#the locals are collectively getting grey hairs

[emdeerm]

Idea!

Whomst???

So, let's take canon Danny Phantom. We can even take the AGIT, that would only make him canonically 16-17is for this scenario. (Btw, poor Val. I'm seriously so sorry for her)

Danny is flying around the Infinite Realms to familiarise himself with it better. Look, if he decided to be the Bridge, he has to learn more about the Ghost side of his life. Their customs, quirks, limits, world... from someone who isn't a Fruitloop or his parents. He is still ashamed that it took meeting Dairy King to finally realise that not all Ghosts are evil.

He got to a section of many, many, MANY, natural portals that led into completely different universes. Most of them even had Heroes!!!! He was so exited!

He visited many in the next few months. Made friends, confused the heck out of locals. Made some enemies, cause that's just his life.

Spiderman was cool! Iron Man was so fun to prank, the guy was a billionaire and hilarious.

Even if he never was able to speak with the vast majority, those Japanese Heroes with cool superpowers were awesome. He was kinda glad his world was normal-is tho. Call him judgmental, but come on, look him in the eyes and tell him that you wouldn't be weirded out by some of the mutations.

And now, he spotted his new target. From what he gathered, they were an urban legend of the gloomy as heck city. Robins,... bats? or something. Time to make friends!

And close the leakage of the Raw, unfiltered ectoplasm into here. He had only been around one for an hour and he saw how problematic it was.

Aka

Danny is a gremlin in canon. He found cool portals. He will make it other's problem.

Yes, he keeps his identity hidden. No, he doesn't stay invisible all the time. Only initially to get some info. After that? You'd spot him openly bothering the superheroes. And rogues. Can't let them be left out.

What are they gonna do? Kill him? They can't even touch him most of the time.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #dp x dc #dcxdp #Danny isn't at all concerned about being seen #he's not from here #there are no weapons or laws against him #he's vibing #the locals are collectively getting grey hairs #especially the older and/or rich ones #look #the guy can turn invisible #can spy on you and you won't know #that's dangerous! #How do you not see that Flash?!?! #No! you are not buddies! get back you traitor! #P.s: Danny won't try to find their civilian lives. he has some respect #Iron man's identity literally wasn't a secret when Spiderman reffered to him by his actual name all the time #not his fault #dc x dp prompt 4

[starleska]

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

[white-poppie]

A little house with a picket fence

SYNOPSIS: This is the tale of how you and Nanami live your life in Kuantan, happily ever after. GENRE: FLUFF, drabble WARNINGS: none i think... A/N: I had the house in the movie Ponyo in mind when I wrote this. I am a ff writer i don't accept character deaths breh

"Kento?" you hum softly as his lips graze your temple. Your eyes flutter softly, palm resting on his toned, bare torso. The ring on your finger glimmering from the sunlight that falls through the curtains.

"Morning, sweetheart." he hums, his voice hoary like a sea breeze in the evening.

"Morning," you reply, watching him sit up and stretch, the muscles on his back flexing.

The atmosphere in this area is completely different from the city. There's no rush; instead, there is a collective idea of taking things slowly. Most locals prefer to ride bikes or walk to their destinations since everything is in close proximity to each other.

Nanami opted for a 9 to 5 job after retiring from his career of being a sorcerer at 30 and now weekends feel like actual weekends instead of him disappearing in the cold nights.

"Go freshen up, I'll make breakfast," he says softly and you smile, taking in the calm morning as you freshen up.

Perched gracefully upon the beachfront, your home exudes an aura of tranquillity that envelops you. The lofty ceilings of the house imbue the space with a sense of grandeur and spaciousness, while the glass windows offer an unobstructed view of the vast ocean before you. The windows are perpetually ajar, inviting the salty sea air to permeate the interior and infuse it with a refreshing vitality.

You walk into the kitchen, the faint smell of coffee hitting you as you settle on the kitchen counter table, looking at Nanami make eggs and toast with coffee, wearing his favourite blue apron and grey sweatpants.

"Phew, what a view in the morning." You chuckle and he shakes his head fondly while making the coffee. Nanami likes his coffee with little creamer, not too bitter, but enough to keep him awake after he spends his nights late reading those books you brought for him so fondly.

"Reminds me, I have to fix the fence after that rottweiler broke while smashing into, playing frisbee." He sighs and you chuckle saying, "it's a relief that no one was hurt."

You hum softly and eat the breakfast lovingly prepared by him, letting the flavours melt.After you have your brekfast. Kento walks out into the sun, standing on the porch as he takes in the view from your little house on the cliff. The tides lap at a distance from the beach as you get down from the natural second storey your house is on.

Your feet land on the same, you take a deep breath inhaling the sea breeze as you look over to him.

His eyes are closed, the small wrinkles on your husband’s face crinkling gorgeously under the sunlight. His long lashes fluttering against his cheek as the wind blows, ruffling his hair.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He says, without looking back.

You chuckle and take a step forward, interlacing your fingers through his hand that rests on his side. “I have, multiple in fact. I have so many pictures of this exact same scene.” Yet in never phases to mesmerise you, how pretty he is.

Kento smiles and tightens his hand around yours. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against your knuckles.

"I'll be honest, sometimes, I miss being a sorcerer." He mumbles and you look at him. "More like...I miss the familiarity in the unexpectedness that came with it."

You chuckle at his words and say, "So in other words you miss Gojo?"

He groans at your words and sighs, "Don't say his name you never know, he might just land up from the sky in a private jet."

You shudder at the thought of the lanky man jumping from the sky.

Nanami walks a few steps, following the shore, his hand in yours, as you walk along the beach.

"I adore it here." He whisper softly, sighing deeply as he tilts his head back slightly, the morning rays letting him have his golden hour.

“Me too,” you say, “though I wish we had more family members here.” You sigh and Kento look at you with a soft smile.

“We can always have one of our own.” He utters gently, looking at you as you crouch or pick yet another seashell from the beach.

“It’s a good idea.” You hum softly, as Nanami stands next you. Picking up a small shard of sea glass, you close an eye and look at Nanami through the yellow-ish tinted glass.

And he flashes you that smile of his. Effervescent. Reminding you just how lucky you are.

© white-poppie 2023. all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or translate without permission. do not claim work or layout as yours.

— JUJUTSU KAISEN - Fanfictions

TAGS: @akumicchi, @nanaseishiro @cleaningfairylevi @buttercupspotify, @euphoricbi @ynjimenez

﹒ Taglist   (lmk in the comments in case you wanna be added and the link doesn't work!)

"Of Vengeance and Ashes” -> BUY NOW!!!! [Synopsis: Read full synopsis HERE ... The year is 1759, London. Shakespeare’s new estate is set on fire by Reverend Francis Gastrell. History repeats itself, 250 years later when Luna Gastrell stands in turmoil due to her ancestry taking a sinister turn. A ploy of vengeance, illusions, betrayals, blooming romance and morally conflicting measures, and the cards lie in favour of none.]

I am a 16-year-old author who needs support, I assure you it won't disappoint! It's okay if you don't buy, it would be enough to share the link with someone else who might be interested! I humbly request you support my career as a child author by purchasing my book. This would help me to write more books in future!

Also Check out: L'appel du vide (✔️) (Synopsis: Your husband, Hanma Shuji is dead! With no memories of what transpired two days before his death, you team up with Tachibana Naoto, Chifuyu Matsuno, Ryuguji Ken and Mitsuya Takashi, you go on a journey full of betrayals and twists. Can you find out what really happened to your husband? )

#⎯𝒿𝒿𝓀⋆ #✸ NANAMI K. #white poppie🌼 #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #nanami my beloved #gege when i catch you gege #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #j

[604to647]

Safest with You - Ch. 1 (The Coffeeshop)

1.4K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: A handsome stranger helps you out with an unfortunate situation at the coffeeshop before work.

Warnings: None? I guess some jerk yells at a cute old lady 😢 so a wee bit of protective Din as well. (No smut, just a meet cute! Gonna be a slow burn, folks!)

A/N: Finally, I'm doing it! This is the start of the Modern AU I'm trying to build; Din is a retired mob enforcer for the Fett family, but they still call him in periodically when they need his strategic know how and/or extra muscle. He never says no - they're his family 🥹 For this meet cute, he's on a job downtown; I say they're in the financial district because I imagine Reader working in a corporate office with a finance related job she loves (she has a methodical mind!), but it’s not really important so you can imagine any office job 😊. There's no implied age gap, so I consider her as either well established or rising in her career. In other words, she's an independent woman and don't need no man 😂

Also I always use this super cute heart divider by @saradika (thank you!)

Series Masterlist

It’s crazy busy in this coffee shop.  Not unexpected of course; the local chain has some of the best coffee in the city, and this particular location is its only one in the downtown financial district.  Everyone, including yourself, was here to get their caffeine fix before heading into the office for the day.

Well, not everyone, you smile to yourself.  The little old lady in front of you doesn’t seem to be in any rush at all; you overhear her ordering her cappuccino in a ‘for here’ mug and a slice of coffee cake “as a treat”, and you’re glad someone, at least, will be having a nice leisurely morning.  When she’s finished at the till, you order and pay for your latte, then make your way to the waiting area where several other patrons are awaiting their orders.

“Ice Quad Espresso in a Venti cup, extra ice and six shots!”

Whoa. That’s a drink, you chuckle to yourself.  Someone must be preparing for a whole ass day.  You look up to see who might collect that caffeine bomb, and can’t help but admire the tall, broad-shouldered stranger who’s flashing the barista a devastatingly handsome smile and a nod of thanks.  Maybe it’s your own lack of caffeine, but you might be gawking a little at the way his wavy dark hair is peppered with grey (a few stray curls seem to stick out in the cutest way possible) and start to think it would be soft to run your hands through.  The fluffy hair matches nicely with his salt and pepper facial hair, neat but not perfectly trimmed, which for some reason you think suits him – he doesn’t look like he has to try very hard to look so adorable.  You’re snapped out of your daze when three more orders are called out in rapid succession, including your own and the little old lady’s.  Both of you, as well as a thin man in an ill-fitting grey suit approach the coffee bar to collect your drinks.  You were the closest, so you reach the counter first, collect your latte and step back to allow room for the others.  The thin man, however, apparently can’t wait and rushes forward to try and push past the old lady, just as she is turning around to look for a seat.  You watch in horror as they crash directly into each other and the old lady’s porcelain mug spills the entirety of its contents on the man before falling to the ground and shattering.  Shocked by the sudden impact, the thin man then flails out his arms, knocking both the old lady and her plate off balance, the latter slipping from her grasp and breaks on the ground as well.  Rushing forward, you help steady the old lady with one hand on her back and letting her grip your other arm.  Thankfully, you’re able to hold her steady and not drop your own drink.  “Are you okay?”, you ask.  Shaking a bit, the old lady nods, “Yes, dear.”

“You fucking bitch!”

Shocked, you look up and see the thin man glaring at the old lady while using his free hand to uselessly try and brush away the coffee that is dripping down the front of his suit jacket.  From the corner of your eye, you see the profile of the handsome Quad Ice man as he takes one step forward to intervene, but you beat him to the punch. “Excuse you?  You don’t fucking talk to her like that!”, you say with a bite to your tone.  How dare this effing guy?

“Look at this fucking mess!  She ruined my suit!”

