#mr love german fanfic

[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?

[x-mental-idiots]

So…I may have been working on something for the last month and I’m gauging interest now but…

Cherik Nation, how do we feel about a multi chapter, multi part fanfic set right before X-Men: The Animated Series featuring:

• Teenage X-Men finding out their father has been gay married to a terrorist for almost 50 years and somehow it has just Never Come Up

• Charles and Erik being married since 1953

• Time Travel

• Trans Magneto

• In-Depth Character Studies about Charles and Erik at different stages in their relationship

• Domestic Intimacy

• Erik and Charles both being loving, supportive partners to each other- particularly in regards to Charles’ paralysis and Erik’s PTSD

• Two Gay Idiots In Love

• Magneto’s complicated relationship with parenthood

• Realistic portrayals of Anxiety and PTSD

• Mr Sinister living up to his name

• Dramatic Tension

• German

• Everyone is Queer

• And Much Much More!

If any of this interests you, let me know! I have like the first 6 chapters written but not posted. I’m pretty new to the X-Men fandom but I am going insane over here about these two. I was trying to wait to post until I had at least the first part complete (I’m almost there) but I don’t know if I can keep being patient.

[she-wolf09231982]

Chapter 10- It Had To Be You

Summary: Easy Company is finally in Germany and are pushing the Germans back…Nothing could be better; some soldiers are already saying the war is over. The boys make another jump near Thalem, Germany only to soon find out there is something more sinister in the dark, and they soon realize the Nazis are worse than they'd ever dreamed. This particular situation weighs heavy on Joe, sending him into an infuriated mental state where he instinctively lashes out at you, causing a serious strain on your relationship.

A/N: Mature audience, Joe LiebgottxFem!Medic, She/Her Pronouns, Y/F/N, Y/L/N, Cursing/Swearing, Derogatory Slurs, Womanizing Comments, Aggression, Angst, Confrontation, Military Terminology, 1940’s slang, Inappropriate Nicknames, Band of Brothers References, Mentions of Weaponry, Yiddish/German language with English translation, Soft Sexual Content, Smoking, Crying, Banter, Pining, FOREVER FLUFF

German is identified with (g)

Yiddish is identified with (y)

This grand finale is for my Liebgott/McCall squad 🪖 ♠️ 🦅❤️

@mrs-greenside @wordsaresimple-imnot @awaterfalls @skiesofrosie @aliciax3

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

~~~~~~~

April 1945 Sturzelberg, Germany

For once, the men of Easy Company enjoy themselves. Captain Spiers continued mailing home several valuables he's plundered from wealthier houses. George Luz and Frank Perconte forage at a farm for eggs while a farm girl stumbles upon the men in her family’s barn. George ultimately gets slapped in the face after attempting to flirt with her. While the boys kept busy with their activities, President Roosevelt was pronounced dead back in the states.

The company prepares to move on to their new headquarters in Landsberg to deal with bands of Waffen-SS whom Hitler has ordered to fight a guerilla war in the Alps. The men hastily loaded up their duffels and gear onto deuce trucks.

“I got it, Gams.” Liebgott insisted as he took your gear bag from you tossing it up to Webster on the bed of the truck.

“Danken dir, meyn libe.” (y) (Thank you, my love). You say while you affectionately squeeze his arm as you pass him to board the truck.

Webster offered his hand to you to help you up while Liebgott lifted you by the waist.

“Up ya go, doll.” Liebgott grunted as he hoisted you up with ease.

~~~~~~~

The ride through the mountains could be considered almost a pleasant experience. With the sun shining and the spring scenery through Bavaria had the men in high spirits as they begin singing "Blood upon the Risers.” You listen to the boys singing and enjoying themselves eliciting a smile from you. For once they sang for you and not the other way around.

🎶“Gory, gory what a helluva way to die! Gory, gory what a helluva way to die! He ain’t gonna jump no more!” 🎶

They all belted out in unison.

“Hey, Y/F/N, you ain’t singin’!” Luz declared.

You chuckle, “I’m relaxin’, George. I’ll sing for you boys when we get there.” You reply with a wink.

~~~~~~~

As the company arrived to a village halfway to the destination, the officers were in agreement to stop and rest for the night. Speirs ordered Easy to clear a lavish building with many flats to designate as billeting for the men to sleep for the night. The occupants of the home were resistant, and were quite vocal about being evicted from their ritzy residence.

“Was machst du!? Raus aus meinem Haus! (g)(What are you doing!? Get out of my house!)” A German woman of one of the apartments yelled repeatedly at the men when they stormed in.

“Tell her she’s got five minutes.” Speirs called over to Liebgott.

“Raust! Raust! Du hast fünf Minuten! (g) (Out! Out! You got five minutes!)” Liebgott barked at the woman.

The woman shrilled pleas in German to him while Joe tried to talk over her cries.

“Sir, she says they’ve got nowhere to go, but the house next door is empty-“ Liebgott translated.

The rest of Easy ushered men, women and children from other living quarters out into the hallways and out the main door.

“We’re only gonna be here one night! You got four minutes!” Speirs shouts over the woman’s protests.

Joe relayed Speirs’ message to the woman as he shooed her out of the room.

~~~~~~~

You lug your bag up to the second floor of the building, looking forward to the hot shower you’re about to have. You peek through the first door at the top of the stairs and see a well put together parlor with a welcoming seating area and a full liquor display on a bar trolly in the corner. You find the master bedroom with a bed fit for a queen. You release a long sigh of relief as you imagine the restful night of sleep you’ll have later.

You set your duffel on a antique bench seat at the foot of the bed, then sit on the chair at the vanity table to untie your boots when you suddenly hear the door to the apartment open and slam shut.

“Honey, I’m home!” Liebgott’s voice carried through the flat.

You giggle as you shake your head while you proceed to remove your boot.

“Hey, Gams, where you at?”

“In here, Joe!” You call out.

Liebgott appeared in the door way. When he saw you sitting at the make-up table, he smirked as he leaned on his elbow against the door frame. He stood there staring at you as you started removing your other boot. You look up at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask him as you eyeball him skeptically.

“Like what?” He scoffed.

You laugh, “Like you’re starved and I’m a T-bone steak.”

Joe chuckled as he slowly strolled into the room towards you.

“I was just thinkin’.”

“About what?”

“About the last time I was alone in a room with you.”

You feel a flutter in your stomach, “Oh? In Holland?”

Joe nodded, “Yeah, when you were fixin’ my neck up in that barn.”

He stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets studying you adoringly with a lazy smile. You smile at him as you stand to walk to him.

“An unforgettable day that was.” You say.

His smile widened, “That was five months ago, ya know?”

Your face twisted up as you recall how long ago Crossroads was.

“You’re right. Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?

He hummed in agreement. You turn away and enter the bathroom undoing your hair from the bun you had it in.

“Have you found a place to sleep?” You project from the bathroom.

“Sure did.” Joe replied as he situated himself onto your bed, getting comfy.

You walk back into the room, “Oh no you don’t.” You scold.

“What?”

“You can’t sleep in here.” You state.

“And why the hell not?” He retorted.

“Well, what would people say? It’s not-” You try to continue, “-It’s not proper, you know?”

Joe raised his eyebrow at you.

“Since when have I been proper?” He asked seductively with a wink as he got up from the bed, making his way towards you.

“Joe…” you cautioned as he progressively closed the gap between you.

A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he slinked his arms around your waist, “What?”

You rest your hands on his chest giving him a gentle push as you lean away from him. You knew what he was up to, and you weren’t going to cave to him. His hands were firmly pressed against the small of your back pulling you closer to him.

“You ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy.” He said in his low gravelly voice.

You felt yourself unravel in his arms, fighting the smile he was bringing to your face to not fuel his behavior.

“Joseph Liebgott, what would everyone think if they found out you spent the night in my room with me!?”

Joe chuckled, “I think they’d say, about time!”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “Joe, I’m serious.”

He rolled his eyes, “Look, Gams, we ain’t gotta do nothin’, aight? I just wanna hold my girl until I fall asleep. Just the two of us. Nobody’s gonna say anything, ok?” He reassured.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him.

“Besides, there ain’t no way I’m not staying in here with you tonight. I’ve been waiting almost two years to hold you in bed without all the guys snoring in the same room.” Joe added.

~~~~~~~

The following morning, Easy loaded back up onto the trucks to Landsberg. Along the way, they witness over 300,000 newly-surrendered German POW's marching past; noticing that they continue to march proudly even in defeat, Webster begins ranting angrily at the Germans for starting a war they could never have hoped to win, and uprooting his and his fellow soldiers' lives.

“Hey, YOU! You stupid Kraut bastards! That’s right! Say hello to Ford and General fucking Motors! You stupid fascist pigs! Look at you! You have horses, what were you thinking!?” Webster bellowed out at the sea of marching Nazi soldiers.

Webster sat down hard on the bench of the truck, running his hands through his hair mumbling expletives to himself before standing to erupt more shame at the Germans.

“What the fuck are we doing here!?”

Everyone remained silent, allowing Web to violently rant because they agreed with every word he said. As the trucks approached the entrance of Landsberg, they witness French soldiers summarily executing three Germans. A replacement is shaken, looking to you and the boys alarmed, but Perconte simply shrugs at him, while Liebgott looks smug.

The trucks roll up to the town square and come to a halt. The men begin to stir, offloading from the rears of the vehicles with their gear.

“I wanna send out some patrols. We’ll have Dog Company here in the village, and easy and Fox in the woods.” Winters directs to Speirs and Welsh.

Speirs turns to Welsh, “Easy Company’s gonna take the North-West. LT Lipton.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have 1st and 2nd platoons swing up to the woods, and have 3rd swing around. Make sure they bring a medic.” Speirs ordered.

~~~~~~~

Easy trekked through the thickets surrounding Landsberg, bantering and joking like they’re strolling through a park.

“O’Keefe-“ Bull said as he tapped the replacement’s arm.

“Sarge?”

“Why the hell you so jumpy, boy?” Bull asked smirking when he saw O’Keefe’s worried expression.

“I-I’m not jumpy-“

“You can hear your heart pounding in Arkansas, boy.”

You scoff, “Give the kid a break, Bull.” You say with empathy.

“Hey, George, does this kinda remind you of Bastogne?” Perconte asked.

George looked around, “Yeah, now that you mention it. Except, of course, there’s no snow, we got warm grub in our bellies, and the trees aren’t fucking exploding from Kraut artillery. But, yeah, Frank, other than that, it’s a lot like Bastogne.” Luz replied sarcastically.

“Right?” Perconte agreed.

“Bull, smack him for me, please?” Luz called back to Randleman.

Bull smiled through his cigar as he swat the back of Perconte’s helmet.

“Thank you.”

As you all came close to a clearing at the tree line , you can hear shuffling and rustling near by. The platoon made their rifles ready in case it was the enemy.

“Stay behind us.” Bull whispered to you. You nod.

As you all entered the opening beyond the woods, your eyes fall upon an encampment of some kind. Rows of long, narrow ‘hut’ like buildings locked up within fence line. You look through the barbed wire walls, and see a handful of sickly beings shuffling aimlessly on the main path.

“What is this?” Luz asked baffled by the scene.

