#but like snow might just be apart of my gender??

[moonys-chaos]

Sitting down and randomly thinking "damn snow is high-key gender"

[endursent]

- Biting Cold - Searing Warmth

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , mutual masturbation , blood and injury, hurt/comfort , huddling for warmth , handjob , self-destructive thoughts , NSFW 】

【 note; thank you for all the likes, comments and reblogs on through the dark, the overwhelming support means a lot to me and gives my souls strength. please enjoy this much longer piece.

as always, the reader's gender is never mentioned, i avoided describing their genitalia and left it vague so that you can imagine your preference. 】

【 word count; 8.075 | read on ao3 】

He feels slightly out of place among the Astral Express, it’s not that he doesn’t physically ‘fit in’, all of you look different, act differently and portray yourself in very different ways… but Sunday hasn’t been able to see himself as part of the crew despite travelling with you for four months. 

  He feels like he’s made of stone, every movement is stiff and he has to make excruciating effort into every little action, he feels cold and hard, like an observing statue as opposed to a member. 

  There are days where he forgets that cold, when what he has come to recognise as typical shenanigans drags him into situations where he’s either forced to use his brain to solve complex problems or empathise with someone in a situation he didn’t think was possible. Days where he is on his feet and his mind tunnels to the mission at hand. 

  And there are others where there is silent travel, two days of calm traversal through the cosmos where he retreats to solitude and sees the sky get further away behind closed eyes. He tries to write down his thoughts and understand them, understand what his goal has become… the path he has taken leads towards the cosmos, towards discovery of himself as well as the universe, but what does he search for in the distant stars? 

  Is he merely searching for redemption? Should he not atone for the wrongs his ideals did to others? 

  Dan Heng had told him that endlessly searching to right a wrong that has already been done will only wear him down to his bones and bring no closure. That it will be an endless journey of selfish fulfilment, he will never be able to touch every person that was drawn into the dream—and that he should start with the person he can touch, himself. 

  He startles when he bumps into your back, his mind having been completely occupied with thoughts and distracted—as usual. Sunday grasps your shoulder to push himself back slightly as he gives the back of your head a glare. “Why do you walk in front of me? There’s more than enough space.”

  You give a small shrug. “Just making sure you don’t walk into something, think of me like a cushion,” you wave your hand vaguely as you turn back around. The snow is getting deeper as you venture through the woods, at one point in the densest part, it reaches up to your knees as you practically climb forward, raising your knee stomach-high with every step. 

  Looking around, you squint through the all-white forest… there’s supposed to be a research facility out here, at least according to one of the locals that showed the group around. But all you see is snow and trees.

  Sunday pulls his coat tighter around himself, he doesn’t yet have a very varied wardrobe to properly adjust based on the world the Express goes to next… perhaps he should have searched in the small town for an extra layer, the biting cold makes his fingers stiff and toes tingle uncomfortably. His nose is cold and whenever you turn your back to him, he tucks his wings against the front of his face like a shield, hoping his warm breath might give some comfort to his red nose and cheeks.

  Finally, the trees spread further apart and the snow congested less, you take out your phone and unlock it… no signal. Well, at least you’ve been walking in a straight line, it’s unlikely you’ll get… lost…

  You see a line of snow that’s been walked through across the clearing, it’s halfway snowed up again… and it looks exactly like the line the two of you have been leaving behind—but how could it be through this same clearing? You swear you haven’t turned at all since you left the town! 

  Sunday spots it as well and his teeth clench together. “That’s ours… have we been walking in circles?” he, too, was sure the path had been straight the entire time. How could you pass by your own footsteps leading across your current path? 

  You both stand still for a time, the gears in your head spinning, trying to understand how this came to be—does it mean that the way you came from now is wrong? Is left or right the way back. You heard Sunday click his tongue and turn to look at him… he looks terribly cold. 

  Feeling a bit bad for him—and certainly not wanting him to catch a cold, you zip down your thick jacket and pull your arms out of it. Being that you’re the only moving thing in his line of sight, Sunday immediately frowns at the sight. “What are you doing? You’ll freeze if you take that off—” he blinks as you hold the jacked out towards him, and he hugs his own coat closer to himself, lowering his chin under the scarf around his neck. “I don’t need your jacket, it is my own fault that I’m underdressed.”

  “Doesn’t mean you should freeze,” you push it against his chest. “Come on, while it’s warm—we can take turns.”

  Reluctantly, Sunday unwinds his stiffly cold arms from around himself and accepts the jacket, it doesn’t fit him perfectly… but the relief it brings is far more valuable. It’s still a bit warm from when it was wrapped around your own body, and he can faintly smell your scent along the neck of it. You give a smile and reach for the hood on the back, you pull it over his head, the fur lining it tickling his cheeks as his wings get pushed against his head and poke out of it, halo bobbing behind his head with snow lined around its outline. 

  “... thank yo—wh—?” his thanks is interrupted as you poke the feathers of his wings that are sticking out and push them inside the hood before pulling it slightly further down. “Stop—it’s perfectly suitable,” he waves your hand away. His cheeks were red already, but now more so with an embarrassed warmth as well.

  You immediately feel the chill of the cold wind and shake your arms a bit before rubbing them for some friction. “Alright, alright—I’ll leave you be, come on. The sooner we find this facility the faster we’ll be out of the cold.”

  He makes a ‘hmph’ sound and hunches slightly so that his face is nestled nicely in the collar of the puffy jacket. If you’re to take turns, he should try and warm up as quickly as possible… he doesn’t want you to be cold either. He only accepted as easily as he did because he knew you would hold him down and force the jacket onto him if he didn’t…

  But the gesture resonates with him nonetheless. It would be easy for you to continue in comfort, the jacket doesn’t prevent cold entirely, but it brings a significant barrier to the wind and chill, especially with the hood protecting his ears and neck. Yet you still chose to share it with him… it almost brought more warmth to him than the jacket. 

  You have always been like this, he shouldn’t be surprised at this point… with every offer, every smile and nudge, his chest grows warmer. 

  His sleepless nights were never unaccompanied, you were usually in the kitchen past midnight—once because you ‘forgot to boil eggs for breakfast and are too tired in the morning to do it’, another time because you were simply thirsty, then it was the night before Welt’s birthday and you and March 7th were baking cupcakes at three in the morning. 

  It has become a habit when he cannot sleep, be it because his thoughts will not stop interrupting him, or because the deeds of the past pull his stomach down until he has to use a bathroom or he simply feels restless and has a need to stand and move… to go to the kitchen. It’s a separate carriage from the bedrooms and gives some peace and quiet, once when you were not there as he had become accustomed to, he had taken out his phone to send you a message and ask if you were awake.

  Of course… he didn’t, as his thumb had hovered over the send button, he set his phone down and turned back to his water. Spending the dark hours of the night alone. 

  Not that there is a true night and day on the Express, it operates on a 24-hour cycle where the lights dim and the windows are blocked to emulate night—but Sunday is far accustomed to strange hours or wake and deep sleep. 

  Sunday is once again taken from his thoughts as you stop for the second time, looking around with a focused expression on your face. He follows your gaze but sees nothing amiss, just more snow and now distant trees. The sky is grey and the ground white, the falling flakes of snow blending the two seamlessly to blur the distance between earth and sky. “What is it?”

  With a shimmer, your weapon appears in your hand, sturdy and warm against your cold fingers. “I heard something…”

  Out here? It was a miracle if anyone found you out in the chilled wilderness like this.

  “Remember what those kids said earlier? When we were in town?” your voice lowers, eyes still scanning your surroundings. 

  Sunday nods. “That… we should be careful because ‘kids who get lost in the forest turn into ghosts that eat people’?” he didn’t entirely believe them, it was most likely just a cautionary tale their parents tell them so they don’t run into the forest and get lost. No child will survive for long. 

  “I don’t much like ghosts…” you mumble, the shiver on your skin not only because of the biting winds. Your muscles are coiled, ready and tense… you’re no stranger to duking it out with a monster or two, or even people. But what if you can’t whack it away like you could anything else? 

  Sunday is equally on guard as you are, but less experienced with direct combat. He’s mostly relied on intellectual disputes in the past, as well as planning for conflicts ahead of time where he won’t have to directly face off against something. 

  You see something shift in the corner of your eye—it’s not a whole form, it looks like a misty shape that drags into the snow as it moves. You shift your feet towards it as it speeds towards the two of you. Sunday grasps your shoulder as if he’s about to pull you backwards, but before he can, you swing your weapon—and the misty form dissipates.

  “...” your eyes flicker around to search for it. “Was that it?”

  “I doubt it,” Sunday says quietly next to your ear, his voice clear above the cool brush of wind that’s been chilling your skin. “There,” he gestures to a shift between trees. “There is a flicker of blue between the shoulders, it must be the weak spot.”

  Weak spot, you can deal with that—it can’t be much different from the game machines in Penacony, whack the glowing part. 

  “Be careful if it—” Sunday’s warning went ignored and interrupted as you lift your leg and charge toward the misty apparition. “Wait—!” damn it, he knows you have a tendency for recklessness, but at least let him do what he’s good at and create a plan of attack!

  He struggles to wade through the snow to follow you, unfamiliar with navigating high snow. But he has no chance of catching up with you. You raise your weapon again and raise your hands to swing downwards—but the misty form moves and you miss, the body dissipating again, it’s already a pretty small form, but it’s mostly translucent too, it’s not easy to follow.

  You’re so damn cold, it’s difficult to move as quickly as you usually could. You see Sunday stop halfway towards you and look around for the elusive creature… you’re not sure what it’s capable of, but your prickling instincts are telling you it’s absolutely not friendly. “Come, stay closer,” Sunday calls to you. “It’s less likely to surprise us if we watch each other’s flanks.”

  He’s right. You start to wade through the snow towards him when something moves in the corner of your eyes to your right—the wraith-looking creature seemed more condensed than before, its form whiter as if the falling snow had blanketed its outline and made it more visible. The blue hue in it’s torso flickered and expanded as a sharp shard of ice formed inside its body, it wasn’t wide, but it was long and jagged—and it was facing Sunday, too far from you to be able to get to him in time if the speed at which the shard was made was anything to believe. 

  He seemed to see it as well, eyes widening only slightly in surprise at the sight—his gaze snaps equally startled towards you as you dash towards the wraith. What are you doing!? Sunday calls your name in both warning and surprise, concern clear in his startled gaze, the creature is clearly preparing an attack—you should be falling back on the defensive, and not charging right at it!

  You hop surprisingly easily through the snow, each large step eating at the distance between the threat and yourself. Swinging the bat at it did nothing but dissipate it and let it reappear elsewhere—and you don’t have the body heat or stamina to chase it around for twenty minutes. Maybe if you grab the blue centre, it’ll materialise enough for you to break it. 

  Sunday cursed the high snow, trying to stumble through it towards you as you ran at the enemy. He watched as you leapt at it and tackled it down—surprisingly, the wraith did fall with you, but the way your body jerked as you landed in the puffy snow made his skin itch. 

  As soon as you tackled the wraith down, the shard of ice it was conjuring short forward as if it had been held back by a tight bowstring—and impaled itself in your body. The sudden, violent pain that burst from your torso made you nearly double over in on yourself. But you persisted and jabbed the end of your weapon into the core.

  With a loud crack and sound of shattering, the core broke apart like a light bulb, as if it had been entirely hollow. The misty form dissipated once more, leaving only shards of blue on the snow under you. 

  Sunday calls your name again with more urgency, heart hammering in his chest as he finally makes it to you, he bends down to take your shoulders in his hands. “Are you hurt? You shouldn’t rush li—” his words stop in his throat once he sees blood padder onto the snow, the red colour a stark contrast to the pure white of freshly fallen snow. 

  For a moment, he doesn’t move, unsure what to do—does he tug you up into a sitting position? Onto your back? Where is it coming from? You’re on all fours already, so perhaps you can straighten slightly. “Let me see, let me see,” his voice is urgent as he sees the tremble of your hands and hears a strange sound, as if a thin sheet of ice was being stepped on. Sunday takes your arm that twitched towards your torso and sees frost hardening on your clothes and skin. 

  As soon as you had physically touched the wraith, your skin began to feel extremely cold, like you were perpetually laid against ice. Your entire torso prickled, but the worse of the pain was coming low in your abdomen, your eyes lower and you see the shard imbedded in your lower left abdomen, it was wider at the bottom and stretched the skin apart and cut your clothes where blood bubbled and dripped down into the snow. It felt like you had drunk ice cold water, the feeling of it leaking down into your stomach—except it was spreading from the ice, and every surface you had touched of the ghost.   

  “Let me see,” he says for the third time, firmer this time despite the small crack of his voice, whether it was from the cold numbing his nose and lips or the creeping anxiety at the back of his mind, it was hard to tell. 

  You gasp and cry out slightly as he tries to right you up, it feels as if the sharp shard in your body had just cut through the entirety of your torso with the small movement, tears bubbling at the bottom of your eyelids from the overwhelming sensitivity and pain. “S-stop—” you pant, voice barely audible between short, quick breaths, as if you were afraid that breathing deeper would hurt more.

  Sunday swallows, he’s not a doctor and though he knows basic first aid, his knowledge of what to do in situations like this relies heavily on the fact further help was on the way—but out here in the snow and wind with no signal… 

  He shrugs off the puffy jacket you had handed to him earlier and he lays it over your back, the biting cold already cooling his shivering body. “I’m sorry,” Sunday apologises quietly, his heart is racing, and though he seems calm outwardly, it’s a very practised and well-crafted front. His thoughts are racing, heart hammering in his chest and cold fingers trembling. All he sees and seems to be able to focus on is the puff of your breath and the drops of blood continuously leaking from you. 

  He’s afraid. Afraid that trying to move you will hurt you further, afraid that it might do irreversible damage—afraid that the damage is already so bad that there is scarce time to act. 

  The wind blows again and a shiver shakes both of your bodies and Sunday knows that just sitting around fretting will do more harm than good. “I am sorry,” he apologises again, more sincerely, because he knows this will only cause more agony. 

  He wraps his arms around you, and hoists you up to your feet. Your breath leaves you as you instinctively try to hunch back down, the stretch of your torso is blinding, your vision almost whites out in pain as you gasp and curse. Sunday apologises for the third time as he tries to drag you with him, pulling your dead weight is no easy feat—he isn’t particularly strong physically, he would struggle to hold Pom-Pom for long. “Hold on…” Sunday says quietly, his breath heaving from the strain of dragging both of you through the cold. “It’s alright, you’ll be okay,” he tries to reassure you, he needs to keep you awake.