“I’m sor-”, you hear the old lady start to say, so you place a reassuring hand on her arm, hopefully conveying that she doesn’t have to apologize to this neanderthal.  Stepping between the two of them, you look directly at the jerk and extend an accusing finger in his direction, “It was an accident! Which wouldn’t have happened if you had just waited your turn.”

“I’m in a hurry!  Some of us have very important meetings to get to.  And now the meeting is completely ruined because of this fucking mess!”

This guy.  You roll your eyes.  “If the people you work with don’t respect you because of a little bit of coffee on your clothes then you have much bigger problems.” And with that, you’re done with him, turning and crouching down to help the old lady who has unnecessarily started to try and clean the mess. 

Your back is turned, so you don’t know if the thin man tried to approach or if he had started to say something, but you hear a deep, rich voice from above say with quiet authority, “You owe both these women an apology.”  Looking up, you see the the imposing figure of the Quad Ice stranger standing over you and the old lady, almost protectively, shielding you both from the thin man’s view.  The hand not holding his crazy drink order is clenched in a tight fist; his hands are huge and you can see a scars of varying sizes and age littered over his knuckles. You know without a doubt that this man knows how to fight.  There’s a energy radiating from the man towering above you; you don’t know how to explain it, but it doesn’t feel dangerous?  Instead, it feels warm and you instinctively know you’re safer having him there. 

Regardless, you don’t want this cute old lady’s morning ruined any further so you decide it’s better to diffuse.  Touching his clenched fist and smiling softly when you have Quad Ice’s attention, you let him know to let it go, “It’s really okay.  Do you mind grabbing me a few napkins?”  His gaze down on you is soft, yet still protective; however, he takes his cue from your expression and lets the thin man leave, before bringing you a stack of paper napkins and squatting down to help.

“You shouldn’t have to help, dear.”

You give the old lady’s arm a gentle squeeze to wave off her concern, and you and Quad Ice start carefully picking up pieces of porcelain and putting down napkins to soak up the spilled coffee.  You reach over and put your hand gently over his, “Careful, it’s sharp.”  He gives you a smile and nods. 

Finally, a staff member comes over with a mop and lets the three of you know you don’t need to clean up any more and gives thanks.

As Quad Ice goes to throw away the porcelain pieces you’ve been collecting in a napkin, the old lady exclaims, “Oh no!  My dear, I got you too!”  You look down and see that you do indeed have a giant coffee stain near the hem of your skirt.  Oops! You don’t want her to feel bad though, “Oh, it’s okay!  I've done worse.  Don’t worry, I have a very friendly dry cleaner.”  You try your best let her know you’re not bothered, but the old lady still looks devastated.

“Come now, let’s make sure you get your morning treat.”  To distract her, you gently steer the old lady back to the till and order another cappuccino and coffee cake for her.  You absolutely insist on paying, hoping to help make up for the terrible morning she’s had so far.  She tries to argue, but the kind barista lets you both know it’s on the house and then that’s that.  After you've walked the old lady to the waiting area, you look at your phone, and realize you need to leave if you’re going to make the first meeting of your day, “Here’s where I have to leave you!  I hope your day gets much better from here.”

The old lady gives you her sincerest thanks, but you’re still somewhat reluctant to leave her.  From behind you, a familiar voice says in a comforting tone, “I’ll make sure she’s okay.”  You turn around to see that Quad Ice hasn’t left and is giving you a warm smile, as if he knows how worried you still are and wants to put your mind at ease.  The little old lady is now nodding reassuringly at you as well, and with that, you give the handsome stranger’s forearm a light squeeze as a thanks and you say good bye to them both.

---

As you take your first sip of coffee while sitting down to your meeting, you can’t help but recall the stranger’s deep chocolate brown eyes and the warmth they exuded in that last look he gave you and you wish you at least knew his name.

#din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin x you #modern au #no y/n

[fatherforgivethem]

The Greens in Forks, Washington….

Alicent Hightower: The mother of four quickly found herself married to the sheriff of Forks when she moved her and her kids to the states. The kids, thankfully, took a liking to Criston and the man never left their lives. She runs a tree farm and is constantly worrying about her children and her nephew Jace, even if they tell her not to. Especially her eldest, Aegon. She calms herself by tending to her trees and experimenting with new recipes from time to time.

Criston Cole: The sheriff quickly found himself head over heals for Alicent Hightower and her charming children. He’s known them since they were only little, and while they may not be his blood, they are his children. Being a sheriff is a difficult task when two of your children are constantly doings things they aren’t supposed to, and a round of murders is currently plaguing the town. Especially when your youngest son has become obsessed with solving them.

Aegon Hightower-Cole: The young man, who only just finished up at high school, is working hard to make money for college. If he can’t go, then he can make sure that his siblings do. The once baseball player let go of his dreams for a day job at an auto garage and a night shift in selling drugs to the rich kids in town. His parents, thankfully, don’t know and he’d like to keep it that way. He doubts his sister Helaena would like it either, though, he’s been known to always take her opinion of him rather seriously.

Helaena Hightower-Cole: The teen, when she’s not at the local diner, where she works as a waitress, likes to spend her time studying the bugs she finds in the woods. While the job at the diner was scary at first, she became used to the locals and enjoys her time there. She uses half of the money she makes to save, and the other half to indulge in the tools she needs in studying her insect collection. She’s always happy to get Aegon his usual when he comes into the diner and sometimes he likes to give her a book on bugs in return when she gets home.

Jace Velaryon: The young British man moved to the states not too long ago to help his aunt Alicent with the tree farm. He holds a love for plants and anything to do with nature and is more than happy to live with his four cousins and aunt and uncle. He likes to visit the cafe in the mornings and he always makes sure to drop a coffee off to his uncle Criston at the sheriffs department before heading to the tree farm. His Aunt Ali and him mostly spend their days on the farm and he’s come to love the rainy town he now calls home.

Aemond Hightower-Cole: The young teen spends most of his time at work and studying for any upcoming exam of his. He can usually be spotted at the counter of the diner, where works alongside Helaena, scribbling something down in his notebook. The whole town can agree that he makes an amazing cup of coffee and that he’s going to get into a top school once he graduates. He’s been saving the money he makes from work in several jars that he puts underneath his bed and has been applying for every scholarship he can find. He wants to make sure that his parents won’t have to pay for his education. He’s been encouraging Aegon to apply to a nearby college, but his elder brother only shrugs him off with a “maybe.” He’ll keep trying though.

Daeron Hightower-Cole: Daeron, the youngest of his family, is usually the person who comes in second when it comes to making his dads head spin (Aegon takes the gold on that one). Recently, he’s been giving his dad grey hairs by getting caught at crime scenes and selling test answers to kids at school. He’s always been interested in the cases his dad solves, but the recent ones have gotten his head all foggy with questions. The recent murders going on in town, and the mysterious kids at his school have him looking for clues in the woods late at night, and making murder boards behind his bedroom door. Something doesn’t seem right, and he’ll figure it out. He should probably take down the cups in his room before Jace complains about the mess again.

With extreme help and support from the lovely @sidraofthewildflowers 💓 thank you!!!!

#aegon ii targaryen #helaena targaryen #helaegon #if you squint in a certain light and tilt your head #alicent hightower #aemond targaryen #daeron targaryen #ser criston cole #jacerys velaryon #modern au #twilight au #hotd #moodboard #I love Daeron’s board so much #this took so long #I’m sweating #Aegon’s made me sad #he’s so cute #Criston is so papa #team green #alicole

[alligator-tearzz]

R.I.P Van Der Linde Gang 💔 You would have loved:

(seen a few ppl do this,, if you started this definitely lmk and I’ll credit u !!)

updated to add Kieran and Sean

Dutch - Self help books, those podcasts where people give you terribly incorrect health information and claim that they’re doctors

Uncle - The massage chairs in malls, Frank Gallagher, insane reddit stories that definitely never happened, scamming disability cheques from the government

Abigail - iPhone’s share your location feature, the Parent Teacher Association, audiobooks

Arthur - Remote control racing cars (aarwh it’s a toy boat!), the catch and cook youtube videos, Cowboy Carter by Beyoncé, free healthcare mayhaps…..

John - Maury, The sassy man apocalypse on TikTok, Sitting and watching Bluey in a trance with Abigail after Jack has already gone to bed

Miss Grimshaw - Supernanny, Judge Judy, Spas, Massages, Bear Grylls probably, Bed Bath and Beyond

Sadie - Streetwear, absolutely bodying men on FPS games, Rage rooms

Charles - Axe throwing to get the frustration out, wildlife protection acts, David Attenborough, ATLA

Javier - The head massage you get when you get your hair washed at the salon, edibles, Guitar Hero, collecting vinyls

Hosea - Game shows like The Chase and Deal or No Deal, Dolly Parton probably, cruises, community libraries where you take a book and leave a book behind

Strauss - Cryptocurrency, whatsapp scams

Mary-Beth - Wattpad, Ao3, Booktok, you name it. Those fanfic movie adaptations like After, 50 shades of Grey etc, Cottagecore aesthetic, Taylor Swift, TikTok edits, Bridgerton

Tilly - Those ‘Day in the Life of’ Tiktoks, Jazz bars, Chloe x Halle, cruises as well

Karen - How To Get Away With Murder, Bottomless brunch, Reality shows with a bunch of drama like Love Island or Married at First Sight, Ru Paul’s Drag Race

Bill - Mardi Gras, Brokeback Mountain 😋, Home Depot, probably, those giant American cars that are on the verge of being trucks, Call of Duty

Pearson - Those late night infomercials that show random kitchen utensils like a garlic mincer or a nutribullet blender, Reddit, Spending money on E-Harmony, standing in the club and staring awkwardly at a woman, Dungeons and Dragons

Lenny - Online self paced university, Jordan Peele movies, Studio Ghibli movies, Noise cancelling headphones, The Last of Us

Kieran - Animal crossing, Saddle Club, the Wikihow “how to talk to girls” page, taking horrible advice from tik tok just because the person who posted it sounded trustworthy, astrology probably

Sean - Getting drunk at local football games and heckling the other team, claiming he’s not into Karen’s reality shows but then standing there watching the whole episode with his arms crossed while asking her about every single person and their drama, would most definitely be famous for yapping on Twitter, Derry Girls would be his fave show

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 memes #modern rdr2 #dutch van der linde #van der linde gang #lumbago #uncle #abigail roberts #john marston #lenny summers #cowboy carter #tilly jackson #susan grimshaw #mary beth gaskill #javier escuella #charles smith #bill williamson #sadie adler #hosea matthews #karen jones #leopold strauss #incorrect rdr2 #red dead

[sarahwroteathing]

Cozy Season

[Wanda Maximoff x Reader]

A/N: Just a little drabble about spending time at a harvest festival with Wanda. Nothing but happy, cozy vibes here. About 700 words

The day was cold and damp, overcast skies glowing a pale grey, not quite dark enough to threaten more rain, but close. Chill air swirled with orange, gold, and scarlet around you. Once brittle and crackling beneath your feet, the fallen leaves had gained a supple new life after the late morning rains. One stuck to Wanda’s jeans, framing itself with darkened denim as its collected rainwater soaked into the fabric. She didn’t seem to notice, too enamored with the paper cup of apple cider she cradled between her palms, smiling serenely as the fragrant steam bathed her face. 

“You made a friend,” you said, tapping her thigh just above the leaf. Soft orange veined with red. 

She hummed contemplatively before reaching down to peel it away.

“She loves me…” Wanda made a show of checking for more leaves, twisting to check her backside with a thoughtful frown. “Well, that was easy.”