More people in striped clothing emerged from the huts, lining up along the inside of the fence.

“Looks like—a prison.” You say as you slowly make your way forward in front of the guys.

~~~~~~~

Perconte was sent back to the town to retrieve Winters and the rest of Easy Company to see what they found on patrol.

Winters and the rest of the company arrive on the scene, all eyes glued to the horrific display beyond the barbed wire. Winters and Nixon walked up to you, Bull, and Luz. Winters surveyed the sullen faces that stared back at him through the fence. Eugene came straight to you as soon as he got off the truck.

“Hey, Y/F/N.”

“Eugene.” You greet dryly.

“What’s happening ‘ere?” Gene asked motioning with his head to the camp.

“They’re definitely POW’s. Just look at ‘em…those poor souls.” You reply softly, too emotional to raise your voice.

Nixon came to you and Eugene.

“I want you two to take Dog and Fox medics and give these guys a look over once we get in, ok?”

“Yes, sir.” Eugene confirmed.

Perconte and Christenson opened the first set of gates for Winters. As Winters entered, he directed them to open the second gate. You and Eugene walked ahead motioning the other medics to follow.

The prisoners were all male, skeletal with sunken faces and ghostly complexions. The smell of rot and decay filled the air. The residents of this hell began tugging and grabbing at the soldiers as they entered, muttering implorations in a different language.

All the prisoners are near death, seriously ill or starving, some so weakened that they collapse as they try to approach the Americans. While many more are dead as corpses litter the area, Malarkey and Heffron grimly note the number tattoos on dead prisoners' arms marking them "like cattle.” Randleman and Luz discover a hut jam-packed with living and dead prisoners lying shoulder to shoulder.

“Christenson, any of your men speak German?” Winters asked.

“No, sir. But we got Y/L/N here that does—”Christenson offered.

“I need Liebgott..LIEBGOTT!” Winters yelled over the men, “Lipton, find me Liebgott.”

“Sir, I can help.” You insist to Winters as you push through the rabble.

Winters looked at you, “These people need care, you go ahead with Doc Roe and figure out how to help these people.”

Liebgott pushed through the crowd, “Right here, sir.”

One prisoner Winters had pulled aside started speaking to Joe in German.

“He said the guards left this morning, sir—they burned some of the huts first…with the prisoners still in them, sir—alive.”

“Jesus Christ.” Nixon uttered in disgust.

The man continued.

“Some of the prisoners tried to stop them…some of them were killed.”

Liebgott paused to listen, “They didn’t have enough ammo for all of the prisoners, so…they killed as many as they could…before they left the camp…they locked the gates behind them and headed South.”

“Someone in the town must’ve told them we were coming.” Nixon said.

“Yeah, I think so.” Liebgott agreed.

“Will you ask him what kind of camp this is? Why are they here?” Winters requested.

“Was ist das für ein Lager? Warum bist du hier?” Liebgott relayed.

The man struggled to answer.

“He says it’s a work camp for, uh, ‘unerwunscht’… I’m not sure what the word means, sir. Uh, unwanted, disliked maybe?’

“Criminals?” Nixon asked.

“Eh, I don’t think criminals, sir,” the man proceeded to explain, “…doctors, musicians, tailors, clerks, farmers, intellectuals, I mean, normal people.”

“Juden…Juden…” the man repeated.

Liegott’s jaw clenched.

“They’re Jews…poles and gypsies.”

The prisoner began to sob, pointing beyond the trees stuttering and hiccuping as he spoke.

“The women’s camp is at the next railroad stop.” Liebgott revealed.

The man walked away wailing, unable to speak anymore.

~~~~~~~

Easy rushes back into the village of Landsberg to gather food and water for the survivors of the camp. Each company raided bakeries, delicatessens, and cheese shops hurrying back to distribute the rations to the prisoners.

When Col Sink arrived with the battlefield surgeon, Winters and Nixon are told they must not continue feeding the survivors. The surgeon claims the survivors' vital systems are unable to handle massive food intake, and they need to be closely monitored during their recovery.

“If we give them too much to eat too quickly, they’ll eat themselves to death. We need to keep them in the camp until we find a place for them in town.” The battlefield surgeon explained to Winters and Nixon.

You walk up to Sink, Winters, and Nixon with a report on the POW’s when you hear:

“You want us to lock these people back up?” Nixon asked in disbelief.

Your eyes widen as your breath catches in your throat.

“We got no choice, Nix.” Sink replied plainly.

“Otherwise they might scatter. we need to keep them centralized so we can supervise their food intake and medical treatment. So, until we find some place better…” the surgeon added.

“It’s a cryin’ ass shame, but let’s get it done.” Sink ordered as he walked away.

“Sir?” You squeak, looking for confirmation on what you just heard.

Winters looks at you with regret. The prisoners were to remain inside the barbed wire fence of the camp to prevent them from potentially spreading diseases…an announcement which Liebgott would be ordered to make.

“Nix, find Liebgott and have him explain to the prisoners what needs to happen-”

“Sir, with all due respect-” you begin to contest.

“Not now, Y/L/N-” Winters replied sternly.

“Sir, you couldn’t make Joe do that. It’ll haunt him for the rest of his-”

“You heard the doctor, Y/F/N. Eating too much could kill them. Go on back and triage as many of the prisoners as you can before they get locked back up.” Nixon pushed back.

You release a breath of defeat, looking over your shoulder to find Joe about ten feet away speaking to another prisoner as Winters and Nixon B lined him to tell him the message that he was to announce.

“I can’t tell ‘em that, sir.”

You run up to the group and stand next to Liebgott.

“You’ve got to, Joe.” Winters replied.

You squeeze Joe’s tricep gently, letting him know you’re behind him.

Joe averted his eyes to the ground, his jaw once again clenching as he internally battled his thoughts and emotions.

“…Yes, sir.” Joe complied under his breath as he turned away from the officers and you to mount the rear of a truck to address the sea of prisoners.

“Aufmerksamkeit! Aufmerksamkeit! (g) (Attention! Attention!)” Liebgott projected over the crowd.

Liebgott reluctantly explained in German to the POW’s what was about to happen. The further along Joe got in his explanation, the more the prisoners contested and weeped. He did his best to provide reassurance that it was in their best interest, promising them it is only temporary and that food, supplies and medicine were coming, but they shook their heads and continued to beg to keep their freedom.

Joe struggled to continue, but he pushed through. His words trailed off when the rest of Easy began ushering the prisoners towards the entrance of the camp. Feeling the most utter sense of shame, Joe hung his head, unable to look at his own people in the eye. He staggered backward onto the bench of the truck, allowing his tears to fall.

~~~~~~~

May 1945

Easy arranged for long term sleeping quarters in the town’s abandoned buildings that were still intact. One evening, you find Joe sitting on a bench at the end of the cobblestone side walk at the edge of Landsberg.

“Hey, Joe.”

He gave you quick side eye, but didn’t say a word. You look at your boots, searching your mind for the right words to say. But you knew better. Nothing you say could help him feel any better. You can see he was stuck in his thoughts about what he just had to do.

You clear your throat, “Winters assigned me to a mission just now.” You began.

Joe remained silent.

“They’re sending me to Dachau until they can get enough female field nurses to tend to the women prisoners over there. They’re terrified of men so they won’t let any of the male medics near them. I don’t know how long I’ll be there.” You elaborated.

Joe lit a cigarette.

“Roe’s going, too.” You add.

Joe scoffed.

“Yeah? Well hope you two have a good time.” He hissed.

You placed a hand over your stilled heart.

“What?” You choked.

“You heard me.” Joe spat back taking another drag from his cigarette.

“Joe, how could say such a thing? I know you’re hurting-”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing!” He barked, “You ain’t even Jewish! How could you know how I feel!? You go around talking the language like you know somethin’ and you think that makes you one of us? You’re a dizzy dame, you know that!?” He proclaimed.

You push down tears, fighting the urge to cry. You take a deep breath.

“Ok, Liebgott,” you begin as you collect yourself, “see you around.” You say as you turn to walk back to your building.

“Yeah, high tail it and run away like the rest of ‘em.” Joe sneered.

You stop abruptly. You wouldn’t allow it. You turn back and stomp back to him.

“You don’t think I understand pain? Or loss? Defeat? Well, I do! Maybe not through your eyes, but I’ve endured my own, Joseph Liebgott. And until now I thought I’ve suffered the worst of them all.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the worst you’re suffering now? Go ahead and enlighten me!” Joe replied viciously as he stood up hovering in your face.

“Heartbreak! Watching the love of my life slip away because he’s completely submerged in hate and anger!”

Joe stared at you in awe, taken back by your response. He grinded his teeth as he flicked his cigarette butt.

“My condolences.” He sneered as he breezed past you leaving you shivering in the dark alone.

Tears cascaded down your cheeks as you sat on the bench Joe had been seated on.

~~~~~~~

June 1945 Thalem, Germany

You remained in Dachau for the duration of May and June with no hope in sight of returning any time soon until the first week or so of July when medical relief finally arrived. Joe had written you a letter the week after you had gone but hadn’t received a response. He had half a mind to go AWOL and hitch a ride to Dachau first chance he got so he could see you again.

Luz, Perconte, Liebgott, Webster, and Randleman sat on the second floor of a bombed out home overseeing the townsfolk in the streets when Nixon joined them. The locals remove the rubble of houses and buildings from the street, as a string quartet plays a somber song in the middle of the square.

"Tell ya one thing about the Krauts, they sure clean up good." Luz expressed.

"Yeah. All you need's a little Mozart." Liebgott added.

"Beethoven." Nixon corrected as he entered onto the landing.

"Sorry, sir?" Liebgott replied.

"That's not Mozart," Nixon repeated as he stood to listen to the melody, "that's Beethoven."

Nixon looked over at Liebgott.

“Any word from Y/L/N?”

Joe shook his head.

“Hm. You sent a letter?”

Joe nodded, “Four pages long.”

“Did you apologize?”

Joe looked at him unamused.

“Yes, sir, I did. Multiple times.” Joe replied dully.

“I see. She’ll come around.” Nixon reassured.

Joe nodded.

“I don’t know, he said some pretty nasty things to her before she left.” Webster declared.

Joe shot him a look of disdain.

“Shut it, Web.” Joe warned.

“He’s right, Lieb.” Bull interjected, “She told me what you said. You’re a goddamn knucklehead, boy.”

Joe released a frustrated sigh.

“Ok, I fucked up! Alright? I was wrong for saying what I said, but you know what? I can’t change that now.” Joe exclaimed as he stood up and began pacing the landing.

“I ain’t gettin’ her back by writing letters.” Joe thought outloud. He looked at Nixon.

“Sir, if I could just get assigned to a detail to Duchau—”Joe began to negotiate.

“You know I can’t do that, Lieb.” Nixon stated before he could finish.

“But, sir—”

“We can’t just send you off to Duchau to play Romeo, Joe, it’s a waste of man power, I’m sorry. You’re also our best German linguist so we can’t be losing another translator since Y/L/N left.”

Joe looked towards the ground deflated.

“Right, sir.” Joe groaned as he slumped onto a chair.

Everyone remained silent for a minute or two before Nixon spoke again.

“Hitler’s dead.”

