupid to even think about it.” “It’s not.”, you countered seriously.

Nervously Lia went through her hair with one hand:” I’m still playing, and you have your team.” “I’m sure we could make it work if that’s what you wanted.”, you reassured her. Helplessly the brunette bit her lip:” I don’t know. Would you want that?” “I do.”, you announced, your heart beating fast as you told her the truth.

Slowly your girlfriend realized what you were trying to express all along:” That’s why you asked. You want children.” “Yes, and what do you want, Lia?”, you asked her in return. Her tone changed into something more hopeful:” I do want children. I just didn’t seem feasible.” “Maybe it’s now.” The kiss you exchanged was like a promise to something you both had the desire for but were too afraid to speak out until now.

A bit over a year later you and Lia were mums to a little girl. You even took her to the training of your girls’ team. Annoyed Amy threw her hands up in the air:” She can’t play yet, Jenna.” “Stop it, Ames. Of course she can.”, Jenna told her off.

The little girl wasn’t impressed by her answer: “She’s a baby.” “And? You can’t start early enough.”, her coach shrugged her shoulders. Grinning Daisy continued:” Plus she’s Wallys kid so it’s in her DNA.” “You don’t even know what DNA is.”, Hazel teased her. “Of course I do!”, she protested.

Softly you interrupted them before this could escalate into a proper fight:” Girls, focus on the game.” It seems like your toddler heard it because she kicked the ball into the goal. Baffled Amy was the first to speak:“That was pure luck.” “It’s talent.” Jenna whistled.

Proudly Lia told the blonde defender after her training:” Lee, our little girl scored today.” “Your girl can’t walk yet.”, Leah replied amused. Delighted Steph declared:” She can play football before she can walk.” “She’s Wally’s daughter. She can do everything.”, Laura added. Smiling Alessia nodded:” Yes, she’s a smart cookie.”

“I want to see that before we get too excited.”, Leah tried to calm down her teammates. Beaming Lia played the video in front of her friends:” Here Jenna filmed the big moment.” “Not bad. That’s going to be a good football player.”, the England captain admitted. “Right?” “Of course.”, Laura chirmed.

“Alright, girls. I got to go and pick them up.”, Lia announced, pocketing her phone. Before she left, Leah called after her; “Okay, bring them to our next training.”

As Lia arrived at your football pitch, Daisys voice echoed across the grounds; “Wally!” “Hi, girls.”, she smiled and let your players embrace her in a group hug. “Hello.”, Hazel mumbled into the midfielders side. Your girlfriend looked up and met your gaze from the other side of the pitch.

You both smiled at each other. “How was training?”, Lia asked. “Someone was trying hard to impress.”, Amy rolled her eyes. Jenna raised an eyebrow at the blonde girl and explained; “She means your daughter. She was not happy with the performance.” “Oh, really?”, Lia laughed.

Nodding, Jenna confirmed; “Really.” The girls were slowly letting go of Lia when you walked over at them, carrying your daughter. “Hi, Lia.”, you greeted her. She leaned over to first kiss you on the cheek before she carefully pressed her lips to her daughters head; “Hi, love.” “We‘re ready.”, you smiled. Taking the toddler from you, Lia suggested; “Let‘s go home.”

Your football team watched as the three of you left the football pitch together. “Goodbye, you three!”, Jenna called after you. You waved at her one last time. Simultaneously, Amy tugged on her coaches shirt; “Jen?” “Yes?”

“Maybe it‘s not that disgusting.“, the girl concluded, tilting her head pensively while she watched on as Lia wrapped her arm around your waist and gently brushed her lips against yours. Jenna remained silent and smiled softly.

#lia walti #lia walti x reader #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso community #woso #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal wfc #arsenal wfc imagine #leah williamson #lia walti imagine

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chrollohearttags · 27 days

Text

nsfw alphabet • bruno bucciarati: breath play

📝: black fem!reader (she’s a former escort), fingering, squirt play, side fucking

word count: 1.3K

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you’d encountered many men in your line of work. After all, the sole objective of your profession was to make them happy…show them a good time and do anything their hearts desired. Of course, sometimes those requests got out of hand. You didn’t exactly feel comfortable but such was life..it was the hand you were dealt and if you wanted to survive in this brutal city, then it behooved you to do it without incident. You never wanted to cause trouble or get in the bad graces of someone powerful enough to make you disappear without a trace. After all, you didn’t exactly favor anyone here physicality wise, so you kept your head down and made your money. Nothing more, nothing less…however, after all this time and the plethora of patrons you’d entertained…

“Ahh! Haaa…please, Mr. Bucciarati…faster.”

“Oh hush now, mi amor..you’re going to come too quickly, you know that. You never were good at holding back..”

you could say beyond the shadow of a doubt, that you’d never met a man quite like Bruno Bucciarati! Kind, intelligent, extremely handsome, charming..just a few of his many admirable qualities. He was far more mature than most men his age and carried a rather dominant demeanor. Not in a controlling sense but instead..a man who knew how to lead and not follow. He’d never allow you to go astray..that was a sentiment he carried in the bedroom as well. He made love to you like a man obsessed. Granted, you had retired from your previous profession and spent your days living quietly off of that income. Due to a majority of your clientele being mafioso as well, you didn’t have to worry about a thing financially..they paid you amicably. It was the least bit of solace for the blatant disrespect you’d receive from time to time. However, Bruno atoned for all of that. He made you feel comforted and safe. He didn’t view you as ‘damaged goods’ or someone who was desperate for attention. There was no judgment at all. He saw the beautiful lady that lived only a floor above him..the one who was always humming and singing in the most mellifluous voice as she tended to her flowers, the one who’d bake the most delicious breads and cooked foods from her home country that made his mouth water..he was awestruck, infatuated and even dared to say…he was in love. Perhaps it was the fact that you were so similar. Two people who were so young, yet had lived three lives over. Hence why, you’d trust him wholeheartedly.

“But it feels so good. I don’t think I can hold it..” “I know it does, my dear. But you’re just going to have to be patient. You trust me, do you not?” “Of course I do, Bruno…” “..then lean back against my chest and just let me handle it. Deep breaths, okay? I need to be sure that you can handle this.”

hence why you were lying nude in his arms, sprawled out on his bed with your legs parted wide. His index and middle fingers plunged knuckle deep inside of your tight hole..that pretty pussy squelching with each plunge and refusing to loosen the grip on those digits. The sounds were enough to drive him insane, but the way you trickled down his hand, he was in absolute awe. So wet and creamy that he feared he’d last no amount of time inside of you. After all, the first time wasn’t the ideal performance he’d hoped for. Orgasming with only a few strokes because you felt that good. But you’d never felt pleasure the way you had with him. He absolutely worshiped your body and made it known each time.

Your naked bodies intertwined underneath pale moonlight and flickering candles; the contrasts of your skin making for beautiful imagery. The scene following that of the two of you immersed in a warm bath together. But it wouldn’t stay so innocent and intimate for long. Because now? He was opting for something a little less romantic and downright salacious. “Here..open your mouth. Inhale..” doing exactly as he instructed, you’d gasp and take a sharp breath. Making sure to get a healthy breath of air before he moved on. “Good girl, now hold it just like that.” In a moment’s notice, Bruno’s movements sped up between your thighs, thrusting those digits in and out. Meanwhile, his free hand had made place across your mouth and nose, asphyxiating the two as he worked you over. Plunging that tight cunt and making it squeeze around those knuckles. You wanted to scream out in pleasure, let him know how amazing it felt but alas, you couldn’t breathe. Some would probably wonder why you’d even find pleasure in something so terrifying and dangerous. He’d tested you earlier with a hand around the throat or by pinching your nose and the bodily response let him know that you were ready for such things. But you craved the rush…maybe all of those years of playing with your life, leaving it in the hands of literal criminals evoked something inside of you. You loved the adrenaline that came with this sensation. Practically wishing for air as he forced you to an orgasm. Paying at his forearm, (y/n)‘s eyes dilated as you began to feel faint. Your consciousness was right on the brink of slipping and you’d squirm around until finally…

“Come..come for me..”

he uttered those sought after words and you’d fulfill his request; allowing juices to flood those crisp white sheets. Squirting as high as his forearm. You’d been teetering on the edge all night, especially after sucking him off and it all came barreling out in an explosive climax. “Oh my gosh, yes!” At the same time, he’d release your mouth and nose, capturing you in a kiss immediately after. Before you even had time to react, he’d shift you over onto your side. But not before giving your ass a much needed smack.. “Shit..I’ve got to have you right now, I’m so sorry..” growling into your ear like that of a primitive creature. Alas, there was nothing to apologize for..you craved him just as badly. You didn’t care if the walls were paper thin and your neighbors could hear. You wanted everyone to know how excellent of a lover Bruno Bucciarati was. Curling his frame over you, he’d raise your leg up and immediately sink his cock inside of that aching warmth. “Fuck! Please fuck me..” begging him in that voice that always got you your way. He didn’t hesitate either, feeding you deep and sharp strokes whilst a hand cupped your throat. This time, a little firmer than before. Your tongue wagged around outside of your plump lips, drool trickling and falling down your chin with that deviant smile on your face. “Goddamn..the way you squeeze me when I choke you. It’s so good, bella.” He was like a man starved, abandoning your well being for both of you guys’ sexual pleasure. He wasn’t stopping for anything. He’d continue to choke you, alternating his grip as he did his pace. (Y/N) glanced back and encouraged him with filthy words. Telling him how much you loved the pain and that he could pound you harder. “Scopamiiii, oh my gosh…you’re so wet. I just want to stay buried inside of you all night..” grunting those sweet nothings in your ear. He was in awe of how amazing you felt. He knew there wasn’t a single place on earth he’d rather be. The bed creaked and slammed against the wall to match your rambunctious love making. Cries and wails of pleasure, gasps of sharp breaths when he allowed you to do so…allowing him to take full control and dominion over you. Something you’d never thought you’d be okay with a man doing.