“I can throw some more leaves at you if you’d like,” you offered.

“It’s too late now. The leaves have exposed you.”

“Damn.”

She giggled, looping one arm around your waist to tug you closer and raising the cider towards your lips in a silent offer. You reached up to stabilize the cup as you took a sip.

“We definitely need to buy a gallon of this before we leave.”

“And some of those tiny pumpkins,” Wanda added. “And something from the bakery stands.”

“Supporting local vendors is very important. I think we’ll also need fifty fancy soaps. Maybe some candles,” you said with a sage nod that set her laughing again.

Her smile was so wide and genuine, eyes sparkling with such unbridled delight, it made you want to hold her forever. And maybe that was a bit impractical, so you’d take what you could get, brushing a kiss over her cheekbone before leaning your head against hers. And you stayed that way, huddled together and communicating with soft voices and softer smiles until the cider was gone and the clouds parted enough to afford you glances of pale sunlight. 

There were picnic tables nearby, scattered loosely within the horseshoe of stalls selling everything from honey and jam to sweaters and ceramics. Families and friends settled there, happily chatting, sharing baked treats and admiring their more long-lasting purchases. 

An elderly lady held a newly-purchased sweater up against her son, nodding her satisfaction that it seemed the right size. A little girl showed off her new bracelet to her brother, who was adequately charmed by the tiny silver acorns. A few tables away, three teenage girls and two boys were trying to throw bits of kettle corn into each other’s mouths with single-minded focus, cheering for rare moments of good aim. 

“I love this,” Wanda said quietly, taking in the small harvest festival with a serene smile. 

“Yeah, it’s cute, right?” you sighed happily. “This was a great idea.”

“It is, but that’s not what I meant.”

When you looked to her in question, Wanda was taking advantage of the parting clouds, her face tilted up to catch the sunshine. Your heart gave a little flutter, and you reached out to loop a lock of her hair around your finger. 

“What did you mean then?”

Wanda looked down, smiling at the absentminded motions of your fingers in her hair. She gave a carefree shrug.

“Just… Thanks for being normal with me.” 

You gasped dramatically.

“How dare you call me normal.” 

She gave an inelegant snort, falling into you plaintively as you laughed at her reaction. She silenced you in her own lovely way, with lips still flavored by tart apple and warm cinnamon. 

“Does this mean you’re not going to cheat in the corn maze?” you whispered against her lips.

“It means I will consider not cheating in the corn maze.” 

The two of you lapsed into giggles again, giddy and nearly overwhelmed by the easy, cozy joy of the day. The sun’s valiant attempts to provide warmth despite the damp ground and chill wind did nothing half as well as Wanda, who almost seemed to glow in her contentment and tucked herself so tightly against you that it seemed she would be a permanent fixture there. 

And in this moment, that was exactly what you both wanted.

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

I hope October is treating you kindly, my friends. Let me know if you enjoyed this. My first time writing Wanda

Tags: @shifutheshihtzu @internalbullshit @lilasiannerd-blog @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @iwillbeinmynest @scotlandasshole @netflixa @hardcorehippos @singingprincessstudent @sophiealiice @tinuviel015 @a-book-pressed-rose @bbparker @battlebunnyteardropsinthesun @feelmyroarrrr

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff drabble

[bruisedboys]

congrats on 4k mal!!!! so so deserved ily!!!! for HONEYBODY can i request a meet cute moment with mechanic!eddie <3

omg hi anna babe! I’m so sorry this took me so long, it’s also really short and kind of awful but. I tried <33

super embarrassing but I don’t know a thing about cars so I’m sorry if this is vague or inaccurate

mechanic!eddie munson x gn!reader

The walk back to your car from the telephone box feels dehumanising. You’re embarrassed, you’re frustrated, you’re hot. Your car refuses to start and you’ve had to call the local mechanics to come and pick up you and your useless hunk of metal with wheels. As if you weren’t embarrassed enough, stuck on the side of the road while cars whiz past you in both directions.

By the time you get back to your car you’re sweating and irritated. The guy on the phone said his coworker would be here in five minutes so you get back in the drivers seat in search of some shade. It’s warm and sticky inside the car but at least the sun isn’t taunting you anymore.

A few minutes later a truck pulls up next to you. A younger guy with a head full of wild curls and tattoos all up the arm that’s draped over the car door sticks his head out.

“You’re Y/N?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“‘Kay.” He flashes you a grin, pearly whites blinding in the bright sun. “Lemme park and I’ll get to checking out your car.”

You get out of your car while he parks in front of you and then you watch him get out of his truck. He’s in a graphic tank with grease stains all over it and dark grey coveralls tied around his waist. His curly, wild hair is tied back in a messy knot at the back of his head. He’s wearing more jewellery than you are, a big chunky necklace and a cool spiky earring, a dangly silver earring on the other ear. He’s really quite handsome, and you don’t have time to process this information before he’s standing right in front of you.

“Hey,” he says, toolbox clanging where it dangles from his hand. He smiles at you warmly. “I’m Eddie. Wayne sent me to come check your car.”

Wayne, the guy you’d talked to on the phone. You nod and try not to stare at Eddie’s arm as he sets the toolbox on the hood of your car. It’s covered top to bottom in black tattoos, inky designs stretched across his pale skin. You swallow.

“Uh— yeah. Yeah, it stopped and then wouldn’t start,” you explain, a bit uselessly but it’s hard to think when your mechanic is so wildly attractive. “I tried everything, but it’s kind of a piece of junk so I’m not surprised.”

Eddie grins at you lopsidedly. “Right. Well, let me have a look at it and see if I can figure out the problem. If not, we’ll tow it back to the shop. Sound okay?”

You nod. Anything would sound okay coming out of his mouth, you think.

Eddie pops the hood of your car while you stand to the side, unsure what to do. You could stand here and watch him, his arms as he turns knobs and screws, tattoos stretched taut across his bicep muscles. But you’re melting in the hot sun, and you think you might pass out from reasons other than the sun if you watch him any longer.

Eddie must sense your awkwardness. Or at least, see the sweat collecting on your forehead.

“Do you want to go sit in my truck?” He asks you, emerging from under the hood sweaty and grinning. “Y’can put the air conditioning on, it’s hot as balls out here.”

“Oh, um. No, that’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie looks at you from under his lashes, concerned. “You look like you’re melting, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Your heart does a funny jump to your throat that makes it difficult to speak. To breathe, even. You find yourself being led over to the truck by Eddie, his hand on your wrist, thumb at your pulse point. He opens the passenger door and lets you climb in, then rounds to the driver’s side. There’s a miniature red guitar keyring dangling from the rear view mirror. Eddie sticks his keys in the ignition and hits the aircon button, humming to himself all the while.

Immediately you’re hit with a cool wave of air and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Feels good, right?” Eddie asks, grinning.

It’s impossible to miss the implication, even though you know he didn’t mean it to be there at all. Your chest goes tight and his ears go bright red. It’s kind of adorable.

“I mean the aircon,” he says quickly. “It’s nice. I just got it installed last weekend, Wayne made me pay for it myself, but, um …” He trails off, ears a hot red and his cheeks dusted pink. He meets your eyes and grimaces. “You don’t care. I’ll be out here, if you need anything.”

He gives you an awkward two fingered salute and then disappears. You hear him groan to himself as he walks away.

You laugh to yourself, totally charmed. For once, you’re glad your car is such a nuisance.

#★ mal writes! #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurbs #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson drabbles #eddie munson fics #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x y/n #⟡ 4k celebration!

[erathene]

F*ck It (Part 1)

Summary: Strider pays a visit to the Prancing Pony where you are working as a barmaid, but all does not seem well with the wandering ranger. You do your best to fix it. 

Word count: 2.1k

Pairing: Aragorn x Female!Reader 

Warnings: LOTS of swearing and cursing, you have been warned. Intoxicated behaviour and alcohol. Mention of menstruation in a humorous manner.

AO3 Link: F*ck It

Author's note: Special thanks goes to the members of @fellowshipofthefics discord group (vamp_ress, prettea and spider__lilies) who helped me explore new ideas when my inspiration dried up 😊 Also thanks to DocFigureskaterM for being my beta reader. I tried a completely new writing style with this fic; my toddler son is starting to understand words now, and I have had to really watch my mouth around him! 😂 So this fic was born out of trying not to use curse words in front of a 16 month old haha.

Part 2 has now been posted!

..........................

The Prancing Pony was busy tonight. All of the parlours were crammed with punters, and the air that lingered around the bar was thick and heavy with sweat and drink and pipeweed smoke. 

You picked your way carefully through the crowds, collecting glasses as you went. You didn't mind bar work, but it's not like you had much choice. You couldn't shoe a horse, your needlecraft was shit, and you had fuck-all artistic flair for floristry, so that eliminated about half the jobs going in Bree. You didn't have two pennies to rub together, so that ruled out buying your own land to rear livestock or grow produce to sell. Fuck it, tavern work would do. It kept your belly full and a roof over your head, so it would do nicely. 

Barliman Butterbur, the Gaffer, ensured you were paid fairly, but it wasn't a high-earning job. It wasn't a glamorous job either; your days mostly consisted of emptying piss pots from the upstairs chambers, scrubbing the parlour floors, or wiping out the tankards ready for the evening drinkers. And drink they did. As night fell, the punters came, downing pints and pints of ale and cider and anything else that could be poured into a flagon. Some were regulars, loose-lipped locals trading gossip and louts one-upping each other in pointless contests to see who could win in an arm wrestle or a brawl out back. Some were strangers, passing through from abroad or travelling merchants wanting nothing more than a bite to eat and a soft bed for the night.

And then there was him.

You rarely traded conversation with the punters. The less they knew of you and you of them, the better. Moving mouths made idle hands, so your Mam used to say, and she was absolutely right because striking up a conversation with any punter would mean you had less time to get through all your cleaning. But you knew his name, Strider, and you knew he was a ranger. He wasn't a regular, though he frequented the Pony about once a month, and neither was he a stranger, for he knew your name and was on first name terms with the Gaffer too. He was just Strider. He was tall, towering over most men, with a mop of dark hair and curtain bangs that occasionally hid his grey eyes. Grey eyes that were never cold despite the colour. Broad shouldered, a bow and bedroll usually strapped to his back, and a large-as-fuck weapon at his belt. He wore a mottled green cloak with a hood, the type that you'd use if you wanted to fuck off into a forest and never be found again. Whenever he turned up, he had a ragged look about him, like he'd been through a bush backwards and had a good story to tell about it too. 

You would never admit it, even if you were on your fucking deathbed looking at the lord creator himself. But if you had to describe your "type", it would be Strider.

So it's no surprise when your heart stuttered for a microsecond as soon as his giant mud-soaked leather boot stepped over the threshold. He'd been gone for a while and it had been months since he was last here. Not that you were counting the days of his absence like some lovesick maiden awaiting the return of her knight in shining armour. Fuck that shit. 

Normally, Strider would ask for a half-pint of the local cider, take it to his favourite table in the corner of the bar, and settle himself comfortably, retrieving his pipe and tobacco from his travelling pack. Fuck, if there was a sign you'd worked here too long, knowing his exact routine was probably it. You readied a half-size tumbler as he approached the bar.

"An ale today, y/n" he said, placing a fistful of coins on the bar in front of you. "And make it a full pint, if you would be so kind."