The boys all looked at him.

“Holy shit.” Joe breathed.

“-Shot himself in Berlin.” Nixon added.

“Is the war over, sir?” Bull asked.

Nixon looked at him, “No. we have orders to Berchtesgaden, be ready to move out by 0700 tomorrow.”

“Why? The man’s not home. Should’ve killed himself three years ago, would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.” Webster said.

Nixon smirked weakly as they all started to exit the landing.

“Yeah, he should’ve,” Nixon concurred, “but he didn’t.”

~~~~~~~

“Allied forces discovered numerous POW, concentration, and death camps. These camps were part of the Nazi attempt to effect the ‘Final Solution’ to the ‘Jewish Question.” At least five million ethnic minorities and six million Jews were murdered- many of them in the camps.” -BoB close out description on Episode 9- Why We Fight

July 1945

You were finally released to Easy Company at the end of June, and were on your way back to Thalem by the first week of July to link up with them before they left for Austria. The only communication you’ve chosen to have with anyone about your status since you left was Major Winters and Captain Nixon. You transmitted a telegram to Winters from Dachau about your completed mission, and also made it quite clear not to tell any of the guys about you coming back. You didn’t want anyone making a fuss about your return.

The truck you had been on for transport to Thalem came to a sudden stop in the plaza, conveniently where Bull, Luz, and Webster had been hanging out in front of HQ.

“Well look who it is!” Luz whooped.

You smile as you approached the three soldiers.

“Hey, boys! Missed me?” You ask as you approached.

Bull greeted you by giving you a quick bear hug.

“We sure did, girl, good to see ya.” Bull professed as he took your duffel from you.

“We didn’t know if you were ever coming back. When did you find out you were coming?” Webster queried.

“I knew about a week ago.” You confess.

Their eyes widened.

“And…you didn’t say anything to anyone?” Luz asked.

“Just Winters and Nixon.”

“Ah.” Luz confirmed.

The air was thick and awkward.

“What?” You ask.

“Well,” Webster began, “we thought Liebgott would’ve been the first to know.”

You sigh irritably, “I am no longer on speaking terms with Liebgott.”

“He said he wrote you a letter.” Luz affirmed.

“He did. But the damage has been done.” You finalize as you adjust your grip on your other bag.

“Come on, boys, leave it alone. All’s that matters is she’s back.” Bull inserted, “Come on, Y/F/N, I’ll show you where the females be stayin’ at.” Bull offered.

~~~~~~~

“What the fuck did you just say!?” Joe snapped.

Webster’s eyes widened, “Uh, she’s in Thalem. She got here about 20 minutes ago.”

Joe suddenly had a thousand mile stare, looking beyond Webster into the distance out the window as his heart hammered against his rib cage.

“Meine Liebe kehrt zurück. (g) (My love returns).” Joe whispers to himself.

He looked back at Webster and grabbed him by the shoulders, “Where is she?”

“She’s getting cleaned up at nurse’s billetting.” Webster disclosed.

“Why didn’t she tell me she was coming back?” Joe asked out loud as he ran his fingers through his hair.

“I think you know why, Joe.” Bull’s voice rang out as he entered the room.

Joe hurried towards Randleman, “How is she, Bull? Is she ok? Does she look good?” Joe rambled.

Bull chuckled, “She’s just peachy, Joe. Give her some time to get back into the swing of things, though, before you go smothering her, ok? You’ll have plenty of time to talk to her on the way to Austria.”

~~~~~~~

You already picked your seat on the bed of one of the trucks before the rest of Easy showed up. You had your nose in a medical journal, completely absorbed in the chapter when you’re startled by the abrupt collide of someone sitting next to you. You gasp and come face to face with Liebgott. You furrow your eyebrows at him.

“Isn’t there another truck you could’ve picked?” You hiss before turning back to your book.

Joe scoffed, “Nice to see you, too, Gams.”

You huff as you shift your back towards him.

Joe stretched his arms over his head bringing his right one to rest on top of the truck bench behind you. He gazed upon you while you made yourself busy reading your book. He hesitated to speak, hoping you would say something first. He clicked his tongue while his leg bounced with anticipation.

“Why didn’t you write back, Y/F/N?”

You half looked over your shoulder at him annoyed.

“Why do you think?”

“Because I was an idiot.”

“That’s putting it gently.” You retorted.

The rest of the company loaded up and the trucks were on the move.

“So you got my letter?”

“I did.” You replied simply.

“Well, did ya read it?”

“Yes.”

“Gams, you gotta give me somethin’ here, it’s like pullin’ teeth gettin’ answers outta you!” Joe pleaded.

You turn to him, “I don’t owe you anything, Joe Liebgott. Not anymore.” You grit at him.

Joe looked around at the rest of the guys sitting with you on the truck.

“Look, you were right, and I was wrong.” Joe admitted in a hushed voice so the conversation was between you and him.

“Go on.” You urge.

“I am an angry, ornery son of a bitch, and the only time I was happy was when you were around. The day we found that camp—” Joe paused to hold his composure, “—it broke me down…almost to the point of no return. I lost it.” He looked at his boots.

You study him with compassion, your heart simultaneously breaking and melting for him.

“After you left, I became a shell of a man because of everything. I couldn’t shut my eyes without seeing your face or the faces of those prisoners, so I started drinking so I could sleep. Ended up gettin’ into a lot of scraps with Fox and Dog Company. Major Winters talked me into cuttin’ back when he said I’d get court marshaled and sent back to the States without seeing you again.”

He fell silent, afraid to look back at you from shame. You sigh, and take his hand. Joe’s eyes eagerly met yours as his hand squeezed yours.

“This war broke all of us at some point, Joe. Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. But it’s important you don’t push away the people who care about you most.” You exhibit.

He nodded, “I was so lost without you, Y/F/N.”

He cupped the side of your face with his hand as his thumb gingerly rubbed along your cheek. You put your hand over his, leaning into his touch as a single tear escaped the corner of your eye. Joe bowed forward to rest his forehead against yours, your noses tenderly touching.

“Ikh hab dir lib (y) (I love you).” He breathed tilting his head forward until his lips brushed against yours.

Your lips gently lock onto his, each of you inhaling eachother’s breaths. You pull back to look into his honeyed brown eyes.

“I will never disrespect you again.” Joe vowed quietly.

You fall into him as he embraces you. His heartbeat drumming in your ear while your face presses into his chest.

“I love you, Joe.” You reciprocate.

“Ok, you two, you kissed and made up. Can we dispense with the sappy stuff now?” Luz complained.

You giggled as you pull back from Joe’s arms.

“Hey, Y/L/N, you owe us a song!” Luz pointed out.

“Hm, I suppose I do. Any suggestions?”

“I don’t know, surprise us, don’t make me think no more, we just need something nice to hear.” Luz rattled off.

You take a moment to think, until inspiration struck you. The boys wait with anticipation all over their faces, waiting for you to start. You look around the truck, smiling mischievously. You take a deep breath…

🎶“It had to be you, it had to be you.

I wandered around, finally found , the somebody who,

Could make me be true, Could make me be blue—”🎶

The boys leaned in, already entranced by your soothing voice, relishing the classic you selected. You stood so they could all see you, slipping your hand into Joe’s as you continued to perform.

You glance at Joe and wink, “Das ist für dich (g) (This is for you).” You whisper real quick before the next verse.

🎶“For nobody else gave me a thrill,

With all your faults, I love you still,

It had to be you, Wonderful you,

It had to be you— *GASP!*—”🎶

The truck violently quaked as it hit a pothole in the road, throwing you off balance causing you to stagger forward. Joe once again swooping in, hooking his arm around your hips in front of you before you could fall to the floor. The guys whooped and hollered with laughter and applause.

“Now where have I seen this happen before?” Luz questioned sarcastically rubbing his chin.

You return a hearty laugh and sit back on the bench next to Liebgott.

Joe angled in close to your ear, “Told ya I’d always be there to save you.”

You meet his stare with a smirk as he winks back at you.

~~~~~~~

Berchtesgaden

You arrive in Austria and take Eagle's Nest with no resistance. All you find are dead German officers and a considerable amount of war loot. After the men seized Hitler’s private fortress and officer housing surrounding it, Winters announced the war's conclusion in Europe and you were all directed to remain in place until you had to move on.

The guys wasted no time raiding the fully stocked wine cellar, popping open champagne and brandy, drinking from the bottles before claiming a space in any of the empty chambers of the castle and officer’s housing.

As evening approached, Easy lounged around the common room in front of a roaring fire in the massive fireplace, each with their own bottle of wine smoking and joking about anything and everything.

“I suppose you’ll be staying with Y/F/N?” Luz asked Liebgott.

“You bet your ass I am.” Liebgott confirmed.

“Yeah? Well, here’s a couple of extra bottles for ya to bring to the room.” Malarkey hinted with a wink passing Joe two unopened bottles of Cognac.

Joe smirked roguishly at Don, “Ya think I need liquid courage, Malark?”

Don chuckled, “Nah, just settin’ you up for success for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, you better go to her before she falls asleep, pal!” Perconte teased.

Joe’s smile widened as he pointed at Frank, hastily standing up to rush towards the grand staircase.

“Go get ‘er, Lieb!” A couple of the guys shouted after him as the rest cheered him on.

~~~~~~~

You found a sleeping chamber with a balcony and one hell of a view of the mountains. You lean on the wall of the stone terrace, amiably staring at the warm hues of the sky as the sun set sun set beyond the blue, snow capped Alps with the lake glistening and sparkling below.

Joe meandered into the bedroom and quietly ambled onto balcony. He set the bottles down, sneaking up behind you wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you against him.

“Joe! You startled me!” You feign as you hold his hands in front of you.

Joe nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and lavender on your hair.

“You smell incredible, doll.”

You rest your cheek on the side of his head.

“Why thank you, Mr. Liebgott.”

Joe took you by the shoulders to turn you towards him. He affectionately kneaded your arms as he beamed at you.

“You owe me a dance.” he declared.

You tilt your head at him, “You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

You ardently look back into the room.

“Hold that thought.” you prompt him.

You hurry back into the room to the gramophone that sat in the corner of the room. You finger through the record collection and find a song you were familiar with, and prepare it on the turntable. You crank the handle and gently place the needle on the record until the sound of “Sleepy Serenade” by The Andrew Sisters materialized through the horn.

You turn to see Joe’s reaction.

“Guess the Krauts appreciated The Andrew Sisters, too, huh?” He quipped.

“I suppose so.” You snickered.

Joe’s eyes seductively looked you over from head to toe, then casually beckoned you over to him.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Gams.” He hummed flirtatiously.

You sashay over to him as Joe offered his hand. When you were close enough, you place your hand on his to which he grasps it tenderly and proceeds to twirl you around then gracefully pulls you into him, holding you tight and flush against him by the waist as you sway dreamily together to the angelic melody.

Joe led you through the threshold of the balcony and around the room until you feel the back of your knees bump into the edge of the bed. Joe held you steady gaping into your eyes as he brought his hand up between you to caress your cheek. You lull your head onto his palm, your heart beat drumming.

“Marry me.” Joe purred.

Your mouth collapsed from shock, “You mean it, Joe?”

Joe rest his forehead on yours, “Absolutely. I don’t want to spend one second apart from you ever again.”

Your lips collide, locking onto each other in a deep lustful make out. Joe pulled away.

“So, is that a yes?” He said through his signature grin.

“Yes.” You moan into his mouth as you pull him back onto the bed with you.

