#like pick your audience teddy

[lonelynpc]

using my tea break to tell you all that at random intervals today my consultant keeps going, "emergency, paging dr beat"

he also went through a phase where he would griddy over to his chair after induction

[reiderwriter]

Wished Away Entire Lifetimes

Chapter 6 of I Can't Help Myself

Summary: Living with Spencer - even if it is because some psycho is trying to murder you - means learning more about him. You just hope that the reverse isn't also true as you keep your cards as close to your chest as possible.

Warnings: No smut, suggestive content, both reader and Spencer are horny as fuck the entire time, spoilers for Marley and Me, mention of a pet death in the aforementioned movie.

A/N: At this point, I have to admit to the audience that the plot has somewhat changed from my original intention, but I still have a solid goal in mind, so WHO CARES!!! Domestic Spencer! Dom can mean more than one thing, Amen.

Masterlist || Add yourself to the tag list

Spencer's apartment was exactly as you remembered it, but this time around, it felt different. 

You quietly walked in and sat down on the sofa, trying not to be so obvious in your glances towards the bookshelf, trying to see if your message was still intact. 

“The kitchen's just through here, my bedroom, study,” he said pointing to each doorway, introducing you to a place you already had ingrained in your mind as the site of your biggest surprise. 

You nodded along awkwardly and shifted the bag of spare clothes and toiletries you'd picked up from your apartment on the way there between your hands. 

The shelves were still in order and, based on the updated collection of dust sprinkled about the place, hadn't even been perused in a while. You pouted a little, thinking about how you'd have to reluctantly forgive him for not messaging you. If he hadn't seen the message, then you supposed he was telling the truth about being busy. 

More of you wanted to wallow in your pettiness, to wait until he noticed himself that you were expecting. You did wonder how long it would take him. He was observant. You'd admitted that to himself when he'd first started mentioning case details and inferences months before in the office, but it seemed like people weren't hit forte. 

You were sure he could statistically tell you how big your baby was given the amount of weeks pregnant you were (the size of a plum, according to a Google search the night before) but you didn't think he'd be able to notice that you specifically were carrying said baby. 

It was, though, only a matter of time. 

“Y/N? Did you hear me?” He asked, staring at you with his brow furrowed, his tie slightly looser than it had been a few moments earlier. 

Now you were the thoughtless one. Your gaze raked down from his face to the loosened tie, the top buttons undone, the flash of skin at his neck as he swallowed lightly, obviously not as effected by your gaze as you were by his. 

“Yes,” you replied, letting your mind wander off to one of the two couched he'd fucked you on. 

“Y/N, you're not listening,” he said again, slightly irritated now. Somehow  that turned you on more. 

“Yes, I am.”

“What did I say then?” 

“I said I was listening, not that I cared.” 

He closed his eyes in a sigh before stepping closer to you and grabbing your bag in his hand. You quickly snatched it back and pulled it to yourself. 

You hadn't exactly packed much, but in your rush out of the door, hormones or something maternal had grabbed a baby grow and a teddy bear, and you knew the combination would cause questions you didn't have the patience to answer just then. 

“Y/N,” he moaned, signalling how tired he was with your attitude. You wanted to calm down and just apologise, but the part of you that had jumped at the sight of his bare skin was now itching for a physical fight. 

Emphasis, hopefully, on the physical part. 

“I'd rather you didn't go through my things, Spencer,” you said, throwing the bag back over your shoulder. 

“And I'd rather you listened to me instead of glaring at me, but here we are.”

Your eyes narrowed on him as you found yourself pitching forward, head tipping back as his hand caught the top of the strap and slowly pushed it down your arm. 

“There, now, let me show you the bed.” 

“Bed?” 

“You really weren't listening?”

“I tend to drown you out these days, I fear its a trauma response.” 

He scoffed and pressed a hand to the base of your spine, inching you forward as he held your bag for you. 

First, his hand on your arm, and then the one on your back - you really shouldn't have accepted his offer knowing you were going to spend at least a night and likely more frustratedly horny. 

You'd barely survived a day in an office with him, And that was before you'd been intimate. 

Now you had memories, and a reference point, and a goddamn bed. 

“Here. I'll clear a draw so you can unpack. Let me grab you some towels as well, and-” 

“What do you mean?” Your tone was brighter, less challenging now and more open curiosity, as if being mollified by his temporary kindness. The change made you uncomfortable.

He looked back at you with a wide-eyed questioning stare. 

“Hmm?” 

“Clear a draw? You keep clothes in your spare room?” 

He struggled for an answer for a second before meeting your eyes again with an almost apologetic glance. 

“Y/N, I don't have a spare bed. The other room only has a desk. The bed was removed when-” he trailed off, looking almost guilty as he spotted your embarrassed look. 

“Okay, and when were you going to tell me that?” You said, hands on your hips in an attempt at intimidation. His eyes dragging down your body said that it'd had the opposite effect.

“I did,” he said, stepping closer to you again, hands resting on your hips then stroking up your back until he was cradling your back, closing the gap between you until you were chest to chest. 

“You weren't listening, remember?" 

You desperately clung to that indignant annoyance as his gaze slid to your mouth, your hands pinned against his chest. You were painfully aware of the bed just inches behind you, wondering what his reaction would be if you just stripped off and climbed in. 

“I wasn't listening just now, but I sure as hell was listening on campus. Emily has a spare room, let me call her.”

“No,” he pouted, leaning forward to press his lips to your cheek. 

“Spencer!” You gasped at the unexpected move. If you weren't so delicately pressed up against his rising member, you'd accuse him of acting like a spoiled child. 

He did it again, switching to your other cheek. You pouted back at him, glaring at him when he surfaced from each kiss. 

“You know,” you said as he licked at the skin between your neck and your collar bone. “You have a job to do, right?” 

He hummed against your skin, lips rising to the sensitive point just below your earlobe. 

You breathed out a shaky sigh and tried again. 

“You can't just keep me in bed for two weeks,” you said, gripping his shoulders lightly, not sure whether you wanted him off you, or you wanted him buried deeper.

“I can't?”  

His lips rose again to your cheeks, but so his his hands, grabbing a breast in one hand as the other squeezed your ass, pulling you closer. 

“Spencer, some would think you hadn't had sex in months, come on-” 

“Haven't.” 

His hands were more insistent now, pushing up your shirt and finding your sensitive breasts. His wandering hands didn't care about your bra, they didn't care about how sensitive your nipples were because of the hormones, they didn't even care they were being a bit too rough as he pinched your nipples hard and pulled them upwards, a moan shooting from your mouth. 

It was so painful, so fucking delicious that you almost missed his words. You almost laughed at the irony that both your and his first fuck in months had resulted in a pregnancy. A dry spell ended by a shower of orgasms and a conception to boot. How lucky. 

Spencer was too busy for thought. 

“God, Spencer, if you're going to fuck me standing up, at least do it against a wall.”

He reluctantly pulled his hands away and his head, too, just long enough to glare at you. 

“Towels,” you said. “And a clear draw.” 

He nodded and finally removed his hands from you, though you had no doubt he'd be back on you the minute all the tasks for the day were done. 

“And Spencer?” You said, curiosity getting the better of you. 

He turned to look at you, and you let the question out before you could think about it too much. 

“How busy were you that you haven't had time to fuck in months?” 

If it were any other man, you'd have cringed at hearing your own question. But Spencer always answered so earnestly that there could be very little embarrassment with him. Just frustration and confusion. 

“I wasn't busy,” he said, already making his way out of the room, leaving his head peeking around the doorway as he finished his explanation. 

“I was in prison.” 

You spent the next 72 hours trying to wrap your mind around that declaration. Of all things he could've been doing, prison never came to mind. 

A vow of celibacy you'd believe. Just a general lack of game, you'd be a bit more hesitant to believe, considering his general attractiveness. A nasty case of (now cured) Chlamydia leading to almost a year sex free in recovery would be preferable. Or a stint in rehab for sex addiction, perhaps, considering how often his hands had been on you since arriving. 

But prison? 

What the fuck would they put him in prison for? 

While he'd run errands for you that night, you'd tucked yourself into his bed, not even bothering to change into your pajamas. You stripped off a single layer and climbed in, not stopping to let yourself contemplate that answer until the morning. 

Unfortunately, since you'd found yourself snuggled up to a hard cock 8 hours later, you didn't exactly have time to think about it then either, busy grinding against him wantonly. 

By the time his hands were gripping the flesh of your thighs grinding back into you on the edge of sleep, you'd been struck with your usual morning upset, and had sent yourself to the bathroom quietly to empty your stomach. 

He was still abed when you'd finished, and you decided to leave him there to think, and then you'd repeated that twice coming up with no logical conclusion. 

You'd finally given in and thrown in the towel when you realised you had Penelope’s contact details still and decided to ask her yourself. 

It was a relief to know that the man you'd created life with was not actually a murderer but actually wrongfully convicted. Especially since you were supposedly thrown into his arms (this time) by a murderer yourself. 

You did start to feel guilty about treating him like shit when you first met, though. He'd, supposedly, only been back from federal prison for a few weeks when he was thrust into your office, which probably explained his less than friendly nature. 

It didn't excise yours. 

You'd kept our distance enough in those few days to avoid sexual encounters, but you relaxed into his touch a little more after finding out. 

It came as a bigger shock than it should have that you enjoyed Spencer Reid's company. 

Bored out of your mind on house arrest, you'd taken to rooting through his bookshelves, and when he wasn't commenting on your bad habit of touching other peoples books or actually doing his job, he rooted with you. 

“Why do you have a copy of The Collector by John Fowles from a New York public library?” 

“It was from a case.”

“And why didn't you return it.” 

“Touché.” 

You'd rolled your eyes at him  and picked up a battered copy of Crime and Punishment from a lower shelf.

“Writing a book this long should be a crime, and reading it must be a punishment,” you grumbled to yourself as he laughed behind you. 

“I can finish it in three hours,” he said, trying not to brag but failing miserably. 

“You're bluffing.”

“Want to make a bet?” He smiled at you mischievously, and suddenly you saw the boy he must've been. Your heart panged as you wondered if your child would inherit that look. 

“Penelope said I shouldn't gamble with you. Las Vegas, right?” 

“Penelope?” he asked, and you realised your blunder. Technically, you still had yet to be introduced to the one woman tech show that was Ms. Garcia, and you scrambled for an excuse. 

“Emily made me contact her with all my passwords and tech info,” you said, technically not lying. 

“She's real friendly.” That was definitely the truth, and you prayed to god that he bought it. 

You didn't give him a chance yo interrogate further, simply throwing the brick of a Russian classic at him and grabbing a book yourself. 