That was.. odd. You did as instructed, like a good tavern girl, pouring dark amber liquid into a larger flagon. As the container filled, you noted Strider looked more roughed up than he normally did; flecks of mud clung to his skin and hair along with perhaps a fortnight's worth of grime, the filth on his palms and between his fingers would have rivalled that of any gardener, and you'd bet your last copper his clothes hadn't seen the inside of a washbasin in over a month. Placing the tankard down in front of the man, you took just one coin from his pile. "The ale's no dearer since your last visit, Strider," you commented with one eyebrow raised and a glance at his gold. But he paid you no mind whatsoever; the flagon you had handed him moments ago was almost vertical as he downed the pint. 

"Another," he croaked, planting the empty flagon on the bar beside the coins that remained. You poured another from the same barrel. The second pint disappeared almost as quickly as the first, and was soon followed by a third.

Upon ordering his fourth drink in what felt like as many minutes, you slammed your hands on the bar and looked him dead in the eye. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" you asked, not bothering with pleasantries. His grey eyes met yours for a fleeting second before he looked away. You thought you caught a look of shame in those eyes before he broke contact, as though he knew he was getting a telling-off for his behaviour but he was going to carry on anyway and fuck everyone else. Very strange indeed. This was unlike the Strider you'd had dealings with in the past, who would politely ask you to share any tales you'd heard from locals over diluted cider and a puff of pipeweed. This Strider seemed out of sorts, as though he was holding onto thoughts and feelings about fuck knows what, and all he could do to control it was to force more alcohol down his throat, to drown it and make sure it never saw the light of day. You'd seen this behaviour in other punters plenty of times before. But not in Strider. Strider was always in control, always predictable. 

You already knew you weren't getting an answer to your question. Fuck, you shouldn't have even asked in the first place. Another punter down the bar started growling loudly about the lack of service. Resisting the urge to tell the prick to pipe down and wait his turn, you quickly refilled Strider's flagon. 

For the rest of the night, your work mostly kept your attention away from the ranger. The fleeting glances you did make in his direction confirmed to you that he continued to drink, and the more he consumed the more he leaned into the bar for support. As the punters began to clear off for home or to their chambers upstairs, Strider was one of the final ones who remained. When the Gaffer called last orders, the ranger had folded his arms across the bar with his head rested upon them. You approached him slowly, ready to take away the many empty flagons that surrounded him. 

"I'll.. need a room, y/n", he said as you neared, his words slurring together.

You sighed. Fuck's sake, Strider. "We're full for the night, I'm afraid." If the fucking fool had decided that earlier rather than at last orders, he might have a bed upstairs by now.

Strider groaned in disappointment. Clearly this wasn't what he wanted to hear, but there was fuck all you could do about it. He made to rise from the bar, but his movements were completely uncoordinated, and he staggered sideways, catching himself by the edges of his fingertips on the solid bar. He glanced at you with a confused expression, probably wondering why the world was spinning and why there were six of you standing before him. You'd seen that look before in patrons who couldn't hold their drink. Seemed that Strider was one such patron.

Fuck. With every room upstairs taken, the only option for Strider would be to sleep on the street, and if he was lucky enough to find an alleyway that wasn't covered in pig shit and piss, he'd likely find himself mugged for his remaining coin or possibly worse. Bree was often subject to petty crime with so many people coming and going. Were you resolved to letting this man wonder the roadways until he collapsed in surrender to his drunken stupor? You gritted your teeth. The Gaffer would be locking up soon, he was already rearranging empty chairs and stools at the other end of the room. 

You glanced back at Strider. Actually, the street was not his only option. There was a free bed upstairs: yours. 

You moved quickly whilst the Gaffer was distracted. Yanking Strider's arm, you pulled the drunkard to his feet, catching his dead weight as he failed to remain upright. You both awkwardly shuffled to the narrow stairway that led to the upper floors of the inn. Strider was muscular and well-built, and that made him fucking heavy. Lifting and shifting barrels over the years here was paying off though as you managed to get him upstairs with only minor difficulty. As soon as you crossed the threshold into your dimly-lit and modest bed chamber, Strider doubled over and vomited violently onto the hardwood floor. 

A stream of curse words flew from your mouth, the likes of which would make your Mam turn in her grave, god rest her soul. This was one extra cleaning job you could fucking do without. Fucking Strider and his lightweight stomach, no wonder he never strayed from his fucking cider if this was how he got after one too many ales. You dropped him ungraciously onto your single bed in the corner of the room where he curled up into a ball on top of the blankets, his hands cupping his head. You took a deep breath and tried to calm your emotions. The fool was probably suffering enough right now.

"Wait here whilst I get something to clean this mess up," you instructed him. "And any more where that came from can go in there," you added, kicking an empty bucket in his direction. Strider grunted in acknowledgement, but did not move.

It took you over twenty minutes to mop up the mess and scrub the stink of bile out of the floor. On your way back downstairs to return the mop and bucket, you grabbed a couple of flagons and filled them with fresh water. Strider would probably wake up with a giant fucking hangover tomorrow and he would need liquids that were alcohol-free. Once back upstairs, you tried to hand one of the water-filled jugs to Strider, only for him to crudely bat away your hand.

"It's water, you moron. Drink." You were not in the mood for his shit. You were already facing the prospect of sleeping on your own floor and this thought left your bedside manner extremely lacking. But you tried, adding "you'll feel like utter shit tomorrow if you don't."

Strider lifted his head from your feather pillow. Taking the flagon, he uttered his thanks before drinking deeply. "I s'pose you think I'm a complete fool," he slurred  as he returned the goblet to you.

Before you could respond, there was a harsh knock at your door. "Y/n! Are you in there?"

Shit, it was the Gaffer. He was probably wondering where you had got to whilst you'd been spending time tending to the drunk fucker sprawled on your bed. You pulled a throw from your laundry heap and tossed it over Strider to hide his form, before hurrying to open the door.

"Sorry Gaffer, I was just.. changing," you said quickly. The Gaffer looked you up and down with one eyebrow raised, clearly seeing you remained in the same basic dress and apron that you'd been wearing all evening. "My underwear," you added hastily. "Y'know.. Women's problems." You flashed him a friendly smile. He wouldn't ask any more questions after that. 

It was well into the wee small hours when at last, your shift was done for the night and you were able to ascend the stairs. You pushed the door to your chamber open and found Strider exactly where you had left him, his dark head poking out from under the blanket. He was snoring softly. Peering into the bucket, you saw with satisfaction that he hadn't lost any more contents of his stomach, nor had he made any more mess anywhere else. This was good. You pulled a spare quilt from your solitary cupboard and laid it out over the floorboards. Sinking to your knees without even bothering to change clothes, you wrapped half the quilt over yourself and within minutes entered a dreamless sleep. 

#aragorn x y/n #aragorn x reader #aragorn x you #aragorn #lord of the rings #lotr fanfic #fanfiction

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐀 𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐦𝐚𝐧

To foster and encourage growth, you had to first begin with a seed — a start of a new life, the beginnings of a story. It was similar to how you met your husband if only a little unorthodox, but who were you to question a newfound tradition?

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☼ Farmer!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 ��𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☼ 1.5k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☼ Fluff ჻჻჻ TROPES: Meet Cute

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☼ Colton is the best wingman. Fight me.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ☼ Fire by Noah Gunderson

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ☼ @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer ჻჻჻ Week 8 — "How did you meet?" — Masterlist

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 ‘𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The morning was crisp, and the sun was bright, the beginnings of a new, hopeful day – one that you were excited to see the outcome. It was a Sunday, and the Farmer’s Market was in full swing of being set up. Even Bucky had elected to come and help on this occasion instead of working on the farm.

“Where do you want this?” Bucky asked, large crate in hand, this one full to the brim of your famous peaches. 

You pointed to the end of your table. “Over there, please,” you replied. Bucky nodded and placed the crate down with a huff. “Thank you.”

“It’s lookin’ good, sweetheart,” Bucky said abruptly, right over your shoulder. You gasped quietly in surprise and turned to stare at him. “What?”

“Stop scaring the shit outta me,” you sniped, slapping his arm. “We’ve got shit to do now, c’mon.”

Bucky sighed and continued lugging crates from the bed of the truck to the stand, all while people started flooding the square, milling about the stands of produce and haggling for bargains. 

An older woman, the greying strands of hair at her temples bright under the morning sun, stopped at your stall just as you finished setting up the jars of jam. “Hey there,” you greeted, beaming at her. “What can I get for you today?”

“Just some jam, love,” she said. You nodded and collected a couple of jars just as Bucky dropped the last crate with a groan. The older woman smiled at him as he stood behind you.

“All loaded, baby,” Bucky breathed, kissing you on the cheek. You nodded and pointed to a chair, indicating he should sit for a minute (if only to get him out of the way). “Damn right ‘m gonna sit after the hard work you made me do.”

“Ignore my husband,” you breathed, shaking your head.

The older woman laughed. “How did you two meet? I’ve seen you in these parts before, and everyone loves you both.”

Bucky laughed. “It’s my damn horse’s fault, ma’am,” he said, “the bastard was gone on her from the very first second.”

You rolled your eyes as the memory flashed through your mind.  

The old truck you had borrowed from a friend rumbled down the road, gravel, and stone kicking up in its wake – the bitumen long overdue for a patch job. 

It did add to the charm of your small town, though. Your family had spent generations farming the land and supporting the local economy by running endless farmer’s markets – a tourist hotspot, if you did say so yourself, especially going by the recent uptick in new arrivals. 

The recent overtake of Parker’s Provisions by the newcomers , May and Peter Parker, had been a successful move – both having been welcomed and adored in equal measure by the townsfolk, Peter especially. That firecracker of a young man always made your day, rain or shine, and you were looking forward to your weekly supply run for the animals back home. 

Though, the sight of a horse hitched at the front of the sprawling lot of buildings that made up the Parker’s Production lot was a shock. It wasn’t often that the ranchers and farmers on the outskirt properties actually rode into town. Instead, they always elected to bring their trucks and trailers. 

Your truck came to a shuddering stop when you parked, and you killed the engine, taking just a moment to marvel at the horse hitched. It was a stallion, his face soft and kind, but his body was a whole other story. Muscles rippled and twitched as he stood while waiting for his rider – the build of a Quarter Horse very much evident in the stance of the creature. A barrel or cattle mount, you couldn’t quite tell. 

His coat was a chocolate brown, with splashes of white over his flanks and legs, and a thick, pretty stripe adorned his face. 

You couldn’t help but feel that while he looked at you, he was staring straight into you – deep into your being to reveal secrets and mysteries you kept hidden from the world.

It was unnerving, though assuring in the way that being seen was. 

The driver’s door opened with a squeak, and you slid out of the truck and into the hot summer air outside. People milled about with bags and baskets, each one waving a small hello, and you smiled back at everyone politely. A loud voice inside the closest shed told you Peter was on site today, and you smiled. 

“Hey, Pete!” you called, and a brunette mop of hair peeked around the doorway. 

“Hey! Just a sec, I’ll be out with you soon,” Peter yelled back, disappearing again.

You chuckled and made to step towards the stallion, hand outstretched. “Hey, handsome–aren’t you a sight, huh?” The horse snorted, twitched his ears, and stared at you. “I know it’s hot out, but you look like your rider takes good care of you.”

Slowly, the stallion stretched his head out and sniffed the air around your hand, and once he made contact, the soft skin of his muzzle tickled your palm. “You’re just gorgeous,” you breathed, scratching his chin gently. 