~~~~~~~

You consummate your engagement with a night of pure, passionate love making. A heated, desirous adventure neither of have ever experienced before. Your souls became one that night in Berchtesgaden, never once to be separated or without the other ever again.

The End

[baronessblixen]

Twenty questions for fanfic writers

Tagged by the amazing @frogsmulder. Thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

417 🤯

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

774,561 - I wanna get to a million now, wow

3. What fandoms do you write for?

The X-Files, Frasier. At least on AO3. I have way more fandoms on ff.net (where I used to post).

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Prompts & Drabbles

Fictober 2020

Fowl Play

Love is Not Blind

Some Things You Just Can't Fake

5. Do you respond to comments?

For a while I did and then I forgot again and I'm always afraid I will reply to someone but oversee someone else. In theory I want to respond to all of them! I just got two amazing ones in the last two days. So thoughtful and so plain kind. I definitely need to reply to these people.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I wrote one where Mulder dies (of old age, though) but I'm not even sure it's on AO3.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them have a happy ending! I don't think I have a story without a happy ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I have. Mostly in the distant past, but I think some more recent hate too. If I remember correctly, it wasn't directed at a fic in particular but rather at me as a writer in general.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I have written a few smut stories. I know it's a popular genre, but I gotta be honest and admit that it's just not my favorite. Neither writing nor reading it. I know that's a very unpopular opinion.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Again, not on tumblr, but I think I wrote a Frasier/Hot in Cleveland crossover once.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Hmmm. I think maybe one?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have! I co-wrote Eden with a bunch of others! I mean we each wrote chapters but that still counts, right? It was a lot of fun and I'd love to do it again.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Mulder and Scully

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Five Minutes Series. I think about it so often but I like the chapters I have written a lot and I'm afraid to screw it up by writing more.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'm decent at writing dialogue.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Everything. I struggle with describing an environment or surroundings. I gotta admit I sometimes even skip reading those parts when other people write them. I don't see those things in my head.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Technically I always write dialogue in another language since English isn't my native language. I've written a few German fanfics and that was a lot of fun. Might do it again.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

It was either Friends or X-Files. Or if we count stories I only wrote for myself then it's Scarecrow and Mrs. King.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Can't choose between my babies!

Tagging @xxsksxxx @randomfoggytiger @agent-troi @numinousmysteries @oohnotvery @atths--twice (feel free to ignore if you don't wanna do it!)

[cookiesandcosplay]

So! I Found an AU suggestion and this is the result. Inspired by the post linked, please feel free to give any feedback or comments.

Word count: 1.3k

Trigger warnings are in the tags!

@thecoolkids-things @genocidecomics

Too many. So many…

Remy LeBeau had fought everything he could, pulled children from the wreckage of splintered buildings. Grotesque infrastructure mangled and broken as the vile metallic beast tears through the once safe haven that was once Genosha.

Streets once filled with music and beauty, now ran red with bloodied rubble and bodies.

Horror. The smell of death. The sound of screeching beams filling the air. As he moved to take down the Sentinel, seeing it take off towards the gardens, Gambit pulled his trusty bow-staff from his pocket, a poorly planned plan sprouting to his mind. A kinetic surge. Shock the damn thing from the inside, take out the belly of the beast and it’ll drop where it stands.

His beloved Southern Belle had already taken a blow, Magneto eliminated before her very eyes as she was rooted to the spot by a cage of the old man’s own design. He can imagine it felt like hell. Seeing the closest thing to love torn away from you in a flash… It had broken him, watching her be wrenched from him during the dance at the gala. Even if she wasn’t his to lose, even if she’d already told him that he was just the Swamp Rat waiting in the wings? Watching as she glided through the air, bare skin brushing against the hands of the Germanic old fool. It’d broken him. Hurt him on the deepest of levels. He’d never held her like that, now it seemed he never would.

Even if he had expected the pain, it didn’t make it any easier to accept. He wasn’t ready, doubtful really that he ever would be.

Since the tortuous visions courtesy of Mr Sinister back at the mansion, LeBeau had had his fears. His doubts. His outright heartbreaking paranoia. But that all paled in comparison to the hearing the way Rogue saw him. A man who could never touch her. Not in the way she felt mattered. Not in the way she wanted. Needed. His heart had shattered as she made her admissions in his room. Speaking about how he was never going to light her up the way he brightened the rest of the world. That his touch was able to light up everything around him, but not her.

But even now, he’d lay down his life to keep her safe, a Devil’s Advocate. The truest gambit that may not pay off on his end… But the surviving mutants would be safe. She would be safe. Rogue is laid somewhere east, knocked out of flight (hopefully consciousness) from the charged motorcycle he’d launched into her to prevent what was essentially a suicide attempt in a rage filled move of vengeance.

He had no wish to die, but Hell… If he had to go, he’d sue better than the thieving swamp rat he was always seen to be. As he steels his gaze upon the vile kaiju creature that moves for the distance, taking a final millisecond to appreciate that she won’t see him suffer. Closing his eyes for a moment more, obsidian and ruby eyes fall closed for a brief moment, the Cajun taking a final breath as he coils himself to run. “Gambit ain’t got a chance… but the rest ah ya do. Content qu'elle ne soit pas réveillée pour voir ça.” The words meant for no one but himself. Muscular legs move to spring forward.

Until a hand grasps his arm, turning him away from the metallic monster with force. Sections of reddish brown hair and stark snowy bangs falling from the intricate braided bun that had once contained the curly manic locks. Emerald eyes shine with tears, as her body floats before him. The tattered red dress and running eyeliner may have seemed imperfect, but only showed the ferocity and tenacity that embedded her spirit. “Rogue no, Cher, I—“ The words are cut short, broken by lips against his. Heady, desperate as he feels a weakness in his body, gentle warm hands cupping his jawline to steady him as the strength starts to leave his body. The glow that once surrounded his staff begins to fade, a groan leaking into Rogues mouth as his wide eyes fall closed. His body starts to droop, falling into a state of weariness.

Releasing his jaw, Remy falls to the ground, the knees of his white suit trousers scuffed in the dirt. “Sorry Sugah… But this is how it has to happen. You light up everythin’ you touch. Even me.” Her body rises in the air, a heavy pink glow surrounding her as she looks down at the Cajun. A deep black seems to flash in her eyes for a moment, the darkness alight with a loving silence. An apology that she prays Remy can recognise. For the slightest moment she meets his gaze with a weak smile, only to whoosh away again, grabbing rubble and tossing it with the kinetic charge to draw the threats attention.

The shriek of green energy beams follow her, the Southern Belle weaving and bobbing around each ray. As a kinetic charge breaks a large crack in the Sentinel, she rushes forward, gritting her teeth as she generates the heavy kinetic field around herself. Her skin is on fire, her bones ache, her blood is boiling and her muscles are starting to seperate. Her voice is weak, the vibration of her vocal cords causing her more pain than breathing as she pushes on. “Ah feel you, Sugah, ah feel you!”

With a final push, Rogue breaks through the large crack burying herself in the swarm of wires and metallic veins inside the shell. A rasping brutal scream fills the air as the terminal blow leaves her body. Fingers wrapped around metal tendrils, limbs tangled in the wires and leads.

A bleeding pink glow envelopes the night sky, a mushroom cloud of Sentinel shrapnel spreading across the sky. LeBeau watching from the ground, he’s sick to his stomach, soundless, left in a state of shock. His fingers dig into the dirt, gripping as his head drops for a moment, he’s on all fours. Trying to muster the strength to recognise what he’s just seen. Sweat beading on his brow, blood streaking from his nose under the duress. Eyes clenched shut, he grits his teeth, jaw straining until a breath is finally released, a scream filling the air. “Rogue!” The scream is guttural, he can taste the metallic tang of blood as he howls.

Clutching at the bow staff again, he pulls himself to his feet, stumbling as he tries to run towards the gaping hole in the street. Adrenaline coursing through him, the drained energy not enough to hold him back as he sees a deep drop in the pavement. He throws himself into the hole, soot and dirt streaking the white suit as he skids the bowl-like drop. Hitting the bottom, there’s a limp body sprawled in the dust. Red fabric, singed and messy hair framing a face with blood streaming from her ears and lips.

“No… no, Cher no.” The words are weak as he crawls to the form, pulling away the lingering shards of metal tendrils, throwing them away as he pulls her body into his lap with no hesitation. A shaking hand supports her head, the other taking her hand.

Sobs rattle in his chest, his breaths shallow, almost wet as blood clings to his throat. Her chest unmoving, her emerald eyes closed as small sections of hair smoulder, pale skin marred by charcoal and bloody scrapes. The hand holding hers traces gentle circles on her palm, pulling it against his cheek. Her fingers are limp, unmoving, pale as the blood no longer circulates.

Desperately he holds the hand tight against his face. Whimpering words the only sound that fill the air as survivors step closer to the pit.

“S’okay, cher. Gambit’s gotchu. He ain’t lettin’ go. Gambit’s gotchu.”

[therotatingvillain]

Funny things in Baby Steps, my unfinished Pokevillain fanfic

Alright, after spending too long in a severe depression hole and also spending like way too much time at work, here I am again!

This is gonna be my first update on the Pokevillain fanfiction that my last post was about. What I’m doing is reading through those 43 pages and just get a base understanding of what the fuck I was even doing.

To have all of you be part of this, you’ll get my live thoughts about it! So be ready for some shitposting and a few sneak peeks at the story haha

Cyrus insisting on just being called ‘Cyrus’ because ‘Mr. Akagi’ reminds him of his father is such a mood. Also, yeah, I use their japanese names as their last names, except Guzma, because Guzmas japanese name is Guzma lol So for him I just used his german name ‘Bromley’. Such an ass name

Having stayed in a hospital for the first time not too long ago, 2020 me was surprisingly accurate when it came to hospital food

“What do you think? Aren’t you supposed to be incredibly smart?” She kept smiling, but Cyrus knew it was fake. It had been ever since she entered. It was the same smile his mother always had when talking to guests or clients. God I hate Cyrus nurse, I made her such a bitch lmao

Forgot I made Cyrus lactose intolerant lol

That smile made Cyrus want to go back into the distortion world No comment needed

‘New Guy’ seemed like a major downgrade from ‘God of a new dimension’ but for now, having terribly failed the latter one, the first one was acceptable. 2020 me had banger humor

Guzma looking at Cyrus and just going “You’re my friend now” is how I make all of my friends

Ah yeah, Giovanni is there because of another failed attempt, except for Guzma the rest is there because of court mandation and Guzma is there because Nanu got him a spot.

almost like touching a Rotom that couldn’t quite control its energy. Foreshadowing? Maybe

Guzma immediately having Cyrus back even when Cyrus is clearly in the wrong is so funny to me

Aaaaaaaah gays bonding over piano music

Ah yes, Maxie and Archie are divorced husbands. Yes, they still love each other, yes, Maxie still actively wears his wedding ring while Archie always has it on him somehow

“Hey fuckers, time for lunch!” Mood Guz

Lysandre desperately trying to socialise with his roommate only to routinely be fucked over by his own shitty mental health and eating disorder is too real man

Dr. Roberts is such a kind soul, he’s the therapist OC I created specifically for this story and he’s just a sweetie who’s fantastic at his job and also, obviously, gay and married with a couple kids.