You climbed onto the couch next to him, resting your head in his lap and began to read your book. 

“Time starts now, Reid. And I will be testing you after.”

“Sure, if you can stay awake,” he said, stroking your hair out of your eyes and leaving you in peace as he began his solo race. 

Spencer didn't let go of your off-hand comment, though. On the contrary, he let it spill over into his work life the next day as he watched Penelope with furtive eyes, wondering what the two of you could be hiding. 

He knew you were hiding something. You'd had the same look about you at the bookshelves as you did when you first insisted you weren't attracted to him. A mildly annoyed face and an unconscious bite of the lip, a glance to the right, and all of a sudden, he was dying to know what you were hiding.

“So far there's been little activity in the hunting grounds due to the vigilance of the girls on campus, but there have been a spike in reported stalking, and Penelope, how do you know Y/N?” 

He fought to get the words out, mollifying himself with the consolation that at least he got all the important information out first in the middle of the meeting. 

“Oh ho,” chortled Luke from the side, looking on amusedly as Penelope glanced about for help or a way out. 

“I don't know Y/N, I've never met Y/N. Why would you think I know Y/N? Who is Y/N?” 

“Slightly overkill, Penelope,” Emily said, collecting her papers and abandoning the other woman. 

The others followed suit as she gaped and sent pleading looks behind them. 

“Penelope?” Reid said again, and Penelope was annoyed to find his stupidly innocent puppy-dog eyes staring back at her and expecting answers. 

“No, no, no, no, I promised I wouldn't say anything, and I am not breaking a promise. Don't make me break a promise, Spencer, you know that's bad luck.”

She stood and tried to walk briskly out of the room, but he followed her still. 

“Penelope, please. I won't say anything.” 

“Yes, you will. You can't help yourself,” she said, stopping to talk to him for a second before quickly starting again, practically marching to her office. 

“Then tell me where you met, at least? I know it wasn't messages, Penelope, all her communications went through Emily. She's lying to me, and we have to keep her safe.”

They finally reached her office, and Spencer finally pulled out his final card. 

“I just want to keep her safe, Penelope. Just this one girl, just this once.” 

She looked at him with a shocked, heartbroken face, even as she knew he was manipulating her and caved. 

“She came to your apartment. A month ago. I was there picking up a book for you.”

“What was she doing there?” 

Penelope hesitated, trying to avoid the topic of your revelation, telling herself that if she didn't tell him about the baby, she hadn't actually broken her promise. 

“The emails. She found some emails from you in her spam folder.” 

“Right,” he said, blowing out a deep breath in relief. “Right the emails. She mentioned that.” 

Penelope, too, let out a sharp exhale, imagining the worst of it over now he'd stopped asking questions. 

Spencer made his way to the door before turning back and asking one more, though.

“Penelope, why did she ask you to keep this to yourself?” 

Penelope sent him an apologetic look, then zipped her mouth shut and threw away the key. He nodded and took his leave. 

Spencer was sure that there was an explanation for everything, that you'd probably just been embarrassed at turning up at his house and finding out he wasn't there. Maybe you'd even forgotten you'd been. 

But another deeper part of him was angry and unjustifiably so. You'd lied to him, and he felt sick, angry, violent, and like he'd love nothing more than to bend you over his lap and make sure you never did it again.

All of the unjustified anger he'd pent up in prison, the rough way he carried himself in the field now, his less than friendly exterior, it was bleeding into his relationship with you. 

He tried to damp it down, but he couldn't control it, and he was scared even as he opened the door to the apartment and prepared himself for an argument that would probably end in rough, probably progress-ending sex. 

And you had made progress in the last few days. He'd thought at the very least that you'd be a friend, albeit one he would love to kiss and sink deep into. Now he knew that he'd probably ruin all chances of that as he rounded the corner and prepared for a fight. 

He was angry, and, like it or not, he knew he was going to take it out on you. 

It was the sight of you on the couch that completely dissipated every negative emotion that he had. 

Your dress was loose and fell about you in a puddle, though it too was drowned underneath what looked to be every blanket in the house. 

Tara sat off in the corner silently watching you, and he gave her a stiff nod as she departed her protection duty for the day. 

“S-Spencer,” you sniffled, and his heart paced rapidly as he found your face stained with tear tracks, fresh tears still dripping down as well. 

He had just enough time to check you over for injuries before you had flung yourself into his arms and commenced sobbing like an absolute baby. 

“Y/N, what's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?” 

Your breath hitched as you tried to speak, but you couldn't calm down and he walked you back to the couch, sitting down and letting you climb into his lap, straddling him as you once again buried your face in your neck. 

Five minutes later, you'd ceased with the dramatics, but you faced the awkward consequence of having to tell him now that you were crying because of a scene in Marley and Me. 

“It's s-stupid,” you laughed into his neck as you cuddled into him, further muffling your voice against his chest. 

“Just tell me,” he pleaded, stroking your back and hair. You looked up at him in his eyes, and then shook your head and retreated into the comfort of the crook of his neck, hips pushing closer into his as his hands rubbed comforting circles in your back. 

After a few rubs, it was quite obvious that his hands were pushing lower, and his fingers were close to grabbing a handful of your ass. 

“Was it a movie?” He asked. You nodded. 

He looked at the screen and sighed. 

“Marley and Me?” He asked. You nodded again. 

“And the dog-” 

“He died, Spencer. He loved his family so much that he took himself outside so they wouldn't have to watch him die.”

“I know, Y/N, I know.” 

“He was such a good dog,” you said, blubbering again. 

“I know,” he said, gently kissing you. 

“You know, crying during movies is a sign that oxytocin has been triggered by the connections you feel due to vicarious social experience. Your attention is captured and emotions elicited by the movie's story.” 

He kissed you again, and you kept listening to his explanation, suddenly calmed by his gentle explanation. 

“Oxytocin is best known for its role in childbirth and breastfeeding, increasing contractions during labour and stimulating the milk ducts, but it's also released in response to positive physical contact – hugging, kissing, sexual intimacy and even petting animals – as well as through positive social interactions.” 

“Spencer?” You said, looking up at him again. 

“Yes?” 

“As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I do know what oxytocin is. I, too, have a PhD, you know.” 

He smiled shyly as he ran his hands down your legs and back up again, pushing your skirt up to the tops of your thighs before gripping the bare skin he found there. 

“I think I'd much prefer if you just kissed me again,” you said. 

And he did. 

With a tear, you'd lifted the anger that had built up all day, and now he was like putty in your hands, obeying his every command for physical attention. 

He kissed you hard, his tongue tangling with yours as your hips subtly shifted above his, stimulating areas that had been much too eager to be stimulated in the last few days. 

His cock rose slightly, filling with blood as you moaned gently into the kiss. 

He was seconds from pushing you into the couch once again and freeing his abused cock, plundering your depths once again, but gently this time. He had promised himself he'd make the third time a bed at least, but here he was. You had to stop sitting on sofas. 

But with a quick thank you and heavy eyelids, you pulled away and rested your head against his shoulder. 

In his shock and disappointment, it took him rather a long time to realise you'd fallen asleep in his arms. Though his body craved attention for his own, the weight of you on top of him was warm, and satisfying, and when the shock wore off and he'd blinked away any untoward thoughts, he pulled you in closer, sunk down into the couch, and slept with you. 

@Cattosmush @im-this-girl @Sarcasm-and-stiles @lovemelaunic @lllucere@ Cattosmush @lariclifford @daphnesutton Ccatstars @Iniyalovesall @solemnarration @emma-e-a @haygirleyhay Mel-knee @broadwaytraaaaash @Wildflowerpassion @itshardtopickaname @Timidquindim @yourfavoritefangirl @waywardxrhea @Aliceofonederland @joshuafatubaee @jc10622 @timeboundkate @Roslxnxx @Gensthoughts23 @marvelshittt @lavvylove @Slitherss @mythumbhurts @Xiaexact @Honestlyloving @maryyy-8

🔖@mindfullycriminal @aliteralsemicolon @r-3dlips @alexafromamazon15 @jasf444 @subunitless @thebloomingeagle @lackingoriginalthoughts @empressgraytea @nox-sprite @alondralolll @allspicestones @Chiyozai @iheart_mgg @2hiigh2cry @tiyuel @jiuseoks @readinglatenights @placidus @dreamsarebig @pisceslovrr @waywardgoddess66 @tampon_racecar @kbaby-024 @luvdella @feyresqueen @a1dyn @pleasantwitchgarden @kolasbombaf @lovehadlovelost @kissesforspence @moonchildooh @bubbleebubz @theoraekenslover @melagem02 @calypso-read @ari-aurelia @flipsideoflife @mggreidsreads @@farfromthehomelands @spicyspirit @donttrustlove @chicaconfudidaycuriosa @ivet4 @nox-xie @sarakay-gvf @miss-ev @@nvrlandqueen @delicatelittleworld @nokjhg @measure-in-pain @famouslynerdy @batrensworld @batrensworld

[i-cant-sing]

Maybe a dancer reader with your ocs, like they want to still be on stage and fight about it with your oc because they sacrificed a lot to get there and don’t want to waste it. Like how would they react would they let the darling dance on stage with limited audience or?

Hmm, here's how I think it'll go:

Eros:

He wouldnt ever stop you from enjoying life, and he loves watching you dance. Its so graceful, the way your body moves, the emotions youre expressing, its all- so impressive. Eros 100% ditches his duty at the hospital, dresses up super nice to go to the theatre where you're performing, and of course he has the best seat near the stage so you could see your no.1 hype man cheering you on. He is so proudly telling anyone and everyone that "thats my girl!" "I'm dating her! Gosh, I'm lucked out!"

Dimitri:

Probably has a theatre/stage built in his mansion for you to perform in, and the audience will be him and his men. They're all there to clap and cheer you on, but in a very careful way so as to not make Dimitri think they're attracted to you, just admiring your dance.

Its kinda weird watching all these buffed up, tattooed criminals getting front seat to your little hobby and they're all looking at you in complete awe, giving you 7 minute standing ovation, hooting as their boss gets on stage and spins you in his arms before dipping you as he gives you a passionate kiss. Ah yes, Dimitri is also a skilled dancer, though you'll now have to waltz with him for the world.

Magnus:

Guess who brings the entire cult to the show? Its crazy lover boy Magnus! You didnt want to dance, but Magnus knew about your secret hobby and he insisted that you dance for him. You turned him down, of course because you hate him, but then a little threat from the cult to pull your intestines out to hang dry, you were all game <3

At the end of your dance, he's on his knees, along with his cult, and is praising the Lord for giving him such a perfect partner.