  Sunday wasn’t sure he had ever felt so… anxious? Afraid? His skin felt like it was trying to tear away from his body, his hands and knees trembled and his heart clenched with every beat. 

  He is the one who should suffer, not you. 

  “Talk to me, you need to stay awake,” he urges, pinching the skin over your ribs. Sunday doesn’t want to create more pain… but if you fall asleep now, there’s no guarantee you’ll wake up again, and the thought makes his breath tighten. 

  Talk to him? No thought forms in your head, all you feel is pain. You want to throw up, your head is spinning and it feels like your ears are blocked out. “... o-okay,” is all you can manage. You can’t even move your legs to walk with him, he’s taking the entirety of your weight at this awkward angle. 

  “Good,” he peers into the distance. You need shelter—it would be a miracle if he found the town you departed from, or the facility you were looking for. But Sunday doesn’t consider himself so lucky. He looks down at you, slumped against him with sweat on your forehead despite the cold, he tugs the jacket closer to your body, trying to make sure you get some respite from the winds. 

  His legs burn, but he sees a raised part of the earth—there, it must be enough. “Almost there,” he murmurs your name, worry gnawing at his gut. “You’ll be alright, I’ll make sure of it,” he promises, holding you tighter.

  You groan as he sets you down in the small cave you found, your limbs shaking terribly—laying on your back doesn’t feel great, but it’s probably the best position you could be in, it pulls slightly on your wound… but it’s better than being hauled around. Blood has leaked more from the wound because of the movement, and the cold spreading from it, as well as your arms and chest where you touched the wraith has begun freezing your clothes in place.  

  Sunday presses his lips together, this cave isn’t large, but he could immediately feel the relief that the shelter brought. The snow gathered at the entrance shielded you from the biting wind, and that’s what’s most important. He takes his phone out of his coat pocket, his fingers stiff and numb from the cold… no signal, still. It might be the snow and wind, perhaps it will come around if it dies down.

  For now, there’s a far more important matter to tend to.

  Sunday kneels by your side, his throat tight at the sight of your pain. He had never been particularly good at facing the pain of others with a calm and straight face, his deep sense of empathy and compassion makes him wish he could take the pain from you and bear it himself. Not to mention that he’s come to actually care for you, he has never felt himself so shaken like this—not since he had heard of Robin’s injury. Very few instances will shake him so thoroughly to his core as that did. 

  He tugs your sweater up, a small whimper leaving you as more cold brushes against your bare skin. The shard isn’t wide, it’s similar to his thumb, perhaps a bit wider… but he realises the severity of it nonetheless. It’s long, and…

  Sunday hears the cracking again.

  You had only moved your hand, your breath trembling. He looks down at the shard again and sees frost spread from it, it’s cooling your skin and hardening on it—it has to be removed. Everything in his mind is telling him not to touch it, leave it there so that you don’t bleed even more profusely. But if he leaves it in, your skin and body will freeze.

  He says your name quietly. “I need to remove the shard,” he says slowly. Sunday reaches for your hand and holds your fingers in his palm. They’re ice cold, frost covering the gloves and threatening to freeze them in place. “It… it will hurt, and I apologise for having to do it.”

  You squint at him, swallowing thickly. You can’t imagine how it will feel, and you feel anxious to let him. “A-are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he nods, his hand slides up your arm and rubs it slightly, as if he’s trying to create friction and warm your skin. His wings are lowered, sitting against his shoulders as if saddened. He wasn’t entirely sure what the best course of action is, but surely you will have a better chance with an open, but dressed wound and not being actively frozen alive, than you will with the shard still inside of you and trying to actively kill you? 

  It’s a chance you’ll have to take. 

  He takes off his scarf but leaves his gloves on, he doesn’t want to touch the shard with his bare hands. “I will need to remove it slowly to ensure it doesn’t cut you further…” Sunday shifts on his knees next to you, the cave floor is just as cold as kneeling on snow. “I’m sorry.”

  You’re not sure how often he’s apologised at this point, and you’re unsure why he feels the need to, this wasn’t his fault. 

  Before you can examine the thought further, he grips the shard and you gasp—even just touching it makes you panic. “W-w-wait—” your heart races. Don’t, it—

  He pulls gently, and the shard moves. A scream tears from your throat and Sunday’s breath catches. He almost stops, but steels himself. If he stops now, it’ll be worse, he’s already started—he has to finish. He repeats his apologies like a mantra, your body jerks and he uses his other hand to press down on your left hip, trying to hold you still. 

  It only takes a few seconds, but they feel like minutes, minutes of tears and screams, of trembling fingers and gentle pulling. He has to pay attention to his movements perfectly, and has to make sure it doesn’t hurt you further. 

  And when it’s all over, he tosses the shard aside and bundles his scarf to lay over the wound as blood wells in the wound. His white scarf immediately colours red at the edges as tears slip down your temples. Sunday feels a rush of emotions after the ordeal, your screams and tears, the blood. Almost as if moving instinctually, he lays over you and wraps one arm around you, cradling your head into his shoulder as his other still presses against the wound. “I’m sorry, it’s over, you’re okay,” he whispers into your ear, his arms shaking equally to your entire body. “Focus on breathing, slowly. It’s over.”

  He tears up as well, the soft wings by his head touch your jaw as he holds you, his breath shaking. He hadn’t even realised how tense he had gotten, and while the danger hasn’t passed—and you could potentially be in more danger freely bleeding as you are, it brings a small relief that the shard it out. 

  Your head spins, the pain has been so agonising, the fear and anxiety of pulling the shard out that you feel like you passed out for a moment. But feeling Sunday so close, holding you so tenderly, as if he were cradling a delicate feather between his palms… your hand that feels less frozen solid slowly raises, as if to return the hug—but your fingers poke at his halo by accident and he near shoots up, wet eyes large. Ah, touching a halovian’s halo probably doesn’t feel good, you think. 

  He blinks a few times and takes a breath. “L-let me focus on your wound, then we need to find a way to warm you up,” Sunday says hurriedly, sitting back on his knees. 

  His mind races as he tries to focus on pressing down on your wound, hoping it starts to clot faster. Your body was so cold, even your neck and cheek. Sunday himself doesn’t feel particularly warm… but he’s afraid that you’ll die from hypothermia if he doesn’t warm you up quickly. Sunday looks up to see that your eyes have slid shut and he feels his heart tighten. “Open your eyes,” he reaches up and pats your cheek with his palm, he says your name urgently. “Stay awake, just a little bit longer, please.”

  He tries to keep you awake with encouragements and small pokes and pats, but your near violently trembling body needs more help. Sunday ties the bundled scarf to the wound tightly with a long ribbon from his coat—maybe this needlessly complicated outfit has its uses after all. He then focuses on trying to warm you up, he places his hands on either side of your arms and rubs them, creating friction. The frost that had built up on your clothes and skin hasn’t spread further, it was likely driven by the shard. Now he just has to warm you up.

  But friction can only do so much, after a time, you’re moaning about it hurting, and as he lifts your jacket he sees the already reddened skin from the cold is raw and sensitive. 

  Sunday’s eyebrows pinch in thought as he does as before. “Let me share my warmth with you,” he utters and lays over you, now using both arms to wrap around you—he doesn’t dare move you into a different position than on your back. He still tries to rub every surface of your skin for warmth, but it’s not retaining heat well enough. 

  “We need to create warmth—” he jumps as he feels your cold fingers slide under his shirt. His stomach is warmer than his hands, and your icy fingers on it makes his entire body shiver. “O-okay,” he doesn’t say more, he doesn’t trust his voice to form fully. 

  This might be the method you need, and Sunday is determined to warm you up in any way you require… though this doesn’t very much help him retain his warmth.

  As your fingers feel warmer and it’s easier to move them, you retreat them from his stomach and slowly raise them to his ears. Sunday blinks at you in surprise as your warmed fingers envelop his cool ears. “What are you doing?” 

  You give a weak smile, you’re still in pain, but you’re more lucid now that there isn’t a foreign object stuck in you. “We warm each other.”

  His cheeks redden slightly as your fingers rub the shell of his ears to warm them, your fingers aren’t exactly warm, but they’re not completely cold either.

  “It won’t be sustainable like this,” he says, still laying over you, just raised slightly with his elbows on either side of your head, his misty breath wafting over your cheeks. “We need to warm faster, more directly.”

  You squint at him, he sounds like he was trying not to explicitly say something, but you had an inkling to what it was. “Like… sharing body heat?”

  His head turns slightly, gaze avoiding you as one of his wings twitches, moving to his cheek as if to hide his face, you’re unsure if it’s a conscious movement. “... for example.”

  You don’t see why not, desperate times and all that. “Okay, your coat is pretty big, we can use it as a blanket, my sweater too,” he has an easier time taking off his coat by himself, but has to help you take your sweater off. You shiver at first, but as Sunday sets his coat and your sweater over the two of you, and lays closer to you—still wearing a thin shirt—you feel subtle warmth. 

  Sunday struggled to even talk to you as soon as you huddled together, though there were thin shirts separating you, he felt the skin of your arms and collar against him. He’s never been this close to the glimpses of your skin only previously seen from a distance, now he’s close enough to smell you, to touch you. 

  He’s careful not to touch your wound, but keeps an eye on it. Your breaths mingle together and you lay your cold forehead against his shoulder to try and absorb any warmth he gives. Unfortunately, it’s not quite enough to keep both of you warm. He tries to rub your arms again, and you try to breathe warm air on his skin, but the solutions are very temporary. 

  Darkness has begun setting outside, and there’s little light inside the cave. You can still see each other, but it’s clear that nighttime is approaching. You whisper in Sunday’s ear next to you. “You cried for me, earlier.”

  He doesn’t reply immediately, his hands that were rubbing your thighs for warmth halting for a moment. “... I did.”

  “Do you often cry when people are hurt?” you wonder.

  “Sometimes,” he continues to focus on warming you, trying not to think of your lips brushing against his collar when you talk. 

  He hadn’t just cried because you were hurt, because you were in pain… a thought had occurred to him as you screamed and shook as he removed the shard that it might kill you—that his actions might. He had done nothing but stand and watch as you had battled the wraith, he had moved slowly and been unsure how to help you after you broke its core… and he had brought you more and more pain. Even in trying to help, how can his heart not ache? 

  You who have always been so kind and patient, even when he sought to entrap the cosmos. Even when you stood on opposite sides of the grand theatre. You didn’t hesitate to include him, to make him feel welcome as he hesitantly stepped onto the Express. You sat with him during long nights and caught him when he experienced his first warp.

  He doesn’t want you to die, he doesn’t want you to be hurt.

  You seemed to sense that he had fallen deep into thought yet again, you raise your head from his shoulder and he turns his head to look at you. As he does, your cool fingers slowly raise and touch his cheek, it’s warmer than before. “You’re very kind.”

  His lips part slightly, his expression is difficult to read as he stares at you from above, his eyes flicker from your eyes down to your hand, to your eyes again and do a round of your face. He opens his mouth further, as if he wants to say something, but only a breath leaves him that warms your own cheeks. He utters your name and it’s almost too quiet to hear. Slowly, his head lowers and you meet him halfway—his lips are soft, despite not having eaten or had water in hours, stuck in the cold, they don’t feel stiff or chapped at all.

  As if he’d snapped out of a trance, it had only been seconds that your lips touched and he was pulling back, eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry, I should—”

  “It’s okay,” you breathe, hand still on his cheek as you try to guide him back towards you. “You’re warm, and…”

  He doesn’t need more of a reason, he’s been aching to be closer, his arms tremble with the strain of holding back. His body is so damn cold, and the inside of your mouth is warm as his tongue slips between your chilly lips. Your hand that rested against his cheek slides behind his head as he kisses you deeply, your head lowered against the cold floor, only cushioned by the fluffy hood of your jacket. His wings flutter and brush against your wrist as your other hand touches his shoulder. Sunday’s fingers that had tried to keep your thighs warm rise to your hips, one hand dangerously close to your wound. 

  Your mouth opens to warm him, your lips separating for a moment, but he presses on again. “I know,” Sunday assures you, and his gentle tone eases your wariness. “I’ll be careful.”

  His lips part in tune with yours, the sounds of your wet kisses echoing in the cave, his thumbs rub at your hips as if he can’t keep his hands still and the only way to have them put in one place was to at least soothe you like this. Your cheeks are warm from the deep kissing, it’s almost suffocating the way his tongue drags over your lips and traces the inside of them, as if he’s trying to taste every surface of your mouth he can reach. 

  It was too much, the taste of you, the warmth of your mouth and your tight hold on his shoulder and behind his head. He needs more warmth, needs to feel it radiate from you and bask in it like touching a bonfire. Your cold fingers and shivering skin, the frost clinging to your sleeves and collar—he wants to make you warm again, feel your warm fingers against his own, like when you handed him a cup of tea during a long night and your fingers touched. Even the brief brush of another’s skin had stuck with him for weeks. 

  He groans against you and his mouth slides from yours, his lips trailing warmth to your cool jaw and throat, the chilled skin shivering again when he closes his mouth over thin skin between the juncture of your shoulder and neck. Your breath trembles as he worries it between his teeth, tongue gently brushing over the tingling spot once he’s done. 

  “I…” his breath is deep and wanting. “Let me warm you, please. I-I wish to touch you, to ensure you won’t shiver with cold any longer.”

  You nod. “Help me,” the words are pleading on your lips. Your feet are numb with cold and your body has bouts of harsh trembling. You want him to touch you. 

  Sunday takes your lips again with his, as if he can’t get enough of your taste and the feeling of your mouth moving against his, he tilts his head to kiss you deeper as his hands lift your thin shirt to your collar, moving any barriers in his way as he moves the heat from between your lips and to your chest. Your body will quickly warm itself if he stimulates it appropriately, and he intends for the two of you to feel comfortably warm. “Wha—“ you weren’t expecting his mouth to seek there so quickly, and certainly were you not prepared. 