Cyrus went to college (duh) and majored in: Electrical Engineering, Economics, Computer Engineering, Political Science and Computer Science. And finished all his majors in 4 years. Yikes dude, my boy just wanted to study the stars but he was denied by his bullshit parents

Ah yes, Cyrus sister. Buckle in people, time for a bit of lore:

So we all remember the Old Chateau in Eterna Forrest back in gen 4, right? Right. For a long time there was a theory that perhaps Cyrus grew up in that house. How did we come to that conclusion? Basically, Cyrus in Platinum (and the USUM Rainbow Rocket episode) has a severe obsession with the Pokemon Rotom, supplying Charon with detailed notes and diaries all about it and in the Rainbow Rocket episode, he nearly has a breakdown upon seeing the Rotom dex. Now where do you find Rotom in Gen 4? Hiding in a TV in the Old Chateau. So, we theorized that Cyrus grew up there. What else do we find in the Old Chateau? The spirits of a butler and a small girl. So, the theory goes that Cyrus used to have a little sister, but she and a butler of the family were killed in an accident, probably involving the Rotom Cyrus kept, most likely hidden from his parents. Afterwards, his family moved to Sunyshore, leaving the Chateau, where Rotom was still hiding, possibly having come back in search of it’s friend (Cyrus) and then hiding in the TV because it was scared as it was alone, Cyrus nowhere to be found, and sought comfort in the electrical appliance. That’s how the theory goes. This theory is true in my story.

Maxie and Archie being extremely angry bordering on violent with each other makes me sad. And I wrote this shit!

The fact that Cyrus, on his first day there, immediately has a panic attack in the evening is relatable.

Also, Giovanni helps him through it and they start bonding and being cute hehe

For every scene involving stargazing, be aware that I have zero idea about stars. I grew up in the middle of fuck nowhere, so I can see them very clearly each night, but I still have little to no idea about how to read stars lol

Lysandre has anorexia and Cyrus is way too oblivious to understand that it’s ana so he’s just constantly like “wow youre thin” until it clicks lmao

Saturn, Jupiter, Mars and Charon are just codenames and Cyrus never bothered to learn their actual names. Is this also foreshadowing? Maybe hehe

YES CYRUS STAND YOUR GROUND TO THAT PISS POOR EXCUSE OF A NURSE i hate her so much man

Cyrus is a deeply kind person. I will not elaborate yet

Yes, Maxie and Archie get over their shit and back together

Yes, it spirals Giovanni into another suicide attempt

No, I shall not elaborate how one leads to the other

But yeah, there’s a pretty intense part of this that deals with Giovannis shitty mental state and his active suicide attempt (that only barely failed) and Cyrus ends up having a severe breakdown because of it. Like I said in my last post, this story deals with some heavy topics.

Guz and Ly really take on the roles of dads to Cyrus, to help him be more open in his expression and just be who he is and I think that’s beautiful

His breath was caught in his throat, his chest and stomach spreading a comfortable warmth through his body.

What was this? A heart attack? 

No, those felt different. There was no stabbing pain. I love writing Cyrus

THERAPY POKEMON EVERYONE yes the leaders are getting therapy Pokemon

Here’s a list of who they get:

Giovanni: His Persian

Maxie: Toxel

Archie: Hypno

Cyrus: His Rotom

Ghetsis: Castform

Lysandre: Levanny

Guzma: His Golisopod

I’d love for yall to theorize on why each leader gets their respective Pokemon! I actually put some thought in all of them haha

Cyrus grandfather has a big role in Cyrus’ recovery, and it starts with a simple visit that is still one of my favorite parts of this story so far

Cyrus grandfather (Paul Akagi) is the polar opposite to his parents, Paul is kind, loving, supportive and really just wants Cyrus to be happy and their relationship???? it warms my heart

A big part of connection for all of the leaders, specifically everyone else and Ghetsis, is a broken piano in the common room that they all work together to fix and that piano really is a symbol for Cyrus’ recovery and especially his willingness to get better.

GUZMA IS TRANS and this is a fact because I am trans and I said so. Also Ghetsis is a bigot. End of sentence lol

Ghetsis saying some transphobic shit and Guzma then going to PULL HIS NON PARALYZED ARM OUT OF ITS SOCKET is such a girly pop move

Also yes everything I’ve written so far ends on Maxie and Archie remarrying and Dr. Roberts allowing everyone to drink alcohol in celebration and yes of course it escalates lol

Alright everyone, that’s it for now, I’m all caught up, hopefully I’ll get some time to actually write a bit more the next few days. 

As always, please please please interact with this, tell me your thoughts so far, ask questions, I NEED IT okay cool thank you.

I have work tomorrow so I shall go and kill myself lol

Have a great whenever you are! Stay hydrated

Love all of you.

[fennecfiree]

Giant list of South Park headcanons

Cartman is the tallest of the 4.

Stan is Bisexual and Demi boy

Cartman is Straight, but he IS an ally since he got Craig and Tweek together

Kyle is Bisexual

Kenny is straight and genderqueer

Butters is Bi

Kyle is the shortest out of the class.

Craig is the tallest out of the class!

Craig is also the strongest in class

Mr garrison is Genderfluid and Bi ( male pref)

Stan already has voice cracks and acne and is one of the taller kids in class, since he hit puberty early

stan also has glasses

Red reads Warrior cats

Kyle still uses TikTok, and he gets sucked into his phone very easily

Bebe and Wendy love Power Puff girls 

Stan is autistic

Kevin Stoley is also autistic

.. Craig is autistic. 

Rebecca has Autism and ADHD

Heidi has ADHD

Dougie has ADHD

Butters haS ADHD 

Mr garrison has DID and autism 

Scott Tenorman is amazing at Minecraft (lmao)

Millie Larsen has a  collection of stuffed animals

Bebe is a Sanrio girl

Bradley Biggle is scared of the dark

CHUBBY KYLE!!1111

Chubby Clyde too 🤗

Bradley (From Cartman Sucks) has a cat :3

Butters makes little origami animals

Kyle was a nail-biter until he realized how gross it is

Also, the reason Kyle is chubby is because Sheila spoils him a little, although he will not admit that he's a little bit spoiled by his mom

Cartman is half-German

Thomas and Craig are still friends 

Stan and Kyle watch horror movies together, Kyle is terrified, Stan isn't scared

Stan uses pet names and Kyle hates it (stan uses like honey, babe, muffin, SWEET JELLY FILLED DONUT (omori reference)

Stan is the clingy one (In stendy and style)

Kenny is still in love with Tammy

Randy is Bi and genderfluid

Sheila forced Kyle to join the school diabetes club

Clyde is scared of skibidi toilet 

Pete (the goth kid) knows all the fucking fnaf lore

Craig posts a lot on Tumblr, he has 449 followers 

Jenny Simons believes in ghosts, she tries to summon them every sleepover

Oh and Jenny and Lola go ghost-hunting together

Vladimir (Vamp kid) sleeps in until noon.

Sally Darson wears Hello Kitty socks

Red makes Kandi bracelets

Tricia Tucker  reads cringe Wattpad fanfics

Butters loves skating

Shelley is Ase

Damien has a burn mark on their neck.

ERMMM MIGHT MAKE A PT2

OH AND IF YALL WANT TO KNOW MY HEADCANONS JUST FOR 1 CHARACTER JUST ASK "whats your headcanons for (blank) AND ILL ANSWERRR :DDD

[dreamsandcherrypie]

Maria’s Sketchbook Masterlist

We’ve reached a pivotal element of the story which involves someone sneaking a peak at our main character’s journal 😏

PS I’ll illustrate your fanfic too!! Bonus if it’s Dean but not required :)

Chapter 1: Prologue

The little girl from our power duo’s first case

. . . Until an entirely different kind of job appeared at the foot of my bed. A creepy as shit ghost of a girl in bows and dusty nightgown. But even so, you could tell she was a beautiful little girl in life . . .

Chapter 2: In da Club

Our main suspect

“Oh! An’ she had glasses! Ol’ timer ones with the thick squares,” the pretty southern woman drawled out in her honeyed accent from her hospital bed.

I quickly begin sketching some glasses on my drawing of our suspect.

“Mrs. Bennet, did you notice anything unique about her teeth?” I ask, super casually.

“Like wha?”

“I don’t know, maybe they were… pointy?”

“No miss... I woulda reckoned somethin’ like that.”

Chapter 3: Meet Me at the Crime Scene

Ava’s puppy eyes

“Please? I really think we could use their help and I really like Sam.”

“Can’t you boink Sam without us having to work with his stupid brother?”

She clasps prayer hands under her chin, tilts her head even further, and juts out her lower lip. I hold out for all of a few seconds.

“Ugh! Fine!” I throw up my hands in defeat.

Chapter 4: What’s the Steaks? Focused Dean

“Oh yes,” says Rose, now holding hands with Ava, “Tell me more.”

I catch Rose up on the bet and Ava up on that whole barstool thing.

“Do you think he fancies you?” asks Rose, on the edge of her nonexistent seat.

“Not a chance in hell! You should hear the way he talks to me!”

“I don’t know hun, it sounded awfully sexually charged,” says Rose.

“It kind of felt more like a threat?”

“Hot,” says Ava.

Chapter 5: A Whole Night

Cassettes

Chapter 6: Morning, Sunshine Green Soap 💚

Once most of the pool water is off my body, I steal a little of the boys’ green bar soap. I come out of the shower smelling like a straight dad, but I like it. Taking the liberty of using the guys’ cleanest looking towel, I dry off and wrap myself up. Chapter 7: This Plan Sounds Dumb

Vice

Chapter 8: Out of the Woods "Listen..."

Chapter 9: "Field of Blue"

Chapter 10: Fresh Tattoos, Loud Music, & Fast Cars

Chapter 11: Nightmares & Coconut Cream Pie

Breakfast of Champions

Chapter 12: Rock Me Asmodeus If you haven't seen the music video for the 80's smash hit "Rock Me Amadeus" sung by German band Falco go do yourself a favor

Chapter 13: Close Encounter I actually did this one for the fanfic but I just couldn't wait to post it

Chapter 14: Dreams... Chapter 15: ...And What? Huh? CHERRY PIE BABY!!! This 2-part chapter's artwork can be viewed exclusively on AO3 🥸

[therealslimshakespeare]

https://www.tumblr.com/precious-little-scoundrel/759111481569705984/i-find-it-interesting-that-sanchez-immediately

so basically this called woc solitary!! hope this helps!! jk that sounds so mean. but honestly, i adore sanchez for so many reasons and at the end of the day, she is literally a woman of colour in a pow camp run by germans. she really doesn’t owe to it to anyone to be all sunshine and rainbows. yes she’s a lieutenant, but she is the only female fighter there and she doesn’t have any women that are technically her responsibility, nor does she have any pre formed bonds with other women upon entering the stalag. and i don’t really think she’s done anything that makes it fair to vilify her? or to compare her to maureen? just my opinion!