Theodore:

You're probably still in the dark about Theo being a spy/assassin, so you dont know that the reason the entire theatre is empty except for him is because Theo used his spy agency to book out the theatre completely for "mission purposes", and you just think that nobody else showed up :( You also dont know that Theo has some guys stationed outside the theatre to knock out/shoot anyone who tries to come in.

But hey, at least your deaf bf is all supportive as he claps and gives you nods of approval at the end of your performance, as well as a big bouquet and teddy bear.

Halim Mehmat Shah:

My man, my himbo bf, he brings his entire family and his bestie Mahir to the show because um of course, this will also be your family soon when you two get married (you're not even dating him atm) so why wouldnt they come to support you????

He's cheering, he's clapping, his family has these proud beaming smiles and they all join you backstage to tell you how amazing you are and you just feel a little weird at how Halim's family, especially his parents are looking at you with such pride- your own family has never looked at you so fondly. Of course, the parents made you take pictures with Halim (and Mahir was also dragged into these photos because he's their angsty adoptive son lol).

Later, you find out that almost all the people who attended the show were connected to the Shah family somehow, and they bought tickets for everyone.

Mahir Jahangir:

He'll look up from his pile of papers, silent as you whine about wanting to dance at the theatre downtown. Mahir knows that you're an exceptionally good dancer, but he doesnt know how to explain to you that he'd much rather burn the world to the ground than let any man look at you like that.

And since he doesnt wanna sound like an insane, jealous s/o, he agrees, giving you a nod to go ahead before picking up his phone to tell his secretary to cater to your requests.

When the day of the show comes, the curtains open and all you see is Mahir and his mom sitting in the front row. They're the only audience, and Mahir's mom is ever so cheerful throughout your performance while Mahir has a soft smile, pride and awe shining in his eyes. Of course, only at the end of the show does Mahir finally clap, giving you a standing ovation as he does so. All his moves, his claps, his praise, they're all calculated, no filler words or actions that dont hold significance are used.

His mother is going on and on about how much she enjoyed the performance, while Mahir is silently waiting for his moment to tell you that he just bought the theatre and is gifting it to you <3

Baldwin:

No.1 cheerleader, has the ballroom booked for you. You'd think he'd have the ballroom empty so that he could get a private show, but no. He has his court in there, praising and clapping at how well you dance, except they're all wearing blindfolds because again- Baldwin doesnt want them to see how well his "angel" dances.

"We can feel how well you dance, your Majesty!" They say to you, but you know by now that they're all just crazy.

What you dont expect is Baldwin to get up and join you mid performance, pulling you close by the waist as he leads your body, waltzing through the entire ballroom with such finesse.

[disappointingcabbage]

TMAGP 28 thoughts, spoilers under the cut!!

I finally have time for early access again

Oh god Trevor’s already here. I’m still so fucking surprised that he’s rich and also a politician. that’s just wack, man

He’s so cheery. I’d say it’s a nice change but I despise politicians with a burning passion

Oh gross he wants to use the OIAR as poster children for diversity virtue signaling

At least he’s not overbearing and is willing to let them do their own thing

Oh shit an external got caught and now Trevor has to intervene

Ah. Ink5oul. Makes sense.

Wait ink5oul doesn’t work for them though-

Who the fresh fuck got them to actually sign a contract????

Oh god they need to pin it on someone. This is more in line with TMA Trevor actually. Who will they pick? Probably Gwen

I love how Sam, Alice, and Celia are joking about how much of a rat bastard Trevor is

Celia’s pan!!

“Are you from anywhere particularly exciting? That’ll do it” “oh you have no idea” CELIA THE ENTIRE AUDIENCE KNOWS YOURE NOT EXACTLY SUBTLE

Awww Alice and Teddy are still friendly enough to get drinks together

Sam: you should probably open up about your Tragic Backstory at some point *immediate camera zoom sound effect*

lmao Alice was right about Trevor driving a Bentley

Ooooh we get a name drop for Gwen’s rich asshole grandpa (his name is (was?) Jeremy)

Gwen’s girlbossing her way to the top (snitching on Lena to Trevor) like we ALL KNEW SHE WOULD

WHO SENT THE FILES GWEN WHO’S THE THIRD PARTY

“Don’t bother with the office I’m never there” finally, the politician speaks the truth

oh no Sam’s stuck out in the rai- OH SHIT THE ARCHIVIST

I think Sam is the first one to fight the compulsion in this podcast

As a former gifted kid the beginning of this statement just kinda sounds like what those programs are normally like

I mean this is the Magnus Institute so I didn’t expect normal gifted kid questions but like where is this going?

Running away out of social anxiety? Mood

Ah shit he got lost in the institute this is not a fun place to get lost in

CHANTING?????

Oh shit little baby Sam walked in on some fucked up human experiments regarding alchemy

Jesus fuck I can’t imagine witnessing a skeleton escape its flesh prison as a kid

Alchemy bones :0

Yeah I’d run away too holy shit dude

SAM YOU COLLAPSED ARE YOU OKAY PLEASE DONT BE DEAD

[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?

[latteart98]

I keep rewatching scenes from Hidden Love because I simply can’t get over the drama and if I had to pick a favorite scene, it would be the airport scene in episode 7 when her heart gets completely shattered. Listen the drama is packed is so many cute scenes that I’m totally in love with, but the scene that really, really gets to me is that one.

Can you imagine being in SZ’s shoes? Anxious and antsy all night, she showed up in his city despite knowing the huge trouble it will get her in back at home.. all because she needs to ask him in person if he is really dating someone or was it just a lie? But poor girl didn’t even get to voice her questions because his coworker, whom she mistook as the girlfriend, came along with him.

The moment DJX appears at the airport with the lady tagging along with him, SZ’s eyes are on the lady not him. Not her crush whom she hasn’t seen in so many months but the lady. He’s all worried about her safety and mad out of concern for her but all she can think about is “who is she? Is she your girlfriend? You promised me that you would tell me immediately if you got a girlfriend. Why didn’t you keep your promise?”

Notice how she’s not mad at him for dating because she knows deep in her heart that she’s too young for him and he has never seen her as anything more than a friend’s little sister. No, she’s not having any false hopes. Rather, she’s hurt that he didn’t remember the promise he made to her. And as a result, it became apparent that she was no one special to him nor were the times they spent together was of any significance to him. That he was only nice to her because she was in front of him and had it been anyone else, he would’ve behaved the same way. All the while she held on to every memory, every gift like a treasure.

And just because she knew that she never really had a chance with him because of the age difference, doesn’t mean it hurt any less to see him with someone else. She kept hoping against all hopes that she would, eventually, grow up and he would then notice her a woman but she figured he’s already found his “someone better” - someone that’s not her, that will never be her.

And when she gives him one last sad smile and starts walking away, leaving behind the teddy and pieces of her heart with him, it’s a cinematic masterpiece. She’s walking away and with every step, her mind flashes back to a montage of DJX being kind to her and smiling at her and being full of warmth- all the things that made her fall for him to begin with. And she realizes that those memories, those little smiles of his, those gestures are just gonna forever remain as little treasures in her heart. Even before she leaves the airport, when she wishes him happiness and leaves the teddy with him, we know she’s bidding farewell. She’s mentally getting ready to never see him again. Oh, it’s breaking her heart and so is the audience’s hearts. The montage, the walking away first, the one last turn back, the background music, the fact that it’s at an airport… everything was so perfectly put together.

And finally when her brother comes to pick her up, she starts sobbing in his arms. He’s holding her and trying to comfort her through promises of buying her her favorite food or comic books or even beating the guy up.. all silly stuff thinking it was just an online fling. As if her whole teenage years’ worth of hopes didn’t just crash at her feet. As if her innocent little heart didn’t just break into a million pieces.

Listen I know teenagers are dramatic (gosh I would know, I used to be one) and most of the times, the love/crush they have as a teen is cringe and melodramatic… but sometimes, only sometimes they are capable of honest sincere feelings so when it hurts, it fucking hurts. We might say they’re being dramatic because it’s only their first puppy love but God, that’s exactly why it hurts so much. Because it is their first love. Because they didn’t know any better, they put so much of their mental space and time and hopes and fears into this one person and when it doesn’t work out, it fucking sucks. Yes they will move on, yes they will get over it eventually, yes with time they might even look back at their teen self and cringe. But this moment, the moment your heart breaks for the first time whether you are 17 or 30 or 49, it’s not a moment you will ever forget. This moment becomes a landmark in your heart.

[teddywesworl]

oooh ooh 🧩, ☁️, & 🥐 for the ask game!!!

🧩 ⇢ what will make you click away from a fanfiction immediately?

cuips also trying to get me in trouble bc the honest answer to this is: a lot. bad formatting, purple prose without reason, overly quirky voice/tone, inconsistent characterization, characters behaving like OCs wearing canon skins, cyclical angst (wherein the same conflict is repeated over and over and over again for many thousands of words, seemingly for the sake of holding the audience hostage, instead of any progression happening), when the setting and/or action involves some shit i know a fuckton about irl and gets it confidently super wrong,

☁️ ⇢ what made you choose your username?

him. that's teddy wesworl. theodore "teddy" flood from hbo's westworld. the whole show means a lot to me and tbh i maybe shoulda picked dolores or maeve as a namesake but, without spoiling too much for those who might watch the show, teddy's whole purpose is to be utterly incorruptible in the face of more pain than a person could ever be expected to withstand. he's so good that his goodness survives the rewriting. there's a whole thing in season 1 where god, the devil, and man walk into a bar and he's man and i can't even EXPLAIN how COOL that is because you should WATCH WESTWORLD

🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh

i've suddenly never been on the internet before in my life. ummmmmmmm i like when fine art is reaction meme. oh also there's a rare vine i only come across VERY occasionally on tumblr and NEVER in the big compilations that's just a dude going "oh no it's the cops!" in a cartoonish way and then leaping like a breaching whale into a hedge, which swallows him whole. i say that shit regularly

[potterandpromises]

OMITB 3x07 (THE THEO EPISODE) liveblog:

Was not expecting a new scene with Bunny of all things.

Uma kleptomaniac arc (this is like, the first thing we’ve really learned about her and it’s been three seasons.)

Uma trying to bond with Charles by joking-but-not-really about him murdering Bunny.

Theo now? Theo now!

I find it a tad unbelievable that Mabel didn’t know the sign for murder. It’s immediately forgiven though. (It was a decent way to establish their dynamic and her level of ASL.)

Theo telling Mabel that no one was closer to Ben then Ben’s brother when he likely doesn't even know he has a brother.

It’s fascinating to me that Mabel thought Theo might know Dickie.

I’m sorry, did Clif say, “goddamn mother.”

Charles and the replacement charleses.

I think that’s the first Gut Milk mention all season. They now come in blue raspberry, apparently.