  His lips close around your left nipple, the warmth brought from it makes you inhale softly—but as the texture of his tongue drags over it, you nearly jerk in surprise, your wound aching from the sudden moment. Sunday’s hand holds your hip down on the side where there is no injury, his eyes looking to you from under grey eyelashes. “Please be still, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” his breath fans over the moist point of your chest and you shiver again—for entirely unrelated reasons to the cold. He resumes his attention and you find that ‘being still’ is your greatest challenge today. Every single drag of his tongue, flick and suckle sends sparks through your body, it makes your fingertips twitch where they’ve claimed hold of his shoulders and your thighs flex. The most prominent tingles settle between your legs where you’re desperately trying to will down the rising need for attention. 

  Your cheeks and neck warm—and you make a high-pitched sound as his gloved hand moves to your other nipple, a poke followed by a pinch and his thumb sliding left and right over it makes your body instinctively squirm and tense. “S-Sunday—“ you breathe his name, unsure exactly what you want him to do or don’t, the sensations of his warm mouth and cold glove on opposite sides makes your head nearly spin. 

  “Do you feel warmer?” he looks up at you again, his golden eyes seem to glow in the darkening cave. 

  You nod again. “A little,” you’re still cold, especially on your stomach that’s bare And exposed to the cold air of the cave. Your left hand rises slightly to touch the wing above his shoulder—causing Sunday to tense as he blinks at you. You want him to be warm too, he’s been so diligent in trying to make friction against your arms and thighs, in hugging your coats together and huddling close… “Warm us both, together.”

  He licks his lips in thought. Warm you both at the same time? He can only think of one method. Sunday takes your hands from his shoulders and holds them in his own, he raises them to his lips and blows air onto them before he guides them between your legs—and a distinct warmth emanates from there. It shouldn’t be surprising, having your chest touched and licked like that definitely pools heat there, but the way Sunday’s hands are so careful and his gaze so focused, as if he were unearthing a grand treasure or under an important assignment…

  He buttons open and lowers your pants only as far down as needed, not wanting to expose your skin to more cold air than necessary. Sunday still holds your hands as he lays them over the radiating warmth of your crotch, he doesn’t directly touch you, only using your own fingers as a proxy to slowly slide and rub your cool fingers over yourself. You bite your lip as you twitch under your cold fingers, the stark contrast of temperature making your heart race more than it was already. But it does warm your fingers, the more he moves them. “This might be uncomfortable at first,” Sunday utters as he brings your hands up before guiding them into your underwear—with no barrier between your warm flesh and cold fingers, the temperature difference is even more stark. 

  His own cheeks are red now as well, and he releases one hand from you to lean over you again and bring your bodies closer. “Keep your hands there, move and touch as you can,” he says and fully lets go of your hands. He holds himself over you with his elbow on the floor next to your head—which you instinctively tilt your head towards to rest against, seeking his touch—while his other hand unbuttons his own pants and tugs them down only slightly. “I-if we��� do this, then our bodies will warm… and so long as we huddle together, then—“ his body almost jerks as his cold fingers touch his own aching need. “—then th-the cold should subside somewhat.”

  You nod, the movements familiar to you as your breath deepens—you were so sensitive, perhaps it was your cold fingers, or it could be the prelude of having your chest touched like that. This is surprisingly effective, but you still struggle to pay attention to your own pleasure and movements while Sunday is only a hair’s width of you, doing the same. So much of a distraction that your movements stilled, gaze fixed on the way his breath heaved, his head lowered so that his forehead was almost touching yours, his wings raised and shuddering. 

  Sunday seems to notice that you aren’t moving anymore, he swallows thickly and squints at you. “Wh-what is it?” his voice trembles slightly. “Does it hurt?” 

  He’s worried about your wound—and it certainly does ache, but your attention is far from being focused on that. “No… ah, can I… can I touch you?”

  “What?” he doesn’t understand you at first, even though he’s been quite good at reading your expressions and words today. “You… want to touch me?”

  You nod, and your hands leave yourself towards him, your warmed fingers touching his wrists—and his hands almost fly out of his pants in surprise. “I do,” you confirm. “Can I?”

  He seems conflicted for a moment, eyes lowering before he nods. “Okay… I’ll take care of you too.”

  A smile touches your lips. “Alright, I think it will warm us much faster.”

  Your fingers slide under his underwear, his cock is already straining against his underwear, hard and hot to your touch. Sunday gasps as you touch him—your fingers aren’t nearly as cold as they were before, but he still tenses as if you had shoved snow into his pants. You grasp him gingerly, not sure what is too fast of an approach for him, but as his breath seems to slow at your gentle touch, you take it as a go-ahead. 

  With every stroke and movement, his hips twitch—as if they want to move with you but are held back by sheer will alone. Sunday can barely think clearly, all he feels is you, all he smells is your skin, mixed with sweat and blood that stirs something in him. He joins you, his hand touching you in return and immediately it’s like your entire body flares to life, your hand moves faster, careful still—and Sunday leans down again, his lips on your neck kissing and suckling, his cool nose brushing against your warmed skin. 

  “S-Sunday—ah—“ your breath shudders. “More, l-little bit down—mnh,” warmth was pooling in your belly quicker than you’re used to, the flexing of your stomach amongst the pleasure tugged on your wound a little, but the brief pain was just an enhancement at this point.

  He breathes out your name, once, twice—with every stroke of your hand. You don’t feel that you can properly take care of him when his cock is confined within his pants like that, you turn your hand and tug his length out of them—and he springs free to the cold air, making Sunday suck in a breath, your sweater over his back almost sliding off. “Hahh, y-you don’t need to…”

  “I want to,” you assure him, licking your lips as you have much better freedom of movement now, your thumb strokes over the head and Sunday whines. His hands redouble their efforts between your legs, pushing your pants and underwear a bit further down to give himself more room as well. “Fuck, Sunday,” you curse on instinct, the overwhelming feeling of liquid heat searing through your veins causing you to respond to his hands with your hips—you were getting closer, and with every touch and twist on the upstroke you make, he is as well. 

  “Ahh, please,” he presses his forehead into your neck, Sunday’s hips make no effort to cease their movements now, he fully meets your strokes, hips rolling with your hand—he’s pressed down so much that your stroking him against your stomach, his thigh pressing against his hand as he prays to bring you equal pleasure with his own fingers as you are doing to him. He makes a particular movement that you can’t describe—and the tight coil in your stomach that’s been spreading fire through you for minutes finally releases its tension. 

  You cry out slightly, both surprised by the intensity as well as the relief and soothing warmth that surges through you from his fingers and out to your fingers and toes, to your ears and behind your eyes. 

  Sunday almost seems to come undone simply at the sight of you doing so, he needs only a few ruts against your tightened hand, instinctively flexed with pleasure, to achieve his own, his entire body jerking and shuddering as a sticky wetness splatters onto your stomach. 

  It takes the both of you a few moments to to catch your breaths, but as soon as Sunday’s thoughts realign to a comprehensive read, he tugs his coat and your sweater that’s slid a bit askew over his back—somehow miraculously not fallen off—to huddle the warms built by your combined pleasures. He nearly jumps when he feels the evidence of his pleasure sticking to your stomach and quickly starts to dry it with his shirt. “I-I apologise, I should’ve—should have turned away,” he stutters slightly, his voice not entirely reliable yet. 

  But you only laugh softly, wincing slightly from the strain put on your wound—the worry in his eyes from only a mere wince makes your chest warm more. “It’s okay. We’re warmer now, and… it was good, you’re good with your fingers.”

  His cheeks redden further—somehow—and his gaze leaves yours, looking at the floor next to your head. “Th-thank you… you did… very well, as well,” Sunday mumbles awkwardly. 

  You open your mouth to speak again, and suddenly both of your phones ping. 

  It’s stopped snowing and the winds have calmed, Sunday fishes for his phone to see seven unread messages from the Astral Express group chat. They’re asking for both of your locations and whether you’re alright, it’s been hours. He sighs in relief and sends your coordinates to them, the sooner you get medical assistance, the better. 

  You watch as he sets the phone aside. “No time for round two?”

  Sunday looks at you as if you’ve sprouted two additional heads. “Round two? Already—? No, you—the injury, if—what?” he stumbles through three different sentences, and you only laugh softly. The halovian lets out a ‘hmph’ and turns his head away from you—his cold halo bumping into your forehead.

  “Next time, then,” you rub the spot between your eyes where the spiky point of his halo smacked against you. 

  A sigh leaves Sunday and he turns his head to you again, a soft, warm kiss blessing the corner of your mouth. “… once you’re healed.” 

[thesirencult]

How Will Your FS See You ?

1--2

*****************************************

Pile 1

I'm seeing a vision. A girl is gathering flowers and playing in the sun between trees. At the same time, a man is looking at her like she is his whole world.

What this tells me is that there is a very clear distinction between you and your future spouse's energies. Your FS is definitely more masculine (no matter their gender) and you are more feminine.

This person sees you as a ray of light. You are dainty like a flower and sweet like honey. I'm hearing the word "yellow" 💛. Whenever they are looking at you, you are draped in golden light.

Now, what makes me sad is that you don't see yourself that way. Your person knows that you are picking yourself apart and they hate it.

You are a shiny little star to them. Some words they might call you are : my little star, pooh bear, sweetheart, honey, sweetie, cutie. They believe you are the sweetest, loveliest, most sincere person on planet earth. You believe that you do not deserve love or that you are not that important but they are seeing "You are important. You are as important as the air I breathe. You are necessary to my survival."

Like the sun is the centre of our universe, you are the centre of their universe. Your FS is very affectionate with you. I'm seeing someone kissing the fingers of someone else and breathing in their scent from their neck/hair. First and foremost they find you sweet and cute. Like, to them, intimacy doesn't mean mindless physical connection but love making. They love your hands and your nose.

They adore your expressions and they find certain quirks you have cute. As an example, when you feel tired and puff air out or if you tag on their hand and look up at them.

This person might be bigger than you and they just want to protect and serve you. I believe that they want to set boundaries between you and the world. They want to hold up a mirror for you and help you see your own light.

Whenever you are sad they want to make you smile.

I believe that you and your FS are going to be really close. This is not a normal bond. To others it might not seem healthy, they way that you are attached to eachother, but for you it's perfect...

Pile 2

Your FS sees you as their dream person, not in a childish way but in a mature way. You are what they need not what they wanted.

This person has had lots of experiences when it comes to love. When they meet you they will be going through a "winter" moment, life will have lost its spark. You might be born in March, cause you are going to wash away the snow and help them see the bright side of life again.

This will not be easy. Your FS will see you as their wish fulfillment, but at moments they will be wondering whether God or the d*vil sent you. You will be triggering their old wounds and stagnant energy.

This person will be very caring towards you. They will constantly remind you to take your vitamins and drink enough water. They will tease you about your height or nose just to get to your nerves.

I'm hearing "They are so draining!". Now, this is really funny cause I heard it in a teasing way, like you are at the next room and they are telling your mom you are a pain in the butt when in reality they love your quirks.

They will be constantly worrying about your well-being lol. They will get mad when you are not taking care of yourself and they will be trying to guilt trip you into doing things that are good for yourself.

Let's say you are really shy and don't want to go to the beach but they want to go and you have a dog that loves the water. They will be telling you "See, the dog is broken hearted. You are not a really good dog mom/dad."

This person will think you are sneaky. They will love the sparkle your eyes have as you have a very "active" inner child.

I believe you don't show that side to others that often and no one will believe what they have witnessed. You could have made a crazy food combination or they found you teaching the dog muay thai, to them you can NEVER be boring. It's like, what is she up to, AGAIN?

I also get that you might give them the "puppy eyes" when you get caught doing something you're not supposed to be doing (ex. cheating on your diet) or playing all coy and sweet and they love that!

[saekkas]

𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐓

summary: the day gojo satoru came home, everything changed– the day the strongest returned scarred, something shifted.

tags: 775 wc | gender neutral reader | angst with some fluff mixed in | slight manga spoilers | satoru keeps his scars from his fight with sukuna | deals with depression and loss

it’s warm. the chilly, almost numbing, weather from winter has thawed– leaving behind patches of ashen snow. the birds chirp outside of your apartment window, calling out to each other as they huddle for warmth.

you watch, enraptured, as a mother bird guards its fledgelings– it preens their wings, maintains its nest by scourging for branches and thickets alike, spreads its wings for when a threat comes near.

it’s almost endearing, how human and animal nature mirror each other so well.

“you okay?” the touch of your hand is feather light, leaving no trace as they trail down satoru’s back. your lover’s quiet– almost uncharacteristically so as he lets you tend to the scars that now litter down his back and throughout his body.

“i’m good,” satoru hums, his eyes plastered on the mugs that are nestled on your nightstand. on some days, when the memories haunt him more than they should, he refuses to speak altogether– lips pressed tight against each other, shoulders slumped as he cradles himself on the bed.

it’s warm, he once told you, eyes so vacant and empty. devoid of the usual bright blue spark they carry.  i like it when it’s warm.

“does it hurt?” you know it doesn’t– know that after what he’s been through, everything’s just another shade of numb. and yet, the tiny whisper in your mind wonders if he truly understands what you’re asking. “you can tell me, y’know? that’s the only way i can help.”

“they’re healed. nothing hurts. not one bit.” satoru grins, showing off his boyish, almost childlike happiness that contrasts the way his eyes are dimmed, hair a mess atop his head.

because that’s who satoru is– who he’s supposed to be. the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, a burden so heavy it dilutes, erases one’s sense of self because if he isn’t the strongest, what else is there to be?

for a fraction of the moment, you let him comfort you– chuckle like everything is the way it was. you miss the sound of his voice, the annoying cackle he lets out just before laughing– most of all, you miss him. the satoru that isn’t a shell of the person he used to be.

your hands glide down the expanse of his back while your eyes roam his face– you take in every individual wound, each a reminder of what he fought for and lost. you wonder what looks back at him when he stares in the mirror.

“i know that,” you mumble, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, gently thumbing his dimple. “but remember what shoko said? it’ll be better if we put some ointment on them.”

“right. right.” the roll of his eyes might have been endearing had he not stiffened at your words. “we should have my wounds healed so they look less ugly.”

the term wound sounds like such an insult for how gentle your touches are when he’s with you.

“hey,” you whisper, watching as his eyelashes flutter the moment your hand threads through his hair. “they’re not ugly, satoru. no part of you could ever be ugly.”

you don’t let him speak, shake your head when he opens his mouth to object. “they’re like stars, y’know?”

“i think you meant to say ‘like pimples,’” he snorts, sounding playful as he waves a hand to dismiss your statement, but you can see it– the hatred and anger deeply rooted in his tone. “or ugly warts.”