Fucking love it when the pay off for my little seeds of reasoning in the fics pay off. 😭 you get it. The fighter pilot liner aspect is also huge, on top of being a woman of color.

I think some of the questioning could be due to the fact the Gale is so likable and yet she doesn’t budge for him -which is atypical for a fanfic OC, I believe? But in my head, considering who she is, she wouldn’t. And she’s fucking justified for it. Utterly. And I like stories that make you go “but that’s my blorbo!!!” about how a character treats Mr Blonde American but it forces you to also go -wait, of course she’s not cracking a smile. Imagine how horrifying that situation is. Of course she’s not. Anyway, that’s my hope for it. Glad many of you took it that way, as well.

But also. PSA. Addendum.

Yall, thanks for the excellent opinions, I always love them but let’s also continue to remain kind. We can always express differing opinions but it doesn’t have to be targeted at the sender of a previous ask. I wanna try keep the tone here as conversational as possible.

This is not a scolding or a pointed remark, just thought I’d go ahead and hitch a ride on yours for this Nonnie, sorry baby 💋

[fantasy-nerdddd]

Names for the adults

I saw a fanart of some of the D12 adults when they were young so I decided to make for each of them two pairs of names; one with meaning, one without much. The order is: Mrs Everdeen, Mr Everdeen, Mrs Mellark, Mr Mellark, Mrs. Undersee (Maysilee's twin)

Naomi, Fern (the guys are the reason their kids got the names they got in HC), Augusta, Phyl, Alaina. That was the easy one, now I have to explain why I chose each person, the second order will go from easier to find to harder to find.

Naan: Of course, that's Mr. Mellark. Naan bread is of course, bread, however I chose this specific name because Naan bread is easy to make. My HC says that Mr. Mellark was easy to manipulate and never talked back. That's because he was a genuinely good person (at least, that's what we're led to believe) and was living with a bitch. She could manipulate him all she wanted.

Nandina: That's Mrs. Mellark and I am very proud of that one. Nandina Domestica also has the nickname ''Firepower''. The two parts of the nickname speak for themselves, she definitely had some power over her family and she does have a fire, let alone that she works with it because she's a baker's wife. Sure, it's not the "If we burn, you burn with us" kind of fire but rather the (worse) "I'm fucked up enough to abuse my kids". But that's not all, Nandina Domestica is listed as toxic in some lists like Colorado state University's list. Honestly, half of the sources say that it's only toxic to animals while others say that the whole plant is also toxic to humans. Idk 🤷‍♀️.

Sylva: Mrs. Undersee is named Sylva and it is short for the plant Myosotis Sylvatica. Also known as forget-me-not. I think that's a bit obvious, I don't think she ever got over Maysilee's death. I don't blame her. I almost named Mrs. Everdeen as Sylva though, but I think the name I gave her is a bit more fitting.

Yarrow: That is Mrs. Everdeen. According to a bunch of sources including this post yarrow stood for everlasting love in the Victorian language of flowers. And I think that even though the name is not very feminine (come on, I was this close to naming Mr. Mellark Focaccia, I didn't want to use much time on his name) I used that for some reasons. First, her love with Mr. Everdeen (whose name I'm not proud of, sorry) was definitely everlasting, and second Yarrow has medicinal purposes as it was used to improve digestion by increasing the amounts of saliva and stomach acid.

Archie: Yeah, I'm sorry for that. Mr. Everdeen is kind of unoriginal. Except for the obvious nod to archer, Archie is I'm pretty sure an actual German name that means bold or brave (is anyone German here? If so, can you confirm/deny? I just saw it in a site and said okay). I think that after the 2nd Quarter Quell there tried to be uprisings, and this time 12 was an active part of it. And Mr. Everdeen was a part of it. In fact I think that Mr. Hawthorne might have too. Gale seems feisty enough. I have also seen a very interesting take on a fanfic were the reason Archie, Mr. Hawthorne and co died in the accident was to punish the people who tried to rebel and because of their association with Haymitch. Since almost everyone was a coalminer Snow just blew the mine up. The only merchant in the rebellion was Naan and he was punished by reaping his youngest (yes, it goes against his name a little, but I like it).

So yeah. That's my thoughts, feel free to help here. Also I wouldn't have a problem with a new name for Mr. Everdeen, I'd search more but right now it's 3:05 am. @lucysnow1106 I'm pretty sure that the fic I'm mentioning is from your bookmarks (yes, I did read the fics there that caught my interest) so maybe you remember the fanfic's name? Thank you!

[iolaussharpe-24]

Wolf in Sheep's Clothing - Chapter Two

Shoutouts to @reallyrallyauthor, @redeyerhaenyra, & @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction who are all my biggest inspirations for this story. (Grace Smith is my OC inspired by Samara Weaving. I have no experience writing 'xreader' fanfics and I have no talent for writing in the 2nd person POV.)

(I'm gonna leave this one marked as 'For Everyone' because there's nothing too explicit. Little bit of gore, but it's hand waved away. Brief mention of a sex dungeon, but no one uses it.)

Story part under the cut. Cross posted on my Wattpad page.

She knew too much about him. There was no leaving. There was only dismissal. And that would likely mean a hail of gunfire that would cut her life short in the living room before his massive bodyguards took her away to some place where she’d never be found again.

All because she caught his eye.

~ One Month Later ~

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

It really wasn’t.

Tony Thompson wasn’t really anyone to Grace. He was just another rich asshole that did business with Mr. Vogelweide. Not even big business at that. Just gambling. As far as she cared to know at least.

He was a young man. Younger than her. It showed. He was a naïve idiot. Exactly the kind of person Mr. Vogelweide liked to work with. Someone easy to manage. Tony was the kind of guy who could be told that the sky was green and believe it without a second thought until someone else told him to go outside and look up.

Thank God he was good in bed.

Grace had started seeing Tony about two weeks after her nerve-wracking “talk” in the office. Tony had been over to the mansion to pay off a debt he owed after some high school game and Grace had been working that same day. She’d been the one to open the door for him and the one to lead him to the office.

They’d talked during the walk and found that they had a lot in common. And, once his meeting was done, they’d talked a little more and Grace had been given Tony’s number. After that they’d gone out a time or two. And they’d gotten physical with one another.

Grace couldn’t say she loved Tony – not so early in their little relationship – but she liked him. He was friendly enough. Though, it was incredibly hard to believe that someone like him could have business with someone like Mr. Vogelweide. Mostly because Tony was.… what’s the word?.... spineless. He was spineless. Like a jellyfish with no stinger. A small one that can fit in the palm of your hand.

He was the best kind of pathetic. He’d never hurt anyone. Not in a million years. He oozed affection and took every single micro chance he got to show it. He was like a clingy little kid always hanging on her leg because he didn’t want to be alone. She liked it. She liked him. A lot.

For a while, her life was good. Surprisingly good. Well paying job working for an obscenely rich gangster, a friendly and non-threatening “boyfriend” that knew how to show a girl a good time, and a free dorm room in a smaller building on the same property as the house. She didn’t have to worry about travel expenses or rent. She didn’t need to worry about a lot of things. Despite everything, Mr. Vogelweide took care of the people under him. He made sure everyone was comfortable. He kept everyone safe from external threats. (Though, protection from internal threats like Mr. Vogelweide himself was off the table.)

Of course, all good things must eventually come to an end.

The day started off normally. She went to work in the mansion, cleaning up fresh blood from the back patio where some poor schmuck tried to run and failed to get away. She found a chunk of bloody meat while she was scrubbing. It was the size of a coin. Maybe an earlobe? She couldn’t know. Instead, she wrapped it up in a handkerchief and gave it to someone else to take care of.

Afterwards, she dusted the bookshelves in the library. Snuck a few peeks at a couple of books while she was at it. Old literature that was written in German and smelled sour. She couldn’t understand a word of it besides ‘ja’ and ‘nein’ but, judging by the pictures, it looked like a sex ed book from way back when. Then she found a fake book. The cover opened to reveal that it was hollow and… contained a dildo. A very strange one at that. Shaped like an octopus tentacle. Had to be new.

From there, she went to the bedroom and changed the sheets. The white ones came off and the gold ones were laid down. Tomorrow, it would be the navy sheets, she reminded herself as she unfolded the burgundy comforter that went with the gold sheets. She took her time setting it on the massive bed. This should be a two-person job, but since she was the only one doing it, she needed to make she that everything was straight and that there were no ruffles or lumps. If the other maids were to be believed, there was one girl who apparently lost a finger for making the bed wrong back when Mr. Vogelweide was younger. Grace didn’t want to find out. She’d just gotten her nails done and she’d prefer to keep all ten of them.

She ate lunch outside in one of the smaller gardens. Óscar passed by, going to the shed to get his cleaning supplies. When she waved, he looked down his nose at her in disgust and kept walking. Clearly still upset by how he’d been treated lately. It wasn’t really her fault, but there wasn’t much she could do about it aside from what she was already doing. Which was to pretend that none of it had actually happened.

The sex dungeon was next. Good god it was a mess. Every time she had to come in here, Grace wore latex gloves on top of latex gloves, a face mask, a pair of goggles, and a shower cap because she never knew what to expect from this room. Especially after the incident. After that day, she could come into this room wearing a full hazmat suit and it still wouldn’t feel like overkill. It always took her forever to completely sanitize everything. And then she did it again just for good measure.

Mr. Vogelweide had a meeting with Tony and a few other associates that day. Grace heard the gunfire while she was dusting outside.

She went in to clean up the blood once everyone was gone and the body had been taken away. But, she quickly realized that she wasn’t alone when a pair of hands grabbed her around the waist as she bent over to start cleaning. She jumped up and turned to see Tony behind her.

“Go away, I’m working,” she told him with a smile.

He grinned and kissed her cheek. “Come on, how could I come all the way here and not say hi? I missed you, Gracie. Didn’t you miss me?”

“You’re crazy. But yes. I missed you. A little bit,” she teased. “Now go away. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Okay, okay. Today’s… Friday, right? You get off a little early?”

“Yeah. Donut day. Get up early, get out early. Off day tomorrow. Why?”

Tony grinned wider and wrapped his arms around Grace’s slender waist. “I’m taking you out to dinner tonight. And then, I’m not bringing you back until Monday morning. Just in time for the laundry. That sound like a plan?”

She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “That sounds perfect. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah. Tonight. It’s a date.”

“Shoo.”

He laughed, kissed her cheek, and left the office so she could get back to work.

She knelt down again to clean, only to be startled by the sound of feet quickly stomping back into the room. Looking up again, Grace caught sight of Tony just as he slapped her ass and then took off running again.

“Hey!” she shouted, getting up to chase him. “Come back here you perv-” She froze in the doorway and lowered her head. “Hello, Mr. Vogelweide.”

“Having fun?” he asked, raising a thick eyebrow over the frame of his glasses.

“I… I’m sorry; it won’t happen again.” She turned on her heel and went back into the office. This time, she actually got back to work and started scrubbing the blood out of the rug.

“You seem quite close with Mr. Thompson. Is this a recent development?” Mr. Vogelweide asked, his tone light and unbothered.