“That’s it, amore mio..submit to me, let me take care of you from here on out. I’ll make you feel better than anyone else. Trust me..all you have to do is trust me.”

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@greenieweeniesworld @spaceforher @wintrrxxo @rnvsxo

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taexual · 8 months

Text

sleepwalking ● 3 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 6.6k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 3 ► guess my fairytale has a few plot holes

It was eight in the morning when the tour bus arrived in Krakow, and everyone was in a good mood.

The day was beautiful and the excitement of starting the tour was still very prominent, so even the heavy sleepers, who could have slept through a hurricane and merely flinched during an earthquake – that is, Yoongi and Jungkook – both went out to stretch their legs and get coffee when the bus stopped at a gas station.

You observed everyone with Namjoon and Hoseok, until the two of them got too engrossed in a conversation about Rated Riot’s upcoming album—especially the demo song that Hoseok had sent Namjoon just before leaving for tour, even though the label wasn’t expecting a new record for, at least, eight more months.

“I brought most of my equipment,” Namjoon was saying. “So, if you want to see how the song might sound, we could get together and work on it.”

“Yes,” Hoseok agreed right away, then turned to you. “How many days until our first hotel stay?”

“About a week,” you said, looking back at the bus behind you. “Do you want me to check specifically? My phone is insid—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine. A week’s—a bit long,” Hoseok turned back to Namjoon. “You think we could record on the bus?”

“If it was empty, maybe,” Namjoon said, bringing his index finger to his chin. You lifted your eyebrows as you listened to him. “Should we stop somewhere and have everyone get out, so we could record? Could we even do that?”

You were mildly surprised by their determination, considering that the tour bus had terrible acoustics. Not to mention, even empty, it was a whirlpool of various noises: the rattling of the window shades, the whirring of the mini-fridge, the clattering of the mugs by the sink.

“How about you set up a recording studio at the next gas station we stop at instead?” you joked, but the two of them exchanged looks as if they were genuinely considering this. Quickly, you clarified, “guys, no. Could you wait just a little bit? Concentrate your creative energy into writing for now, or… maybe find a studio to rent for a few hours?”

“Ah, that might work,” Hoseok said thoughtfully. But just as he was about to add something, Namjoon nodded his head at the scene in front of you three: Jungkook and Taehyung were running away from Yoongi after having, evidently, just stolen his last cigarette.

Yoongi was yelling incoherent curses at the two as he chased them to the corner of the gas station and then paused to catch his breath. While Jungkook took a drag behind Taehyung’s back, Taehyung offered Yoongi his own pack of cigarettes and sprinted away as soon as the older member took it from him—because the pack was empty.

With another tirade of curses at the ready, Yoongi immediately broke into a run after them again. You could still hear the younger members laughing as they rounded the corner.

“Idiots,” Namjoon commented warmly.

You watched the chase in front of you with a small, wistful smile—this felt a bit like you were on a school trip. And this feeling was amplified when the school bully prototype in the form of a twenty-six-year-old man, Sid, stopped in front of you. He was, actually, called Isidore—for his grandfather—and you wondered if calling him by his birth name would make him disappear, like an exorcism of sorts.

“Hey,” Sid said. Then, he glanced—somewhat awkwardly—at Hoseok and Namjoon, and nodded curtly at them, before looking back at you again. “Could I speak to you?”

You’d have rather jumped in front of an oncoming truck that was driving past you on the highway.

You looked at the two boys next to you for help, but they both lowered their eyes, suddenly very entertained by the pavement under their boots.

“Sure,” you were forced to say, but tried not to make your irritation too obvious on your face. You prided yourself on being diplomatic. And, in any case, Sid hadn’t technically done anything obnoxious yet—but you knew him well enough to expect it.

The two of you walked further away from everyone else together—three other people could have fit between you as you walked—and Sid stuffed his hands in his pockets, seemingly looking for a way to start the conversation.

“How was the show last night?” he chose to ask.

“Great,” you replied, although it probably made no difference to him. “How’s Minjun’s jetlag?”

“Great, great,” Sid repeated, likely not even paying attention to your follow-up question. That was all the better for you; you didn’t really care about his answer, either.

Another few meters later, he stopped walking and looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one else was close enough to overhear—no one was. You and Sid were partially hidden by one of the buses.

“So…” he started. “Did you notice anything weird about Jungkook lately?”

Now you started to care.

You turned your whole body to face him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know.” He shrugged. “Irrational behaviour? Maybe moodiness? I don’t know.”

Your frown deepened, yet you hesitated with your question. “What… are you talking about?”

Sid’s smile spread—it was your surprised pause that gave you away. “You did notice!”

You’d already suspected that Sid would know something about Jungkook’s weird behaviour; now his grinning mug seemed to confirm it.

“Well, he’s on tour,” you tried to rationalize. “Of course, he’d act differently.”

“I mean, of course.” Sid nodded with exaggerated sympathy like he was just trying to be nice, but he knew that your reasoning was completely wrong. “But it’s probably even harder for him now that he’s single again.”

He was nearly soaring when he saw the surprise on your face.

“What do you mean, ‘again’?” you asked. The last formal relationship, to your knowledge, that Jungkook had had was a while ago—and, conveniently, you happened to be the one he had dated. He didn’t have time for relationships now. At least, that was what you’d assumed.

“Ah, see, I told him that he should talk to you about this, but I knew he wouldn’t. That’s why I’m doing this,” Sid said, finding himself very noble. He made an effort to look hesitant, even uncomfortable. But you saw the twitch of his lips when he spoke, “Jungkook was dumped four days before the flight to Prague.”

The engine of the bus behind Sid started as soon as he said this, so you weren’t sure if you flinched because of the unexpected noise, or because of the unexpected news.

“Someone,” you said, “broke up with him?”

“Yeah,” Sid confirmed, his face contorting into a pitiful grimace that looked about as fake as everything else about him. “They were together for a few months, which isn’t much, but he said the relationship meant a lot to him. He said it was something different, you know? So, I’m really surprised he didn’t tell you.”

Again, he mentioned the fact that Jungkook kept this from you—really rubbing it in your face—and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on his.

“Mmhm. Right,” you said. “And that’s why he’s—?”

“Yeah.” Sid was nodding before you finished the question. “I’m only telling you about it because I’m worried.”

“You’re worried,” you said, finding this even harder to believe than the fact that Jungkook was in a serious relationship with someone and didn’t think it was important to inform his manager. “Why?”

“Because of what he might do,” he explained. “You know how obsessed he gets when he’s in love with someone.”

This was an obvious allusion to your own relationship with Jungkook, and you finally looked away to process this. You missed the smirk that appeared on Sid’s face when he noticed your rapid blinking, but you didn’t need to see his arrogance to know that it was there; you could already hear it every time he opened his mouth.

There seemed to be another reason for his spiteful satisfaction: he wasn’t just boasting about knowing more about Jungkook than you did. He was, as it seemed, also boasting about Jungkook being in love with someone else—so much so, that he’d prioritise this person over everything else, apparently.

“What are you implying, exactly?” you spoke up after a minute. “You think he’ll leave the tour?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I hope not. I know how much this means to him,” Sid said and you tried to look past his saccharine words, tried to discern if he was just trying to bite you, or if this was something you should have been seriously concerned about. “But with Kihyun’s wedding in a few days…”

Here, you needed another minute to connect the dots.

You knew that your old friends, Kihyun and Chloé, were getting married soon—they’d invited you and Jungkook to the wedding. But you both already informed them that you couldn’t make it to the ceremony somewhere in Western Europe. It was so long ago, you could no longer remember the precise location. You’d even sent them a gift already.

Naturally, you were doubtful. “Why would he care? He said he’s not going to the wedding.”

“Well, yeah, but easy for him to say when he’s a continent away, you know?” Sid replied. “Now that he’s in Europe, it’s different.”

“How is it different?” you asked. “The band’s got back-to-back shows. We’ll be in Poland, and the wedding’s—in Italy?”

“Paris.”

“Right,” you said. Of course, Sid would know this. He’d come to talk to you fully prepared.