“they’re a constellation of stars, satoru. one that’s written on your skin.” you tilt his head upwards, watch as his pupils dilate– a sea of black drowning in blue. he shivers, spine straightening when your fingers trace his jawline. “each one so pretty like they were individually brushed on by a painter.”

you press a kiss to his lips, let him feel the expanse of your love as your hands move before they rest on his chest– you feel his heart thud against your palm, a gentle but needed reminder that even when all else fails, you still have one another. “you are my world and all my stars, satoru. the sky would be so empty without you.”

“then, i’ll consider them yours,” he whispers after a moment of reprieve, leaning his forehead against yours– he lets his façade fall, unhooks the mask he wears for the world. baring his soul wide for you to see. you soften at the tears that pool in his eyes, like diamonds glistening in a storm. “just like how i am too.”

to most people, the strongest may have fallen– but, in your eyes, he’s still your saving grace.

[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?

[yurinaa-world]

𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝑀𝒾𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓎

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Blade, Jing Yuan, Dan Heng, Gepard, Sampo, and Arlan x Gender-neutral Reader

𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Snow drips down from the sky the same goes for emotions having a hard time; you feel unhappy and miserable, so he'll comfort you until you feel better.

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: angst to comfort, fluff?, and spelling mistakes,

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: Here's my little present!!

The shards of frozen water molecules fell from the sky, a light coating of snow on the ground that overnight came to the heights of your knees, and the wind blew strongly, making anybody, even those wearing a jacket, red and their nostrils puffy with such things come dreadful sentiments that you thought were gone for a long time,  the loneliness would go away completely, but it doesn't appear to be the case with the trashy state you're currently in because of the stupid weather.

𝐵𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒

The room was freezing, a biting cold that seeped through the cracks in the walls and settled in every nook and cranny. The frigid air clawed at your skin, leaving goosebumps. blade who was with you, in his lap, hiding in your neck, arms around you, you were trying to cut out the cold air coming so it wouldn’t ruin the warm feeling you were experiencing.

 you tried to feel better since it was winter and all festive things happened apparently but it just made you want to stay in bed all day not bothering with anything.

he didn’t know how to comfort you at all, what words to say, but he felt the misery seeping out from your skin and projecting out very brightly that anyone could tell what mood you were in,  but he couldn’t help you, he could only try and make you happy and warm. 

He didn’t like the way your body shivered as he ran his hand on your arm “Blade..” you mutter in such a quiet voice that it weren’t for the room being too quiet no one would probably notice how strained your voice sounds and how it cracks almost like it going to break.

“Don’t bother with anything”

𝒥𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒴𝓊𝒶𝓃

Your heart is full of many mixed emotions that swirling seriously like a storm that blew anyone away from getting close, one of your solaces was your face pressed against his chest in a way to not look him in the eyes since if you do, tears will slip out for no reason, just the eye contact will make everything worse.

 the soft fabric which your face was against would suffice for you. Your fingers curled over the edges of his shirt, you feel the fabric shift as he shifts. the silence and quiet between you two was deafening, it felt like a bubble that could pop at any moment but didn't want to speak at all.

Jing Yuan's arms were around you, not saying anything, no teasing, just comforting you by whispering things into your ears, his voice soothing you.

 You're aware of his hands slowly moving up and down your back, he's rarely seen you this bad but you've seen worse and still helped him so he should return the favor tenfold. 

 he rubs circles with his thumbs on the small of your back. You don't move; you're too scared you'll break apart or start crying again.

 you breathe deeply, closing your eyes, the feeling of Jing Yuan's hand on your back calms you down and makes you feel better,  he presses a kiss onto your hairline, then continues to hug you tightly. The tension slowly melts out of your body even with a blizzard happening outside.

𝒟𝒶𝓃 𝐻𝑒𝓃𝑔

“I’m sorry, I...I really am, Dan Heng..”

Apologize said for no reason in your croaky and strained voice like you hadn’t been drinking water,  for hours now, sent a cold chill down your spine while not wanting to look at him for fear of what the consequences of seeing his face might be not being able to stop yourself from crying.

“Don't say sorry,” He muttered back and squeezed your hand reassuringly, he could feel your hands trembling in his grasp but he didn’t let go, looking at him with an expression that looked almost hurt but he couldn’t be sure. 

"I'm sorry Dan Heng, I'm sorry" Repeating your apology repeatedly. You started crying, silently, tears falling from your eyes, he pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around you, and has your face pressed against his chest.

 It was silent in the room except for your muffled sobs and your occasional sniffle,  you started sobbing even harder than before,  holding onto him and clawing at his back tightly as if to make sure he was there with you and wouldn't suddenly disappear. 

 He held onto you tighter in response, rocking you slightly side to side, hoping to comfort you, "Dan Heng...Dan heng.." murmuring his name over and over "I'm here...I'm here (name)."

 He could feel how hard your breathing was becoming more and more uneven, it's been several minutes since you last spoke. 

 He tried to calm you by repeating your name over and over again like a broken record, rubbing circles on your back,  hoping this might help somehow, he'll do anything to make you feel better.

𝒢𝑒𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝐿𝒶𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓊

He held you close to him, not sure what to do at all, he’s never seen you like but Gepard won’t love you any less than before you’re the light of his life and he won’t just leave you crying especially all alone to yourself in a room with no one else. 

"Shh, it's going to be fine, I'll stay with you until you feel better."  He mumbled into your hair. You felt safe in his arms, but you couldn't stop crying. He pulled back to look at your face, tears still rolling down your cheeks. 

Then just immediately pushed you back into his chest,  wrapping his arms around you as tightly as he could muster. "It's okay," He whispered. 

"Shhh." He stroked your hair slowly while you cried. Your body shook with sobs and his hold tightened even more. "Just... take deep breaths and I'll help you feel better, okay?"  He rubbed your back as though soothing an animal, which only made your sobbing get worse. 

Gepard tried to think of some way to calm you down and keep your mind from thinking about all the terrible things that you feeling right now, he couldn't imagine half of what agony you must feeling right now. His heart broke for you. 

He doesn't care about how long it might take all night or even days he's going to stay there.

𝒮𝒶𝓂𝓅𝑜 𝒦𝑜𝓈𝓀𝒾 

“Oh, don’t be sad” Sampo worried over you, sitting beside the bed, seeing you with dark eye bags under your eyes with your eyes all puffy like you were crying and you hadn’t called or answered any of your calls, he brought you cake just in case you were mad but he found you in bed just staring out the window.

“I’m not sad, Sampo.” you denied, wiping at your tears, trying to keep them hidden in the darkness of your room, while he gave you that look, a pout,  that you know means he won’t let this go until you tell him what was wrong. 

“It’s nothing,” you said, giving up on trying to lie, you didn’t want to talk about your feelings at the moment.

even though it always snows Belobog, you weren’t feeling too well these days. Sampo leans in to get a better look at you and wrapping his arms around you, he rests his chin on the top of your head, holding you close in a warm hug.  

you lean into him, resting your head against his chest and he sighs deeply, rubbing your back gently.  “Sampo?”  “mhm I'm just making you feel better,”  he murmurs, stroking your hair slowly.

 You can feel yourself start to calm down and relax into his embrace.

“Thank you, Sampo”

𝒜𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃

“Ahh..don’t be sad please don’t be sad!” Arlan began to freak out, comforting you to the best of his abilities. he’s seen people break down and in those moments he comforts them but when it’s you..someone, so close to him, he doesn’t know react either. 

 your tears are flowing freely as you try to reassure him that everything will be okay. 

it’s a struggle just emotionally draining that your brain hurts to even try thinking.

you feel like crying and crying until your body breaks down since you’re so tired, even talking to Arlan is difficult with having a headache, “I’m fine Arlan!” you raise your voice, while holding your forehead in pain.

 Arlan was quick to notice, pulling out a hand to cup your cheek  in comfort as his eyes softened to concern,  “You are not fine (Name), please let me help…” 

 he mumbled, moving closer so he could pull you closer into a hug. he rubbed your back soothingly as you buried your head on his shoulder, you sighed deeply, your mind feeling heavy as you felt your energy leaving you bit by bit. 

“Just stay here...

if you liked this, consider tipping me on ko-fi! it'd mean a lot!

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Hi, I got a request if you feel like it:

17. "I had a nightmare. Can I just lay with you for a bit?"

with Marko and Dwayne (or just pick one of them if you wanna) x trans masc reader (who's not passing in the slightest, he wears his hair long + he can't bind because of sensory issues)

-Snow

Hi Snow! First off, thank you for requesting, and I am so sorry for the long wait - life got a bit busy, busier than expected. I tried really hard to write this the way you requested, but I couldn't include your descriptions without it feeling forced and unnatural, while that is the complete opposite of what I want to write and you (I imagine) want to read. So, I decided to keep any descriptions of the reader as gender neutral as possible, so it might still be enjoyed by you and would still be as close to your initial request as possible. I hope you like this and bave a nice day!💜

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

Outside, a storm was brewing. Leaves were flying everywhere, the heat of summer making place for the cold of autumn. Even though Dwayne had lit several barrels in the cave, the heat the rocks had accumulated over summer had been gone for a while now. In this chill, the wind blowing and howling through the caves, sleep wasn't on anyone's mind. It wasn't on mine, anyway. Not anymore. I had slept for a little bit, but a nast nightmare had woken me up.

I sighed, frustrated. I didn't usually have nightmares, but when I did, they were... horrible. I shook my head slightly, closing my eyes as I took in a deep breath. I was tired still, and I needed the sleep. I knew it would be of no use, I knew I never slept well after a nightmare.

Still, I tried. I tried to close my eyes, to let sleep catch me. But it was of no use. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing the horrible flashes, the blood curling screams of people being ripped apart. I sighed, a glare on my face. This wasn't going to work.

I got out of bed, grabbing the sweater I'd left at the clothingchair. I pulled on some socks, the floors in the cave often being ice cold. I made my way out of my room, moving next door where I knew I'd find my boyfriends. It was the middle of the night, so they'd be awake still - a useful quirk of dating a vampire.

"Hey, you alright?" Marko looked up. He had a sketchbook laying on his lap, but I couldn't see what he'd been working on. Dwayne was on the other end of the room, some broken pieces of engine laying in front of him. He had been meaning to fix his old bike, so iw as glad he'd finally gotten around to do so.

"I had a nightmare," I said as I closed the makeshift door behind me. "Can I lay with you guys for a bit?"

It wasn't even a question I needed to ask, I knew that, and they knew that. Still, I felt it was right to ask them.

Within seconds, Marko had cleared out the bed, making enough space for me to comfortably lay down. Dwayne had put his work down as well, laying down next to me.

"What did you dream about?"

I sighed quietly. "I saw you feed a couple days ago."

Both of them were quiet for a moment, Marko moving to lay down on my other side. "You followed us then," he said, a slight hint of disapproval in his voice.

"No," I said, "I was on my way to the pier, when I heard screams and wanted to find out what was going on. I didn't know it was you."

It was quiet for a moment, none of us knowing what to say.

"What did you see?" Dwayne asked after a moment.

"You ripped someone to pieces. Marko ripped someone's throat out. There was - there was a lot of blood. And screams."

"We like to get theatrical." I could hear Marko shrug as he said that.

"This was a bit more than that," I shuddered.

"And yet you still come to us for comfort."

I rolled my eyes, seeing Dwayne's smug grin.

"Yeah, well, I don't think David or Paul would give me any kind of comfort and instead would take me out to see that they can kill more gruesomely than you two."

"He's right about that," Marko looked at Dwayne, also carrying a smug grin.

"Of course I am! Besides, I mean," I sighed, "even though it was horrifying and I don't want to see anything like that anytime soon, I mean, I knew what you are. So-"

"Even though you knew what you were getting into, you've got a reason to be scared. Don't downplay it because you think we'd expect you to." Dwayne looked at me.

"It was scary."

"Think you can sleep with us near?"

"I figured that because we're a thing you wouldn't feel the need to slaughter me," I said with a slight hint of humour in my voice.

"Well, you look rather-" Marko started, but chuckled as he saw my glare and Dwayne's subtle shake of his head.

"Fine," he grinned, "get some sleep, love. We'll be here."

I smiled, curling up beneath the blankets, laying between my two boyfriends. We chatted for a while until I finally fell asleep, unbothered by any nightmares.

[inkpot909]

First Christmas Together Headcanons: Josuke Higashikata x Reader

Gender neutral Reader written with they/them pronouns. The Reader, and by extension their family, celebrate Christmas. Reader is written to have a positive relationship with their family. Takes place at an undisclosed time after the events of part 4.

M/n = Mother’s name

A/n: Happy holidays, everyone! I hope the end of the year can be a good one for all of you no matter what you celebrate. I hope y’all enjoy. <3

Warning(s): An innuendo; just Tomoko being her usual outspoken-self.

Early in November is the time Josuke began hearing small tidbits concerning your family’s annual Christmas celebrations.

It started out small, and mostly implicit. A passing mention of the holiday’s approaching, not so much about your own traditions specifically. In all honesty, most of the early excitement present in the group came from Koichi and Josuke himself.

Days slowly pass, and Josuke’s ears pick up more tiny nuggets of information. He’s more attentive when listening around this time of year- thinking about what you might want as a gift of course! You also offer another small mention of seeing family- it’s to be expected.

But then, one afternoon, he was hit with a bombshell:

“How do you like it?” Josuke asks, bending at the hip slightly. His gaze snaps down to the cup in your hand, both of his too preoccupied with holding one of his own to point or gesture.

The tips of both your fingers are all tinted, and steady breathing is softly visible in chilled air. All of Morioh is covered in a thin blanket of snow. Patches of ice do nothing to stop small children here and there from rushing about playfully.

At a time like this, when being good is pushed on them like no other, a few kids passing by have given you and Josuke pleasant smiles.

A smile of your own plays on your lips, a small but sincere one that easily reaches your eyes. “It’s real good,” you respond, “Thank you for buying me a cup.”

“Of course,” Josuke hums, leaning back and moving his gaze forward. “I’m not going to drag you around town in this weather without treating you to hot chocolate.”

A chuckle escapes your lips, glancing at him with a knowing look. “You’ll find something good for your mom by the time my fingers freeze off, don’t worry,” you jest.

Josuke’s lips form a thin line, momentarily pressing them together before they hastily spread apart. “I never know what to get her!” he defends, “For a woman like her- it’s always better to plan ahead, okay?”