Grace nodded. “Yes sir. We uh… well…. He’s nice to me.”

“Did this happen before or after our talk last month?”

She swallowed, unsure where he was going with this. “It was after, sir.”

He didn’t say anything else. He just stared at Grace through those gold lenses while she went back to cleaning. Part of her regretted telling him that. She shouldn’t have done it. For all she knew, she could have accidentally put Tony’s life at risk. But… shit, if she hadn’t there was always that strange chance that he’d know anyway. He always seemed to know everything. And if he knew and she tried to lie about it that would piss him off. And when Mr. Vogelweide was pissed off, the guns come out and heads get blown off, and then bodies get taken away to be disposed of, and-

She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Looking up, she saw Mr. Vogelweide staring down at her. For fuck’s sake, that leg brace announced his every step, how was he constantly managing to sneak up on her like this? He idly trailed his fingers over the top of her head, curled her baby hairs around them, and said, “So long as you are happy, I suppose. That is the important part. You’re such a lovely woman.”

“…. Sir?”

He removed his hand from her head. “Go enjoy yourself. I’ll have Ms. Baxter finish in here. And… tell Mr. Thompson that I will cover your expenses for the night.”

She sat up on her knees and stared up at him, surprised and , quite frankly, shocked. She heard his breath hitch as he stared down at her. Which, granted, she probably should have expected from a man as hypersexual as him. He caressed her cheek for a moment, just like he had a month ago, and smiled. Not for the first time, she wondered why he did it. Was it because he wanted to make her feel comfortable around him? Was it just a sensory thing? Or… was he inspecting her? Honestly, it felt like the latter.

“Thank you, Mr. Vogelweide. You’re too kind.”

“No. I’m not. Run along now.”

Grace stood up and slowly walked away, only taking a brief moment to look back at him over her shoulder for a quick goodbye before she left the room entirely.

~ Dinner ~

Grace stood outside the restaurant, wearing a skintight black dress, with her hair pulled up in a French twist. Tony had told her to be there and ready at six for their reservation. She’d arrived early, wanting to meet him outside, but he hadn’t shown up yet.

When her phone beeped at six, she went inside without him and used his name to be seated. She was handed a menu, a glass of ice water, and a basket of hot bread was placed in front of her. She thanked the waiter and decided to wait for Tony before she started eating anything. Instead, she alternated between reading the menu and watching the door for him.

Half the things on the menu didn’t even sound like real things. And most of the descriptions sounded… disgusting. The pictures didn’t look much better. Thankfully, there were a few things that seemed normal and edible. The pastas looked good. Maybe a nice alfredo.

…. He’s twenty minutes late. He’s never been this late before. Did something come up?

She checked her phone for any sign that he’d reached out to her. No text. No missed call. Nothing on any of his socials. His last post was a week-old beach selfie of him in a speedo. Oh, and there was Grace in the background. Sitting in the sand. Wearing a bikini that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

She zoomed in on the background, staring at her own tits for a second. Right along the edge of the cup was a circular mark on her skin. Darker than the rest of her porcelain skin. Not a bruise, she could tell that much. But she didn’t know… oh.

“Oh, shit. That’s a nipple. Jesus, that has to be why so many creepy people were looking at me that day.”

She put her phone down and looked up towards the door again. Still nothing. He wasn’t there yet. Somehow. He was usually early. Usually already waiting at the door ten minutes beforehand just so he could see whatever she was wearing before she made it in. He said that she looked good in low light. It gave the illusion that he skin glowed, according to him.

It wasn’t normal for him to be late. It wasn’t normal for him not to say anything. He’d cancelled on her before. Why should this be any different? That is, if he really needed to cancel… he wouldn’t stand her up, would he? No. He was too sweet for that. And he sounded so excited in the office when he asked her out. Made it sound like he had plans for them. And the stars had finally aligned so that both of her off days landed on Saturday and Sunday. She was the lucky one with the blessed schedule. Why wouldn’t he be here?

Did she do something wrong? Did Tony think he did something wrong? Could it be traffic? What does traffic look like where he lives? …. Where does he live? She’d never asked. He’d never shown her. When they spent the night together it always involved an overnight bag and a nice bed and breakfast he picked. Hell, her bag was packed. It was sitting in the trunk of her car. Not that it was her car; per se, it was one of the rentals that Mr. Vogelweide kept on hand for his staff. It wasn’t even a nice one. She deliberately took the car that got used the least just so no one would miss the vehicle.

God, she felt scatterbrained!

“Grace!”

Startled, she looked up to see the last person she was expecting to bump into outside of work. Mr. Anselm Vogelweide himself. She’d never seen him leave the mansion, what were the odds that he’d show up here and now?!

She quickly rose to her feet as he limped over to the table, a smile on his bearded face. Hoping to make it easier for him, she walked towards him as well, meeting him in the middle. She kept a bright smile on her face. The same one she tended to wear while working. It was… something. Fake. Wide. Joyless. She felt like a Barbie doll. Blonde and plastic with a perfect white grin molded onto her face. She asked, “What brings you here, sir? I… had no idea you’d enjoy places like this.”

“I do not leave my home often, it’s true. However, this fine establishment has treated me well for many years. More, I believe, than you have been alive.” He looked around for a moment. One person at a table for two. Two menus. One drink. An untouched basket of bread. “I thought you were supposed to be out with Mr. Thompson?”

“I am- well, I will be. He’s running a bit late. But I’m sure that he’ll be here soon. He’s never let me down before.”

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she spoke. To hide her fear, she kept her smile plastered on her face. She’d done this before. It was something she was good at. Hiding her emotions. Pretending to be something she really wasn’t. It kept her alive. And, before that, it got her ahead in life where she would have fallen behind.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

[tar-dar]

Introduction

I never made an introduction.... so here we go!!

Socials:

Instagram

Artfight

Telegram

Ao3

Stalker Fanfic Masterlist

Fandoms:

My name is Rat. Pronounced /ræt/. yes like the animal! I'm transmasc nonbinary and go by they/them and it/its.

I'm Austrian. I mainly write in English, can write/speak German.

Tags: #tardar art

Requests:

S.T.A.L.K.E.R. (MAIN)

I'm a big Ghost Simp. I love Ghost, hes my fictional husband!!! Also Otp is Strelok/Ghost/Fang! oh and Dogtyarev <3

Metro (games and books)

Disco Elysium

Pathologic

Roadside Picnic

Mr. Robot

Fallout

The Elder Scrolls + Enderal

Half Life + HLVRAI

Call of Duty (og MW series)

Old Fandoms:

Bioshock

Dishonored

Death Stranding

Assassins Creed

my dms and ask box are always open! So are art requests of specific characters and ships! for fanfic requests: (but im slow with writing)

S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fanfics: Here

For other Fandoms fanfics: Here

[choiceswithmika]

What Is It Like Living with the Ortegas?

(I am going to use a fanfic I already written on AO3 here!)

Ship: Mikaylyn x Zig Ortega (The Freshman Mc and Zig Ortega)

Details about Mikaylyn and Zig Ortega

Mikaylyn Ortega: Asian (Vietnamese), Black Hair, Dark Brown Eyes, Autistic, Writer and Part-time helper to children, 5'3, She is a loving happy person especially to her husband Zig, Loyal, Childish, Kind, Mature, Confident, Smart, Helpful, and Supportive

Zig Ortega: Half Mexican and German, Brown Little Long Wavy Hair and Brown Eyes, Part-time Barista and Math Tutor, 5'10, Tough, Protective, Affectionate to Mikaylyn, Supportive, Loyal, Short Hot-Temper, Feminist, and a Good Friend, Bad Boy Persona Type with a Soft Heart

Warning: Bad Grammar!!

Word Count: 1585

Mikaylyn and Zig had been married for almost a year, they were at their house together asleep in this wonderful morning. Zig was spooning Mikaylyn in his sleep while Mikaylyn was sleeping peacefully in Zig's arms. It was around eight in the morning as the alarm clock went off of their night stand. Mikaylyn was the first person awake. She struggled to turn off the alarm clock on her end. When she eventually finally turned her alarm off. She quietly get off the bed, she sees her husband was still asleep and she smiled at Zig before leaving the bedroom and going to the bathroom. 

"This is going to be a good day..." Mikaylyn muttered to herself. 

Mikaylyn took her time getting ready for the day. She showered, she brushed her hair, she was even adding a little make up on her face even though she was already gorgeous. Mikaylyn always had trouble to balance her time during the day so she tried be ready as soon as possible before her husband started to notice. As Mikaylyn walked out of the bathroom, she sees Zig is still asleep. She walked out of the bedroom and now heading to the kitchen to start making breakfast. Mikaylyn was also making coffee while cooking some bacon and eggs for breakfast. 

A few minutes later, Mikaylyn felt the familiar touch wrapped around her waist, Mikaylyn turned her head and smiled at Zig. 

"Morning Mr. Ortega." Mikaylyn chuckled as speaking the usual morning greeting. 

"Morning Mrs. Ortega." Zig responded in his playful tone as hugging his wife tight. 

"You slept well Mikay?" Zig ask her as he was rubbing her back softly. 

"Yeah I did, did you?" Mikaylyn answered. 

Zig nods his head as still rubbing Mikaylyn's back.

"Yeah.. I slept good." Zig answers.

"What are you making anyways?" Zig ask as he noticed Mikaylyn was making breakfast. 

"Bacon and Eggs." Mikaylyn answered. 

"Neat." Zig says as he goes sit down at the table to wait to be served. 

Mikaylyn noticed this and she rolled her eyes playfully. 

"Real Smooth Zig. Real Smooth." Mikaylyn chuckled as she was now placing the bacon and eggs on the plates.

Zig snickered to himself and looks at Mikaylyn, cannot help but admire how beautiful Mikaylyn looked as everyday every time he sees her. 

Mikaylyn walk towards the table and set the plates down. 

"Well finally time to eat." Mikaylyn says with a sly grin on her face. 

Zig returns the grin and snatch his plate playfully and gently. 

Mikaylyn goes pull out a chair and sit down to get her plate of food. Both of them were eating breakfast together. Zig takes Mikaylyn's hand in his while eating. Mikaylyn loved this moment every time. it made her happy every time. The silence was just them eating together in peace. Then Mikaylyn breaks the silence. 

"Hey, you're not doing anything tonight right?" Mikaylyn ask Zig as she looked into his brown eyes. 

Zig looked into Mikaylyn's dark brown eyes and nods in response. 

"Yeah, Just tutoring some children of math, why?" Zig answered as he rubbed her hand with his thumb. 

"Oh just thinking of going out tonight since we haven't done that since.. our honey moon after our wedding.." Mikaylyn was smiling as she mentioned it. 

Zig chuckled to himself.

"Well yeah.. it has been a while since we ever went on a normal date since work has been causing it." Zig says in a gentle tone. 

"So.. are we going to do the date night after our shifts then?.." Mikaylyn ask still looking into Zig's eyes. 

"Yeah of course babe." Zig says smiling. 

After a little longer of a conversation then both of them got ready for work. Mikaylyn immediately gets on her laptop to start writing while Zig got changed into his casual outfit, his black jeans, a black shirt, and a denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up. 

Mikaylyn smiled at Zig and she runs his hair through with her fingers. 