“Well, well, well–ain’t every day he finds a Peach he likes,” a voice drawled behind you, and you startled, spinning around on the spot. “Easy, love,” the man said, hands outstretched. “No harm done.”

“I’m sorry, I just- He’s gorgeous,” you rushed, hand over your heart. The man smiled and shook his head, the movement freeing his long hair from behind his ears. Taking a second, you took in the stranger. He was wearing a white tank top that was far too tight, a plaid jacket, and a pair of light jeans with boots – his hair was half up in a bun while the other half hung around his face, sticking to his skin from the sweat of a hot day. 

“He is. A good horse, too,” the man said, still smiling. He walked closer, dug into his saddle bag, and pulled out his wallet. “Aren’t you, Colton? Lettin’ a pretty Peach love on you like that, huh?”

Colton snorted and nudged your shoulder, evidently displeased you stopped paying him attention. You chuckled and pet his neck, feeling the strong muscles under his skin. “A very good horse, indeed.”

The man grinned and shoved his wallet into his back pocket, then he offered you his hand to shake. “I’m Bucky, by the way–too distracted by the fact that my asshole of a horse actually lettin’ someone near ‘im that’s not me.”

This time you laughed, shaking Bucky’s hand and offering your name in return. “It’s nice seeing a fellow rancher out and about with his prize; makes me miss having my own,” you commented, slightly wistful. It had been years since you had owned a horse. 

“I honestly jus’ couldn’t be bothered goin’ back home to get my truck, and Colton needed the exercise anyway, so.” Bucky shrugged. “Best be gettin’ back inside. Stuff won’t pay for itself.”

“Okay,” you said, “I best be going in there too. I have to pick up my order.”

“Oh!” Bucky exclaimed. Then, to your absolute and utter shock, he offered you his arm. “Together then?”

“Well, alright,” you laughed, placing your arm through his. “Why not.”

It was an hour later that you strode back through the doors to your truck, arms full with bags of feed while Bucky and Peter trailed behind you with their own arms full of bags – having had offered to help you carry, and you couldn’t resist the sight of seeing Bucky’s arms bulge under the strain. 

And Lord above, he did not disappoint. 

“Alright, that’s it, miss,” Peter huffed, heaving a bag into the truck’s bed. “See you next week, yeah?”

“Absolutely, Pete, thanks,” you called, waving to the young man’s retreating back. You turned to Bucky, smiling. “Well, it was good to meet you, Bucky.”

Bucky grinned. “Likewise, sugar. You should come and have coffee sometime.” He turned to Colton. “I know that bastard would love it if you came and fed him some peaches or somethin’–greedy sonofabitch,” he laughed, shaking his head at the hilariously deadpan expression on his stallion’s face. 

“I would love to.” The words tumbled from your mouth before you could stop them, and you inwardly sighed. So much for subtlety. “It would be great. How about tomorrow? We can have lunch.”

“Sounds perfect to me, Peach,” Bucky said happily, saluting. “You get home safe now, I’ll come pick you up tomorrow–where do you live?”

You recited your address and smiled nervously, watching as Bucky mounted Colton and turned him around. “I expect all the stops pulled out, mister,” you joked, pointing at him. 

“Can’t disappoint ya, honey–promise,” Bucky joked, “see you tomorrow!”

Colton snorted and started a slow trot away, Bucky’s hand loosely holding the reins as the stallion moved away and turned a corner, out of sight.  

“He’s a decent boy,” a voice said behind you, and you jumped. May was smirking at you from the office. “Always kind and sweet–should give it a go, honey, can’t hurt.”

“You’re right,” you conceded a soft smile on your lips. “Can’t hurt. He ain’t bad to look at, either.”

May laughed and waved goodbye, and you jumped back into your truck, already thinking of all the ways tomorrow could go – or how it would end.

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #hotbuckysummer2023 #rookthorne's works

[stitchpunk1]

YO GUESS WHOS HERE TO TALK ABOUT HAZBIN FANKID OCS BITCHES!

Yeah Ive been wanting to do this for a bit but been super fucking lazy. Got some other fandom ones too I wanna talk about but what with Hazbins first season ending wanna talk about mine with a few tweaks I've done plus one I forgot to add in the last one. I will put this one under spoilers sense the eps just came out and now I have to change shit around till season two for a few of them.

First I have Lucy(used to be Mara and cliche name I know but i like it). She is Charlie and Vaggies kid and named after her grandpa(who spoilers her fucking ROTTEN). Kinda got a design in my head for her that goes with a lamb/goat theme because she is half demon and half angel. Shes got charlies blond hair but more in Vaggies short style and its slightly curly. Shes also got the little hooves, sheep ears and eyes are that horizontal goat type. Like before she is still an absolute artist and loves doing bigger art installations around hell. She ends up dating Husks daughter Heather when they get older.

Second we have Isabella who is by blood Angel and Alastors daughter but her other dad is Husk and sister is Heather. Still got the same design for her that shes a bit more centaur deer like. Shes got the ears(and tail because I'm not giving that headcanon up) of Alastor but with Angels color scheme and fur and kinda a mix of spider claws/hooves(trying to picture her like head/hair in my mind has been a BITCH trying to not just think of it as a carbon copy of Angel). Recently she has become absolutely fucking unhinged as a child in discussions with Musekicker. She is 100% a cannibal and loves to take bites out of people out of pure curiosity of how they taste(leading to many many child leashes that she usually manages to chew her way out of). I like to think that she becomes popular on the hell version of tiktok with cottagecore vibes with a mix of her cannibalism. Dunno why but I like to think that if Alastor sheds his antlers she collects them and makes them into headbands she wears(also uses them to stab people).When older she ends up dating Moxxie and Millies daughter Mable.

Heather is just Huskys by blood and a one night stand but after becoming a couple with Angle and Alastor they become her parents too and Isabella her sister. Every time I think of her design all I can picture is something like Sawyer from Cats Dont Dance. Shes mostly white with a bit of her dads dark grey. Her face all around is just a pure resting bitch face even if she isnt mad or in a bad mood("its literally just my face" is something she has to say a lot). Her biggest secret is how much she LOVES to sing especially musicals and wants to be a stage performer but she thinks she could never make it. She does start to try out in school or any local theater productions thanks to Lucys encouragement. I like to think that after quitting Mammon that even Fizz sometimes does shows for fun and he kinda mentors her after seeing her talent.

Two more to go! Vea is Val and Voxs little accident that they just decide to keep around. She looks mostly like a moth demon but more bluish and sometimes has a little bit of electricity that goes between her antenna. Shes pretty powerful as she can sometimes match Voxs powers if he say fucks around and locks electronics or tv channels. She ends up not exactly running away from home but just kind of wandering away as her parents pay her little to no mind. She ends up at the hotel and kinda taken in by everyone after they learn her story. She ends up becoming the hotels electrician and is fucking terrified of Niffty.

Lastly is one I forgot on my last post who I am not sure what to do with her after the last episode. Her name is Pia and she is Pen and Arackniss kid. Body type she looks mostly like Niss with a little snake tail but she can go full naga like with extra arms/legs when she wants. She has a hood/hair like Pen and is insanely venomous(took me like ten tries to fucking spell that right) do to being half snake/spider. If Pen is in heaven whenever these kids are around she is raised by Niss who stays around the hotel more to take care of her/keep her from his father(who you know is a fucking prick). When he isnt around Angel takes care of his niece. Shes mostly quiet and keeps to herself but she loves weapons of all kinds, being an absolutely crack shot with most firearms.

#hazbin hotel spoilers #stitches ocs #vaggie #hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #angel dust #alastor #husk #vox #valentino #sir pentious #arackniss

[voidmade]

Material objects i've discovered/rediscovered/am still enamored with within the last year:

-dancer shorts: it took me a bit to be comfortable with wearing these outside but it's the ultimate summer comfort piece, and so multifunctional!

-jewelry-like purse

-Nike x Comme des Garcons heel sneakers: my friend who used to work at Nike showed me these pre-release and i was sneering so hard but i woke up one day wanting them and it's been nothing but love ever since

-fur vests: loved them for a long time but this fall&winter they truly showed me how wonderful they are as layers for cold weather

-Gods and Kings: The Rise and Fall of Alexander McQueen and John Galliano by Dana Thomas : incredibly researched and so captivating, it will open your eyes abt these designers' works!

-Fashion at the Edge by Caroline Evans: another incredible research into the experimental runway shows of the 90s and 00s, dealing with darker themes and controversial fashion

-Dior Backstage foundation : happily committed for nearly 4 years, and with each and every use i am reminded why i love it so much

-Rom&nd Milk Tea Velvet Tint (in shades Earl Grey Tea and Black Tea): i always wear it as a lipstick in a nice thick layer, i just adore these shades

-Ben Nye white eyeshadow

-oil perfume:generic from my local arab produce store and a bit more high end, Oud Attar Discovery Collection - i never got as many compliments on my perfume since i started using oil perfumes, the scent lasts ALL day and it always fills whatever room i am in, my dream of being a walking incense stick came true!

-Accutane:yeah this one's a life-changer ngl...and side effects weren't that bad!

-bar soaps(two i have recently purchased, regular Aleppo soap and Tobacco scented soap from Alchimia)-rediscovering them after being a long time user of just liquid soap&shower gel, yes it feels a lot more sustainable, less waste, they last longer, plus the wonderful feeling of holding a new bar of soap, its weight and volume....yeah

-Palmer's Cocoa Butter lotion: i tried other lotions this year but i have to keep coming back to this one, it's so nourishing, easy to find, and always smells divine!

-Kose Softymo Speedy Cleansing Oil: it's so popular for a good reason

-Supermilk conditioning spray from Lush: your hair will smell sooo good

-gourmand scented incense: don't be scared of stronger scents, because the smell will linger in your place even the day after you've burned these...in my house it always does!

-domestic sewing machine: i finally got one this year and it's so comforting to be able to work on clothing at home as well! Plus a good skill to hone especially since my prediction senses tell me homemade clothing will be big soon enough, after we all get sick of fast fashion/trend cycles/insane vintage resell market/clothing fitting poorly etc

#i had to hold on till the last minute i did re-discover some good foodstuffs yesterday on 31st even! #anyway never did this before but now i finally feel grown enough for recs of the sorts

[theharrowing]

Ghost Friend

Yoongi's spirit has stayed in his dilapidating home for decades. One day, Jimin and his friends Taehyung and Jungkook decide to visit the property, and Jimin makes a ghost friend.

Or, the one where Jimin is totally Jean Grey.

👻 Yoongi x Jimin (platonic)

👻 word count: 1.8k

👻 friends who encounter a ghost, haunting au, crack treated seriously, slight hurt/comfort, appropriate for all audiences

👻 warnings: uhhh...honestly, none? Yoongi is a ghost (which implies that he is dead!) but otherwise, this is a very chill, cute little Halloweenie fic. it is not in the slightest bit scary! Yoongi is lonely, and there is a positive ending. i guess my sense of humor could count as a warning!!!

👻 note: since it's a drabble, the descriptions are not as vivid as usual. it's mostly ~vibes~.

👻 request by @park-jimin-isnt-real for my Harrowing Halloween event! thank you so much for requesting!!! 🍉💜 i feel like you wanted it to be a little more of a crack fic but i managed to make it so serious haha. 🤪

👻 beta read by @neoneunnajimin

👻 posted oct. 2023 | read on ao3

“Hey, Chim, think fast!”