“Okay, okay…” you chuckle, gaze falling to your feet. “Of course I understand, Josuke.”

“You got people in your family that are difficult to shop for?”

“Sure, I think that’s universal struggle for Christmas shoppers,” you shrug, “At least most of the family I shop for are too tired by the time we open gifts; really takes the edge off.”

Josuke raises a brow, genuine curiousness laced into his tone while asking, “Do you guys open gifts late on Christmas Eve?”

You shake your head. “No, we open them on Christmas morning.”

“What? You get up super early? Don’t worry, I get it… Santa visiting is real exciting…” he replies, lightly poking your arm.

You laugh along with him, once again shaking your head. After the both of you calm down, you finally elaborate, “My family… every year we get together at midnight on Christmas day. Whose house we go to depends on the year, but we have a breakfast together around one in the morning. Usually gifts are last, and usually people begin to leave around five or six in the morning.”

“Really?” Josuke’s eyebrows raise.

“Yeah,” you nod with a smile, “I started going a couple years ago, just because the younger kids in the family don’t always go in order to instead sleep. And, well, you know… to give anyone over the age of thirteen a break.”

Josuke hums, lips pushed out as he mulls over your words. You give him the small amount of time he needs to think about it, taking a sip of your hot chocolate in that moment or two.

“That… actually sounds really fun,” Josuke suddenly says. You turn to him, only to notice him already looking at you with a grin.

Although Josuke has always been happy to spend Christmas with his mother, he’s always wondered what it would be like to spend Christmas with a larger family.

After dumping a couple more questions on you about your Christmas traditions, Josuke offered you a sweet sentiment.

“I hope you have fun! The way you talk about it… gets me all excited for the holiday season, honestly. You’ll have to tell me about your Christmas morning.”

By that time next week, he was nearly knocked off the balance of his feet when you invited him over for celebrations.

You went on to tell him his mother was invited too, about how your family is willing to welcome them both with open arms, and how everyone seems excited to meet your boyfriend.

Josuke himself was still digesting the fact that you invited him to join in on your family’s Christmas celebrations in the first place.

Will your family like him? At least your parents seem to… maybe. Is he not understanding them correctly? Crap; he really hopes not. Surely they have to, they’re offering him to join in on their holiday traditions.

Do you have younger family members? You said that kids don’t really tag along, but it’s always possible. Josuke’s awkward with kids. What would your family- no, what would you think of that?

What if his hair looks off that day? If his hair isn’t holding well Josuke takes it as a sign that his day won’t go well.

His mind was racing a mile a minute, and he hadn’t even told his mother about it yet.

When he finally did bring it up, she declined the offer to go with. She said that she would definitely feel more inclined to get some sleep, but ultimately decided that Josuke could go.

However, it did come with a lecture:

“What are you going to do when you get there?”

“Thank Y/n’s family for inviting me…”

“What are you not going to do?”

“Spend the whole time in her room alone…”

“Nuh uh uh!” Tomoko shakes her head, arms crossed. “That’s not what I said!”

Josuke’s shoulders stiff, rubbing the back of his neck. Noticing the impatient tapping of her foot, Josuke sighs. “No ‘fooling’ around…” he mumbles.

“That’s right! I better not hear anything about the two of you doing anything inappropriate! I have M/n’s phone number! I’m not above showing up and dragging your ass straight home!”

God, he can’t look her in the eye talking about something like this. Although no one else is around to see, Josuke’s gaze moves around nonstop in order to find some semblance of escape from how utterly embarrassing this is.

However, Tomoko is extremely observant, both a blessing and a curse.

“Hey! Look at me!” she says, snapping her fingers.

Hesitating, Josuke finally meets her eyes once more.

“I’m serious, Josuke,” she continues, “You’re going to a family event- so make sure you’re on your best behavior. I expect you home by six thirty, got it?”

Josuke nods, yet still cannot help but let a huff escape his nostrils. “Yes, yes… I get it,” he responds.

Sighing, Tomoko unfolded her arms and to instead place her hands on her hips. Leaning her head back, she tells him in a softer voice, “Josuke… I know you’re getting older; believe it or not I do want you to enjoy that.”

“I know, Mom, I know…”

There’s a pause, Josuke internally digesting what his mother was getting at. What exactly’s going on in her head, it’s anyone’s guess. He doesn’t often dwell on such a thing, anyway.

“If you’re going to mess around, don’t do it at a family get together. Teenagers are teenagers, but I really think that-“

“Mother! Please!”

It was awkward and long-winded, but one lecture from his mother later and he was given the “okay” to spend Christmas morning with you and your family.

…Oh, god, he’s going to spend Christmas morning with you and your family.

Now that he was given the “go ahead,” Josuke is completely stuck in his head. His mindset is less worried about what your family would think of him (although that still makes him a bit nervous), but more curious about what this could mean for the two of you.

It’s… a big step, right? It’s certainly got to mean something. Meeting parents is one thing, but extended family is a whole other can of worms. Regardless of your relationship with them, that takes a lot of trust, right?

Josuke, while usually calm and collected, isn’t completely detached from getting nervous from time to time. When it pertains to you and the relationship you share, he’s steadily growing more used to experiencing new things.

Yes, wants to reach this milestone with you, but now that it’s steadily approaching… there’s no use in denying how his palms sweat thinking about it.

Both Koichi and Okuyasu see it as being a big deal as well.

Koichi approaches giving Josuke advice calmly, speaking from a place of understanding. Meeting Yukako’s family caused him a lot of stress, but assured Josuke that it’s really all in his head. That if he can find it in himself to relax a bit, it’ll be no problem. More than that, since he’ll be with you, it’ll likely ground him. At the very least, you know Josuke well enough to know how to be there for him if he needs it.

Okuyasu… well, bless him, does more harm than good with his approach. Going off about how important this is, and how it may dictate the future of his relationship with you. Just hearing Okuyasu go on, Josuke couldn’t help but bite his lower lip. He knows Okuyasu means well, as usual. But if it were coming from anyone else, Josuke would likely hit them.

Then, there’s you.

When Josuke told you about his nerves on the matter, December had just begun. The end of the year is moving closer, and in the distant is the anniversary of the two of you getting together.

That alone is enough to make his heart jump ten feet into the air.

You soothe his anxieties like no other. With soft, knowing words that travel straight to his heart. It isn’t just your words, but also how well they sound in the tones of your voice. Just two minutes into the conversation and Josuke is reminded why he shouldn’t be nervous. And the more he thinks about it practically, the more he relents that he can’t wait to spend Christmas morning with you.

It’s a little cheesy, to be sure. But if there’s anytime that people are allowed to be a little cheesy, Josuke figures it would be the holidays.

A couple more weeks pass, and Josuke finds himself getting ready late on Christmas Eve. Tomoko’s already turned in for the night, having suggested Josuke drink some coffee before heading out.

But giddiness is good enough at keeping him awake.

Yes, he plays some video games after getting ready, but it’s mostly to pass the time more than anything else. Just as he passes a level, he hears a soft knock coming from the front door.

Josuke paused for a moment after opening the door, taking in your appearance. Yes, he’s seen you dressed up before and vise versa. However, it never fails to leave him speechless.

“You look amazing...” he softly tells you, disregarding a usual greeting in order to immediately voice exactly what’s on his mind. The delivery is gentle and carries genuine tones that touch your heart.

The journey back to your house is possibly the most nervous he feels throughout the duration of the Sure Yes, he’s met your parents a handful of times before, but never talks with them for a long period of time. Regardless, within minutes, Josuke calms into his usual chatty self.

By the time the both of you are walking through the front door, a smile is present on his face.

Although not necessarily nervous; Josuke is a bit overwhelmed by how many people he meets throughout the night.

Older relatives that hold power within the structure of the family show genuine kindness yet put forward many questions trying to form an understanding of his character. Aunts and Uncles that tease the two of you about how there’s no use searching for a mistle toe- claiming there was no time to set one up. Cousins of all ages staying within their own closed-off group. A couple of younger relatives that seemingly wish to hang beside Josuke the entire night, in awe of someone totally new.

It is... a lot.

But what Koichi said proved to be true. The more Josuke put his anxious thoughts behind him, the better things turned out to be for him. At least, as far as his own worry is concerned. It turned out to be a lot easier than he initially expected.

And maintaining a relaxed attitude is not only where Josuke lives most his life, but thrives. It’s in that frame of mind that others around the two of you talk to you both happily as normal.

Plus, what situation isn’t further improved with food?

A vast array of breakfast foods litter countertops all over your house’s kitchen. The enticing smell of food is so prominent Josuke swears he can see the aroma rolling off organized plates.

While Josuke is internally joyful at the positive interactions he’s having with your family throughout the breakfast, you are quite pleased yourself.

The small gleam present in your gaze is nothing short of gleeful puppy love.

They adore him; you knew they would. But to see it actually unfold... to see Josuke joke along with your younger relatives... to see Josuke indulging in conversations with your older relatives... it’s downright heartwarming:

Sticking a mouthful of syrup-covered waffles in his mouth, Josuke keeps his attention between two of your relatives having a conversation. Not five minutes before, one of the two told him a story from when you were very young. So young, in fact, you don’t at all remember the event yourself.

Planting your elbow on the tabletop, you rest your chin in the palm of your hand. Thoughtfully, you glance to a preoccupied Josuke.

A smile has been present on his face almost the entire time. The expression mirrors your own throughout the first couple of hours of Christmas morning. You just can’t help yourself; the way he’s so casually managed to get along with anyone roundaboutly reminds you why you’re with him in the first place.

Feeling your gaze on him, Josuke turns. His eyes are widened, like a deer in headlights, and his mouth is still stuffed with an amount of food that makes his cheeks puff out. “Hmm?” he hums, not daring to open his mouth and speak. You watch him begin to chew hastily, doing little to conceal your amusement.

With one large gulp, you watch his cheeks deflate back to normal. “Yes?” he finally asks, smiling.

You open your mouth to speak, but are cut off by one of your younger cousins rushing over to Josuke’s side opposite to you. She’s bubbly and ecstatic for the holiday, likely having begged her parents to finally let her come along this year.

And much like the other younger members of the family present, she’s convinced that Josuke’s just the coolest.

“Josuke! Josuke!” she giggles, tugging on the sleeve of his arm. He quickly turns to her, maintaining his grin without hesitation.

“Yes?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Y’know what Santa’s bringing me this year?”

“Hmm… I dunno…” he rubs his chin, giving her a quizzical look, “Wanna give me a hint?”

“An instrument!” she squeaks.

“A musician, huh?” Josuke chuckles, and the little girl beams at his observation. “Hmm, how about… a saxophone?”

She shakes her head “no.”

“A ukulele?”

“Nope! Keep guessing!”

“What about… a harmonica?”

With a giggle, your cousin once again shakes her head.

Josuke throws his head back, dramatically slapping a hand to his forehead. “Please tell me!” he pleads, “I can’t guess!”

She bounces on the balls of her feet, and folds her arms around her back. “A drumset,” she finally confirms, holding her head held high.

“Really?” Josuke asks, matching her enthusiasm. “But how do you know he’s gonna bring it to you?”

“Because I asked for it!”

On the other side of the table, her mother clears her throat and comments, “She’s been asking for it for four months now.”

“Four months?” Josuke glances at the woman briefly before bringing his attention back to the little girl. “Well, now, Santa’s gotta know what you want for sure.”

Nodding gleefully, the girl’s mother beckons her over, subtly allowing Josuke to get back to eating. Earlier, she had nagged at her daughter about “hanging on him.” Not that he really minded much, though, finding it endearing.

And it isn’t until he turns back to you, immediately making eye contact once more, that it dawns on him that he’s quite endearing to you too.

Time flies by rather fast, and soon enough everyone’s gathered in the living room to open presents.

Considering the number of people present in the household, Josuke wasn’t surprised that the gifts opened were strictly the ones given by fellow family members instead of any sort of “Santa” gifts.

Regardless, he sat up straight once you finally reached for the gift he’d got you. Pride was written all over his face when you even complimented the wrapping he apparently did “all by himself” (Crazy Diamond did it for him).

It’s something small and sweet.

If you like wearing jewlery, he saved-up money in order to get you something he knew you’d love. If not, he instead opts to buy you something you’ve explicitly had your eye on for a while. Regardless of either, his face turned viciously red when you engulfed him in a tight hug in response.

Your own gift to him was something he would’ve likely cried tears of joy over if he weren’t surrounded by people he’d just met that night.

It’s a new pair of shoes, made by one of his favorite Italian brands. Just by the way he looked at them, you thought his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. Similarly to you the hug you gave him, he wrapped his arms around you appreciatively. You relished in the feeling, ignoring some of your family members’ teasing.

Experiencing something this new and anticipated with Josuke melts everything else away. It’s more than enough to finally push you into proposing something to him that’s been on your mind all morning.

“Josuke,” you whispered to him, taking advantage of the fact others were still preoccupied unwrapping gifts, “I think I’m going to walk you home instead of having my parents drop you off.”

He thought he was going to faint right then and there. Yes, he would technically be going against his mother’s wishes by doing so, but just the feeling of your gentle breath brushing against his ear leaves him defenseless.

Without a second thought, he agrees:

Walking side-by-side, hand-in-hand, you and Josuke walked back to his house in a comfortable silence. The walk is short enough to justify doing so to your already exhausted parents, but long enough to let you two thoroughly enjoy being alone together.

Turning a corner, his house finally comes into view. And although your chilled fingertips are grateful to make it halfway through your walk, your heart drops.

He stops you at his front door, gently setting down the box containing his present on the paved stoop.

“Thank you for letting me spend Christmas with you,” he clears his throat, setting his gaze on your hand he’s still holding. Reaching out his other, he sandwiches it between both of his. “I had a lot of fun…”

His voice is soft, almost hesitant. If you were standing back a yard, you doubt you’d be able to hear him.

“Me too…” you nod, smiling.

Knowing him well enough by now to already know what he’s trying to get at, you use your free hand to cup his cold cheek. Leaning forward, you both press your lips against each other. Despite the chilliness, his lips are as inviting as ever.

Wrapping an arm around your lower back, he pulls you a step closer. The action deepens the kiss, lips moving against one another with vigor but not enough to be aggressive. A quiet sigh escapes his mouth, head light and spinning with bliss.