"You're still hot.." Mikaylyn says smiling.

Zig chuckled. 

"Well what can I say I am hard to resist for you." Zig says with a playful wink. 

Mikaylyn chuckled, "I love you.." She said lovingly.

Zig then cups her cheeks with both of his hands then leave pecks on her lips.

"I love you more.." Zig says smiling. 

Zig pressed his forehead on Mikaylyn's. They both let themselves be in the moment for a while then eventually Zig pulled away.

"Well I better get out of here before I change my mind." Zig says smirking. 

Mikaylyn giggled.

"I'll see you later!" Mikaylyn says. 

"See you, I love you!" Zig says as he is heading to the front door.

"I love you too!" Mikaylyn says it back smiling. 

Time Skip to 6:45 Pm

Mikaylyn and Zig were now on their way to the restaurant for their dinner in their car. Zig had his hand on Mikaylyn's thigh and gently rubbing it as Mikaylyn smiled by this. Mikaylyn and Zig were talking about their day with work as Zig is driving focusing on the road. Mikaylyn did little rant about certain things which Zig find it normal and he loved listening to Mikaylyn's rants because he always want to be her go to person when she needed him even through out their college years together. Mikaylyn was ranting about her writing block while also the things she did for the children. Zig was melted by Mikaylyn's kindness she does which always warmed his heart. 

"Then I was like.. Darling it is okay.. everyone has those moments sometimes.. and she really believed me.. I think I became her favorite person to talk to about her problems." Mikaylyn says proudly smiling at Zig.

Zig is still focusing on the road but he smiled as listening to Mikaylyn.

"That's a good thing baby.. you really are getting better talking to kids." Zig says smiling. 

"Uh excuse me? I always was- It's just babies I need to pay attention to-" Mikaylyn says acting offended by it.

Zig chuckled.

"Man.. When you called me one time about Rico and Gabriela called you to babysit. I came in wondering if you really knew what you were doing." Zig laughs a little. 

Mikaylyn rolled her eyes.

"Yeah yeah keep bringing it back up about that one time I was babysitting someone." Mikaylyn said with a small smile. 

"But.. enough about me.. tell me about you.." Mikaylyn says to Zig. 

"One of the kids I was tutoring literally thought multiplication was addiction." Zig says.

"No." Mikaylyn says.

"Oh yeah. that happened." Zig says.

"I literally said what it is three times zero and the kid literally said three." Zig did not sound sarcastic about that. 

"Can I ask how old was the kid?" Mikaylyn ask.

"Middle school and I think seventh grade." Zig answers as he still rubbed Mikaylyn's thigh. 

"Okay... multiplication is not that hard..." Mikaylyn says.

"I mean I am not judging for anyone who is bad at math but... I never.." Zig paused. 

"I never tutored the kid who is that bad.." Zig says.

"And that is why you are a such a good math tutor... I think our future kids would need a parent like that.." Mikaylyn says. 

Zig looked at Mikaylyn with a small smile. 

"You're right about that." Zig said with a smile. 

Around a few more minutes later, Mikaylyn and Zig finally made it to the restaurant. Zig parked the car then got out of the car. He opens the car door and takes Mikaylyn's hand to help her to get out of the car. They walk together hand in hand towards the restaurant. As soon they entered, the waiter noticed them and lead them to a table. The  writer then walked away. Both Mikaylyn and Zig both sit down on the chairs.

"Well I wonder what I feel like eating tonight.." Mikaylyn said in wonder.

"Yeah I wonder too..." Zig said. 

Both Mikaylyn and Zig eventually knew that they wanted to eat. The waiter took their order then left afterwards. It did not take long until their food arrived though. Mikaylyn and Zig spent their dinner date night together just talking while enjoying the food. They were eating Italian food just like their date back in Hartfeld. It was an amazing dinner night. 

After a long while, Mikaylyn and Zig paid their meal and head out of the restaurant. They both get into the car to head home. 

Time Skip at 8:00 Pm Back in Zig and Mikaylyn's House

Mikaylyn and Zig made it back home, they both walk inside the house after Mikaylyn unlock the front door. They took their time to get ready for bed. Afterwards now they were in their bedroom watching tv, Mikaylyn was in Zig's arms while Zig was holding Mikaylyn close.

"Zig and Zag." Mikaylyn grins.

"What a way to end the night eh?" Zig says grinning. 

"Yeah.. This is perfect.." Mikaylyn says.

Around midnight, Mikaylyn and Zig slowly are both falling asleep. Mikaylyn turned off the lights and lays down in Zig's arms. Zig wrapped his arms around Mikaylyn and pressed his head side on hers. 

Zig whispered, "Good night Mrs. Ortega..." 

Mikaylyn whispered back, "Good night Mr. Ortega..." 

Mikaylyn let her head side lean on Zig's head side. She wrapped her arms around Zig's neck and fell asleep  immediately. Zig did the same with his arms wrapped around close to Mikaylyn's waist and smiled in his sleep. Same with Mikaylyn..

The End

@choicesficwriterscreations

[thestrangeillusion]

Nine people you'd like to get to know better

Thank you for tagging me @petraplatypuspan, this was a lot of fun! 🧡 🧡 🧡

3 ships

Kim Khimhant Theerapanyakun/ Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat (KinnPorsche: The Series) aka my current obsession and the one ship that I am so crazy about that I have to write thousands and thousands of words of fanfic about them

Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen (Skam Norway) aka my absolute favourite ship of all time, no one could ever replace them in my heart

Derek Hale/Isaac Lahey/Stiles Stilinski (Teen Wolf) – this one was harder to choose because no ship comes even close to the two above, but this is one of my favourite OT3 pairings. They have a wonderful potential for angst, which I love in fic (and Teen Wolf fics are definitely a lot better than anything canon ever churned out, sorry not sorry Mr. Jeff Davis)

First ship

Ooof, I honestly don’t even know, probably Fred and Sprotte from the Wilde Hühner films when I was like 10? But the first ship I truly shipped and started reading fanfic for (still on ff.net, I think??) was probably Lexie/Mark from Grey’s Anatomy when I was 13 or so years old – also shout-out to that show for making me learn English cause I couldn’t wait for the German dub to come out to watch the new episodes, so megavideo in English with English subtitles (if I was lucky) it was…

My first actual fandom was probably Skam, although I had dipped my toes into the Drarry and 1D fandoms before (mostly just for reading really amazing fics rather than a deep love for the source material or the real people in question).

Last song

I’m listening to music while writing this out and the song currently playing is the Chinese version of Fade by Jeff Satur (to no one’s surprise to anyone who’s ever read my Kinnporsche fics and my shameless use of his lyrics for my titles…). I really love this song, especially the Chinese version, because I find it incredibly soothing.

Currently reading

Mostly just fics tbh. I’ve been trying to read “Fix the System, Not the Women” by Laura Bates for ages now (and it’s a pretty short book), but it’s very hard to get through because it just makes you very angry and discusses very heavy subject matters.

Last movie

I honestly can’t remember. It was definitely a good while ago.

Currently Craving

Something to eat, either a meal with loads of vegetables or paprika crisps, cause I skipped dinner. A hug from my mama (I will see her next week though, so yay!). A magical fix to not being so tired anymore that doesn’t involve having to force myself to fall asleep.

Tagging @dummerjan, @imogenegomi, @ae-azile, @mightymightygnomepriest, @crumchycow,

@snickerdoodlles, @fiddlepickdouglas, @mousydentist, @salamander89

Obviously no pressure if you don’t want to or don’t have the time to do it though!

[baronessblixen]

20 fanfic questions

tagged by @randomfoggytiger, @wexleresque and @maybe-its-beyond-words. Thank you!

How many works do you have on ao3?

393

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

731,163

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently only The X-Files. I have also written Fics for Friends, ER, Gilmore Girls, O.C., McLeod’s Daughters, Glee, Big Bang Theory, Frasier, Wings, Once Upon a Time, Who's the Boss?, and Hot in Cleveland.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Prompts & Drabbles

Fictober 2020

Love is Not Blind

Family Reunion

Some Things You Just Can't Fake

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I always plan to and then I get overwhelmed. I think I responded to the comments on my first Fictober entry and then I just... stopped. I never know how long it is considered socially acceptable to thank someone. Like does it have to be a day? A week? I never know. What if I thank someone a week later and the person is like, who even is this?

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I truly don't know. I once wrote a major Character Death fic but considering the character was old, I'm not sure if angst applies.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

All of them 😂

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I think I might have gotten hate on fics before but I don't remember. Pretty sure I've gotten hate for writing RPF.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I have written a few story with mild smut but it's not my favorite genre - to write or read.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

The only crossover I remember writing was Frasier/Hot in Cleveland. That's very niche, not sure if that can be considered crazy.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I recall. I have had people write sequels to my stories so that they could change things and make them how they wanted them. Which also isn't much fun.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have translated one of my own fics, haha.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I have! I was lucky enough to be asked to contribute to Eden.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

Mulder and Scully, no doubt

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Years ago, I started this fic called The Skiing AU. I think it was during Fictober. Also The Five Minutes series which I love so much that I'm worried any new chapter can't live up to the existing parts.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue, probably

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Everything that isn't dialogue. I can't set an atmosphere or write description in any shape or form. It doesn't help that I'm not a native speaker either.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I have written some dialogue in German for fic. It feels weird but why not?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Never posted online, but Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Though I think maybe the first fic I ever wrote was for The Lion King. Had no idea it was fanfiction, haha.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

I think Coming Home.

Tagging @atths--twice @scullysexual and everyone who wants to!

[phoenixwrites]

2-14, the evens!

My goodness! Okay!

2. Anything you'd like to write but feel you're unable to?

I have original offline pieces of writing that I know I'm going to write, but I'm not ready yet--I don't have the skills to convey the story I want to express and I have not lived enough life to do so yet. With fanfic, no, lol, fanfic allows me a freedom of true whateverIfeellikeatanygivenmoment.

4. Do you have any OC'S? Do you have a story for them?

I usually do have OC's, like Eddie's cousin Lindsay from KSPAO. Most everyone has cousins, but I think cousinhood is a stronger bond if you grew up poor and I wanted to convey that kind of friendship.

Mrs. Hartke from my play series was almost completely based off my high school lit and drama teacher, Mrs. Staude, to the point I sometimes wish I'd used her name so I could send her the fic. I think she'd get a kick out of it. (Hartke came from a seventh grade teacher that would always read my stories aloud! I loved her.)

Vixie was based on my best friend and how I'd imagine her if she was a lesbian metalhead badass rocker in the 80's.

Let me know if there's an OC you adore that I missed!

6. What's your ratio for rating your works?

I'll be real with y'all, I don't understand the question.

8. How slow is a slow burn?

I hate reading slow burn, so all slow is TOO SLOW. I like a FAST BURN, especially when the physical stuff happens immediately and the emotional resolution is slow.

10. Top Three Favorite Fic Tropes

And there was only one bed!

Fake marriage/relationship.

Jealousy.

12. If you write in more than one language, what's the difference?

Unfortunately, the only language I know well enough to write in, would probably be German or Japanese, and I honestly have not tried to do so yet.

I just don't have the spoons to finish these unfortunately, lol. But I TRIED!