I like how the writers were thinking up ways to bring Theo into the storyline and were like, what if he's just a giant fucking nerd?

(Also I watched that nose boop like twenty times when I prewatched One Killer Question on mute for the Crumbs.)

I really love the scene where Theo is feeding Mabel lines about CoBro 2.

That’s right Charles, close that window. Nothing good ever came from listening to music through your window.

I am not the target audience for Oliver's theater storyline. Bring me chekhov's heart attack.

Dickie adoption confirmation (also I like Dickie so far, he seems like a good guy.)

Um, is that ‘moron’ Theo spending daddy’s money?

Theo’s so attuned to Mabel oh my goooodddd.

Overall, I like Mabel and Theo’s updated dynamic. I like how they try and how their communication isn’t perfect.

Bloody Mabel podcast? Absolutely not. I feel like this just shows how wrong Tobert is for Mabel.

I pondered how the Tobert + Theo introduction would go. I knew he would know Theo from the podcast. I could’ve never guessed he would be a literal fan.

(Also how Tobert said he: “picked up on..”)

Unexpected sexual tension.

I can’t help but notice that this episode takes place in the building 👍

Charles and Oliver reunion via horse metaphor <3

Charles and Oliver drinking gut milk like it’s the good old days.

The podcast is back baby.

I’m so looking forward to more of whatever Theo-Mabel-Tobert have going on. I didn’t expect that alliance to last more then an episode.

Oh, so Dickie brought the hankie. Kind of sad (or suspicious? if he was hiding his identity) that Uma didn’t even realize Dickie was Ben’s brother.

Attempts to capitalize on bloody Mabel have not exactly gone over well before…

Bonus aftershow liveblog:

“There’s a different kind of intimacy, a different kind of home, when she’s with Theo.” Catch me screaming about this.

Okay, all this stuff about growth and his comment about Tobert and shedding labels. They are implying that Theo is queer, right?

This spin the wheel game has taken a sad turn…

But also the idea that Will is both Oliver and Teddy’s son and Theo is somehow also both Teddy and Oliver's son.

[st-peculiar]

Exit Music (for a Film) by Radiohead is kinda lining up with Teddy and Colin’s narrative really well and I’m having thoughts. Gonna start with Teddy and then move to Colin and I’ll see where I go from there.

Tmagp Spoilers below fair warning

First off, the title itself. The first time we meet Teddy is when he’s leaving the OIAR to work elsewhere, seemingly very glad he’s moving on. From what I can tell with the limited time and I formation we have of him, he never really liked his work at the OIAR, and the place as a whole. So, the title of the song itself is symbolic of the end of an era for him. Or so we think.

This set of lyrics, the opening lines. So much is packed into this for me.

So. Something obviously had to drive Teddy over the edge to go to Lena and to tell her that he quits. We know that he had been working at the OIAR for quite a good few years prior to the canon timeline, of which is still very vague to the audience; so the first lyric applies to him in the sense that he finally broke from a cycle, he “woke up”, perhaps in more than one sense.

Not much to say on the second lyric except that perhaps that can reference to the catalyst for his self-termination from the OIAR? Something just a little too upsetting.

And the last two; I think these can speak for themselves. “Today, we escape,” -> him quitting initially, “We escape.” -> the going away party.

Has anyone ever thought about why specifically the very first recording we get is of the going away party? Yes, it’s what sets up the arrival of Sam, but it also sets up another thing. Teddy’s departure and his subsequent fall. I think it was saying “you can leave, but we know you’ll be back.”

Like a misplaced puzzle piece.

The last two lines of this one piques my interest.

In regards to Teddy, this feels almost omniscient, almost like an overlying feeling. Something feels vaguely wrong about leaving the OIAR, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. And you know what happens after he leaves? Hell, not only begins to break loose, but slowly unravels like a ball of twine. A butterfly effect variation of sorts.

Some people have brought this up before, but I needed to put it here as well; the possibility of sabotage in a career related sense for Teddy. He didn’t get the initial job he left the OIAR for because of “team cuts”, or something of the sort. That seems like the thing that would be told outright to any applying persons no? It was a sudden thing. While I’m not exactly sure of the timeline of this, I’ll make a best guess here; then, sometime after, Teddy gets a new job. For those who have listened to tmagp 29, I think we all know what happens. Ergo, butterfly effect. Somehow, Teddy has gotten pulled back into something strange, and needed someone to help him. Enter Alice. Then, exit Alice. Quite a lot can be taken from their brief conversation and I fear I don’t have quite the brainpower to pick it apart fully at this time.

This sequence is just. It’s something phenomenal to me in a way.

It’s all about trying to keep your balance. Imagine you’re on a tightrope in a circus performance. There are weights dragging your arms down, your feet are bleeding, and all you can think is “keep standing. Keep standing.” There is no net beneath you. There was once a net, but it was folded away because someone thought your act could use a little… something.

Keep a cool head. Keep standing. Stay balanced. Do not fall. Do not fall.

Alice was once the net, in a way. Then, she got pulled away by something, someone, bigger than them both.

“I can’t do this alone.” Do you guys realise what this means to me? Teddy needed to talk to Alice about something important, specifically about his job. The job we know nothing about. What happened. What the fuck happened. Teddy sounds so weary in that brief phone call. I also picked up on the slight sense of anxiety from him, but that could just be me. But he was definitely worried about something.

And then there’s Colin’s place in this set of lyrics. Just barely hours later, Alice gets yet another call from someone who is asking for help, someone who is her friend. That call is haunting me; everything about it feels really just. Raw to me. There’s so much desperation in his voice. He needs help. Such a big part about Colin’s character is that he never wants help, nor does he think he needs it. Then there’s this. Turn me around twice and push me into a grave already.

The first part of this one seems more metaphorical than anything to me.

The “chill” is the surmounting aura of wrongness that climbs higher with every episode leading up to the s1 finale. It’s the strange happenings that are being collected and filed by the OIAR, it’s FRE-d1 continually becoming less and less machine as more incidents are washed in and read by Chester, Norris, and Augustus.

The “song” is nothing more than blind hope. Blind, foolish hope.

The second part to this one, however, is something that makes my head wrap into itself with interpretation. It’s another omniscient-adjacent feeling, addressing to “it” as “you”. It’s all very Colin to me. The “it” is FRE-d1. It’s the one thing that makes Colin completely snap. It’s laughing at him, taunting Colin with its ancient, unworkable hardwiring. It’s been slowly pushing Colin to and over the edge for the entire season, and it all climaxes to that one phone call.

That one, desperate phone call.

This is mainly about that first line.

We don’t know what happened to Colin, what really happened, after he hung up. I need to know desperately. But I’m going to take this in the sense that Colin’s violent obsession with figuring out FRE-d1 finally consumed him, very likely in more than just the mental sense.

What I think is that Colin has been turned into an external. Just think about it. What I gather from what we know about externals is that the common ground for most of them is obsession to some level or another, and we know that Colin was deep in that trench.

I have a very vivid image in my head of Colin sitting in the computer room of the office with the technology slowly growing over him, almost like lichen or moss. It melds with his skin, seeping into his flesh. It’s grotesque and looks like something agonizing, but Colin’s face is just. Tired. Exhausted. He gave his final hurrah. His phone sits fallen next to his limp hand, still opened to Alice’s contact page, his head leaned back against the wall. Hooded eyes, deep circles beneath them.

Both he and Teddy were destined to fulfill something greater from the beginning, and their tragedy lies in the way they both reached out for a hand, and was never given one to grasp onto.

[toomuchracket]

more dad!matty for you for whenever you feel like it. I'm thinking about a very tiny, very smart 3 year old whos a carbon copy of her dad and one day after you finish work in the study, you go up to her room to find her holding an audience with all her stuffed toys. You stand behind the door and watch for a bit and baba's none the wiser because she's so engrossed. After a bit you realise what's happening, she's copying her dad. You've taken her to a few of his interviews before to show her the bts and also because she loves hanging out with her dad and her uncles. so now she's basically just imitating everything she's seen.

And you FT matty instantly, because maybe he's on tour at that point idk, and you shush him first and tell him to stay quiet while you point the camera at your daughter. and he absolutely cannot fucking handle the cuteness and he's trying so hard not to coo and squeal through the phone at her. and she's just babbling away to her toys and at one point she says a big word that none of you recognises and then she says it again at which point you clock that it's her trying to say "juxtaposition" but she's 3 and doesn't entirely know how to say it yet so you quietly tell matty what's happening and that's the point he loses it. and he's like "oh my precious girl, who's my smartest girl in the world. you are!!"

Baba obviously hears him and she comes running to you because she thinks her dad is home and he's just there through the phone like "can you say that for me again? can you say that word again?" 😭

baba 2, literally a matty clone!! you've picked her up from her half-day at nursery after WFH in the morning, and after you've both had a little bit of lunch you get her settled in her room with all her toys and a fruit shoot drink, before you head back to the study to just have a final glance over the legal report you finished earlier. and you go back up after maybe 30/45 mins to get her ready for a little walk before you both pick up her big sister from school, and as you reach the landing you can hear her chatting away to herself happily through the open door - when you get closer, you're able to pick out familiar words and phrases amidst the three-year-old rapid fire speech pattern, like "write a song about" and "wanted it to sound like", and you start smiling because you know what - or rather who - she's imitating. when you get closer and you can see her, you have to try so hard not to giggle; she's sat on her bed, talking to the teddy at the other end, with her protective headphones for shows on one ear and holding one of the microphones that plugs into your old xbox for singstar lmao, clearly doing an impression of matty from the radio interview he did last week that you all attended with him.

he and the guys are in new york for a couple of days, just finalising production on a new EP they're putting out in a few months, and it's maybe 9am for him so you figure he'll answer a facetime call - you duck into your bedroom quickly so baba doesn't hear, but you can still see her across the hall, and call matty. he picks up immediately like "hi sweetheart!", and you're like "hi my darling, just wanted to show you something, but you need to keep quiet!" and you dash back across the landing and flip the camera so he can see your daughter, still doing her interview bit. matty beams anyway at the sight of his littlest girl, his smile growing even more when he clocks what she's doing and saying; he actually has to clap a hand over his mouth to stop from cooing at how adorable she is, or cackling when she makes a confused facial expression that's just so him. and she goes a little bit quieter when she tries to say juxtaposition, because she's a little bit unsure of the pronunciation, and matty's like "what's she saying?" - you listen again and flip the camera around, grinning, like "juxtaposition", and matty cannot stop himself laughing a proper, full-belly laugh and going "oh, my baby!", so naturally seconds later your daughter appears in the doorway like "daddy?", headphones still half-on and her little face just lit up. you scoop her up so she can see matty, who's making little kissy noises and being like "were you pretending to be me? my clever girl, i am so proud of you, using all those big words! can you say juxtaposition for me again, precious girl?" - she nods and then says it like "just-a-position", and you and matty both cheer (because that's good for when you're literally three!!) while she snuggles into your neck giggling. and then she's like "miss you, daddy. home soon?", and matty does a sad little pout like "i miss you too baby, miss all of my girls. but i'll get home tomorrow night while you're asleep, so i'll see you in two mornings, alright?"; she nods again and then perks up to ask "will you have presents?", which makes you and matty laugh, and he's like "tell you what, i'll call you back once you and mummy have picked up your sister, and you can tell me what you want me to bring back from america. yeah?" and your daughter's like "deal" lmao <3

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

The most popular new gear of Splatoon 3 Drizzle Season 2022.