The kiss ends far too soon for either of your liking, but shy smiles and gentle giggles still fill the otherwise silent space after pulling away.

“Y’know…” he clears his throat, “My mother and I usually tend to wake up late on Christmas at this point. And if you wanna call your parents you can always use our phone, and uhm…”

“What’re you getting at Josuke?” you ask, tilting your head to the side.

“Uhm…” he rubs the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, “Do you… wanna maybe stay over? We can just crash on the couch if you’d prefer. And again, you can call your family to make sure it’s okay. My mother’ll be mad but at only at me, so if you-“

“Josuke,” you cut him off, laughing. “Yes! Yes… I’d love to.”

Sighing in relief, he quickly whirls around and fumbles a bit trying to unlock the front door. “Good… would hate for you to freeze out here, after all!” he says, prompting you to giggle once more.

Josuke was in a hell of a lot of trouble later that morning, Tomoko nearly having a heart attack in mere surprise walking in on the both of you curled up on the couch. To him, it’s well worth getting to snuggle with you in the early hours of Christmas morning.

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

Love Until We Freeze Ch.1 Day 0 - Breck/Reader

[ 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 ]

Warnings: Dead dove, do not eat. No use of Y/N, gender-neutral reader, extreme slowburn, stockholm syndrome, enemies (in reader's eyes) to lovers.

Warnings that are constant, but not repeated after this: The reader is afraid but desperate, and is constantly fighting back. Many mentions of depression, loneliness, helplessness, and self-worth. Kidnapping, manipulation, gaslighting, and abuse of all kinds (will be tagged). Varying levels of consent (will also be tagged), Breck touches the reader a lot and doesn't respect their personal space (touching, kissing, grinding, undressing, etc). The other members also don't respect their personal space because of him, literally everyone is terrible to them minus a few kind people because this is a cult. Reader is always being watched, reader has very slight epilepsy and a fear of needles, reader is very cold and will continue to be so.

Wordcount: 3548

Summary: You hated the cold, which is why you weren’t excited at all for the big family trip to the ski resort hours away from where you lived, but the summer heat was killing everyone else, and they were ready to risk the cold killing you for a moment of reprieve from it. The resort was beautiful, the slopes were enticing, and the mysterious man with the business card with a small black diamond in the corner might be more than he seemed when you run into him in the lobby your first day there.

Notes: The songs I listened to while writing~ Here it is, my longest DD fic outside of YMMWS, and as promised, I'm tagging the hell out of it, and it won't be going in DD's tag just in case. I really couldn't take any of the dove out and replace it with something tamer without it ruining what happens next and affecting how the ending goes, so here it is, uncensored for Halloween because I truly love how this one turned out. This will not be a happy fic, there is no cute fluff here (for the most part), you really need to be at least okay with what each chapter's tags are before proceeding, please. With that said, if this darker story does entice you, I hope you enjoy it during this dark month. ♦️

You first saw him while your family was on vacation, it being a trip to the mountain more than a few hours away to escape the summer heat, but it seemed like everyone forgot to actually ask your opinion on the destination since you fucking hated the cold.

There’d been other places you’d wanted to go, other things you’d rather do with your vacation hours off work, but as soon as the weatherman had given the week’s temperatures it’d been locked in, and you weren’t allowed to stay home despite being an adult with your own place, a car, a decently sized apartment; this was family time, you weren’t allowed to just ‘skip it this year’ even though you were so tempted to call back your boss and tell him you couldn’t go just so you’d have an excuse to give them. In the end you hadn’t, and you’d instead had to dig through your winter wardrobe despite the sweltering heat outside, just holding the sweaters and scarves and hats already making you sweat at the thought of putting them on later when it was more appropriate.

The drive up there on its own was practically unbearable, the conversations going on from your parents and relatives surrounding you in the rented minibus making what should’ve been an enjoyable ride through the seasons a headache instead. You’d tried to pull out the book you were currently reading as soon as you’d strapped in, but one of your uncles had seen it and pulled it right out of your hands, telling you to, ‘Talk with the family for once,’ with a big laugh, and you hadn’t seen it again after that. Now you had your head resting against the cooling glass, the snow starting to fall the closer you got to your destination, everyone pointing and talking about the mountain ahead when it came into view.

It was the biggest one closest to you, you’d looked it up when you’d gotten the bad news that it was where you’d be heading in a week’s time, and the entire ski resort had rave reviews about their excellent staff both in the sprawling wooden cabin-style hotel and the instructors on the slopes, as well as the single best double diamond course the States had to offer. Your bigshot cousin, a few years younger than you, boasted about mastering it all the way there, but you highly doubted it; he had a tendency to be all talk, or all wax no wick as you’d heard it said on TV.

You slipped on your warmest jacket before the minibus even stopped, no one else taking the switch from summer to winter as seriously as they wore passable fall outfits for now; they were still in travel and packing modes, but you knew better as the vehicle pulled up to a stop just outside the grand double doors. It was a nice place, you couldn’t deny that as you grabbed your suitcase and backpack from the overhead bin and headed into the warm lobby, it already filled with people getting ready to hit the slopes now that the sun, although covered by clouds for the most part, was high in the sky. You hurried over to the receptionist’s desk to check-in as your family started piling in behind you, each opening of the doors blasting you with the cold, and you gave them your name so you could get the key to your single room and go.

The only way you’d agreed to come was being able to book your own room, you were not about to share no matter how much your parents had argued against it since your single room would be so far away from everyone else’s doubles, but you’d just played it off and acted like that wasn’t exactly what you wanted. As such, your room was on the ground floor while theirs were higher up on the floors above, all spaced out based on availability, and as soon as you were able to separate from them and bask in your solitude you felt yourself instantly relax. You might not be able to leave, and you did have to make at least one appearance outside to avoid your father’s wrath about the wasted money and the fact that you might as well have stayed home if you weren’t going to ski - which you wanted to tell them was also your desire - but at least you had this.

You unpacked your things as slowly as possible, ignoring your phone as it lit up to tell you that everyone would be meeting in the dining room for dinner in a few hours after they were all settled in. You made sure that every single thing was in its place so you could avoid leaving again for as long as you could, finding every excuse to stall until you had no choice but to get acquainted with the space outside your room. You opened up the map on your phone after pulling on your warmest sweater, it was nice inside but you’d rather sweat than take any chances, and the second you left your wing of the hotel and stepped into the lobby you crashed into a group of people waiting to take their lessons. The two you’d hit fell forward, hit two more each, everyone holding onto each other as embarrassment made you cringe and want to bail, the instructor seeing the commotion and parting the group like Moses, his presence commanding respect even as he didn’t say a word.

You noticed the vest first, highly visible to stand out against the snow and trees, then the reflective sunglasses, your face warped in the colour as you looked up at him, and when he took them off to look you in the eye you felt all the embarrassment leave as dark brown irises stared you down. ‘I hope you’re not this clumsy out there, on the mountain,’ he demanded to know, your phone almost slipping from your hand as you stared before you came back to your senses and shook your head.

‘I don’t ski,’ you told him quickly, and he looked you over pointedly.

‘That much is obvious, that’s why you’re in need of my lessons, aren’t you?’ He said it like a question but it almost sounded like a statement, you needed his lessons, you had no choice now that he’d said it.

‘Uh…’

‘Lessons sound great!’ Your head spun as your parents exited the doors behind you, your father’s hand clapping down on your shoulder, trapping you there as the impatient group grew even more so the longer they were kept waiting. ‘How much do you charge?’

‘I’m full up today, but my lessons cost nothing but the love of the powder, the scent of the trees as they fly by, bring those with you as currency and I can teach you everything you want to know,’ he told you instead of your father, his eyes never leaving you and making you feel small. ‘And, for those who want to reach the Double Black, I also do private lessons, but those do cost a considerable amount.’

‘This one’s not going pro anytime soon, we’re just here for the week,’ your father laughed, the man still not looking at him as he just hummed to him with a slight nod, ‘but if my wife and I were to try it, how much would it cost?’

‘You couldn’t afford it.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said-’ He finally looked at him, the hand on your shoulder tightening a little as those brown eyes drilled into him with a seriousness you’d never seen before, why was he so intense for a ski instructor? ‘-you couldn’t afford it.’

Your father’s hand dropped from your shoulder as he stormed off, your mother apologizing before chasing after him before his temper spoiled the night, and when you looked from them back to the man you found he was staring at you again, his group ignored behind him until one of the women tapped on his shoulder. ‘Um, are we heading out soon? It’s getting cold,’ she asked, and something flashed in his eyes as he turned his head just enough to face her.

‘If you can’t appreciate the cold of the snow you don’t belong up here, get out,’ he hissed, and she and a few others laughed at his joke before the sound died out one by one, he wasn’t joking. ‘Get. Out.’ His voice was low, level, restrained, and she huffed before grabbing her friend and leaving, the two already talking about how he was hot but not that hot as they went off to grab some lattes to warm up with. ‘If everyone else is prepared then you can meet me outside by the lifts, I’ll be there in just a moment.’

The group just did a collective shrug before heading out, it was a free lesson so the only thing they were really losing was time, and as soon as they were gone he held out his card, pulled from seemingly nowhere; you took it and looked it over, it nothing special aside from his name, which was apparently Breck Montanari, the title of Level 8 Ski Instructor underneath it, which you supposed must be good, as well as a small black diamond in the lower right corner.

‘Thanks, but- I’m not much of a skier, I hate the cold,’ you admitted as you held out the card for him to take back, but he just took it before pressing it back into your palm, his hands enveloping yours as he leaned forward just a little.

‘Then you really need my lessons,’ he almost whispered, or maybe he was speaking at a normal volume and you were blacking out under that gaze, his hands freezing over your own until your skin burned. ‘Come find me at the top of the mountain tomorrow at 8PM, under the marker for the Double Black, I’ll give you your first lesson.’

You couldn’t refuse as he let go of your hand, put his sunglasses back on, and walked outside to rejoin his group, the edges of the card biting into your palm and fingers even without him there to hold it in place.

The rest of the day flew by before you knew it, the card heavy in your pocket as you followed your family around while they toured the place, your appetite almost gone as they sat around you during dinner. You only picked at your food, as delicious as it looked, before excusing yourself with the lie of a headache despite knowing the predictable jokes made at your expense as everyone chided you for walking away. Your room felt much too dark and empty for your liking as you walked inside, stripped down so you could put on your pajamas, get into bed for the night, his card now laying on the nightstand right beside your phone.

Not once did he leave your mind, it was almost like he’d cast a spell on you, and you thought back to his request before sitting up, the blankets bunching around your waist. He wouldn’t be there now, it was the middle of the night and the lifts weren’t even running, but something drew you to get out of bed, get dressed in your warmest clothes, your family sleeping soundly well away from the sound of your door shutting behind you. Your muffled footsteps barely left an echo as you walked over the diamond-patterned red carpet, the other rooms quiet as you passed by them, the lobby still lit up for those who had their own curiosity to them, although you were the only one out there at the moment.

Even the bar patrons had gone to bed over an hour ago, the time on the large ornamental grandfather clock by the entertainment wing’s door showing it was just after 2AM, and you wondered if maybe you’d be locked in when you tried the front doors. You pushed them and they gave way, letting in the most bitter chill you’d ever felt in your life, your scarf covering as much of your face as you could manage, your hat pulled down so low that it was brushing uncomfortably against your eyelids. It was freezing out, it was pitch black, and still you followed the lit up path to the lifts, the currently falling snow covering up all the prints of the day.

You were right, of course you would be, the lifts weren’t moving and it was impossible to walk up the entire mountain so you didn’t know what you were trying to do here as you swore to yourself, sniffling away the burning cold as you attempted to rub some heat back into your arms. ‘What the fuck am I doing?’ you asked yourself, your voice so quiet even without anyone around to cover it up with their own idle chatter. ‘I need to get back inside before I get frostbite, this was so fucking dumb.’

‘What’s dumb about wanting to watch the snow fall?’

You jumped and slipped on the lightly packed powder under your boots, your body landing hard on the shoveled piles behind you, your eyes scanning the darkness until you saw the light reflecting off of his sunglasses. He wore a warmer coat, a hat on his head and gloves on his hands, but he looked like the cold wasn’t affecting him in the slightest, moved like he had no chill whatsoever, this was normal to him. Breck, you refused to call him Mr. Montanari no matter how high his level was after seeing him in that vest, walked up to you and extended his hand for you to take, and you almost refused before you felt the ice seep into your legs, the cold starting to burn the longer you were sitting down.

He pulled you up with ease, your chest colliding against his and trapping your hands together between them, and you didn’t know if it was just the material of his coat or if he was even colder than the snow. ‘The doors lock at 2:30, after the bar closes down, so no one drunkenly wanders outside and gets themselves killed,’ he explained without letting go, fear starting to overtake you at the thought of being trapped out there until dawn. ‘The other… instructors and I have our own place up the mountain, away from the hotel; I can take you there, if you’d rather not freeze to death tonight?’

‘You sure there’s no way inside?’ you couldn’t stop yourself from asking, and when he smiled at you you noticed that his right canine stuck out a little further than the rest, it catching on his chapped lips.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Then let’s go, please.’ You knew this was even more stupid than coming out in the middle of the night, but he worked there, your parents had seen him talking to you, his card was on your nightstand still, if he did end up killing you on this mountain then he’d never get away with it. That thought didn’t ease you though as he brought you to an idly running ATV, how you’d walked right past it you didn’t know, but the inside was at least a little warmer as you shut your door and strapped in your seatbelt. The heat was on a low setting and you stared at the dial, willing it to turn as he sat down next to you and started the engine back up, and you were sure he noticed you staring as he let out a small chuckle and just started driving.

It was pitch black and the snow gave him such little visibility but he still knew where he was going, following a drivable path up the mountain just for his vehicle as well as his co-workers’, the hotel quickly disappearing behind the sheet of white and black in the distance until all you saw was what the headlights showed to you. It took a good half hour, maybe longer, you didn’t know as you shut your eyes and bunched up to try and cling to your remaining warmth, but he did eventually reach a secondary building high up on the mountain as promised. There were many other vehicles already parked there, but he drove past them as he rounded off to the side where a garage was waiting; he clicked a button on his keychain and the middle door lifted open, a space waiting for him with an owner sign of nothing more than a large black diamond on the wall at the end.