“Well, he will have a free day, you know,” he continued and you frowned. You hadn’t memorized the band’s full schedule, but you didn’t like the possibility that Sid was right. “So, I’m just worried he might end up going there, after all. He knows his ex will be there, so, you know… Maybe he thinks they can get back together, I don’t know.”

All the “you know” and “I don’t know”’s in his speech did not make it easy for you to tell how much truth there was to his words: how much did Jungkook really care about this? How much should you have cared?

There was another thing too – if this ex was invited to the wedding of your old friends, then, chances were, you would know this person, too. So, wouldn’t that mean that Jungkook would have even more reasons to tell you about his relationship?

And, to make this even more difficult, Sid looked very pleased—like he was showing off. But there could have been countless reasons for that, too: because he was proud that he knew more than you, because he was lying, because he caught you off-guard… Then again, you didn’t exactly look at him much. Maybe he always looked like that.

Unsettled, you only nodded. “Hmm.”

“I mean,” Sid snickered, “the last thing he needs on this tour is a toxic relationship, am I right?”

You thought Sid was the toxic relationship that Jungkook had on this tour, but you only hummed again, saying, “you probably are.”

“Yeah,” he said with a compassionate sigh that sounded like plastic fruit did when you bit into it. His eyes were full of pity, too, but there was not one ounce of honesty in them—he didn’t feel bad about any of this. “I’m just letting you know, so you’re not left in the dark. Sorry he didn’t tell you.”

“You don’t need to apologise on his behalf,” you said, your tone surprisingly strict. You hadn’t meant to let your feelings show—childishly, you thought that if he could see how flustered you were, he’d win. You didn’t realise how much you resembled Jungkook in this regard.

“No, I know. I just feel bad,” Sid lied further. You clenched your fists. “You guys seem close. Guess he didn’t think it was important enough to tell you.”

You almost scoffed at this—close? You were his manager. This had nothing to do with you being close. But, of course, Sid needed another reason to feel superior.

“Right. Guess so,” you said and, with a sharp inhale, decided to end this conversation. “I have to go check something, but, uh, thanks for the heads up.”

“Oh, no problem!” he called out as you began to walk back towards the tour bus without waiting for his response.

Sid knew he got you. Taking you to the wedding had to be the easiest way for Jungkook to win this bet. He was confident that he’d just made sure that wouldn’t happen.

Namjoon and Hoseok both immediately noticed the distress on your face when you walked past them, but you ignored their concerned questions, assuring them both that there was nothing you couldn’t handle.

You entered the bus to find your phone. You wouldn’t confront Jungkook now, but you needed to see how big the gap in the band’s schedule was, to conclude if he could, realistically, make it to this wedding.

Most unfortunately, you calculated that he could. As soon as this show was over, Rated Riot would go to Warsaw, and then they had a free day before the concert in Berlin. If he travelled overnight, he could go to Paris and back in this time.

Unless Sid lied.

You couldn’t see the point, but it wasn’t above him to lie about things for no reason. You found yourself hoping that this was one of those times. Because drifting off-schedule so early in the tour was far from ideal, of course.

And not because you weren’t sure—and this uncertainty was unexpected—how the thought of Jungkook being in a serious relationship with someone made you feel.

Jungkook had, truthfully, forgotten to worry about the bet when he woke up this morning. And then right before the soundcheck in Krakow, Sid and Minjun showed up to the band’s changing room, with a reluctant Jude in tow.

His friends must have known that he was the only one still here (although Jungkook could see that Hoseok had left his phone, so he expected him to come back), and they felt comfortable to immediately settle in the otherwise empty room.

“What’s up?” Jungkook nodded at Jude. “You look hungover.”

“He’s allergic to Europe,” Minjun replied—he’d only landed here last night, but he already looked tired and about ready to go home. “Been sneezing since last night. Even the airport security got worried when they picked me up.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Jude said, plopping down on the settee by the wall. “My head feels so full. My eyes hurt. I’m definitely allergic to something.”

“Maybe it’s you,” Sid pointed at Minjun with a grin. “You’re the one who flew in yesterday, and he started to sneeze right after.”

“Or maybe it’s your bullshit,” Minjun countered—he was one of the few people who could keep Sid on his toes without using violence. “Or your cologne. You know you’re only supposed to spray it once, maybe twice, right? No need to bathe in it.”

Even Jungkook snorted. A powerful whiff of some exaggerated woody scent—the sort that came in a black bottle with large golden lettering—had filled the room as soon as Sid entered.

“What are you doing here?” Jungkook asked. “I thought you were going sightseeing.”

“We are—” Minjun started to say, but then paused when he tried to sit down next to Jude, and he sneezed again. “Seriously, man. Go to urgent care.”

“I’m fine,” Jude waved his hands around, while Sid laughed—the more chaotic the atmosphere in the room seemed to get, the more amusing he found it.

“We’re here to cheer you on. Why else?” Sid said, throwing a fist in the air. There was a perpetual shit-eating grin on his face. “There’s already a line of people outside. Those VIPs?”

“Yeah, probably,” Jungkook said and then realised the implication. He warned, “leave them alone. Or my management won’t let me live.”

Sid’s grin widened—clearly, he took that as a compliment—and he sat down next to Jude, leaving Minjun standing awkwardly by the settee.

“Speaking of,” Sid said, “did you already ask said management out on a date?”

“Not yet,” Jungkook said. He didn’t suspect anything from Sid’s question alone—and he didn’t catch the glimmering excitement in his eyes. “But don’t worry about it.”

Sid was not at all worried. He never was.

“See?” he said. Jungkook lifted his head to see Sid looking at Minjun. “Told you he agreed.”

Jungkook’s gaze shifted to Minjun in confusion.

“He didn’t believe me when we told him you agreed to the bet,” Sid explained. “He said this wasn’t something he’d expect from you.”

Jungkook frowned. He liked to think that he didn’t care about the opinion of his friends that much, but he wouldn’t have agreed to the bet if he really didn’t. Now he found himself irritated that Minjun, seemingly, disagreed with this decision.

“What do you mean?” Jungkook asked him, but Minjun only shrugged.

“It’s going to get messy,” he said. “I figured you’d be able to see that.”

“It’s not going to get messy,” Jungkook replied with a pretentious roll of his eyes. Of course, on some half-conscious level, he knew that it could get messy. But he trusted his ability to control this, so it wouldn’t get out of hand. “It’s just a date, it’s no big deal.”

“You—” Jude started to say and then sneezed, continuing in agitation, “fuck me. You dated for three years.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook grabbed a tissue from a box on the table by the mirror and walked over to Jude. “And we’re broken up for four. This means nothing, and you’ll see that I’m right when I win this bet.”

Sid shook his head as he sang, “she’s not going to agree…”

“She will,” Jungkook insisted. His agitation was growing, because no one in this room knew you, not like he did—so, what right did they have to make assumptions? He said, “I’ve known her for years. She won’t think much of this, either.”

Minjun looked deeply uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything else, but every time Jungkook glanced at him, he could see the way his friend cringed into himself, sliding his hands into his front pockets and pacing awkwardly around the clothes rack.

It was the first reality check for Jungkook—one of many, but he naively did not foresee that.

If Minjun—who, despite being smarter than everyone else in this room—was still Sid’s friend, yet seemed disturbed by this bet, then Jungkook wasn’t sure if he was ready for what you’d think—what you’d do—if you found out about this.

Maybe he was too prideful when he asserted that he knew you the best. Maybe he only liked to think that he did, but all that he anticipated from you was hopeful more than it was certain. He hoped you wouldn’t think of this as a big deal. But, he realised now by watching Minjun, that your reaction might not be so casual, after all.

“Yeah?” Sid challenged, breaking Jungkook out of his head. “Well, let’s see, then. You’ve got plans for how you’re asking her out?”

Jungkook turned away to grab a water bottle from the table that he’d been leaning against. “Maybe.”

Sid was a very good actor as he jumped on the couch, feigning excitement.

“Well, shit. Spill!” he encouraged. His leap had caused a flurry of dust to go up into the air and Jude managed to groan before he started to sneeze again. Sid added irritably, “if Jude would shut the fuck up, we could give you feedback.”

“Get fucked,” Jude mumbled, blowing his nose into the tissue Jungkook had given him.

“Dream on,” Jungkook replied with a sneer in Sid’s direction. “I’m not asking you out, not even as practice.”

“You piece of shit,” Sid said, his tone boisterous. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Alright then,” Sid went on grinning, not the slightest bit unphased by this. Jungkook, clearly, didn’t know the lengths Sid was going to take—and had already taken—to make sure he won the bet. “When should we expect the keys to the Katana?”

“Oh, did you mean the money you’ll be paying me?” Jungkook deflected. This bickering drove him further from his previous concerns about Minjun’s reaction and more towards the thrill of it all—taking you out on a date and winning against Sid. “Have it by the end of tonight. I’ll talk to her before the show.”

“We’re only paying if she actually goes with you on a date,” Sid reminded him. “Just agreeing to it means nothing.”

“I know. And I’m saying, have it ready.”

“Have what ready?” Hoseok asked, entering the changing room so unexpectedly that all four boys inside it flinched. Neither of them had heard the door open.