The one who reacts to the nickname Chim – who Yoongi surmises is actually named Jimin – glances up in time for an inflatable ball to travel through Yoongi's spectral form and pummel Jimin in the side of the face. The two men Jimin trespasses with stand about ten feet away, and the buffer of the two – who Yoongi thinks is named Jeongguk – is doubled over laughing, dark hair falling in his face. 

The one Yoongi thinks is named Jimin is understandably annoyed, picking up the ball, which is painted like a basketball but much smaller, inspecting it before throwing it back with nowhere near as much strength. It nearly hits the one who might be named Taehyung, and falls to the floor, rolling away.

Jimin complains, “Don’t throw haunted toys at me, you fucking creeps,” sounding exasperated.

The toy isn’t haunted, nor does it belong to Yoongi, but he is unwilling to correct them. He thinks some children brought it to the property long ago, before the house had become somewhat of a local legend, and left it behind. Sometime in the early 2000s, he thinks, though he cannot be sure.

“This place isn’t really haunted,” the one who might be named Taehyung says in a low, somewhat whiny voice. He kicks at debris that has fallen from the dilapidated ceiling with a frown. 

Of course, this place is haunted. Yoongi standing in the center of their friend group proves as much. Only Yoongi has not made his presence known, just yet. 

Although it is somewhat disrespectful the way people always treat his house like a heap of trash, Yoongi rather likes it when folks come to visit. Being a ghost can get quite lonely, especially because Yoongi hesitates to let anyone really perceive him. 

He thinks he would like to let Jimin perceive him. Jimin, with his pretty, pouty lips that he nibbles nervously, causing them to redden and become even more pouty. Jimin, with his short ash-brown hair and stunning blend of sharp and soft features, depending on which angle he stands at. There is something gentle and understanding in Jimin's wide, dark eyes that Yoongi wishes he could get lost in. 

If only he were still alive. 

"Jeongguk," Yoongi hears Taehyung say quietly, leaning in close and pointing to another discarded ball. This one is larger and red, and its surface collects dust better than the inflatable one. "You should throw this at him when his back is turned."

Jeongguk scoffs and shakes his head, muttering, "You are so childish, Tae," despite walking over to the red ball and picking it up anyway. He very quietly tosses the ball into the air and catches it while Jimin meanders in the opposite direction, distracted by some graffiti on Yoongi's busted living room wall. 

"Hey, Chim!" Jeongguk shouts.

Yoongi, who has begun slowly gravitating toward Jimin, watches as Jimin sighs and turns, shouting, "What, now?"

Jeongguk chucks the ball, and Jimin recoils this time, lifting his hand in order to deflect it. Except, without thinking, Yoongi reaches up and stops the ball in mid-air. Then, realizing his mistake, he quickly drops it. 

If Yoongi could breathe, he would be holding his breath. He feels anxious as his gaze moves between Jimin and his curious friends, whose expressions are frozen with shock. Jimin's hand had lifted just in time for the ball, but Yoongi managed to exert just enough of his spiritual energy to stop it. 

"Holy shit!" Jeongguk shouts, breaking the tense silence. 

Jimin's hand still hovers in the air, and he glances at it curiously. "What…just happened?" he asks. 

"You're fucking Magneto!" Jeongguk shouts. "That's what happened."

Taehyung sighs, stepping closer and picking up the red ball, which had rolled in the direction of his feet. "Magneto can only control metal, Jeongguk. Like a magnet…it's in his name."

Jeongguk shakes his head, mind clearly working on overdrive. "Right, right, right," he mutters under his breath, seemingly searching somewhat frantically for something other than busted concrete and dust to throw at his friend next. "You're like…Jean Grey then."

As Jimin finally begins to lower his hand, the stunned expression remains on his face, and he begins to glance around at eye level as if he suspects there may have been some kind of invisible force that helped him. If Yoongi had a heart, it would sink as Jimin looks right at him – right through him. His eyes are sad and curious, and Yoongi longs so badly to just reach out and touch him. 

"You have to do it again!" Jeongguk exclaims.

"Can you do it again?" Taehyung softly asks. 

"I…" Jimin mutters, brows knitting as he shakes his head. "No, I—I don't know what happened, but I am definitely not—"

"Think fast!" Taehyung shouts, causing both Jimin and Yoongi to sigh. Jimin reaches his hand up and, without giving it another thought, Yoongi also reaches his hand out, stopping the ball right in front of Jimin's open palm.

This time, when Jimin's eyes search the air right where Yoongi stands, Yoongi fumbles and drops the ball. He had meant to hold it up as a show to Jimin's friends, but even Jimin's unknowingly undivided attention makes him panic. If Yoongi had a heart, it would be going wild right now. 

"How the fuck…" Jeongguk mutters, at the same time Jimin – whose eyes have not left the space Yoongi occupies – mutters, "Who the fuck…"

"Pick it back up," Taehyung insists. "With no hands."

"I can't—" Jimin begins but Jeongguk whines, "Just try!"

Jimin sighs and squats in front of the ball, which has been rolled over to Jimin's feet by one of his friends. Yoongi also squats. 

All is quiet as Jimin holds his hand out in front of the red ball. He mutters, "This is so stupid," under his breath while chewing on the inside of his mouth. Yoongi wonders if that is a nervous tick of his – wonders what other nervous ticks he may have. 

Jimin knits his brow and Yoongi snaps back to what he is meant to focus on: the ball. He reaches out and slowly begins to lift the red ball with both hands, ever so slightly. Jimin gasps softly while his friends begin to shout. 

"How—" Jimin mutters as his eyes lift to Yoongi again and glance around the space, searching. 

"This is crazy!" Jeongguk shouts.

"How did we never know you could do this?" Taehyung asks. 

Jimin clicks his tongue and drops his hands, making Yoongi drop the ball, as well. "I can't do this," Jimin snaps back. "Obviously there is some kind of supernatural force at play."

"There's no such thing as supernatural forces," Jeongguk responds, sounding like an annoyed schoolchild. 

This makes Jimin laugh. His eyes become little crescent moons, and Yoongi thinks he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life, nor his afterlife. 

"You don't believe in ghosts but you believe in telekinesis?" Jimin argues, amusement shaking through every word. "Even though it was your idea to come through the haunted Min property? Make it make sense!"

Hearing Yoongi's name pass Jimin's lips makes him gasp. 

"Pick it up again," Jeongguk insists. 

Jimin sighs. 

Yoongi smiles. 

After a moment of hesitation, Jimin holds his hands out, just as he had done before. The ball only rolled about a foot away when Jimin dropped it, and he leans forward. 

Yoongi also leans forward, and when he picks up the ball, Jimin must think twice, because he begins to lower his hands. Before Yoongi has a chance to lower the ball to match Jimin's movement, their energies overlap. 

It is so brief and so faint, but Jimin's fingertips fall right into Yoongi's energy, passing through the side of his hand. All of his energy tingles, from his fingertips to his toes, and he drops the ball entirely when he realizes Jimin must have felt something, as well. 

This time, when Jimin gazes right in his direction, Yoongi has to fight the urge to materialize on the spot and make his presence known. In the past, when he has been particularly moody about guests in his home, he has materialized just to scare the shit out of them. That is one of the reasons his old home has such a reputation for being haunted, almost a decade later. 

Jimin's lips part as if he is about to say something, when Taehyung asks, "Jimin? Are you okay?"

In a blink, Jimin clears his throat and says, "Yeah, sorry. Thought I felt something."

"Okay, well," Jeongguk complains impatiently, "pick it up again."

Jimin sighs but smiles, shaking his head slightly as his gaze passes over Yoongi again and then returns to the ball. He holds his hands out and pretends to concentrate, and Yoongi reaches out and picks up the ball. 

A bright flash fills the space, making Yoongi drop the ball while Jimin heavily blinks and frowns, looking up at his friends. 

"I got it!" Jeongguk cheers. "Proof that Jimin is Jean Grey!" 

"You can hardly tell the ball is even lifted," Taehyung bickers. "From the angle it looks like it could still be on the floor."

While the two of them argue, Jimin continues to search the space. He holds out his hand, palm facing Yoongi, and without giving it any thought, Yoongi returns the gesture by holding his hand up and ever so slightly touching their palms together. 

"Heol," Jimin mutters, eyes widening. "I knew it."

The other two continue to bicker while Jimin sits and stares, smile slowly creeping over his face. If Yoongi had a heart, it would be aching. All he wants is to say something back or materialize fully and let Jimin see him. But what kind of a relationship could be had between a human trespasser and a ghost who refuses to leave his own home?

"Jimin-ssi!" Jeongguk shouts, "we have to do it again. I need a better picture."

"We are not taking another picture," Jimin says, rolling his eyes. "I promise you, I am not Jean Grey."

As the three friends argue, Yoongi stays squatted, eyes trailing from Jimin to the ball. He feels a deep, overwhelming sadness that has only compounded in the years since his death. Loneliness. Grief. But he also feels happy. Although he knows it would not be a good idea for Jimin to see him, he thinks that it is okay if he lets Jimin feel him a little more. 

"Just do it one more time!" Jeongguk insists. 

"No pictures," Jimin responds, to which Jeongguk quickly adds, "My phone is in my pocket!"

Jimin sighs, Yoongi sighs, and they both reach for the ball. 

"Are you ready, ghost friend?" Jimin asks so quietly that Yoongi wonders if he may have misheard. 

But he knows he has not misheard because Jimin stares right at him – right through him – with a smile. If Yoongi had a heart, it would be soaring.

Ghost friend. Yoongi likes the sound of that. 

happy halloweeeen!!! 🎃👻🍂

i hope you enjoy this little drabble! i have a few more on the way. submissions for this event are closed, but i hope to do it again, next year!!!

reblogs and comments keep me writing, and likes make my day bright!!! thank you for reading! i love you!

tag list: @codeinebelle @dasexydevitt13 @fluffybuns69 @giriiboyy @idkjustlovingbts @mgthecat @moonleeai @m1sss1mp @spookyminyunki 👻 wanna be tagged in all my works? dm me!

here is the image that jay sent me in the submission request haha:

Ghost Friend is copyright theharrowing 2023. no translations or reposting allowed!

#jimin x yoongi #yoongi crack #jimin crack #bts crack #yoongi scenarios #jimin scenarios #bts scenarios #fic: ghost friend

[ramp-it-up]

The Representative

Pairing: Mob Boss! Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: Around 600

Warnings: 18+ As always, MINORS DNI, Not Beta’d. All mistakes my own. , Organized crime, veiled threats, Bucky’s knife, reader gets the best of Bucky physically, possibly subby Mob! Bucky.

A/N: This is a teaser drabble based on this ask. This is in the same AU as Try a Little Tenderness.

I no longer operate a taglist. Follow @rampitupandread to be notified when I post.

I Do NOT consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

———

He was attractive, dark hair and slate blue eyes. And he had a very compelling argument. If you were a weaker woman, you would have assented and signed the contract. But you weren’t stupid. An binding seven year contract for your produce? And you could supply no other entities?

Ridiculous.

You tried to tell him so, very politely as you stood up and walked around your desk.

“Mr. Barnes, I don’t want to appear rude. Your offer, though eloquently presented, is just not a good fit for Three Rivers Produce.”

You leaned on your desk in front of him and his eyes slid up your firm from your Manolos to your grey pinstripe pencil skirt to your immaculate white silk blouse.

Bucky took in the little things, the flex of your thighs as you pressed them together beneath the fabric of your skirt, the swell of your breasts under the fine material of your blouse, the curve of your neck, those lips, those eyes. Your scent. He was lost.