He parked, shut off the engine, and then got out, not even waiting for you to follow before leaving the garage, the lights turning off one by one the longer you waited. As soon as you saw what was happening you scrambled to get out before you were plunged into complete darkness, your phone unable to provide a light since you’d stupidly left it on your nightstand in your hurry to leave, and you just managed to reach the door on numb legs as the final light shut off. You threw it open and fell to the ground on the other side, your hands shaking as they hovered over the cement and tile floor, the wet footprints of Breck leading to his boots as well as two others as you slowly looked up, the strangers wearing gray sweaters with blue squares right in the middle standing above you without saying a word.

‘You’ll freeze down there, the floor isn’t very insulated,’ he simply said as they all stared at you, and when you were too stunned to move he motioned towards you, the two lifting you up by your arms and helping you stand. ‘Your room is this way, it isn’t as nice as back at the hotel, but you don’t have much of a choice up here, all the good rooms are for the Black Diamonds,’ he explained as you were all but dragged down the hall, your feet unable to keep up with them with how much the numbness was spreading. You’d never been this cold in your life, the winters back home didn’t even feel this bad, but it also could’ve had to do with the fact that you were so afraid of what was going on that you were finding it hard to move regardless.

He stopped outside a long line of doors, the numbers going up the only indicators of what was on the other sides to those who understood, and he flipped to a generic key on his keyring and unlocked it, your fight or flight finally kicking in at the sight. You tried to fight them off, needing to put some distance between whatever the fuck he intended for you inside that room and yourself, but when he grabbed you by the scarf, pulled it right off from around your dry throat you froze, staring up at him as he handed the scarf to the person to your left. Your hat came next, then he was undoing the zipper of your coat, and as soon as you heard the sound echo down the hallway you yanked yourself free and fell, your hands coming up to pull it closed again.

‘Oh, just what do you think I’m going to do with you?’ he asked, but there was a dark playfulness behind his words that hadn’t been there before, one you couldn’t trust as you were lifted back up again and carried inside. The room held a single bed with only a pillow and a sheet that definitely wouldn’t keep you warm, as well as a small bedside table with a single drawer, and a square table pushed into the corner by the door with only one chair; it looked like a slightly comfier prison cell than a spare room, and you looked back over your shoulder at him as your chest started to heave.

‘Will you bring me back tomorrow?’ you tried not to plead, and he just grinned at you before putting his sunglasses back on even though he was indoors and it was the middle of the night, although his eyes offered you no hope before they were hidden from sight.

‘You still need your first lesson,’ he smirked, and when you were dropped on the bed you bounced a little and tried to crawl towards him, your aching legs instantly sinking into the thin but comfortable mattress.

‘But you said I couldn’t afford it,’ you panicked, the two leaving the room so he could grab onto the handle.

‘I said your parents couldn’t afford it, you still don’t know what the price is.’

The door started to shut, and it took you a moment to realize that the light had never been on, and the window was up so high and was so small that once the door was shut you’d be back in that darkness again.

‘What’s the price? Just fucking tell me and I’ll pay it!’ You were getting desperate, you wanted out, you never wanted this, but this time he didn’t answer as the door clicked shut, his keys jingling again as you were locked in.

[therealnightcity]

[Subject Interview: Hiro]

Tagged by @arcandoria, thank you!!! 💕💕

NICKNAME: How do you know Hiro isn't one? Just fucking with you, that is my name. I got a lot of them, depends on who you ask. Could give me one and might even respond to it, f'you ask nicely.

GENDER: Male.

STAR SIGN: I don't know? Misty said I seemed like a Scorpio whatever that's supposed to mean, so gonna go with that if someone asks.

HEIGHT: 5'4 and a half

ORIENTATION: Why, you interested? Swing both ways 😘

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Japanese-American. Don't know any of my family, and frankly if they're anything like my parents were, not missing much.

FAVE FRUIT: Do I gotta pick one? I like most of them but if you want my favorite, it's mangos. Found one in some Corp's fruit bowl once and fuck it was good. (what? a guy gets hungry on a gig, and it's not like he was gonna miss it.)

FAVE SEASON: I like summer--the hotter the better--if you've got it why not show it off? (also it's fucking Night City, you get hot and you get less hot. Still haven't seen snow.)

FAVE FLOWER: I like dandelions. They somehow managed to survive in the city, and they're prettier than the cockroaches. Personally I'd be fine if they replaced the former.

FAVE SCENT: Brewing coffee, and the musty smell of a leather jacket

COFFEE, TEA, HOT CHOCOLATE: On that note, coffee. Or hot chocolate, both are good. I'll drink tea but I'm not gonna be happy about it. It just tastes like grass.

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: Hahahaha that's a good one

DOG OR CAT PERSON: Cats. Dogs are just loud, and I don't know about you, but fuck paying pet tax on them. At least the cats are easier to hide.

DREAM TRIP: Anywhere outside the city. It's not like I'm rolling in the eddies or the chances to travel. If I had the choice, somewhere cold. With a lot of trees. There isn't much of either here.

FAVE FICTIONAL CHARACTER: Uhhhh--I don't know. There's a lot of them. I always really liked Kaneda from Akira. It's a comfort movie for me.

NUMBER OF BLANKETS THEY SLEEP WITH: As many as possible. If I sleep with my head under them I almost can't hear the cats wrecking my apartment.

RANDOM FACT: About me, or just in general? I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue? I'm left handed, anddddd my favorite food is red bean buns. There, that's three.

Tagging: @shinycorvidae, @dreamskug, @a-pirate, @wraithsoutlaws , @ghostoffuturespast, @pinkyjulien, @ouroboros-hideout, @genocidalfetus, @kharonion, @sammysilverdyne, @elvenbeard, @jaymber, @chevvy-yates, @morganlefaye79 @dustymagpie, @oceanlilo, @pinkydude, @lokiina and anyone else who sees this and wants to do it! (not sure who has and hasn't been tagged yet)

[frozen-snowflakesandsunflowers]

Hans' cold heart explained through 'The Snow Queen' | Theory | Analysis

I've seen posts that say Hans was actually hypnotized by the trolls on his way to the mountain, turning "evil" and though one wouldn't clearly see this possible or something the innocent trolls would do, after reading the Snow Queen, I believe that instead it's just used as a metaphor for Hans to show us that really just like Kai, there is a warm genuine heart underneath that cold blanket that covers it. If you read @a13thprincefora13thprincess's Who is this Hans? post (sorry I keep mentioning you every time I mention Hans, but your analysis is just that good! It changed my perception further on Hans - It could do to more!), it will allow you to see the sudden change in Hans' from good to evil and his reasons for his actions, scene by scene, frame by frame. She also mentions that Hans is actually the mirror in 'The Snow Queen', while as we all know, Elsa is the Snow Queen. However I also believe that both Elsa and Hans have elements of Kai too; while Anna is full on Gerda with the warm heart with Elsa/ Kai as their "true love" (in different forms) and Hans seems to be the one with the sudden cold heart. While we first see him as a genuine warm hearted man,

he's later shown to be a cold hearted one just like Kai was, though he was eventually saved by Gerda with an act of true love (just like Elsa was saved from Hans (the mirror and the cold hearted Kai) by Anna).

In the original story telling, Kai was struck by the mirror that the trolls made, but in 'Frozen' they're friendly, loving and family to Kristoff, so I don't think the trolls may have a direct impact on Hans' cold heart turn but then again you never know. Frozen is full of its glorious twists!

Breakdown of the original in the retelling

Originally, the trolls made the mirror to distort the appearance of everything it reflects showing the opposite of what actually is. They take the mirror all over the world and distort everything then they go on their way to God and the angels with the mirror to shove it their faces. But on the way, the mirror trembles and falls shattering into a billion pieces. Some get struck in the eye and sike in the heart making the warm hearts, turn cold. One shard struck Kai in the eye making him cold hearted. Kai had a best friend named Gerda and roses were their favourite flower as they grew in the play area they played in. Hence it is a symbolism of their love. After being struck, on a summers day, Kai goes off to the Snow Queen's ice palace. When Winter comes round, Gerda decides to find Kai believing he's still alive. On her way, in search of Kai, she befriends a few people. She also collects a horse, carriage and boots so she stays warm. At the ice palace, finally having found Kai, she shows him an act of true love with a kiss and thaws his cold heart getting rid of the shard in it too.

Now as we know, the movie isn't a direct retelling of the classic but it does keep some key elements to it. Instead of friends and being different genders, the main two protagonists are sisters, named Elsa and Anna. And the Snow Queen is Elsa with the given powers. When they were younger and they played together they built a snowman, named Olaf and it's a symbolism of their bond. But there comes a point when Elsa loses control of her powers and actually strikes Anna in the head. The family goes to the trolls who aren't evil but are the good wise ones and replace Elsa's magic in Anna's memory, with the two playing in the snow. Fearing Elsa might accidentally hurt Anna again, she locks herself in her room for years causing the sisters to fall apart. At the coronation when it's accidentally revealed Elsa has powers, she runs off to the North mountain where it's colder and more isolated and there she builds an ice palace. Just before the coronation, on summers day, Anna meets Hans, a handsome prince who she falls in love with - the warm hearted Kai. But with Elsa running off, Anna goes after her on a horse. On the way to find Elsa, Anna befriends a few people just as Gerda does. But as she does so, she is offered winter attire including a pair of boots. Given that Elsa accidentally froze the sea and hence the kmad, it's now an eternal winter. One of those friends who Anna befriends, is Kristoff who has a reindeer and a sleigh instead of a horse and a carriage. A few minutes after Anna's arrival at Elsa's palace, Elsa accidentally strikes her again but this time in the heart. When Anna is taken to trolls by Kristoff, who's his adopted family, they tell her to seek an act of true love. Anna believes her true love is Hans and seeks him for a kiss, like how Kai and Gerda do. But upon arrival to Hans, he turns out to be evil, almost as if he was stuck by the mirrors shard like Kai was in the original telling, and hence leaves Anna to die without a kiss even though he knows it wouldn't have worked anyways. Before Anna's arrival to Hans, he holds Elsa imprisoned but after she escapes she hears Anna's of Anna's death. "The shard in the eye, Kai" Hans attempts to kill Elsa but Anna sees this. At this point Anna can see Kristoff loves him truly rather than Hans but upon seeing her sister accept death she stands before Hans and saves Elsa from Hans as she literally becomes frozen. This was the act of true love that was needed and for the story just as Kai and Gerda's kiss was as it saves the other. And Elsa, realising love is the key, brings back summer in parallel to Kai and Gerda's return to their homes in summer.

Who will thaw Han's cold heart?

In the movie, Hans just gets sent back home to the family he wished to escape from given his traumatic past from the abuse from his father and brothers. As I've said, he's the shard in Kai's heart becoming the cold hearted Kai. Though it would make sense given the sudden change to Hans character, it also doesn't seem like something the trolls would do despite their own magic being capable of messing with minds. It's more of a metaphor to show that just like Kai, he was struck by a "shard" that turned him cold but can be brought back with true love. That shard may not be the trolls magic or a literal/ magical mirror shard but rather metaphoric shard for the stress Hans endures being under pressure from the responsibility of being out in charge. From finding Anna, to finding a solution for Elsa to end this winter, to making sure the people are kept warm etc. Anyone out in charge in the situation Hans was, would for sure feel the stress and end of taking it out on people and saying crazy stuff. So now you wonder who will save him from the cold heart? Given Anna saved Elsa as an act of the unconditional family love, one would now think that Hans' brothers or even father would save him from his, right? But sometimes true love isn't the same for everyone at least not in some circumstances. Elsa and Anna were always close, right from the start. Hans' brothers weren't. With a family of 13 brothers it's expected that some would have different dynamics given being in line with the throne and also given the oldest middle youngest dynamic too and other things would impact too. So what Hans needs is love of an understanding of not being loved and not ever being a monarchy and if you've read my Elsa losing her powers & Hans' Redemption post then you know exactly where I'm going with this. It's Elsa. Want to know why it is? Why would Elsa be the one for Hans, just read this linked post regarding Hans' redemption.

Conclusion

So the point is that the "shard" in 'The Snow Queen' is the metaphor for the anger that Anna feels, fear Elsa feels and stress is what Hans feels. Just as "Fixer Upper" explains, “People make bad choices if they're mad, or scared, or stressed. But throw a little love their way.. and you'll bring out their best. True love brings doubt the best.”. Anna was mad at Elsa for shutting her out and rejecting her marriage proposal. Elsa was scared of hurting Anna and others accidentally. Hans was stressed being in the situation he was being in charge of the kingdom.

As far as the characters compare,

Hans is the mirror shard in Kai's heart and hence the cold hearted Kai - having two faces, genuine and a cold hearted one

Elsa is the Snow Queen and Kai - having the powers of the Snow Queen and having a close bond with the other protagonist

And Anna is Gerda - having the warmest heart and saving their loved one from a cold heart

[sowthetide]

GREETINGS AND SALUTATIONS this is teainabowl AND IM BACK WITH MORE NONSENSE AS PROMISED. family crisis almost averted?? i havent slept in 2 days but lmao who cares. (you cant see me rn but i want you to know that im doing a happy little jump skip dance as im writing this)

BECAUSE!!!!! ok. lets talk about genderbending in fandom. i think what usually gives me the ick in those fics is they do nature vs nurture wrong??? like a lot of the time they’ll just change the NATURE of the character and use the different gender as an excuse which. idk idk it runs me the wrong way. BUT QUENN!!! shes very much still theon?? just, nurtured differently. am i making sense? i have been traumatized by some bio-essentialism bs in the past when trying to look into similar fics bc i love gender fuckery PEOPLE JUST DONT GET IT LIKE I DO (or you, appearantly hkdhhfjh i love your story it means so much to me) 

and asoiaf is SUCH a gendered world??? like it has so much untapped potential where even a single characters gender can have SO MUCH IMPACT (can you imagine if joffrey had been a girl?? or if sansa had been a boy???) 

but what originally started my spiel was the realization that jon wouldnt have gone to the nights watch if he was a girl. and. what then?? slightly horrifying tbh, and makes me wonder if one of the other character had been male (read; they had been given more agency and autonomy in their lives) what would have changed???

but back to jon, bc then i immediately thought, ok, lets backtrack a bit, who would jon even BE. bc a lot of jons character revolves around his (lack of) a relationship with catelyn, his siblings mother. but she would have a harder time avoiding him if he was a she, right?? am i making sense???? a girl isnt seen like as much of a threat to her children i thinks?? idk i love cat and jon so much a love picking apart their relationship bc bc bc ARGHhhgg yk? also i like to think of ned being haunted by lyannas carbon copy who happens to be great with swords (would he be permitted to practice swordplay??) idk

ANYWAYS no we come to the part where i tie it up to what you mentioned in your answer. bc as much as JON being a girl might change his relationship with cat, it would be much more fucked up if it were robb, me thinks. (i too am a bit guilty of using robb as an accessory to cat) but but but. are. are you seeing my vision. catelyn stark with her three daughters when ned leaves for the greyjoy rebellion. catelyn whos convinced that the reason her husband wont send his bastard away is because she cant give him any sons. in the books she calls bran her special little boy and. idk the double meaning this would give it. and bran!!! being the heir!!! hiw would that change things??? would the reception to his accident be different?? and speaking of, what about king robert and his obsession with joining his family with neds? i havent talked about how robb (robyn?) would be different in this au but i cant think hed be as pleased as sansa was? his first shown interaction with joff is him trying to curb stomp the fucker lmao. i dont think he would be likely to have a different opinion bc of gender changes. in the books hes often rash and impulsive and prideful, and id want him to keep those traits, but peoples reactions to them would be different?? and so he would shape them in different ways??? am i making sense i feel like im just rambling. this is getting way too long and wayy to incoherent i need to stop. ok bye for now ill be back (threatening)

GO TO BED!!!! GET SOME SLEEP!!!!! But yay! to family crisis averted? Maybe?