“Nothing,” Jungkook replied before one of his friends could. “Discussing our plans for after the show. What’s up?”

“Jin says we’re good to go in five,” Hoseok said. “And I left my phone here.”

“Oh, right.” The younger member reached for the device on the far corner of the table. “Here.”

Then, Jungkook looked back at the rest of his friends – all of them looked like schoolchildren after the teacher returned to the classroom. He felt glad, he realised, that they were staying quiet.

He didn’t want Hoseok or the others to know about this, but not because the bet was an exceptionally bad thing. He thought this was like anything else that he did with his friends. And, usually, no one approved of his other after-work activities—not even him, sometimes—either.

But, just like everything other thing that he did with Sid, this was a distraction more than it was anything else.

“Don’t be late,” Hoseok warned, not saying a word to the other people in the room before he left.

“We’re going to head out, too,” Minjun was the first who spoke up – but only after the door was closed. He seemed to make the decision for all of them, because Sid looked comfortable enough to stay longer, but he rolled his eyes and stood up after meeting Minjun’s glare. “Good luck at the soundcheck.”

“Yeah, and don’t worry,” Sid added, winking, “I’ll take good care of the bike.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes and slapped Sid on the shoulder with his palm when he walked past him.

Jude stopped in front of Jungkook. He looked ready to say something, but then he inhaled deeply, as if preparing for a sneeze, and chose to just quietly leave instead.

“Seriously, go see a doctor if this persists,” Jungkook called after him before the door of the changing room closed.

Left alone, he shook his head and looked over his reflection in the mirror.

The bet was just a bet. He wasn’t doing anything significant anyway. Surely, if you knew, you’d think the same. You’d find it stupid, but he’s done worse things. This didn’t mean anything; it wouldn’t ruin your relationship.

It would be fine.

As soon as the soundcheck and the VIP Meet & Greet came to an end, you disappeared like you had last night in Prague, so Jungkook’s plan of getting this bet over with before the show tonight, backfired.

A part of him expected this, however, so he made sure to avoid his friends until he saw you after the show. He hoped that convincing you to go out with him (perhaps by appealing to your sentiments of seeing old friends? Or out of pity? He wasn’t sure which route he’d take yet) wouldn’t take long. Especially if he stressed how little this would mean—just a silly, friendly date.

Sid didn’t have to know about the “friendly” part of the whole deal.

Slowly, Jungkook allowed himself to think what he’d do with the $4000 that Sid and Jude would pay him—perhaps he’d tune the Katana—even though this wasn’t even about the money for him. Of course, the satisfaction of actually winning a bet against Sid would be worth five times the money that his friends would have to pay. But Jungkook was convinced that, more than anything, he just wanted to prove a point.

His friends had insisted he followed you like a lovesick puppy while you didn’t care. He wanted to show them that neither of you cared—in fact, you cared so little, that you could go on a date, and it wouldn’t have to mean anything.

Now, whether that was true, was a different thing, but he chose not to think of your touch—and his body reflexively responding to it—in his bunk the other night. He didn’t need to focus on that right now.

The performance in Krakow threw Jungkook completely off, however. This was Rated Riot’s first time in Poland, and the reception was unforgettable: all the faces of the people who sang along, who jumped when the band jumped, who reacted to every single note, every single lyric at the appropriate times and with overwhelming energy – Jungkook was positive his chest was going to burst by the time he got off the stage.

Even an hour later, after Rated Riot finished the show and met their fans, he returned backstage, where everyone hung out and did shots, and he could still feel the adrenaline in his blood.

That was how you found him – smiling to himself as he scrolled down Rated Riot’s Instagram page, checking all the posts that tagged the band tonight.

“You’re happy,” you pointed out, aware of the smile on your own face as you watched him.

Jungkook lifted his head and his smile widened at the sight of yours. He was practically radiating excitement. Chances were, if someone dimmed the lights in the room, he would have been glowing.

“Crazy,” he said. His voice was a little hoarse, but exhilarated nonetheless. “Feels like there are fireworks inside of me.”

You chuckled and took a seat on the settee next to him. You handed him a package of honey & lemon lozenges and a chocolate cupcake—the lozenges were for his throat, to make sure he was able to perform night after night, and the cupcake was to make sure he survived at all. He never ate anything before the shows, and the take-out you’d ordered was taking a while. It was likely you’d have to eat properly on the bus.

He took everything from you and put his phone down.

“It seems that the show tonight was even better than last night,” he said, peeling off the wrapper of the cupcake first. “I don’t know how that’s possible.”

“Imagine if that keeps happening after every show,” you said. “You might really catch fire by the last one.”

He snickered. Taking a mouthful of the cupcake, he hummed, “Can’ wai’ to find out.”

“Forty shows to go,” you said, patting the package of medicine. He nodded in acknowledgement. “Don’t forget to take it after you eat. I’m going to see how long it’ll be before we can go. And maybe call the restaurant. Perhaps our order didn’t go through.”

“Perhaps,” Jungkook mumbled half-heartedly, too busy chewing. Then, as he was watching you stand up, he suddenly remembered what he had to do. Swallowing so abruptly that the cupcake nearly got stuck in his throat, he jumped to his feet. “Actually, wait a second. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

You turned around. “Yeah?”

He put the remaining half of his cupcake down and wiped his hands against each other to get rid of the crumbs.

“So, uh,” he began, wiping his mouth, too—more because of a nervous tick than any other reason. “Kihyun and Chloé’s wedding is the day after tomorrow.”

Your earlier conversation with Sid flashed through your mind and you felt dread gather on the floor of your stomach.

“I know,” you said slowly. “In Paris.”

“Yeah. I was—I mean, I know we both already said we wouldn’t go,” Jungkook continued. Unconsciously, you reached for the ring on your index finger and spun it around several times. “But I actually called Kihyun yesterday, and he said he’d love it if we came.”

You didn’t even notice the implication that he wouldn’t go to the wedding alone, that the two of you would go together. You were too focused on the fact that this was exactly what you were afraid of: not only did Jungkook plan this exactly like Sid had said he would, but he was, clearly, already taking action to make this plan come true.

“And, uh, Chloé didn’t mind?” you asked.

“No, they’re both very cool about it,” he said, proud—you weren’t sure of what: of his last-minute change of plans, or of your friends, who tolerated these changes. “So, anyway, I was thinking, why don’t you and I take a de-tour to Paris after our show in Warsaw? We’ll catch up again with everyone else in Berlin, and go back on the road.”

Now you noticed.

You cleared your throat, then repeated, “you and I?”

He nodded his head once, less certain. “Yeah.”

“Well...” You tucked your lips in and lifted your eyebrows. Your eyes concentrated on the loose tile on the floor by your feet. “I can’t believe Sid warned me about this, and I thought he was just being annoying on purpose.”

You’d mumbled this in a way that probably wasn’t meant for him to hear, yet Jungkook had never heard anything clearer.

Completely stunned, he tried, “Sid—he, uh… he warned you about this?”

“Yeah.” You sighed, unsure if you should have felt grateful to Sid for letting you know of this in advance—it was hard to imagine him ever doing anything that wasn’t for his own benefit. “Why didn’t you tell me you broke up with someone?”

Jungkook was fairly certain he gasped and not at all certain if the buzzing in his ear was tinnitus or if someone was really screaming in the distance.

“I didn’t tell—um,” he paused, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. You watched this obvious display of his dislike for the turn of conversation.

After a heavy minute—that the two of you stayed frozen as if someone had paused the scene, he asked, “what exactly did Sid say to you?”

“That you were in a relationship with someone, and they broke up with you before the tour started,” you recapped patiently. It was just the two of you in this corner of the room, so no one could have overheard, but you still lowered your voice just in case.

“Okay,” Jungkook said, his eyes still closed.

“And that you only want to go to the wedding because your ex might be there,” you added.

“Mmhmm,” he half-hummed, half-squealed. “I see.”

Hopeful that Sid had, at least, exaggerated, or, perhaps, you misunderstood something, you asked, “any truth to that?”

Aware that there was virtually no right response here, because you’d think he was lying or hiding the truth from you again, Jungkook sighed. There had never been any relationship, of course. You were the only girlfriend he’d had.

Fucking Sid. The cheating bastard was trying to sabotage him.

“I—” he started to say, and then stopped. There might be a way out of this, after all.

Maybe he could use Sid’s lies and make them work. Instead of convincing you to catch up with old friends at the wedding—which could take a while, considering how set you tended to be when you made a decision; and the decision here was, obviously, declining the formal invitation to the wedding—he could convince you to help him with his love life. Either way, you’d come to Paris with him, and Sid wouldn’t have to know why.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Yeah. It’s true.”

All the hopes you’d had deflated in bitter disappointment. You couldn’t tell if there was more to it, a different reason, perhaps, why this felt so disheartening to you, because you instinctively focused on what mattered more at the moment.

“Jungkook,” you said with a groan. “What the fuck? This is the stuff you tell me.”

Once again, he was doing something that he did not bother to inform you about—how many more times were you going to have to learn about his misadventures from social media?