So at the beginning of April I posted a google docs poll with all of the 100+ new gear pieces introduced at the launch of Splatoon 3, intending to follow up on it a week later. Unfortunately, it didn't get much traction, only having 92 responses as of the time of writing. This made me a bit sad, so I just kind of forgot about it. That said, 92 responses are still something to work with, so let's take a look at them!

As a reminder, the poll let you pick multiple answers for each category, which makes the percentages look a bit weird if you just look at them in a vacuum. So when I give numbers now, keep that in mind.

That said, let's start by looking at Headwear! This is by far the spikiest category, meaning this is the category where votes were the most split. That said, eking out the number one spot by just one vote is...

The Cephalo Pods! (29.3%)

And yeah, I get it. A lot of headwear is very large and cover up a lot of your character, and often changes colors in a way you can't control. So why bother with that when you can just put these bad boys on to keep your look clean and simple? Not to mention, you start with these. They're one of your very first gear pieces!

After the Pods we come to a shared second place, as both of these have exactly 28.3% of the votes, and I think they have some things in common with the Pods, too.

The Ocho OctoPhones and the Teddy Band!

Note that neither of these cover up your head. A bit of a trend with the most popular gear in the poll in general. Headphones have always been very popular, and with that bright red, the gold highlights, and that sleek 8-design, these were sure to be a hit. I'm not surprised to see the Teddy Band so high up either, how can you say no to something that adorable? (Also I have to imagine there is some effort justification at play, considering just what you need to do to get them...)

Also, quick shoutout to the third, fourth and fifth place, which are all just one vote apart!

The Howdy Hat (26.1%), Retro BluFocals (25%), and the Bream-Brim Cap! (23.9)

Now, let's move on to Clothes, which looks very different from Headwear in terms of how the votes are spread out. This is also by far the biggest category, so it's natural that the votes would be more evenly spread, but there are still a couple of clear favourites here, and none are more obvious than the number one, which is...

The Orca Bolero! (33.7%)

That's right, a whole third of all votes included the Orca Bolero. I can't say I am that surprised, though, Toni Kensa has been one of the most popular brands ever since their introduction in the second game. Their stark black-and-white aesthetic actually mixes really well with the bright ink colors on display in turf wars, and they pull on a lot of real-life fashion trends I think really resonate with a lot of Splatoon's audience.

In second place, we actually have another shared spot, but it's a pretty steep drop compared to the Orca Bolero, all the way down to 26.1% each.

The Annaki Choker Tee and the Patchwork Bomber!

Outside of the Pearlescent Hoodie, we don't get a lot of accessories in Splatoon, and I think this alone gives the Annaki Choker Tee a lot of appeal. The shirt itself isn't half bad either, with a slick Annaki logo over a really nice dusty red.

That said, I will admit I don't quite get the Patchwork Bomber. It's a real messy piece, mixing colors and materials in a way I can only describe as bold, but I have to imagine that's the point. If you voted for the Patchwork Bomber, please sound off in the comments! I'd love to hear why you like it so much.

Finally, let's take a look at Shoes! This is by far the most even category for the most part, but it has a couple of large standouts, including the single most popular gear piece in the entire season by an enormous margin...

The Punk Pinks! (50%)

That's right, fifty percent. Half of all votes in the shoes category included the Punk Pinks. And I don't blame anyone, honestly. This is a new version of maybe the single most popular shoe model in the entire series, and they're pink! These were a surefire hit, and the results show.

The second place is behind with a whole ten votes, but it still holds a dominant position of its own in the category with a whopping 39.1%:

The Pearl 01STERs!

These aren't my cup of tea, personally, but I absolutely understand why people like these. They're really big and bulky and overdesigned, and if you like that then these are perfect for you.

After that, there is an enormous drop, all the way down to 23.9% with the Red Hammertreads. These are just some cool punk boots, with leather straps all over. I'm honestly surprised we haven't gotten more of these yet, because with a name like "Red Hammertreads" it sure seems like they're setting it up.

And that's it for Drizzle Season 2022! Next up is Chill Season 2022, and we've not thankfully gotten to more manageable numbers of new apparel. So manageable in fact that going forward I can actually fit them into a tumblr poll, so stay tuned for that!

[cytryndor]

So, remember when I said I might write a little scene of Oliver's coming out (more to us, an audience, than anyone else)(kind of)? Here it is, with special dedication to @elizmanderson

[SCENE: Some fancy-schmancy Broadway related event. OLIVER, MABEL and CHARLES are standing in the middle of room and camera view. OLIVER's really excited, looking around and just glowing, feeling (and looking) like a kid in a candy store. MABEL is sipping her wine, and CHARLES just don't want to be there, but is still awkwardly smiling, in his usual Charles-way. OLIVER notices someone, and turns his attention toward that person]

Oliver: Well isn't it Patti LuPone, as I live and breathe!

Patti: Oliver!

[PATTI hugs OLIVER like you would hug your not-so-close friend, or a coworker; she's using just one arm, holding a glass of wine in the other. After that, OLIVER puts his arm around her shoulder, and turns towards his friends]

Mabel: You two seem to know each other.

[MABEL says that more to her glass than them, looking somewhere else. OLIVER does not care about that, and picks up her comment]

Oliver: Oh yes, we do know each other. You see, when I wasn't such a failure of a man, way back in the seventies-

Patti: Come on, Oliver, you were never a failure to me. I have never missed any of your premieres, no matter how more off-off-off Broadway they were getting.

Oliver: Oh, I know. You made everything to let me know what you thought of my plays.

[Although still in cheerful manner, the last line was pretty sour. PATTI does not care, or simply doesn't notice, and continues]

Patti: Well, it's not my fault that your musicals were getting worse and worse. It was that boyfriend of yours who put his money into producing them.

Oliver: Oh don't you bring Teddy into this, you Wicked Witch of the West. And even if, our plays were magical, [and, a bit quieter, adds] at the beginning at least.

Patti: Of course they were, honey.

[She looks at CHARLES]

Patti: Hey, is your friend over here good? Is that... Blood?

Mabel: Oh my god, Charles-

Oliver: Come on, Charles-Haden Savage, I know Patti is undeniably a big deal, but we just met Mel Brooks and you didn't had that much of reaction-

Charles: Teddy? As in, Teddy Dimas?

[MABEL presses her lips together, looking at rest of her company. OLIVER does not have time to respond, as PATTI answers]

Patti: Oh, yes! They were inseparable back in the days. But then, this Roberta came in-

Oliver: -and the rest is history! Listen Patti, I think I saw Glenn Close coming this way, how about you're gonna find Andrew and threaten him with lawsuit again?

Patti: Charming as always, Putnam.

[PATTI smiles one last time, and walks off. MABEL's lets out a breath she didn't even realize she was holding; OLIVER is still smiling in the direction that PATTI went, and CHARLES is wiping off blood from under his nose]

Charles: What on Earth was that?

Oliver: What was?

Charles: You have never mentioned that you're into men!

[A moment of silence, OLIVER is looking at CHARLES like he's not understanding something]

Oliver: ...that what's shocking you?

Oliver: Not the fact that I was with Teddy Dimas of all people, but the fact that I enjoy sleeping with men?

Charles: Well, it's not like you ever told us that you're into-

[Before CHARLES says something stupid, MABEL cuts in]

Mabel: I mean, I knew.

Charles: What? When did he told you?

Mabel: Never. I mean, have you seen this [she points at OLIVER with her glass of wine still in hand] man?

Oliver: Thank you.

[Still shocked, OLIVER leans forward slightly, as if bowing. Move's unnecessary and almost not noticable if you'd blink, but it's still there]

Mabel: And anyway, when did you came out as straight to us, Charles?

Charles: I mean, why would I do that?

Mabel: Wow. That is so straight of you.

[END OF SCENE, at least as of now. Don't have an idea for the rest yet, but there might be something]

[winstonhenderson]

𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟖.

𝓐𝓲𝓷’𝓽 𝓢𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽?

𝙎𝘼𝘾𝙍𝙄𝙁𝘼𝙈𝙀 𝙎𝙀𝙍𝙄𝙀𝙎

Notes of Cynthia Powell

A year ago I went to the Tavern as an adventure. I knew Julia let steam off in that way and hoped that this would have the same effect. I was about to enroll into college, which was a struggle on its own. Jules helped me convince my parents to try to finish art college. Julia always tells me that I am brave for doing that and that she is proud of me… Well, on the stage there was a new small band from Liverpool that was performing. I knew the band from people’s stories; they were practically the city’s little rascals. Best on drums, Sutcliffe on bass, Harrison on solo guitar, McCartney and Lennon on guitar. Julia’s twin was the leader, and that bloke was handsome. 

“And this one goes out to Ms. Prim in the back. Nice vermouth you got there!”, he noticed me.

It was love at first sight I thought. 

They sang “Ain’t She Sweet” and it was surprisingly a great cover. He has a shrill voice that suits this kind of rock. Fun movements. He is baaad, and really looks like a teddy boy. But what do I say, opposites attract. They played a bunch of songs and got ready to leave.

Some drunkards remained while the rest of my peers went home. This was my first time going alone to the Tavern, usually Julia would involuntarily pull me here. I wondered why she never wanted to bring me to the Silver Beatles’ practices?

The other members noticed I was left alone. They looked like they were picking on John. John was more than embarrassed, am I that…

He looked at me very softly. I assured myself and drummed up the courage to ask:

“Do you need any help with that?”

The others were suddenly too busy to answer, except that Paul looked at me with some kind of jealousy? I waved off that feeling.

“Not really.”, John began, “Let men do all the hard work, mon cherie, and go get some sleep. You got to look your best.”

He didn’t think I wasn’t good looking.

“You sure?”, I asked, fluttering my eyelashes.

John got a bit defensive all of a sudden, backing away.