Okay. I'm gonna indulge in some haterism for a second cause I've actually poked around the ASOIAF genderbending tag quite a bit. Unfortunately, a lot of those fics? Lame as hell. There's a preponderance of genderbent Jon Snow, which I think is totally cool! Very interesting genderbend to explore because of how much it changes the trajectory of his story. But then the character isn't really written as Jon at all? Maybe I'm just picky about characterization, but oftentimes fem!Jon just becomes this cookie-cutter "strong/feisty" female protag and it's like...

Sorry. I'm being mean. Obviously, there is no singular "correct" take on a given character, as we're all influenced by our own experiences and perceptions. My take on Theon isn't the exact same as yours, or goddcoward's, or Ashen's, or GRRM's. A unique Theon exists in all our heads, each one a bit different from the others.

But! Genderbends are so much more fun when you can see the underpinnings of the character you know, and there are moments where those aspects really shine through. And it's like OH!!! (pointing vigorously) THERE THEY ARE!!!! Otherwise, why not just write an OC, or adopt a minor character with very little canon characterization? (Admittedly, this can become a problem when you start collecting minor characters like Pokemon cards. I am my own evidence of this phenomenon.) If it ain't Jon, then why have it be Jon at all, y'know?

ngl female Joffrey has been rattling around in my brain lately... 👀fem!Joffrey would definitely be betrothed to Robb, which would be a complete and utter shitshow (appreciative/affectionate). Joffrey as a true mini-Cersei has such insane juice to it as a story idea, especially considering that Joffrey never liked Cersei all that much lol... the mother-daughter dynamic would be BONKERS.

Back to Jon though:

First, you're definitely right that fem!Jon wouldn't be seen as much of a threat to her siblings as Jon was. She would probably be married off pretty quickly once she came of age, as high as possible for a woman who was bastard-born. I don't see Catelyn liking her per se, but Catelyn wouldn't have the same misgivings about her as she did about Jon. Since fem!Jon probably wouldn't become the vessel of the wildling/Others plot, she might have an interesting role to play if she went south... to marry Robert's royal bastard Edric Storm, perhaps? I could see Robert "having his Lyanna" by marrying fem!Jon and Edric. But then shit hits the fan with the usual plot of AGOT, and maybe fem!Jon gets taken hostage by the Lannisters in King's Landing? Or gets caught in Renly's shit since she was with Edric at Storm's End? I am NAWTTTT talking myself into writing another fic. Go to hell. I need to finish Sow the Tide first.

fem!Robb (Robyn between myself and goddcoward) is even crazier. Catelyn would NOT be fucking happy to have Ned's spitting image hanging around Winterfell, while all her sons are under 10 and have the Tully look. I could see Catelyn successfully arguing that Jon should be fostered out, perhaps in the Vale (as a favor on the part of Jon Arryn)? Like, oh, Ned, you and Robert became such good friends fostering together in the Vale... that way, Jon is waythefuckoverthere and can't make any allies in the north.

I'd love for Robyn to have some of the same anger and pride, and she'd probably be similar to Catelyn in that she was raised as the heir for a good bit of time before the "real" heir came along years later (Bran+Edmure). Also, Catelyn would absolutely NOT trust Theon around Robyn. Not At All. Kinda fair though? Robyn would also be older than Sansa was in AGOT, so I think she'd be at least a little bit more worldly and pick up on Joffrey's... Joffreyness. Robb/Robyn are still dutiful characters, but I think there would be a lot more immediate friction between her and her betrothed. Double genderbend Throbb is my true love, however (Quobyn my beloved).

I've gotta finally go work on chapter 40 now, so I can't answer everything, but do come back... I'll be here... revolving all of these genderbends around in my head...

[phellycheesesteak]

Redoing my pinned post because I wanna

So uh. Hi. I’m snow or ophelya, either name is fine. They/it pronouns

This blog is just where I leave my thoughts on fandoms I’m in. Sometimes I draw the thoughts, other times I don’t, other times I’m just silly.

Current fixations: deadplate, anything project moon, cult of the lamb, and needy streamer overload. So if you’re wondering why that’s in the tags, that is why

Under the cut is more general info about me if you were curious

Okay more info. Firstly, I’m black and afab. I’m trans, specifically gender-fluid + bisexual aroaceflux. Also T4Tz I know, complex gender identity and all that good shit /lh

Im apart of a osdd system, I’m just the host of it. My head mates might pose as me ( depending on circumstance like. Dormancy or if they’re the host for a bit ) or just post as themselves but there’s emojis for that

If moots want, they can message me for whatever they wanna talk on or just get my discord. I’m active on both discord and tumblr so I don’t mind :] you can ask for my twt but it’s more so for posting on Palestine since I’m more used to twitters format

Think that’s all, so thanks for reading, I would show a photo of my cat if I could

[haloshornsinkstains]

Night Before [Chuuya x Reader]

I tried to keep the reader gender neutral, but please let me know if you spot any errors. No triggers, but it is about Christmas rather than other seasonal celebrations. Also Chuuya is Chuuya haha

--

“Why do you look like you've walked here in the snow?” You stared up at your boyfriend, thankful the cold had left your face red enough to hide any additional embarassment from his searching gaze. “Um, well... my car wouldn't start?” “You idiot. Get inside.” He stepped back away from the door and practically pulled you into the entranceway, “Why didn't you ask me to come and get you?” You winced, keeping your gaze firmly fixed on your boots as you pulled them off. “I was worried something might happen to you on your bike. It's really icy out there.” “Haaah? You really think a little ice can beat me?” When you looked back up he was standing on the ceiling, not a single hair out of place, just to make a point. The show off. Noticing you were finally done with your shoes and coat he jumped down, ushering you into his apartment proper and settling you down in front of the fire, a fluffy blanket wrapped around you in no time. “Wait! Your present Chu-” He shut you up with a kiss, pulling the gift bag from your hands and settling down on the seat beside you. “You shut up and get warm, I can't look after you if you get sick. Besides, don't people normally give out presents on the 25th?” “Well yes,” you chewed your bottom lip, “but I know you're busy tomorrow so I thought I could give it to you tonight.” Chuuya chuckled, leaning over to press a kiss against your temple. “Thank you.” He carefully slid the bottle out of the bag, examining the label with the kind of intensity that always made you a bit nervous. Chuuya knew about a lot of things, but he really knew about wine. It made it the perfect gift, but also meant it was far too easy to go wrong. Not that he'd tell you of course, but the idea still put you on edge. However he was smiling as he studied the bottle, just a small smile, but an honest one. “This is perfect love, I'll go pour us a glass each.” He hummed, pressing another kiss against your head before disappearing off to gather glasses.

By the time you finally made it to bed half of the bottle had disappeared between you, leaving you a little tipsy and equally as confident. Settling on the edge of his silken sheets you carefully unbuttoned your top just enough to let the red ribbon holding everything together beneath show through. “Would you like to unwrap the other half of your present?”

[daemonanalysis]

Snow Leopard Daemon: panthera uncia

MBTI type: INTJ (the Architect) Enneagram type: 5w4 (the Philosopher) Instinctual Variants: sx/sp (the Magician) Basic fear: to be useless or helpless

Neutral: introverted, resilient, idealistic, soft-spoken, independent Positive: insightful, authentic, patient, focused, self-aware, loyal Negative: vain, avoidant, restless, anxious, territorial, secretive What you have in common with wild cats: You are most active at dawn and dusk, and value your mid-afternoon naps. All wildcats are friendly but still reserved around strangers, which will reflect in your personality. People may find it difficult to pin your age. You are probably standoff-ish and not enjoy hugs or people in your personal space...unless they are people you love. Wild cats are usually less agreeable than house cats, and you will have your fair share of people who seem to strongly like and dislike you regardless of what you do. You value your appearance and your day is ruined if you leave the house disheveled. Why you might have a Snow Leopard: Snow leopards are set apart from other wild cats because they cannot roar. Someone with a snow leopard is more likely to walk away and avoid standing out, unless they are cornered. Snow leopards are adapted to some of the harshest environments in the world, and their people thrive in environments most struggle with. Due to their idealistic nature, resilience, and social intuition, many people with snow leopards have a strong sense of justice and tend shake up anywhere they end up. They are protective, loyal, patient and strategic; it is good to have them on your side, though mind that you aren't disrespecting them. You may not see their hurt until they leave you.

Notes from Atlas:

My daemon settled as a snow leopard when I was age 16. I was a little surprised, as she had spent a lot of time as an Ibex, and I suspected she would settle as that. As I have grown, her identity as a big cat has changed how people see us. Many associate cats with strong personalities, so our reservedness and desire to blend in has confused many I think. Having a female daemon as a woman has led many to question my gender identity, but I have found it just to be that we work well that way. My family also has a history of same-gender daemons, so there may be a genetic component as well.

[lino-jagiyaa]

❆ Underneath the tree | Hwang Hyunjin ❆

SYNOPSIS:christmas didn't feel like it used to this year, so your boyfriend hyunjin came over to spend the day with you, hoping to cheer you up a little.

a/n: I hope everyone spends their holiday well! and hopefully, this makes up for my being so inactive with my writing :/

GENRE: fluff, non!idol au

PAIRING: boyfriend!hyunjin x gender neutral reader!s/o

WORD COUNT: 749

WARNINGS: none. (like one curse word lol)

song rec: underneath the tree - kelly clarkson

taglist: @dadonbabysworld @whatudowhennooneseesyou

❆

❆

❆

christmas morning didn't quite feel the same this year. even with the snow on the ground outside and some still falling past your window, it's as if something was missing. nothing exciting was happening, and that was getting to you.

it was early, 7 am. but you still decided to text hyunjin to see if he was awake yet.

you: morning babe, merry christmas!!

hyunjinnie: merry christmas to you too babyy <;3 hyunjinnie: what are your plans today?

you: i actually didn't have anything planned...

hyunjinnie: can we spend the day together then?? i still haven't dropped off my presents for you yet ^^ you: ofc!!! what time will you be here??? hyunjinnie: as soon as i cannnn hyunjinnie: like I'm getting ready rn lol you: okayyy you: drive safe pls. the roads are still a little slick okay? hyunjinnie: i will don't worry <3 <3

❆❆❆

15 minutes and he was knocking at your door. a little later than he usually takes to get there considering his apartment is only seven minutes away from yours.

nonetheless, you brush it off thinking it's probably nothing and just due to the current weather.

"babe hurry! i'm freezing my ass off out here."

"coming!"

you quickly go unlock the door for your boyfriend, only to be greeted by him holding a crate for pets and an arm full of gifts.

"what's all this? i thought when you said 'presents' you meant one or two?"

"i know, i know. and originally i did only plan to bring...three?" hyunjin put on a nervous type of half smile

"hyunjin"

"fine. but you know i couldn't help it! as soon as i see something i know you'll like, i have to get it." he playfully rolls his eyes

"don't you wanna see what i got?"

"of course i do." you laugh

hyunjin puts the gifts down on the coffee table that sits in front of your couch, then sits down the carrier so that he can let out kkami.

"surprise!"

"hi, kkami! i haven't seen you in so long babyyy." you say, crouching down to greet him

"you were telling me the other day how much you missed him, so I thought this would be the perfect addition to your amazing presents."

"well thank you, because this is exactly what i needed on a day like this. definitely lifted my mood."

"uh, excuse me! did you forget that i'm your boyfriend, not him?" hyunjin dramatically gasps

"of course not, hyun." you giggle

"but in all seriousness, what do you mean? did something happen?"

putting kkami on your lap and getting off the floor to sit on the couch, you sigh.

"well no. and that's sort of the problem. i woke up this morning expecting to be all excited that it's christmas but instead it felt dull, you know?"

"mhm, i get what you mean. but at the same time, I think that's just a part of growing up. it may not be as exciting anymore because you're finally getting a break from work and you aren't staying up late, waiting for santa to arrive. but that's okay. we can spend the day however you'd like, okay?"

"thanks, babe. and.. anything i want?" you raise an eyebrow at him

"of course." he puts a soft hand on your cheek and smiles

"but first we have to put kkami in this outfit I bought him and open our presents." hyunjin laughs

"outfit? let me see!" you basically scream at him

he reaches into his tote bag and pulls out a dog-sized santa outfit and matching hat and hands it to you.

"this is so cute! oh my god hyun. but is he gonna be fine with it on? he seems like he'd fight us if we try to put this on him." you question

"he might, but since i bought it and it's christmas, he's gonna have to just deal with it." hyunjin playfully scoffs

you and hyunjin opened your presents and shared smiles as you watched the other open everything.

kkami indeed fought the two of you when you tried to put him in the outfit. but the two of you got some pictures of him in it in front of your tree. so at the end of the day, it wasn't all that bad.

"should we make some hot cocoa and put on some christmas movies?" hyunjin asks

"sounds great." you smile

spending the day with him and kkami was just what you needed to get out of your holiday blues. couldn't ask for anything more perfect.