“Yeah, but, you know,” he spoke even though he didn’t know what he was talking about, “we broke up, so I didn’t think it was important to tell you.”

“It is important if it’s going to interfere with the tour schedule,” you replied, and your frustration worried him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said this. Perhaps he should have been honest – surely, you’d believe him if he told you Sid had lied.

Oh, but then he’d have to explain why Sid felt the need to lie to you. That fucking snake—

“It’s not going to interfere,” Jungkook tried again. “The wedding’s on my day off. That’s why I want to go.”

“And then what?” you asked, smacking your palms against your thighs – this got some looks from nearby crew members, but they were used to you arguing with Jungkook. Their interest in your conversation faded as soon as they saw that it was you two making noise. You continued hypothesizing, “let’s say you get back together. Are we bringing another person on tour? Or if you don’t get back together, then what?”

“Then,” he swallowed, “we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

You knew he’d say that, but you were still annoyed that he did.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you admitted. You didn’t like how personal this was starting to get. Your role as his manager was somewhere in the distance now, yet you thought you had to say this, “I’ve never asked any of you guys to put your personal lives on hold for the sake of the band, but I’m giving you my honest opinion. I don’t think you should go to this wedding.”

“But that’s why I’m asking you to come with me,” Jungkook argued, his voice eager. It all made sense in his head – you’d have to agree to come now, you couldn’t have him go off by himself.

You sighed, then gave him the benefit of the doubt, “why? What difference would my being there make?”

“Well, for one, you’d warn me if I was about to make a mistake,” he said, finding himself very smart and quick on his feet.

“I’m warning you now,” you countered easily, and his face fell a little.

“Right,” he said, momentarily hesitating, but trying not to panic yet. “But I don’t think that’s a mistake. Not if there’s a chance I might—well, you know. Get back together with the love of my life.”

He felt the cringing somewhere deep in his own chest and he hoped it didn’t show on his face. It definitely showed on yours.

“Is that…” you faltered, closing your eyes. “Is that really going to happen?”

He watched the deliberate way you chose not to look at him as you asked this, and he wondered—very briefly, even reluctantly—if there was a different reason why this relationship that he was, allegedly, in, disturbed you.

It could just be wishful thinking on his part, he supposed. And it likely was.

“I-I mean, we will be at a wedding,” he said after a moment. “Romantic. So, why not?”

You could see his point—and, most horribly, reuniting with someone at a wedding seemed to make sense—but you had to make him reconsider this. He’d always been spontaneous. You had to get him to think with his head, not his instincts.

“Don’t you think,” you tried, “that people break up for a reason? Because I do.”

He took this personally, but he hoped it wasn’t obvious. At least, not in a way where you’d realise that he wasn’t at all concerned about his non-existent relationship with someone else. Because, of course, he was really concerned about his non-existent relationship with you.

“You… don’t believe in second chances?” he asked.

“Not really,” you said. Contrary to him, you didn’t need to think too much about this. “They’re only an opening for third and fourth chances.”

Swallowing, Jungkook tried to disagree, “well, not necessarily…”

“I don’t know about your situation,” you said bitterly, “because you’ve literally never mentioned this until now. So, I’m just saying what I think. And if you’re still going to do something stupid, then do you really need me there?”

“I do,” he said straight away.

“No—” you huffed, then tried again, putting it straight this time, “Jungkook, I’m not going there as your babysitter.”

“You’re not,” he agreed. “You’re going as my date.”

He had hoped he’d really done something by saying this – perhaps made your heart flutter? He even smiled as he said it, so sure that this would be what makes you change your mind.

But your face remained stoic as you shot back, “right. Because bringing a date would make it much easier for you to get back with your ex.”

Taking a moment to recuperate, Jungkook brought a hand over his hair, his fingers lingering at the ends of his wolf cut. Nothing was going well for him, it seemed, and he couldn’t help but remember Minjun’s earlier discomfort again.

He knew now that his arrogance of knowing you for so long had blinded him, and the reactions that he expected from you were merely reflections of his own. Of course, you wouldn’t go to Paris with him. He hadn’t given you a single good reason to go.

Nearing desperation, he said, “look, just… trust me? Let’s go there and see. Maybe it’ll be enough for me to see all these people that I used to know—that we both used to know—and I’ll change my mind.”

You were half-scoffing, half-yelling at this point, “you went from getting back together with the love of your life, to changing your mind in the span of two minutes! Don’t you think it’s a sign that you shouldn’t be even considering this?”

He exhaled sharply, frustrated.

Nothing. There was nothing else that he could say now.

He fired the last shot—the one he didn’t want to use, because he thought he was better than that. He knew now that he wasn’t, as he said, “I could go with Sid, Jude, and Minjun.”

This brought you two to a standstill: either you convinced him to forget about this and just stay on tour, even though you hadn’t been successful at that so far, or he got you to come to Paris with him, instead of his friends.

And he could see that you’d give in before you even said anything.

You knew he’d never come back in one piece if he left the tour right now for a one-day trip to Paris with his friends—if he’d come back at all.

Jungkook didn’t like how cunning he felt, though, as he watched you cross your arms and bite your lip, clearly disapproving of your impending defeat.

He wondered if it’d be any consolation if he admitted that this didn’t really feel like a win for him, either, even though just the fact that you’d come would mean he won the bet. He had still hoped you’d be more excited to do this with him.

Finally, after what felt like five whole minutes of silent battle as neither of you moved or looked at each other for longer than two consecutive seconds, you exhaled. It was a sigh of defeat, but not resignation.

“Fine,” you said. “If you must go, I’ll come with you. But you’re telling me everything about this relationship and why you think getting back together with this person is a good idea.”

“Sure,” he said, because he had to. He would come up with an excuse or a plausible enough story at his favourite time—later. “I’ll even book the train tickets to Paris myself.”

You didn’t think that was smart—the last time the two of you were planning a vacation together, he’d bought the tickets to and from Hawaii for the same night by accident—and you lifted your hand in immediate protest.

“Maybe I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he cut you off, grabbing his cupcake and his lozenges from the settee—to show you how responsible he was. Not enough to go to Paris with his friends, of course, but just enough for you to trust him. “I’ll take care of everything. You’ve done enough for me.”

chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “in the dark”

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luviemax · 1 month

Text

a dream with a football player- oneshot

a/n: loook who the cat dragged in (me), song inspo here

-> jude bellingham x female!reader, no physical descriptions of reader, all photos taken from pinterest

warnings: half smau and half fic, reader has a bsf named audrey who's obsessed w football, reader has a grandma, google translated spanish.... and lets just pretedn the photo at the end isn't from american football....

masterlist

yourspamaccount location: Valencia, Spain

liked by: audreycore, friend1, friend2, and 12 others!

yourspamaccount: guys... i'm lowk tweaking rn... i had this dream with this super cute guy in it and i'm worried i'll NEVER find him again... #saveme... anyways i only have like a few more days at grandma's beach house so i'll make the most of it while i'm still here ig :(

audreycore: DON'T WORRY BABE WE'LL FIND HIM FOR U -> yourspamaccount: PLEASE! I NEED MY MANZ

friend1: STAY STRONG WARRIOR!! -> yourspamaccount liked this comment!

friend2: sending my thoughts and prayers to you in this difficult time -> yourspamaccount: thank you... your well wishes are recieved gratefully

"Okay," Audrey begins, setting her bag down onto a spare chair at table the two of you are sitting at, "Try and describe him to me." "Well..." You wistfully sigh, beginning to skim through the menu of the beachside restaurant the two of you are at, "he had these beautiful brown eyes, and he was tall," you inhale sharply, and begin to whisper-yell at your best friend, "Audrey. He was like, kinda tall. He was like, above 6 feet tall. Maybe 6'1", give or take?" Audrey lets out a low whistle. "That's pretty good. He fits your criteria," Audrey trails on, looking at the menu herself, "Tall, pretty eyes... Oh, what was he wearing?" "A jersey of some type," your eyebrows knit together, trying to piece together whatever happened in your dream the previous night, "Maybe he plays sports? The shirt was white, and there was some sort of symbol on it..." You trail on, trying to put together your thoughts. "Go on then, maybe I'll know something," Audrey chuckles to herself for a moment before going on, "Wouldn't it be absolutely wicked if you capture the heart of some football player and I'll get the best seats for every match?" She chuckles, "Well, rest assured, in the infinitesimal chance that whatever you've described to me happens, I'll make it work," You continue, "It seemed like a round symbol? Like circular, maybe? And the colours were yellow and blue, if I'm not mistaken.... And, oh! There was a crown on top of the entire circle situation." You purse your hands together, satisfied of the detailed explanation you've pieced together. Audrey simply sits there with her mouth agape. "Dude," she sighs, "you're talking about Jude Bellingham, aren't you?" You simply tilt your head in confusion. Although football has such an intense influence over the population of Spain, you haven't lived here before, and you were simply here to indulge in the picturesque summer scene in Valencia with your grandma at her beach house. Audrey picks up on your confusion, and snatches her phone out of her bag, and begins to furiously type something into her phone. Then, she slides the mobile device over to you across the table, and your jaw drops. There he was, in all his glory, the man, quite literally, from your dreams. With a gummy like smile and twinkling eyes, he was, quite literally, everything you could wish for. But then... you look at his follower count, with a whopping 30.4 million followers. "Look at how many followers he has," You whine, almost like a petulant child, "I have no chance." "Hey..." Audrey starts, taking her phone back from your grasp, "Never say never. To be fair, you have a better chance than the rest of the crowd. You're near Madrid. He lives in Madrid. It's not that enormous of a place. There's always a chance that you'll bump into him somewhere." You simply sigh in response. "Don't feed my delusions, Auds."

yourspamaccounttagged: audreycore

liked by: audreycore, friend1, friend2, and 16 others!

yourspamaccount: good news guys: we found the guy from my dream! bad news: he has 30.4 million other side hoes...

audreycore: DO NOT WORRY, Y/N Y/L/N! JUST BELIEVE IN THE POWERS OF MANIFESTATION, AND IT WILL HAPPEN!! -> yourspamaccount: audrey.... i think you're more excited than me... -> audreycore: yes.

friend1: girl... wtf! -> yourspamaccount: tell me about it!!