“I’m sure…”

“Maybe he doesn’t like me afterall.”, I thought.

“But the way you could help is by coming by during our next gig here… I’ll find a way to let you know!”, he excitedly grabbed me by the hand.

I blushed. He let go just as quickly.

“Um, alright then!”, I chuckled.

“Yeah.”, he softened, “See you then, Ms. Prim.”

“Goodbye.”

He always liked preppy girls… Maybe that’s why earlier he and Jules got along so well, as Jules told me. Before they were split by their parents for some time…

The next day I saw him and he lightened up immediately. 

“Cyn-thia, or I mean Ms. Prim!”, he said, “I have found out the time for the gig, and it’s drumroll please, at 9pm at the Tavern. Don’t you dare miss it!”.

“Oh, you know my name? And I won’t.”, I chuckled.

“Of course, I’ve heard Jules call ya that.”, John elaborated, twitching. God, he wasn’t private at all.

“I’ll be sure to bring her by next time!”, I promised.

He lit up, “That would be nice.”

“Bye then!”, I smirked.

“Farewell, missy.”, he left saluting me on the way. 

I went to that gig and every next one I could catch. Sometimes I had a feeling he would look for me in the audience. I always felt kind of special in a way.

That’s when I realized I began to harbor feelings for that silly lad. He was brash and rude. I was blushing whenever he passed by, whenever he glanced at me. College was great, but it became even better when I saw him in the halls. He always borrowed his art equipment from others. Sometimes from me. I think it was obvious to everyone that I had a soft spot for John even Aunt Mimi. She looked at me with protective eyes, though I couldn’t understand why. She was always nice to me when I hung out with Julia… Why be so overprotective? So, yeah, everyone seemed to get the picture, except Jules. 

I was always anxious to talk about John with Jules, because they were a complicated pair of siblings. They were never seen together. The only one that ever saw them like that was their family. They would always be in a fight everytime I visited and Jules would always be angry at him for making another mess. At first I agreed with her but now, I started to think his little escapades weren’t that bad. I never brought up John as a topic. I was scared of what would happen. But what I didn’t expect was for her to bring up John a month after I had fallen for him.

“Um… John talked to me about um… Seeing you in his college… ”, she began, “And inviting you to his gigs…”

She was nervous and was twitching in the exact same way her twin would.

“Yes, and what? He has been nice, don't worry too much Jules!”

She got serious.

“He was nice? Well that’s refreshing. Or are you blinded by something else, Cyn?”

I got red.

“I know what you mean and I have to admit, however embarrassing this may be, I like your brother!”

Julia was absolutely furious.

“Jules, I’m sorry, but you of all people would understand why! He is stubborn, he is funny, he is amazingly creative and brave!”

Julia raised her eyebrow.

“He… He is dangerous. I don’t want you near him. End of story. I got too… Too careless… You got too close! He’ll break you! Like every girl he broke before you!”

“He had no girls, I asked his friends.”

Jules fixed her posture.

“I cannot fathom his stupidity! He lied to me! Why would you want to be with a liar!”

“So, what? You lie all the time! You lied to yourself that you wanted to finish medical school, but you wanted music all along!”

Julia got mad.

“I am NOT like my mother and brother. And never will be. I play my role. And you should play yours.”

Jules at that time didn’t even sound like herself.

“You should be happy you got into the thing you love. Life is unfair. Life is cruel. Life has its rules.”

“Jules. What are you talking about! You always want to come out of your shell! You helped me so much…”

“Go. Go and fucking pursue that fool.”

“I’m sorry, Julia.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Cynthia. He has a lot to hide.”

I exited her room and she snapped out of her delusion for a second, unsure of what to do.

“Cyn, I’m… Just… Think about it… Don’t get too close… You’ll get burned.”

“Julia…”, I looked at her and she was sobbing.

“Go… I need to be alone… I need to think of how to… How to…”

“Okay…”

Did she despise her brother that much? I was afraid. She was my closest friend and mostly right when she felt something was off. So… I tried to stay away. John was from then on, whenever I saw him, visibly mad for some reason. Maybe he found out about Julia’s whole ordeal. I noticed that he flirted with other girls too. I noticed he didn’t really look at women that much at all, more focused on keeping the band together than getting the girls. I noticed he got violent after a couple of drinks. That’s what she meant by mean and dangerous. But he was also overly kind to his bandmates. He was generous and hardworking, which was funny to say about John, because he had a nasty reputation. Though he was mad, for some reason, when he saw that I wasn’t looking, he would mutter something.

I decided to read his lips one of those times.

“It’s for the best.”

Why? Did he think the same as Julia? Did he hate himself as much as Julia hated him?

His hollow eyes would then shift to someone else and light up. He… Valued me. Was he mad at himself?

After three months of liking him and one hangout with Julia I decided to tell him everything. He was drunk after one of his gigs I came to uninvited. His band was packing but he decided to stay.

“Augh, could this day get any worse?”, he talked to the room.

“Um. Maybe it could get better?”, I joked.

“Cynthia… Ms. Prim. Haven’t seen ya in a while!”, he shrugged, tired and sloshed.

“You look absolutely hammered.”

“Thank you.”, he improptly bowed.

I had to chuckle.

“I’m sorry, Cyn… I’m sorry that…”, he took my hand again.

“Why are you sorry?”, I was confused.

He kissed it.

“This is a kiss of apology. Now tell me. Is anyone here?”

I looked around. “No.”

It looked like his mind was fighting. He was beating himself up because of something. So I used the chance to tell him.

“John… Listen, I know you are impulsive and sometimes even violent but I love you nontheless. I liked you for some time now.”

“I know!”

“So you were planning to reject me. That’s why you have avoided me.”

“Yeah. That’s the only thing. Nothing beside that.”

“Well, if you wanted to reject me, why not do it earlier?”

“Because… I dunno.”

“Why then give me such attention?”

“Because I wanted to be friends with ya, you prissy bird!”

I blushed.

“That would ruin everything. And maybe I should’ve told you. I couldn’t stay away. And I planned to because as John I should stay away from Julia’s friends so they-”

“Julia is behind this! Of course!”

“No, I didn’t mean it in that way-”

“Why does she hate you so much!”

John looked like he wanted to tell me something so badly but he couldn’t. His brain was telling him to shut up, but his emotions were overflowing.

“Cyn, stop.”

“Why does she always belittle you so much? Why is she jealous of you? Why do you hate yourself because of her?”

“Cyn, stop this nonsense. She doesn’t hate me. She can’t hate me that much. She can’t hate…”

He looked at his arms and chuckled.

“Cyn, hug me, please, I’m dying for hugs.”

His tone of speaking completely changed. I hugged him. I couldn’t help but feel close to him.

“Cyn… I’m sorry but I can’t ever love you back. Legally.”, he smirked, “I didn’t want to break your heart. I wanted to be friends with you as John as well without you knowing a thing.”

He booped my nose. Is he too drunk for this?

“Could you accompany me back home please, it’s been such a long night…”, he asked, “As my final request.”

“Are you going to kill yourself!”, I got scared.

“No, you git, I have to tell you something private.”, he chuckled.

“Alright.”

He couldn’t walk straight so I carried him to his house.

“Imagine John Lennon being carried by Ms. Prim to his house. A man that cannot help himself… Haha, pathetic excuse for one.”

“Don’t be like that, and why are you laughing so much!”

John got serious.

“Yeah I shouldn’t.”

“Of course!”

I dropped him off at his room, his messy bedroom with records all over the floor, but he said,

“This is the guest room. This is not my room!”

“What are you saying, John?”, I chuckled.

“Because, my room is… The one on the far left.”

“Your room is… Julia’s?”

“Yeah, mine!”

“And this one?”

“No one sleeps in here.”

He booped my nose once again.

I dropped him, confused.

“Alright, I’ll lead you to it if you are so lost!”

“God.”, I sighed. Julia, I’m not even feeling sorry that your room is about to be wrecked by a drunkard.

“Bed. I missed you. End this fucking nightmare.”, he rolled in the bed, leaving… Makeup stains?

“You wear… Makeup?”

John smiled.

“And what is wrong with that? I wear clothes too.”

“You classify it as…”

“Oh. Oh, she still hasn't… Cynthia. Do I need to get undressed for you to connect the dots?”

John what? HE NEEDS TO WHAT!

“I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING REJECTED HERE! NOT FUCKED TONIGHT!”

John facepalmed himself.

“Should’ve seen that one coming. NO! Cynthia, I am not inviting you to a bang session”, he felt proud of that joke, “but to help you figure out why Julia absolutely dislikes me.”

I was even more confused.

“So. Help me undress.”, he ordered, “The top first.”

“The top first.”, I helped him get the top off. Instead of a nude male torso I was met with nicely tied bandages.

“And what do you see?”

“Does she hit you?”

He bursted into laughter! The insolence!

“No, Cyn.”, he chuckled, “Let down the hair next.”

“Okay… Hair.”, I tried to get his quiff off. It was hard but I managed to untangle it. The amount of hair he had was unreal for a male. It was quite fluffy.

“John, you have such nice hair…”, I brushed it and found a set of bangs quite musty from all of the gel he used.

“You have bangs? I thought you didn’t…”, that was weird. He always told everyone he had a middle part. Not bangs.

“Well. Do you now understand?”

“She is jealous of your hair and she beats you up?”

“NO!”, he turned around, “She is…”, he twitched.

I fixed his bangs and I didn’t want to admit it.

“I guess the pants are next.”, I took them off and… No.

“John. No. I am too drunk. This is not happening.”

“Cyn. I’m sorry.”

“Jules?”

HE, no SHE weakly chuckled.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the moment I noticed!”

“God, why must you make me suffer!”

“And this was the worst way to inform someone. Never doing that again.”

“Julia! I don’t know if I should be angry, or sad or happy! You are doing what you like the most! But you are not doing it as you!” 

“Cyn… I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Yeah, so I didn’t want to hurt you.”, Jules explained, “The point is John and I are the same person. You should find someone else to like.”

“Alright!”

“And keep this a secret, okay!”

“Okay!”, we agreed.

My biggest crush was my best friend all along! Just great! And she put me through this! But, I still couldn’t help myself from fawning over John. John as an idea was everything to me, and I expected to find him in every man I tried to like. It failed. Julia meanwhile shared with me some problems John had. She didn’t seem to hate him as much as she once told me. Maybe it was to keep up the lie.

John’s friends, as time passed on, all got themselves a bird. And that leads us to this year. I could hear them hush about them and try to pry John off by admitting he had one or trying to get John with someone. John would either make an absolute scene when he was set up or would politely reject the girl. It was truly based on how well Julia knew the girl. And every rejection was well deserved. I got jealous…

“What about Ms. Prim, John? You seemed to like her?”