Yet when he smiled at you, you were unaffected. He quirked his eyebrow as you continued.

“We are a small, but growing produce company in the tri-state area with cooperating agreements with local growers and small restaurants and stores. I won’t cut off a source of livelihood for the farms and fresh, good food for our customers. Although your proposal cuts costs, it also cuts corners, which is not acceptable.”

You stared at James Barnes, and he stared back at you. There was electricity zapping back and forth between you that you wouldn’t acknowledge.

“I am very busy, so I hope you understand that I need to end this meeting.”

Bucky admired your resolve and when he saw that you wouldn’t waver, he stood and reached into his pocket.

You stood up and showed him the door.

“This way.”

No matter how fine you were, you dismissing him would not do. Bucky needed you to agree to this contract. He decided to apply real pressure.

When you turned back to him, Bucky had an intricately carved knife out, cleaning his immaculate fingernails.

“You don’t want to turn down this offer, Doll. My partners would not be pleased.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I could not care less about your partners, Mr. Barnes. And I am not a doll. I am a full grown woman. Get out of my office before I use that knife on you.”

Bucky’s pulse quickened at your words, but he smirked arrogantly and held the knife out to you.

“Try it, Doll.”

Before he knew it, Bucky was up against the wall with your forearm against his windpipe and his knife jammed into the drywall next to his head. You two stared at each other for a split second, both turned on beyond belief.

You stepped back from him, smoothed your skirt, and indicated the open door as you walked back to your desk where you kept your gun.

“Now get out.”

Barnes smiled and stared at you after he extracted his knife. He might have just fallen in love.

“This isn’t over, Ms. Y/LN. Expect another visit. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Then the pleasure was all yours.”

Your bored tone did not reveal the way your heart was racing.

“And the only thing I expect from you is payment to repair my wall, Mr. Barnes.”

You looked down at the inventory spreadsheet on your laptop and dismissed him again.

“Good day.”

You didn’t spare him another glance as he made to leave.

Bucky’s grin became wider as he exited your office, down the stairs and outside.

Once in the car he took a minute to collect himself and then dialed Steve.

“Just as we thought. Everything we heard is true. She will be a tough nut to crack, but I will seal the deal. And I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy doing so.”

Read the next part: Queen of Heaven

#Bucky Barnes #mob boss! Bucky Barnes #mob boss bucky #bucky barnes x you #mon boss bucky and you #ask dj #Dj will answer #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you

[shelbgrey]

Bones Halloween Special

Paring: Lance Sweets x Hodgins!Reader x others(Platonic)

Summary: y/n Hodgins and her friends go to a haunted attraction for Halloween and they find something unexpected but not surprising for them.

A/n: this is a re-telling of an old greys anatomy fic I wrote, hopefully this one is better.

MasterList

Halloween was among us, I for one loved the holiday but with our job every day was Halloween. When I was a kid I loved dressing up and watching horror movies. None of my friends really cared for Halloween expect maybe my brother Jack and my fiance Lance.

But the last few years our group of friends started a tradition where we'd go to someone's house and watch a bunch of horror movies and eat junk food.

When we all got off work we headed to Temperance and Booth's house. While me, Cam and Angela were getting snacks, Jack and Lance were looking for movies.

While everything was getting set up we waited for the other guests while Booth and Aristoo watched the news for some reason.

“why are you watching the ne-”

“shh” Booth said cutting me off and turned the volume up. There was a lady standing infront of a haunted house on the TV.

“Tonight's is the opening night of DC's Great Balls of Fire, a haunted attraction that has caused some controversy in recent weeks drawing from local urben ledgends and actual serial killers... One maze is actually based on H. H Holmes, is this in poor taste, of just good old fashioned fun?”

Booth sighs and turns off the the TV. “sounds like just a bunch of over sensitive a-holes trying to shut down everyones Halloween fun”

“but if these are based off actual murders around here they could have families” Cam said. “hell, we probably solved a couple of them” I added.

“dude... What if it's haunted? Like haunted haunted” Jack said getting excited, Temperance was quick to rain on his parade. “actually, it's not possible for paranormal activity”

“well, we should still go” I said putting the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. Angela rolled her eyes and stood up as the air fryer dinged “I'm gonna get the pizza rolls”

“I'll go with you” Cam added

“Aw, common Ang” Jack called out.

Not a second later Angela’s screams erupted through the houses then a cash sound followed along with what sounded like Cam's cackles. We all looked over to where the sound came from, confused. Angela came racing in shaking while Wendell followed, rubbing his head. He had crumbs in his hair and red sause on his face from the pizza rolls.

“What happened to you?” I asked, chuckling.

Wendell turned around and looked at Angela. “You hit me in the head with an air fry basket” Angela whipped back around. “Well you snuck up on me, what do you expect?”

“Where's the pizza rolls?” Lance joked as Angela sat down next to Jack with her arms crossed, Jack chuckled and wrapped his arm around her. “Aw, come on babe, it's Halloween everyone's entitled to a good scare”

“so we going or what? It'll be alot more entertaining than y/n and sweets' horror movie collection” Booth joked. “hey..” me and Lance both said.

“going where?” Wendell asked. “The Halloween amusement park thing just outside of the city” Cam said.

Temperance rolled her eyes. “it's just a bunch of cheep rides and haunted houses that aren't even scary. It's a waist of time”

“you scared Bones?” Booth teased, she just rolled her eyes. “with the stuff we see everyday nothing should faze us now”

“soo...” me and Lance both said looking at everyone.

“Sure, why not” Jack said looking at everyone for confirmation. “you in Wendell?” he nodded.

“cam? Arastoo?” I asked turning to the couple. She nodded with a big smile. “I've been in for a while.”

“yeah, it should be fun” Arastoo nodded.

“Come on Bones, it'll be fun” I said. Temperance soon gave in with a smile. Shee nodded making everyone cheer.

After transportation planning and a few extra details we all separated into three cars and headed out.

~~~~~~~~(.......)~~~~~~~~

“we made it!” me and jack cheered as the the both of raced in leaving the group behind.

“wait up guys! We still need tickets!” Angela shouted making us sighed and walk back.

The line was long but thankful we were towards the front. “lot of weirdos” Cam mumbled. A guy in a clown costume that was behind her and Temperance in line tried to scare them, It didn't work. Temperance didn't even flinch and Cam rolled her eyes.

“boo, so scary” Cam said sarcastically, Arastoo put his arm on her shoulder turning her away from the clown. Booth wrinkled up his nose and subtly moved closer to me and Lance.

We all finally got in with our VIP passes and the place was a sight to see to say the least. Before we set off Lance came up to me with a creeped out expression as he took my hand.

“Sweets we just got here, what's the problem?” Booth asked. He looked around a shivered.

“please tell me the ticket guy licked his lips at all of you and not just me?” I scrunched my noise up in discussed and Booth started laughing.

“would it make you feel better if is said yes?” I asked sweetly, his looked slightly annoyed now. “no, because I don't want so random dude doing that to my fiance” I chuckled which made a smile creep on his face.

“come on, let's have some fun” I said as all of us set off to explore the place.

Booth looked over to Temperance who just looked around slightly board but still trying to look like she was having fun. “this really isn't your thing, is it?” I asked her.

She shrugged with a smile. “I'm just happy to do something with Booth and you guys” Booth was about to lean down and kiss her head, but a guy in a clown costume scared us. Booth jumped in to Temperance's arms and Lance flinched and held on to me, me and Temperance both laughed.

“okay, that was fun” Temperance laughed. I chuckled and pulled Lance along to catch up with the other.

“haunted house?” Wendell asked. We all agreed making our way in. Arastoo and Cam went in first cleaning to each other. The first guy that popped out was bloody, cannibal like doctor making Angela jump into Jack's arms with fear.

She pushed him away like nothing happened. “and... That's just insulting” Temperance said pointing at the doctor as she walked by with Booth.

Strob lights and blood surrounded us as we walked into a canbilist farm themed room. The place was based off. The text chain saw mascara movies obviously.

“ew, that looks so real” Cam said looking at a dummy that was gutted to piece. I looked at it and decided to screw with her.

“that's probably pig intestines, it's what they used in Day of the dead” I said pointing at the dummy. Arastoo wrapped his arm around Cam and looked at me disgust. “how do you know that?”

“same reason I know that I know they used corn syrup for pigs blood in Carrie” I shrugged and Lance wrapped his arm around my waist.

Next we walked into a pitch black room. “okay... Something is gonna pop out” Angela mumbled clinging to Jack.

“hello?” Temperance yelled.

“they aren't gonna respond” Booth said as he looked around.

Strob light suddenly turned on and a bloody clown, taller then Booth came charging at us with a ax. Booth screamed and ran for it while Temperance laughed.

The final room was a back room full of maquines with wolf masks. “one of you are real” Lance mumbled. We successfully made it to the other side without getting scared which made Angela feel confident to walk through. As she went one of them moved and grabbed her scream bloody murder.

She ran out with Jack and the rest of us chacing her.

“that was so badass!” Jack cheered as we made it out to the end. Me and jack high-five then turned to our friend group, everyone seemed shaken up except Temperance.

After that we hit the cheeply made games. Booth and I went up agint each other while Lance and Jack went to a ring toss booth. Surprisingly I won and I wasn't gonna let Booth forget it. “yes! Suck on that!” he laughed and gave me the win.

“here you go” Lance said from behind me. I turned around to find my fiance Holding a little fox plushie he won. I smiled and thanked him with a quick peck on the cheek.

Angela, Cam, and Arastoo then came back with giant preziles and funnel cakes. “What did we miss?” Arastoo asked handing me my funnel cake.

“y/n whipped Booth in a Shooting game” Jack laughed. “yes, that's my girl!” Angela said high-fiving me as Lance took the paper plate and ate some of the funnel cake.

The dude running the Booth gave me my prize, which was a panda bear plushie. I thanked him and gave it Lance.

“i saw another haunted house when I was getting drinks... Sounds pretty scary” Cam said. “i think there's alot of clown crap, so it's probably based off IT or something” Arastoo added.

Booth's eyes bugged out in fear from behind me and Lance. Cam noticed and chuckled. No one knew of his fear expect me and Temperance. He reluctantly agreed as we headed off.

“you alright?” Lance asked, Booth pushed his shoulder slightly. “it's your day off Shrink”

“God, I hate clowns” Booth mumbled. Temperance stopped and grabbed his hand. “We don't have to go in if you don't want to... I'll stay out here with you while the others go in” he shook his head and pulled her along.

“no, let's go” Temperance rolled her eyes and tired to stop him but no dice.

We all went to the entrance which was old, rugged door with very scary written on it. “how scary is 'very scary'?” Angela asked walking towards it. I shrugged when she stopped and looked at me for confirmation.

“it's a haunted house Angie” Wendell said opening the door. Cam, Arastoo, and Jack went through first. Angela sighed and walked in with Wendell.

“ladies first” Lance said to me and Temperance. Booth nodded and pushed me forward. “yup, we're gentleman around here”

Me and Temperance rolled our eyes and went in before our husbands. Lance garbed my hand as we walked through a room full of glowing mirrors. The light flashed on and off giving it an eary feeling.

It went pitch black for a few minutes then the blue lights came back on. A Pennywise actor jumped out and pounded on the window. “holy shit!” Booth said grabbing on to Temperance.

“I don't like it here!” Lance added, hiding behind me.

“Awsome” I said as we watched Pennywise run around.

We rounded a corner and ended up in a room full of clown statues and plushies. “oh you got be fucking kidding me” Booth mumbled as he watched every single clown making sure one of them wasn't gonna move. All the clown Dolls then started to shake and their eyes glew as we walked pasted.

As we exited we saw everyone was waiting. “that was very disappointing” Temperance said as we continued to walk around, Booth's eyes bugged out as he tried to recover from his 'trauma'.

“yeah I expected a bit more fear” I said. The others came out after words and Angela looked just as terrified as Booth.

Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and motioned to another attraction. “welp, there one more... Might as well get our money's worth” Angela sighed and followed him.

I tunred to my fiance and my best friend. “you two gonna be alright?” Lance nodded and so did Booth. “as long as there's no more freaking clowns.” he mumbled.

The four of us walked In the last building, it was The smallest one and looked like the haunted mansion from Scooby-Doo. We walked through a couple of hallway that made it feel like an actual Scooby-Doo themed attraction.

It wasn't really scary, meaning it didn't even bother Angela. “I think this is the end” Arastoo said.

As he said that the ceiling started cracking, something fell through making dust fill the area. “that smell is disgusting” Angela gasped as familiar stinch filled our noses.

“that's a rotting corps smell” I said covering my mouth and leaning into Lance.

“that looks really real” Arastoo said making us look down, it was clean skeleton that was stained red. Temperance knelt down and looked at the Skelton. “y/n, do you have your flashlight?”

I nodded and dug it out of my bag, Temperance shined it on the Skelton. “why would they put a real skeleton in a haunted house?” Angela asked.

"who knows, the 60s through the 80s were known to use real skeletons in horror movies” I said shrugging.

Jack took out his phone light and studied the now crime scene. “yup, look here sis” I looked and saw a couple of magets and a few termites.

“it looks like she's been here for almost four days” I said.

“call it in Booth it's real” Temperance said standing up. “looks like a female in her late 20s”

“thank God... Let's call it and get out of here” Booth mumbled and pulled out his phone and left the building, Lance followed pulling out his phone too. As they left a scare actor stopped them. Booth wasn't having it, getting into agent mode.

“Hey, this is a crime scene now” he barked and pulled out his badge. The scare actor's shoulders slumped and he pulled off his mask, he was just a teen.

“really man, I just got this job” the boys ignored him and called the Bureau.

“one normal night... That's all I ask” I sighed and stoped the other visitors before they could see the dead body.

“let's get her back to the lab before it catches too much attention” Temperance said.

The part of the park that we were at got shut down so the FBI could get through. Temperance and Jack left with them to get evidence.

“well that killed the mood” Angela said as we continued to walk after everyone was evacuated from the crim scene. “not really” I said.

“well, I'm beginning to believe this place is haunted” Cam added, I sighed. “well let's get to the lab, we're not going to bed anytime soon”