For the most part, you're just minding your own business. There aren't many days left in Valencia for you; as much as you love this sunny, safe refuge, it's quite impossible for you to stay here forever and just abandon all your responsibilities, It's not that your grandma hasn't offered though, she's tried to coerce you into staying here in this beachy paradise with her, but you simply can't accept. You have too many things back home, whether it be work or school, it'd just be too much. You might just take her up on the offer though, only later. Aimlessly, you roam the streets of Valencia. You observe the bustling crowd, the energetic children, the dads who are playing sports on the sandy shore, and the moms who are catching up on their tans and gossiping about whatever it is. That's when your daydreams are interrupted by a light tap on your shoulder. "Lo siento, discúlpame..." (sorry, excuse me...) The freaking Jude football guy who was in your dream comes up to you, albeit in slightly broken Spanish. You're starstruck for a second, but you quickly snap back into reality. "Hiya, can I help with anything?" You reply to him using English, sensing that he was probably more fluent in the language. "Oh my goodness," He breathes out a sigh of relief, "Thank God you can speak English. I don't think my Spanish would've gotten me anywhere at all," he laughs, and you let out a chuckle at his joke too, "Do you know where this place is, by any chance? I just can't seem to get the GPS working..." He shows you an address, and you immediately recognise it as a restaurant which you frequented with your family as a child. "Oh, absolutely!" You try and keep your cool, hoping that you aren't being too forward, "I could totally help you there. I used to go there all the time as a kid." "Really?" He smiles gratefully at you, "Are you sure that won't be too much trouble?" "Absolutely," You reassure him, "Alright, follow me..."

At first, the walk is filled with some sort of tentative, nervous silence. You're anxious to break the ice, but thankfully, Jude does it for you. "So, I never caught your name amidst all of that chaos..." He trails off, fiddling with his fingers. "Ah," You chuckle, "Y/N. You?" You turn slightly to face him, and tilt your head slightly to meet his eyes. "Y/N," He repeats, as if he's testing the taste of your name on his tongue, "Pretty name for a pretty girl. I'm Jude." "Very nice to meet you Jude." You smile at him, and then nod as you steadily go straight ahead, eyes diverted to the ground, trying to hide the warm flush that's beginning to spread on your cheeks. "So..." He starts, kicking loose gravel from beneath his feet, "What brings you to Valencia?" "Ah," a smile graces your face at the thought of your grandmother, "my grandma has a beach house here. I usually come here during the summer to just relax." "I see," Jude nods insightfully, "so you're not from around here?" "Well, I was technically born here, but my parents and I moved away to Florence when I was young for my dad's work," You shrug, "What about you? What brings you to Madrid?" "Ah," his lips press together to form a tight line, "Just some work stuff. Contractually, I'm obligated to stay here." "You don't sound happy about that." You let out a soft laugh, a quirk an eyebrow at him. "Nah," he begins, shrugging his shoulders in a half-hearted motion, "it's not that bad here, but I think that because I'm not so good at Spanish, I've found it a little hard to adjust. And I think I'm just homesick, really." "Yeah, I get that," you nod, sympathising with him, "What part of the UK are you from?" "Stourbridge," He replies, "you probably haven't heard of it. It's further West." "Ah, I see," you stop, as you approach the restaurant, "Oh shit." You cringe. "What's wrong?" Jude jogs up to you from a little further behind. "It's closed," You sigh, looking defeatedly at a handwritten sign that's been posted, "the lady who runs the place went to Bali for her son's wedding." "Damn," he sighs, "I'm hungry. But that's nice for her, I guess." "You know what?" You take a leap of courage. "What is it, Y/N?" When he says your name, your heart skips a beat, and butterflies begin to swell in your tummy, warm and fluttering. "Just follow me." You take his, much larger, hand in your own, and lead him to a place which you've come to know as one of your favourites on this entire earth.

"Oh my goodness." Jude is in awe as you guide him to the pier of the beach, staring at the twinkling fairy lights strung up, with the vacantly setting sun in the background. "Yeah," You smile, "Come on, take a seat." You gesture your hand to a small booth, one that's been labelled yours. "Cariño!" (sweetheart)Your grandmother calls out, walking over from the entrance of her restaurant. "Hola abuela." (hello grandma) You stand up to greet her, kissing her cheeks. "Ah, and this must be your friend?" Your grandmother switches to English, walking over to your table. "Abuela, this is Jude," He stands up to greet her, basically towering over her, "And Jude, this is my grandmother." "Hola, it's very nice to meet you." Jude gives your grandma a smile, and extends a hand for her to shake. "It's lovely to meet you too, Jude," your grandma smiles, "any friend of Y/N is a friend of mine. Let me get you two some menus." Before she departs, however, she whispers a few words in your ear, "Él es muy apuesto, muy alto tambien!" (he's very handsome, very tall too!) "Abuela!" You exclaim, a pink tint covering your cheeks, before you playfully swat her arm and chase her away. Her delighted laugh simply echoes as she walks away. Soon enough, the two of you place your orders, and eagerly await for a warm, homecooked meal.

"So," you start, and take a small sip of the lemonade that's been served to you, "You said something about living here for work?" He scratches the back of his head in response, "Yeah, wait, I'm so sorry, but you seriously don't know who I am?" You hum, too preoccupied with sipping your drink, "Not really. Only vaguely. My best friend, Audrey, told me who you were. She's a big football enthusiast, but I'm more a motorsport fan myself." He clicks his tongue. "Ah, I see." You giggle at the prospect of telling him about your dream, and although you thought it was quiet enough for him not to hear, he manages to catch it. "What is it?" He questions you, quirking his head to the side. "It's probably going to be really stupid." You sigh. "It's fine." He smiles. "You're going to find me weird after." "Hm, probably not." He traces his fingers along the rim of his cup.

"Today wasn't the first time I've seen you." You begin, testing the waters. "Well, you've probably seen me on billboards and all... I am kinda famous around here after all..." He jokes, which makes you let out a laugh. "A few days back, I had this dream, and it was by the beach which is outside my grandma's place. And I was having the greatest time. The sun was setting, and my toes were just touching the water. But the best part was that I wasn't alone. I was with this guy, and he was tall, and he had the most mesmirising brown eyes...." You're too nervous to meet his gaze, so you begin to gaze beyond the pier, into the vacant distance. But before you know it, he's next to you, and his fingers are on your chin, gently guiding your face back to his direction. "Wanna go recreate it?"

yourusername has posted!

liked by: judebellingham, audreycore, friend2, friend1, and 173 others!

yourusername: truly a night to remember <3

judebellingham: ur the best -> yourusername liked this comment!

judebellingham: i love your grandma -> yourusername: a bit out of your age range, is she not? -> judebellingham: i'll just go for the next best thing i guess :/ -> yourusername: thanks a lot...

audreycore: BELLLLINGIIIIMOOOOOOOOOOOO -> yourusername: ok.... -> judebellingham: thanks xx -> audreycore: i passed away

friend2: OK SERVE!!!! -> yourusername liked this comment

judebellingham has posted!

liked by yourusername, audreycore, erling.haaland, and 3,242,672 others!

judebellingham: ❤️❤️❤️

yourusername: cute -> judebellingham: thanks but i have a gf -> yourusername: not you, the seashell. -> judebellingham: oh...

erling.haaland: Ouch... -> judebellingham: EERLING IM SORRY -> erling.haaland: make it up to me when the wound isn't so fresh :(

audreycore: BELLINGIIIIMOOOOO -> judebellingham: AUUUUUUUUUDREEYYYYYY (idk what your surname is)

football_wagss: new wag alert????

user1: UGH OMG GOALSS

football_wagss has posted!

liked by user1, user2, user3, and 124,523 others!

football_wagss: yourusername, girlfriend of jude bellingham, and close friend of yourusername, audreycore, spotted at the Bayern vs Real Madrid semi-final to support Jude!

#jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jb #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham smut #football x reader #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham blurb

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chirpsythismorning · 10 months

Text

Welcome to a series I'm calling:

Yes, that scene did foreshadow Mike's monologue was disingenuous

Because you'd be surprised how many times the show (even prior to s4) has poked fun at Mike's monologue in the most random ways.

The Bingham's Beautiful Performance

First we have Suzie's sister on the floor, bedazzled and sporting a veil all while her brother is filming. This is basically the kids attempting to present a tale of a romance ending in gruesome tragedy.

Our bride here is El. The edition of the veil could be a nod to the loud majority's series long assumption that Mike and El are going to end the show together, preferably getting married.

Unfortunately, this is the closest thing they'll ever get to it, with the acknowledgement of that possibility in and of itself being mocked.

This next shot makes the likelihood that these scenes are connected pretty much indisputable, that being the edition of the record player behind the bride's head.

The only reason they made a point of having Will push the radio out of El's way, was to subtly connect this moment in Surfer boy to the beautiful performance we saw at the Bingham's only a few episodes prior (scenes that are widely known to be filled with foreshadowing for the season's ending).

A few bylers have already talked about these parallels, so this isn't new knowledge per say. But I do know some have dropped it altogether as possible foreshadowing for whatever reason, while most fans outside of the byler fandom insist it only foreshadowed Eddie's death. However, I think there are too many details that equally, if not more connect it to Mike's monologue than to Eddie's death.

Some fans have also noticed how Will was missing in quite a few shots at the Bingham's, which is interesting, but not all that surprising. Especially in this case...

Will. Will is the director

Director Will: GET THAT RADIO OUT OF MY SHOT!

Will directed the monologue when he used his feelings to inspire Mike, with the reminder of it (literally in the moment) directing Mike to confess to El, just like Suzie's brother directed that beautiful performance. Both performances convincingly left its audience thinking that the performers feelings in that moment were believable and...

genuine...

#byler #stranger things #byler theory #the binghams #what really gets me is that the script for the monologue implies it did work #but this scene (along with many other scenes throughout the show) make a nod to the fact that it couldn't have possibly worked #by making a literal play by play of it being a performance with a fucking director giving commentary in the background #later the scene outright uses the word genuine to describe suzie's dad (who parallels mike)#and therefore makes the connection to mikes monologue being disingenuous #mike's monologue could be disingenuous for a layer of reasons #but it is disingenuous for the simple fact that it only happened because of will #there are several scenes in the show that make fun of this concept of mike's monologue not working #some in s3 with one in particular from that season being a little too on the nose #but also more moments throughout s4 that also poke fun at it #to be continued

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lurkingshan · 4 months

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Last Twilight Episode 12

A month ago, I never could have predicted that I’d be sitting here trying to assemble some thoughts to explain how on earth this show went so badly off the rails. I am truly taken aback by where this story landed, and I advise anyone who wants to think of it fondly to just pretend it ended at episode 9, and even skip the finale if you haven’t watched yet. Before I get into it, let me just start with a word of praise for the cast, who did a great job with their performances and kept this show afloat when the writing fell apart. And boy, did it fall apart.

In my view, this narrative had three main threads it was addressing: 1) Day’s journey to accepting his disability; 2) unresolved family trauma; and 3) Mhok and Day’s romance. And in the end, it failed on all three of them. I am going to dig into this and I am not feeling particularly nice, so if this is going to hurt your feelings I suggest you stop reading now.

Day’s Journey

Just…wow. We have been afraid of this turn the entire time and trying to hold out hope that the show would not go there, but here we are. I started laughing out loud when we got to the end of part 3 and Mhon’s phone went off with an alert for a new eye donor, and then just stared incredulously at my screen as we time skipped AGAIN to a Day whose vision had been restored for years (last week I joked to @bengiyo and @waitmyturtles that once a drama starts using time skips it becomes addictive and they never stop, and—welp!). What was this entire show for? Why did we spend twelve episodes with Day grieving his vision loss, learning how to cope, and finally accepting his blindness only to completely undercut it at the end? The first part of the finale was so much about how he was thriving—finding a new career for himself and becoming self-sufficient and growing so much on his own—only to give us an ending that implied he could not actually have his happily ever after without his vision restored.

And this is in fact the message they sent by coupling the return of his vision with the return of he and Mhok’s relationship, and giving us a happy ending rooted in his contentment at having his sight back. They even went back to the Last Twilight mountain to completely tarnish the thematic resonance of the original scene. Calling back to the beautiful memory of Day “seeing” the sunset and experiencing “a moment so good that you feel like you can live there forever” as he accepted his disability with this scene of him seeing the real sunset with his restored vision was so hurtful to me that I actually got angry. Day didn’t need his vision back to get a happy ending, and I absolutely hate what this communicates about disabled people’s capacity to live happy and fulfilling lives. This show has created many writing sins but this is the most unforgivable to me.

Family Trauma

The show began dropping the ball on this one a few weeks ago, but this finale put the nail in the coffin. We spent most of this episode at Porjai and Night’s wedding, an event that might have felt meaningful if the show had let us see any of their romance. I’m grateful to Mark Pakin and Namtan Tipnaree for their beauty and charisma because it’s the only thing that made me care about those scenes at all. Rather than actually being about them, however, this wedding was used primarily as a clunky vehicle to deliver heavy-handed messages about “second chances” to encourage Day to get back together with Mhok (more on that in the next section).

I did enjoy the brief nods in this episode to the brothers continuing to have newfound harmony in their relationship, but where the show really lost me was in their attempt to bring Night and Day’s dad back into the mix and imply some sort of resolution between him and Mhon. Mhon, a woman whose perspective on their split we never actually saw, whose motivation for her choices and behavior toward her sons were completely elided by the narrative, who was forgiven and made peace with offscreen during a time skip. I was never given the chance to understand her or what this relationship meant to her in the first place, so why would I care about these scenes with her making her peace with this man? I continue to be so confused about where this show chose to spend its time, and why someone with Aof’s track record on developing strong and narratively important familial relationships dropped the ball so much with her.

The Romance

Okay, let’s get into it, and remember what I said about not reading if this is going to hurt your feelings! My criteria for considering a romance successful is I have to believe the relationship is mutual, beneficial to both of the pair, and that the couple is prepared to weather future challenges. Last Twilight’s romance fails on all three fronts, and it all comes down to the total imbalance in the relationship that persisted right through the final scenes.

This entire narrative has been Mhok bending to Day’s will, giving Day what he needs, forgiving him for everything, and letting him make all the decisions about the relationship, and the finale was regrettably more of the same. In episode 11, Mhok made a mistake when he lied to Day about turning down the job in Hawaii. But he made that mistake out of grief and fear, and Day didn’t care—he unfeelingly rejected him and his pain and ended their relationship without a second thought. That was potentially forgivable as a momentary lapse borne out of instinctual hurt, and could have been repairable had Day reconsidered soon after and extended Mhok some grace. But in this episode, we find out Day blocked Mhok and refused to communicate with him again after that night, and has left Mhok completely in the cold for three years after he failed to be perfect one (1) time.

And this episode? Was on Day’s side in this conflict. Mhok is the one to return and start pursuing Day again. Mhok is the one to broach the topic of their breakup. Mhok is the one to thank Day for breaking his heart and tell him he did nothing wrong (y’all, I almost threw something at the screen). Mhok’s grief and trauma go completely unaddressed in this finale until they try to play the Rung card for one last moment of sentiment. Day cries to his mother about how he just doesn’t know if he can forgive Mhok. And in the end, Mhok makes the grand gesture, missing his flight to go to Day and stay in Thailand with him despite the successful life he has built in Hawaii.

The cognitive dissonance I felt watching this play out was extreme. I rarely see a writer misunderstand their own characters and relationship conflict so thoroughly. In order to believe in this romance we needed to see Day finally show some empathy for Mhok, take responsibility for his own mistakes, and be the one to make an effort this time. We needed to believe that Day has the capacity to be a supportive partner to Mhok even when he’s struggling. But Day didn’t demonstrate any of that, and so I simply don’t believe in this relationship. I don’t believe Mhok can trust Day not to abandon him again when some other major life event intervenes and Mhok is less than perfect. And that’s a shame, because the show really almost had something here with these two.

And that’s all I got. What a disappointment this show turned out to be. If you need me, I will just be over here in my little corner imagining the Night and Porjai romcom that we never got and pretending the rest of this show ended several weeks ago.

#last twilight #last twilight the series #thai bl #shan shouts into the void

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yan-lorkai · 2 months

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Hello! I have a Black butler request if you don’t mind! (It can be yandere but If you can make it not to noticeable??? If that makes sense.)

If I may could I request a Ciel Phantomhive x Cruella De Vill reader? I mean not exactly like Cruella but the fact she was born with hair spilt between black and white, she owns multiple Dalmatians which are really aggressive guard dogs for her. And she has a wonderful sense of fashion, even though most her clothes are only black, white or red. She even has a nickname that combines her name and Cruel together (like “Cruel-(/N)”) because she can be really honest and it comes off as rude. She is short temper but unlike Cruella she is only occasionally sassy but most of the time she is quiet because she used to get made fun of for her hair.