John or, um, Jules blushed.

“No… She was just a friend.”

“Looks like we found her.”, Pete chuckled.

“Best. Shut up.”

He got quiet.

“Ms. Prim is prissy.”

“More like you are too prissy to make up your mind!”, Paul chuckled.

“Says the biggest princess.”, and that’s when I noticed John blush faintly and remembered.

Julia liked Paul. That means. John liked Paul. Does Paul know? Is that why he got jealous or…

I snuck away, and John noticed.

“Oh, running after the princess I see?”, Stu said.

“Prick.”

“Leave some room for us, Lennon.”

“You are a baby, Harrison, no birdies for you.”

Jules ran after me catching up.

“Are you fine?”, she asked.

“You still like Paul? Does he know?”

She got fired up.

“He and the lads ESPECIALLY can’t know! It’s hard enough that they are begging me to get a girl! How do I even explain to them that I don't like birds? I don’t.”

“Why don’t you tell them you like me? I’ll be your alibi.”

“You are a genius, Cyn!”, she grabbed me by my shoulders, “It will work! I respect you and that’s why it will be believable.”

I couldn’t help but blush.

“Jules… I wonder, what would it be like kissing a girl? And have you ever kissed one as John?”

She flushed a bright pink.

“No- How could you even- Of course you’d go there! Cynthiaaaa!”

I chuckled at her whining, that was Julia in there. She smiled like she thought of the most clever move.

“And for the first question, I don’t know? How about we change that?”

Fuck, I should do something, but I’m really curious. We are close friends. Nothing to worry about.

She pressed her lips on mine. Oh, hell yeah. And just pecked them.

“Answered your question?”

I was dumbfounded.

“Oh, fuck, oh, shit I went too far- But got ya back!”

Heh.

“Don’t get too cocky, Lennon.”

“Well, am I not John Lennon? I am the cockiest.”

“You are not.”, I tapped her on the shoulder, “But you are bold, Jules.”

“You like bold men. Always did.”

Yeah. That’s right.

“Right, we’ll act like this never happened.”

“Okay, alright by me, Ms. Prim.”

I think I can’t get over it.

“Did you kiss any men before me?”, Jules asked me dumbfounded.

“Yeah.”

But they never felt… true.

“I never kissed anyone before on the lips.”, I knew that Jules.

I knew that look.

“So you want me to rate it?”, I sighed.

“YEAH! That sounds fun!”, Jules got overly excited.

“God, Julia stop.”, I thought, “It would be aaaa solid 3 out of 5.”

“Not bad for a first!”

“Would’ve been perfect if it weren’t a peck though!”

“Oh, you really love to fuck with me, Cyn!”

Jules really doesn’t think some stuff through. She looked me straight in the eyes.

“Is it okay with you to, um, pretend with me?”, she got serious all of a sudden.

God, how could I say no to that face.

“Yeah, it’s like a fun adventure. And if it’ll help you for a few months I’ll do it.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Um… Alright, I’ll try and figure out a way to let them know!”, Jules smiled, “I just need to make sure they’re supportive of me.”

Julia…

“In the meantime, bienvenue mon cherie.”, Jules or John joked and left.

I heard his bandmates whisper about us. John fanned the rumors up by consistently writing me poems. Julia liked being extra and in John I noticed it more and more. The Beatles got closer to me and became a bit irritating to handle.

And that makes me think what did I just get myself into? Still, it’s harmless fun! And I get to be with John, didn’t I want to be with him? His songs… His voice… Her mind reflects in his actions… What could possibly go wrong?

Rest of Sacrifame

[quietwings-fics]

you do not have to be good

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Lucifer/Nick/Sarah Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Babies, Polyamory, Consensual Possession, Past Abuse, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, She/Her Pronouns for Lucifer (Supernatural), i sprinkle a little gender into your devil. just for fun., Forehead Kisses, POV Female Character, Lucifer Possessing Nick (Supernatural), Agender Lucifer (Supernatural) Wordcount: 2533 Part 2 of you, me, and the devil makes three Summary:

Lucifer gets out of the Cage too early to start the Apocalypse. So, obviously, Sarah and Nick invite her to stay.

It’s a cloudy night. The see-through curtains take on the appearance of shrouds when the moon is too dim to pierce through them. They bought them to let enough light into their room for Nick to sleep easier, but on nights like this, it’s hard for Sarah to even see her hand in front of her face without turning on a lamp. She knows Nick isn’t in the bed with her before she turns over and feels the empty sheets on her husband’s side. She’d fallen asleep with his arms around her, tucked close to substitute touch for sight. He is gone, and the baby monitor on his bedside is humming with soft static, the noise rising and falling in a way that’s almost familiar but by rhythm alone, Sarah can’t place it.

Sarah sits up, rubbing at her eyes and then dragging her hand through her hair. The susurration of the monitor continues steadily as she gets to her feet. It’s taken time to become reacquainted with her own body. She’s only recently begun to be able to stand up without reminding herself to compensate for a baby she’s no longer carrying. She picks up the monitor and turns it off to save the batteries, even if only for a brief trip, and when she places it back down, she pauses. Nick keeps his anxiety medication where he’ll see it when he wakes up, or else he’ll forget to take it. She turns the little bottle over in her hand and hears the rattle of four, or maybe five, pills left inside.

She makes a mental note about a refill and sets it back down. She leaves their bedroom. Their house gets chilly at night nowadays and never more than pleasantly cool in the daylight. It sends goosebumps up her arms, makes her wish that she’d kept a few of those maternity clothes rather than switching back to sleeping in her old band tee’s the minute she could squeeze herself into them again. They were ugly as anything, but they had been warm. Still, she’s a few feet from their room already. She considers going back for socks but carries on. The nursery has carpeted floors, a small blessing for cold feet.

It’s not a long walk, and Sarah’s body adjusts to the chill with practiced ease. It has become a part of their home rather than an unwanted feature. The doorway to the nursery is marked by one of her grandmother’s paintings on the opposite wall. It’s a lovely scene, green and comfy. Sarah’s grandmother favored landscapes. Sarah’s mother was disappointed when Sarah herself inherited the talent but wasted it on ‘petty vandalism and the occult’. Her grandmother could have cared less and gave her art supplies for her birthday until the year she died. That’s why Sarah wanted to name Teddy after her.

She pauses in the doorway and watches. Someone who looks like her husband stands over Teddy’s crib. Her husband’s arms hold their baby, and her husband’s voice is the one singing to him. Finally, with the words put to it, Sarah recognizes the rhythm from the monitor.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word.” Teddy coos sleepily and grasps at an offered finger. “Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.” She wonders if Teddy has a song preference yet. The softest lullabies Sarah can sing him are all Bowie. Nick, bless his heart, has a pretty voice but can’t carry a tune to save his life. She sees the person standing over the crib raise their head to look at her, still singing. Yes, those are her husband’s eyes, but that is not her husband.

Sarah smiles and steps into the nursery.

Lucifer watches her approach, head tilted slightly. She wears Nick’s expressions well, but her mannerisms are always off, a mixture of movements she might have picked up from Sarah and her own alien way of guiding the human body. Teddy burbles, and Lucifer’s attention is stolen away again, no words to the song but a gentle hum to replace it as she rocks Teddy back and forth.

“Theodore was crying,” Lucifer says, finally, as Sarah reaches her side. She says it matter-of-factly, but the way her eyes dart to see Sarah’s reaction make it seem like she’s making an excuse. For what, Sarah can’t tell.

“Was he hungry?” Sarah asks. Lucifer shakes her head.

“He was lonely. He needed to be held.” Lucifer is very careful with Teddy, careful in the way she holds him, careful in how she moves when he’s in her arms. Even careful when she rubs two fingers along the top of Teddy’s head against the fuzz that can’t truly be called hair yet. Sarah has no doubt Nick is guiding some of those actions, like someone teaching you by folding their hands over yours. “You should still be asleep.”

“I could hear you singing over the baby monitor,” Sarah says. It’s mostly true. If Lucifer was only a person, than she would have. Instead, Lucifer is an angel, and her voice gets cloaked in static over the radio waves. Lucifer frowns. That expression is certainly borrowed from Nick, the little crease in his brow that Sarah has kissed plenty of times before to smooth out.

“I thought it was off. I must have touched it.” Electronic things all tend to work strangely when Lucifer lays a hand on them. On the other hand, living things seem to fare well enough. Teddy is falling asleep in Lucifer’s arms. Sarah reaches for him, and Lucifer hands him over to her without protest. Teddy squirms, but he doesn’t cry.

If you had told Sarah a year ago that she would have the devil for a co-parent, she... Well, she may not have believed a word out of your mouth, but she would still have been intrigued. Not afraid.

She wasn’t afraid when Lucifer alighted beside their bed to ask permission into Nick’s body, this strange, unearthly being that watched and waited as Nick and her conferred, never once interfering with their decision, and who Sarah faced with her husband’s hand clutched tight in her own to say, “You can, but on the condition that you bring him home safe.” However that old story went, to make sure the devil made a deal with you rather than the other way around, Sarah had listened and Sarah had learned. The devil regarded her with curiosity, and the devil promised to do exactly that. She is many things, but Sarah knew and knows, she is not a liar.

She wasn’t afraid when Nick was returned to her, untouched, a little shaken from the experience of being kept by something so great. She wasn’t afraid when he told her where they’d gone and why and how Lucifer had gone from self-assured in her purpose to confused to lost over the course of the three nights she took Nick. It’s too early, Nick had said, and he’d looked like he didn’t know what that meant any more than Sarah did. And then, in the same voice he’d used to convince her to foster a litter of puppies from the streets before they could be adopted, he’d said, Sarah, I don’t think she has anywhere else to go.

Sarah hadn’t known she was pregnant when they’d let Lucifer stay. By the time she did, the question of whether Lucifer could stick around wasn’t a question at all anymore. Lucifer refused to possess her for the duration of her pregnancy, and Nick agreed despite the toll it took on him. It’s a price they don’t pay any longer, both of them adapted to Lucifer’s grace no matter which she chooses to inhabit, but the scars of those long months before they found the solution are still scattered across Nick’s body. He wears them well, and he jokes sometimes that it’s only fair. Sarah got stretch marks from carrying Teddy. Nick got burns from containing Lucifer.

There’s one at his right temple, dark spots like someone flecked his skin with embers until they took root. Sarah settles Teddy fully in the crook of one arm to raise her hand. Lucifer twitches back from her touch at first, but then she tilts her head forward against Sarah’s fingers. Sarah feels out the change in texture from the scar to unmarred skin. Nick would shut his eyes as she traced it, but Lucifer keeps hers open, studying Sarah back as Sarah studies her.