~~~~~~~~(.......)~~~~~~~~

We spent most of the night cleaning the Bones and checking for injuries. We found out the victim was strangled to death with one of those plastic chains that's used for decoration. The victim was killed and left about three day ago, three days before the Halloween park opened.

Lance came into my office about two hours later with tired eyes. I smiled softly as he plopped down on the couch that was in there. “did you get the killer”

Lance rubbed his face and nodded as I lyed down with him. “it was that kid me and Booth ran into when we were making calls”

“why did he do it?” I asked resting my head on his chest. “he wanted the part the victim had, apparently he worked at the attraction for years and the victim got the job right on the spot”

I shook my head. “the girl was so young”

“all her friends said she was so excited to get the job” Lance said.

We talked until we fell asleep, I don't know for how long but we were suddenly woken up by my brother. “What?”

“you guys should go home, the case is over” I sighed and looked at my watch and saw it was not only the next day but time for work too.

“no because our shift just started” I mumbled and sat up carefully. Lance ground and rolled over and fell back asleep. I let him sleep and went into the lab.

Everyone was setting around with energy drinks and coffee. “I'm starting to hate Halloween” Cam mumbled and downed her coffee.

Jack wordlessly handed me a monster and sat down next to him, as I sipped it the lights went out suddenly.

“son of a bitch!” I sighed and we just set there in the dark too tired to do anything.

#Bones #Lance Sweets x Hodgins!reader #Lance Sweets x reader #Lance Sweets imagines #Bones x reader #Bones imagines #Jack Hodgins x reader #Seeley Booth #Temperance Brennan #Camille Saroyan #arastoo vaziri #Angela Montenegro #Halloween imagines #Spooky season

[m-jelly]

@lukanettex2 Requested this.

Fire

Pairing: Levi x Fem!Reader

Genre and tags: Modern AU, fireman Levi, fluff, romance, falling in love, Levi being a hero, cute.

Concept: You're new in town and have just opened up a flower and plant shop. When a local handsome fireman shows interest in you while getting flowers for his mother, a mysterious fire starts in your shop. Levi saves you from the fire and provides you with sweet comfort.

Taglist: @ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @skittlelover69 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @notgoodforlife @nbinairyn @demonsimp6

You arranged some flowers in a vase for a customer's order to pick up. You hummed along to the song on the radio as your heart fluttered in your chest. You were so happy that your flower shop was doing so well in this little country town. You moved there about a month ago and you'd been so busy.

You lifted the big vase as your doorbell dinged that someone had walked in. "One moment, I'll be right with you." You struggled a little to move and felt yourself falling forwards. "Ah! Oh, no!" You gasped when you fell into something warm and solid that smelt a little of a bonfire. "Thank you."

"You're lucky I was here. Tch, you always this clumsy?"

You laughed nervously. "Not really, no. This vase is just super heavy. They ordered so much."

"Let me take his. Okay, let go I have it."

You stepped back and blushed at the strong arms holding your work. "Thank you. Could you put it over on those low shelves? It's my collection point."

"Sure."

You gazed at their muscular back and undercut raven hair. You nibbled your lip as your heart raced a little. You gasped and felt the world slow down when he turned and faced you. You were mesmerised by his dazzling grey-blue eyes. His smooth skin and perfectly shaped face made you weak-kneed.

Levi's cheeks burned hot when he looked at sweet little you. Levi thought you were like a precious glowing flower. He felt his heart racing as he took you in. He thought he'd just found the most rare and precious flower of all time. He gulped hard as he thought of what to say to you.

You fiddled with your cute apron. "Um."

"You're pretty!"

You both stared at each other after Levi's loud declaration.

Levi groaned and grabbed a handful of some of his hair and looked away as he felt embarrassed. "S-Sorry."

You giggled a little. "Thank you for calling me pretty, it was sweet of you."

He gulped hard. "Y-you're as pretty as a flower. Oh, actually more so. Flowers will wilt and die. Your beauty is forever." He cleared his throat. "I uh...flowers! I umm...flowers for my mum, that's why I'm here."

You smiled at him. "You're so cute."

"Th-thank you."

You reached over and held his arm and pulled him around your shop. "So, I have all sorts of flowers here, but it depends on what your mother likes."

Levi felt electricity shoot through him at your touch. "She uh...she likes pretty little flowers."

"Oh! I know just the flowers she'll like." You gathered a few small wildflowers and added some lavender to the mix. "There we are. It looks so cute, simple and homely."

Levi smiled at your work. "You're incredible."

You blushed a little. "Thank you."

"I'm Levi, Levi Ackerman. I work at the fire station."

You introduced yourself. "Lovely to meet you." You picked up your business card, wrote your private number on the back, and handed it over. "In case you want to call about flowers, or maybe other things."

Levi looked at your number and felt his cheeks burn. "Other things?"

You laughed nervously. "Y-Yeah, like a date?"

Levi's eyes widened. "Right! That's what you meant! I um...I'd love to take you on one." He lifted the care. "I'll call you."

"Please do."

Levi called you as soon as he could and took you on a few dates. The two of you were wrapped up in each other. You were loving and passionate together. You were happy and his friends were happy for the two of you. While you were in your happy little world, someone was furious at the two of you together.

You were upstairs in your shop checking a few papers while your shop was closed for the day. You smiled when your phone chimed with a text from Levi. You picked your phone up and texted him back and accepted his invitation to go over his.

You let out a long love filled sigh before inhaling deeply. You jumped a bit when you heard a big smash followed by small ones. You hurried down your stairs as the smell of smoke began to build. You grabbed the door handle and felt it was warm. Your heart raced as you opened the door to find your shop burning.

You felt your heart breaking at the shop you loved so much burning before you, but then the realisation hit you that you were trapped. You dialled for Levi because you knew he was at the station. You had a direct line to the fire department.

You shook as you called him. "Levi! Levi! Help! My shop is on fire! I'm stuck upstairs!"

Levi called your name. "Go to the bathroom, okay? Wet your clothes for me and go to the window in your office and open it for air."

"Y-Yes!"

"We're coming, okay? We'll save you."

You ran upstairs as you listened to Levi shouting orders and starting the firetrucks up. "Levi, my shop."

"It's okay. It'll be okay. We'll build a better one, okay? Myself and my mother will help."

You sniffed back tears. "Yes." You did as Levi asked and sat by the window waiting. "Levi, it's getting hot in here. The smoke is coming under the door."

"Lean out the window. Can you hear the sirens?"

You leaned out and heard them clearly. "Yes! Yes, I can hear you!" You waved. "Can you see me!"

Levi leaned out of the truck and smiled. "I see you! Hold tight, petal. I'm coming. I'm ending the call, okay? Hold on."

"I love you."

"Love you always."

You ended the call and leaned on the window sill. You gazed at your boyfriend running around and shouting at his team. You looked behind you as the floor groaned. "Oh no." You screamed causing Levi to shout your name. You grabbed onto the window as the floor started to break below you. "Levi!" You held your legs up and tried to avoid the licking flames. You screamed as you felt your legs hurt from the intense heat. "LEVI!" You looked up when you heard your name called. You smiled with tears in your eyes at seeing Levi in the window. "Levi."

Levi grabbed you and pulled you into his arms. "I've got you!" He held you against you on the ladders as he let his tears roll down his cheeks. "I've got you." He looked down at his crew. "Lower us!" He rubbed your back as you clung to him and cried. "It's going to be okay."

He jumped off the ladders with you and carried you to the ambulance. He sat you with them and watched closely as they assessed you. Levi's heart hurt when they told him you received burns on your legs and feet, but you should make a good recovery with rest and a few treatments.

Levi sat with you as you drank water and had some oxygen. "I'm sorry this happened."

You sniffed a little and smiled. "It's okay. I've calmed down now." You looked over at your shop being put out. "I have insurance so I'll get plenty for this. I mean, I was thinking of moving my shop because it was so popular. I could see this as a positive thing."

Levi kissed your cheek. "You're incredible."

You smiled at Levi. "Can I stay with you?"

"Of course. You can move in too. I want you to move in actually." He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. "If you want to."

"I'd love to."

Levi held you close. "Don't worry about the fire or anything else." He squeezed you. "Let me take care of everything." Levi stared at his team and saw them talking about arson. Levi was going to protect you no matter what and someone was going to pay for this.

#levi ackerman #aot levi #snk levi #levi x you #levi fanfiction #levi x y/n #fanfic #levi #aot fanfiction #levi x reader #jelly fanfics #levi attack on titan #levi aot #captain levi #levi x reader fluff #captain levi x reader #captain levi x you #levi x yn #fireman levi #fireman!Levi #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman attack on titan