Also I was hoping it would be a oneshot, with a few hc. But if that’s to much it can just be hc! Thank you and have a nice day!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: I hope I did this rq justice because I absolutely loved it. Detailed rqs my beloveds. As you ask, I did some hcs and then wrote a little drabble, though I do apologize for such delay in answer it. Hope you like darling <33

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Platonic content. Maybe typos too.

☆*: In Ciel's ears, the news of a figure with two-tone hair who only dresses in black and red reaches him through gossip that Lau felt the need to share. The rumors, however, were not enough to capture the earl's attention at first. Who cares if Londoners are talking about this girl because she acts different and has a sharp tongue? Who cares if she has some protective dogs who can attack on command?

☆*: Certainly not Ciel. He has better things to worry about being the Queen's Watchdog besides running his own company. Gossip and rumors are not something that holds his attention unless they are related to the murderers who killed his parents.

☆*: So it takes a while before you finally get to know each other and he can get a glimpse of your strong genius. And heavens, he's enchanted, even if he doesn't know it, feelings aren't Ciel's thing. One thing he knows, this night will be one he would never forget.

...

Reluctantly, Ciel was participating in the celebration. A glass of juice in his hand as he watched each of the nobles approach the throne, kneel and say their rehearsed congratulations. So typical of nobles, so insincere. He hated it here, he could be doing so many things right in the comfort of his office. Still, he smiled and played his part when all adults around him looked down on him just because he was the only child here.

The starry night became filled with light and laughter; The Queen was throwing a party to celebrate another birthday well spent. Her age-kissed skin was still glowing, her eyes carrying a tinge of unforgettable joy, and her voice a jovial tone. As usual, she sat on her throne and waited for one by one the nobles to greet and boast about the gifts that were certainly better than the others.

It was funny to watch though. They all just seemed like jealous peacocks, huffing and puffing their feathers, wanting the queen attention on them.

Sebastian when can we leave? was what he wanted to ask to the butler at his side. What he almost asked. But right at that moment he heard a commotion.

A few meters ahead stood the notorious Cru-y/n DeVil, your presence commanding attention. Ciel couldn't help but be drawn to you, his gaze fixating on you with a mixture of intrigue and caution. Despite your reputation, he couldn't deny your beauty, a striking contrast to the darkness that surrounded your name. You were young, much like himself, yet exuded a confidence that belied your age, almost as if you too had to grown fast to protect yourself.

You seemed to be fighting a much older and powerful woman. The duchess who was always looking to fight someone and today had just found her new victim. But you aren't having any of that, making exaggerated gestures and smiling mockingly at the duchess.

Ciel observed the scene with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, at least the party turned out to be entertaining with this little fight happening and the queen was also watching you two too intently, curious, not at all bothered by it. Ciel couldn't help but roll his eyes when the duchess continued to argue and pointed her finger at you.

"Your hat is adorable" You say in a loud and clear tone, with the sweetest smile you can produce. "I'm sure it was worth sacrificing Big Bird, its poor beautiful yellow feathers wasted on this hat that perfectly fit your head."

A murmur starts around the two of you, some are laughing loudly, others are whispering among themselves, repeating what you said. The duchess, wanting to appear strong and resilient, fixes her khaki yellow hat - that barely fits in her head, lifts her chin an extra millimeter and leaves. However, Ciel knew that your comment would still haunt her for months to come. Today she had lost a fight and was insulted.

Undeniable was that the hat was horrendous.

Holding back a laugh that seems to want to escape him anyway, Ciel takes off his hat in greeting to you as soon as your eyes meet. He understood now why everyone was talking about you so much. To the court you were like a fresh breath of air, devastating if you hate it, great if you like it. And he absolutely like it. Not a lot of younger aristocrats behave this way and he really needs someone different to spend time, as Elizabeth is quite overwhelming with her affection and Sullivan is busy.

He approach you and with this gesture, plans to know more about you. He is now curious and his curiosity must be satisfied.

#yandere ciel #yandere ciel phantomhive #yandere ciel x reader #yandere ciel phantomhive x reader #yandere kuroshitsuji #yandere black butler #ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #kuroshitsuji ciel phantomhive #ciel phantomhive #fem reader #female reader #lorkai imagine

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schlattsdoll · 10 months

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Imagine going to the streamer awards with Schlatt (you’re not a streamer) and if he wins something then once you all get home he makes you cum as many times as he can as a celebration type thing

celebrate- jschlatt

minors dni

paring: schlatt x fem/afab! reader

warnings: smut {18+}, mentions of overstim, schlatt being a horny mf, overuse of pet names {im sorry}

to be quite honest with you, schlatt didn’t even want to go to the streamies. it wasn’t his scene and he was confident in the fact he wasn’t going to win. what sold him on it was seeing you in a tight dress. he took you shopping that morning, you two decided on wearing purple, the color of royalty as you told him. “makes sense, got my beautiful princess so that makes me a king.”

it was almost time to leave as you were putting the finishing touches on your makeup. “doll, we gotta go.” schlatt held your hand as you slid on your heels and even fixed the buckles for you. the tight sequined dress hugged your curves perfectly, the purple complementing your complexion.

“absolutely stunning.” your boyfriend commented with a wolf whistle. “whaddya say we skip this thing? i could do that thing ya like with my tongue.” he smirked and kissed up your neck. “jay, no. this is a big night for you! we have to go, that’s that.” you pushed the larger man away from you and frantically tried to fix your hair.

the car ride to the venue was so exciting for you. having only been with schlatt a few months, you hadn’t been to a streamers event before. “this is gonna be so fun jay! we’re gonna take pictures and you’re nominated! i think you’re gonna win personally.”

he rolled his eyes at the thought of him winning. “‘m glad you’re excited toots. at least one of us is.” you knew he wasn’t the biggest fan of going out, much rather wanting to spend the night back home in austin with you and jambo instead of being in smoggy old la. “c’mon baby, you’ll have fun trust me.” “i think having you bent over the bed would be more fun but okay.” he muttered under his breath.

you were right of course, sitting at the table with his fellow nominees ted and charlie, he started to loosen up a bit. drinks were flowing, laughs were being had, and schlatt started to ease up. “the nominees for best new podcast are…” ethan nestor started reading out their category. “oooh baby listen up!”

schlatt felt his nerves jump back up, he didn’t care about winning honestly. you were just so excited for him and the guys, he didn’t want to disappoint you.

“and the winners of best new podcast are….” you held schlatts hand tightly with one hand while you bit your nails on the other. “chuckle sandwich!” a camera panned over to your table and the guys all got up to go on stage, right after kissing their dates.

“thank you all so much for this amazing award, i think i speak for all of us when i say we definitely didn’t expect to be nominated let alone win. thank you to the fans for tuning in every week and we hope you keep listening!” ted spoke eloquently, a perfect acceptance speech; short and sweet.

once back at the table, his hand made its way to your thigh. “hey doll, don’tcha think i deserve a winner’s reward when we get back to the hotel?” he whispered in your ear then kissed your neck. his hand rubbed your thigh, inching closer and closer to your core. you squeezed them closer together, attempting to block his hand from his target.

the rest of the event was quite draining. all you could focus on was what schlatt was going to do to you later that evening. finally you got to leave and instead of going to the after party, you faked being sick. “sorry guys, im not feeling so hot. i better sit this one out. jay, you don’t mind not going do you? i feel so bad.” you pleaded with the large man, who knew you were faking it. “yeah guys, let’s do a rain check for next chuckle week. gotta make sure my baby’s feelin’ alright.” schlatt wrapped his jacket around you, and walked you towards his car. “congratulations again guys!”

the drive home was an entirely different vibe, schlatts hand was ghosting against your center, teasing you through your underwear. “couldn’t even wait for me to celebrate with my friends? needed me that badly huh doll?” he smirked at you while his fingers grabbed a hold of your panties and pulled them to the side. “s’fuckin’ wet for me…”

his large digits found their way to your clit, rubbing soft slow circles. “that’s it. atta girl. you looked so pretty tonight sweetheart. wanted to take you into a bathroom and fuck the shit outta ya.” your back arched into the seat at his words. “oh you like that idea don’t you princess? me taking care of this sweet cunt wherever i want it, not caring who sees me with what’s mine.”

his fingers speed up, causing you to grip tighter on the center console, “fuck jay, don’t stop. ‘m gonna cum.” “that’s right, cum for daddy.”

the car stopped moving, pulling into the hotel’s lot where schlatt waited until your orgasm subsided to help you out and into the room. once there, he tossed you onto the bed. “i believe i was promised the thing i like?” you smirked up at him.

dropping down to his knees and taking the headband out of his hair, he pulled you closer to the edge. “i’m a man of my word doll. but i’m gonna make you cum so many times you’re gonna cry.”

and once again, schlatt was a man of his word.

#jschlatt x reader #jschlatt imagine #jschlatt smut #jschlatt headcanons #jschlatt fluff #jschlatt #jschlatt hcs #chuckle sandwich imagine #mcyt imagine

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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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