“He’s your son, too. You don’t need permission to care for him,” Sarah tells her. When Sarah was a kid with parents who dropped her off at Sunday school, Satan was a shadow constantly scheming in unseen corners. When she was teenager who wore too much black and didn’t put in ear plugs for concerts because she wasn’t thinking that far ahead, Satan was cool and rebellious and everything she wanted, sometimes needed, to be. Sarah is an adult now, and Satan is a creature who can never go home and who sings to their son when he cries.

They let her in. Lucifer isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“I feel...” Lucifer trails off, looking for the right words. Sarah rocks Teddy again. He’s out cold, and with luck, he’ll sleep through the rest of the night. These first months were probably harder for parents who didn’t have an angel hovering over them, never needing sleep, ears tuned to hear Teddy cry out. Sarah leans down to place Teddy in his crib. She bows further to pick up the fluffy lamb toy that Nick bought him. It probably fell through the bars of the crib when Lucifer picked him up. She props it up at Teddy’s side and stands straight again. “I feel like I can’t miss any of it. Any moment.” Lucifer says, looking down at Teddy with her.

“Welcome to being a parent,” she teases. She knows what Lucifer is talking about. They’ve all felt it. There are a lot of things that books about taking care of an infant can prepare you for, but the mixture of fear and joy at something so fragile and so beautiful relying on you to raise it is not one of them. She wonders what it’s like for Lucifer, though. To be something around for the dawn of life, and to now be focused on one life out of all of them. Does it seem too fast for her? Too slow? Both at once?

“I need to spend time with him now,” Lucifer says, and something in her voice makes Sarah frown and look over at her, “before he gets older. Before he has a chance to disobey.”

“What are you talking about?” Sarah has very rarely seen Lucifer get upset. Nervous about Sarah’s pregnancy, and borderline in shock the first time she and Nick showed her the same love they showed each other, but those times were few and far between, born out of uncertainty. What disturbs Sarah now is that Lucifer sounds far too certain.

“When we’re forced to lock him away, we can send him with his toys, can’t we? And blankets? So that he doesn’t get cold.” It does not escape Sarah that Lucifer sounds like she’s pleading with her. It also doesn’t escape her that Lucifer says when.

“We’re never going to do that,” Sarah says and rushes to clarify when she sees Lucifer flinch. “We aren’t going to lock him away at all. You don’t do that to children.” Lucifer doesn’t meet her eyes.

“He’s not going to be small and sweet forever.”

“That’s good. We didn’t have him because we wanted a baby.” She steps closer to Lucifer, hovers her hand over Lucifer’s shoulder before letting it touch her. Lucifer doesn’t jolt this time. “We wanted a child. For all the good and the difficult parts that might bring. No one is going to lock him away because he has tantrums, or won’t eat all his greens, or slams doors and listens to music too loud.” She squeezes her shoulder. She sees Lucifer, but it’s Nick’s face she sees her through, and so there’s no way they could have this conversation without Sarah thinking about the obvious. “It’s probably not comparable to what you went through, but you’re not the only one here who had a rough childhood.” Lucifer tilts her head. “No, ask Nick. Not me. It’s his story to tell.”

Lucifer’s eyes go distant for a minute. Sarah observes the minute changes of her expression. Lucifer knows a lot about both of them, could not possess them without some things slipping between their minds, but she’s made an effort to let them keep what they mark as too personal to themselves. She may have a vague impression of Nick’s past, but that’s very different from being told directly about how he was kicked out at sixteen. It’s something that Sarah didn’t know about him for a long time. Nick came clean about the strange stuff his dad was obsessed with, salt lines and symbols to keep out evil, and about the fact that he didn’t actually know anyone from his dad’s side of the family at all before he ever told her about being homeless for nearly three years. As though it had been something he should have been ashamed of. As though it had been his fault somehow.

Sarah’s always been a bigger believer in destiny than he was. Nick found her and she found Nick because that was the right way for the world to be, and what a world they built together. And Lucifer found them, too, because maybe they were what she needed, even if they weren’t what she thought she would find. Lucifer blinks, focusing on Sarah again.

“You won’t do that to Theodore?” There is still a hint of uncertainty there.

“Come here,” Sarah says and gestures for Lucifer to bend down. She does, closing her eyes like she expects a kiss, and Sarah pushes herself to her tiptoes and lays one against Lucifer’s forehead instead. “We’re going to take care of him. Always.” Lucifer pulls back quickly, looks away, and between one inhale and the next, Sarah knows that she is not looking at Lucifer anymore. Nick looks a little startled to be in control, the way he always does, and she takes his hand and squeezes it to ground him. He swallows.

“She was thinking about- Not much of it I could understand, but the word cage, over and over, and...” Nick glances down at Teddy. He sleeps so peacefully while they talk about this. “Sarah, dear,” Nick says the word like he’s begging for a lifeline and Sarah gives it to him, comes close and lets Nick wrap his arms around her. He’s cold. They both are, when they hold their angel. Somewhere under his skin, Lucifer is hiding, and Sarah slides one arm wrapped around Nick up until her hand splays between his shoulderblades. Nick shivers and sucks in a breath.

It goes both ways. Sarah and Nick keep their secrets. Lucifer keeps hers.

But the more Sarah learns, the more glad she is that Lucifer is here with them, and not alone.

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

[talldecafcappuccino]

Top 5 Ted Lasso moments that inspired you or meant something to you in your real life (I am tipsy and feeling v emotional about this man can you tell)

Ahhh I wrote a quick list right after you sent this and then kept meaning to go back to make sure I felt good about the list? Anyway. I'm going to go ahead and listen to my gut (hey-o, Teddy boy!) with my original list:

“Thank you, fuck you” convo and everything surrounding it. I had one of those not so long ago and they’re not “fun” but man do they do something for the soul. 

Ted’s speech after ripping the sign: “Well, you know what I wanna mess around with? The belief that I matter, you know? Regardless of what I do or don't achieve. Or the belief that we all deserve to be loved, whether we've been hurt or maybe we've hurt somebody else.” It’s just so !!!! No offense to Ted’s speeches in season 1 or 2, but this felt the most relatable? Not that relatable is the goal but…I felt fired up afterwards?? It was nice. Like, the Tan Lines speech is nice but it’s a little like…martyr-y (okay, it’s a lot martyr-y) and I just like how much more raw and honest Ted is in this speech. He’s tired of the team's violence in the name of the sign and tired of getting in his own way and tired of worrying so much about certain things. It’s very human and I think that’s why it feels more like a pep talk than his other talks. 

“Problems, they’re like mushrooms. The longer you leave them in the dark, the bigger they get.” It’s such a simple little way of explaining that idea, but it’s sooo true and good to remember (especially when you have anxiety). I think of it often!

The idea of never letting someone hurting get by you, how being sad and together is better than sad and alone, and how you gotta try. They’re all cheesy sayings, but together they make a really good point about continuing to try and do better by each other. I feel like during the season 1 hiatus there was a lot of talk about “what do we owe each other” and that’s the thing I’ve always found most inspiring about Ted. I know in the end he’s learned he can’t help everyone all the time (and also he is very tired), but I think that’s the message he’s imparted on everyone around him (including the audience). It's inspired me to be better to the people around me.

I feel very “what’s the fourth thing??” about picking a final moment for this list. There’s no one moment. I just really love Ted and I’m very proud of him and I’m inspired by his existence as a character I can think about and view on my television whenever I feel like it 💜

[stuckinuniformdevelopment]

@follwrshep

Shep coughed nervously , wringing his cloak in their hands and glancing at Percival “May we return to our seats yet, dearest Percival? It is cramped up here.”

@bishop-percival

(Previous) Percy, arm still around Shep, leaned in a bit. “That’s not how it works! We have some questions for you! I think I’ll open it up to the audience first.” Immediately after Percy announced that, a few arms in the crowd shot up. And of course, instead of waiting to be called on, they just started shouting their questions over each other. One of them was louder than the rest, though. It was the deacon Lola, who had earned the nickname Blabber. “YES QUESTION SHEP DON’T YOU HAVE A BIG FAT CRUSH ON BISHOP PERCIVAL THOUGH BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS TALK ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU LOVE HIM AND-” She was interrupted when the deacon Autumn, who was sitting next to her, jabbed her with their elbow. “DUH Lola, people can love multiple people at once!” Then Terry, the prison guard acolyte chimed up. “Uuuh then Theodore, do you still love your prisoner fiance? Does she know you’re cheating on her?” The soldier Amy blurted out “Were you not paying attention? Bro can’t handle a long distance relationship. Bro’s touch starved. Bro don’t care about the prisoner chick.” Amy then raised her voice to shout a question. “Bro are you gonna break up with her? If so, then it won’t even be cheating anymore so who cares?” The crowd continued murmuring amongst each other. Percy released Shep to put his hand to his chin and spoke back up. “Seems the crowd is debating the severity of this sin. Do either of you have anything to say to defend yourselves?”

Teddy couldn't help but blush when Amy bluntly spoke about his needs. That's how he should feel about her, isn't it? (Well, aside from not caring.)

After a long pause Teddy managed to calm himself so he could pick out individual voices from the crowd. They didn't seem completely convinced that Shep initiated it. Yet it sounded like this would dispel any doubts about his overblown sins.

Teddy waited for Bishop Percival to speak before kicking the side of the pulpit, hard. For a brief time the crowd was startled into silence and he spoke before they could get over it.

"Why yes Amy," Teddy said as he leaned on the side of the pulpit and rested his arms on it to directly look her in the eye.

"We're confessing a sin that'll be resolved in a few days simply to waste our time and open ourselves up to your annoying probing questions."

Then Teddy smirked at her. "Say, have I ever told you how smart you are?"

Several Glornists snickered at that and he smiled in satisfaction. Any chance to get a jab at one of his least favorite Glornists was a blessing.

Then Teddy glanced at Terry before averting his eye. It was a shame that this plan involved alienating the few normal Glornists.

"As for whether I still love her... well... it's complicated. She has fifty years left of her sixty year sentence. Even if she manages to get released early for good behavior it's so far away that one of us may not live that long."

After a brief pause he said, "We're both in our mid thirties. For reference."

"That doesn't mean I don't want to give up any hope of a life together but..." Teddy clenched his fists as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression.

"I have waited and will wait years before I can give her any more than a chaste kiss in front of creepy guards. Don't I deserve something in the meantime?"

Then Teddy took a deep breath as he prepared to say something particularly cruel.

"So if she didn't want me to be easily swayed she shouldn't have gotten caught." He looked up at the audience while wrapping his arm around Shep's waist.

"What could she possibly do if she finds out anyhow?"