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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

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new toy ~ felix catton;saltburn

word count: 5901

request?: no

description: when he brings a girl home for the summer, she finds herself struggling to fit into his lifestyle

pairing: felix catton x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of parent deaths, farleigh being a catty rich bitch (affectionate), feelings of insecurity and inadequacy, little bit of angst, things get steamy but no actual smut in this one

masterlist (one, two, three)

Venetia rushed to the window of her bedroom as she heard the car carrying her brother pulling up the drive. The family had been made aware that Felix was bringing a friend home for the summer. Not that anyone had to tell them. Felix often had a new sad sack in tow whenever he came home from school, who would never be seen again once they returned to school at the end of the summer. Venetia had tried to get some information on this new friend from Farleigh, but her cousin said he hadn't seen anyone new hanging out with Felix during the school year. She was itching to get a peak at Felix's newest toy.

She gasped and turned to Farleigh, who was looking at her in curiosity. "It's a girl!"

(Y/N) stepped out of the car as Felix excitedly talked away. She looked at the giant house with wide eyes. She knew Felix had money; his parents were paying his way through college after all, meanwhile (Y/N) was a scholarship kid. But she never could've imagined he was this level of rich. His house was a goddamn castle!

She was wondering if it was too late to back out of Felix's offer to stay over.

An older man dressed in a black suit opened the front door as (Y/N) and Felix approached. (Y/N) stopped suddenly as the man's glare landed on her.

"Duncan!" Felix exclaimed. "How are you, you serious old brute?"

"Good to see you, master Felix. This is your new...friend?"

The way he said it made (Y/N) wince.

Felix turned to her and threw an arm around her shoulders. "Don't be frightened, (Y/N). This is my family butler, Duncan. He looks terrifying, but his bark is worse than his bite."

(Y/N) tried to smile at Duncan, but he merely continued to stare her down. She shrunk into Felix's embrace, which, luckily, the taller boy noticed her discomfort and brought her into the house. With his arm still around her, Felix brought (Y/N) around the giant house. There was so much to see, so much to know. There was simply no way she'd remember it all. She expected to get lost just trying to get to the bathroom.

Luckily, that wouldn't be a problem at least, as Felix led her into his room. "Your room is just through here. We'll be sharing a bathroom. Hope you don't mind."

She was glad he wasn't facing her so he missed the look on her face at his statement.

Felix threw the door to her room open with a flourish before turning to her. "And this is where you'll be staying. Don't worry about unpacking, the butlers will do that for you. It has a nice view of the garden and such, and I'm just next door past the bathroom, as you've already seen."

He flopped down onto her bed and stretched out so he was taking up the entire bed. (Y/N) pushed his leg over a bit so she could sit next to him. "It's a lot to take in."

"I know," Felix said. He rolled onto his side to look up at her. "It'll feel like a lot, but I promise my family will love you. And if it gets overwhelming, I'll be here."

He put his hand on her leg. She looked down at it, the heat from where his hand was touching rising from that spot all the way up to her face. Her entire body felt like it had been ignited by a simple gesture to try and bring her comfort. She wondered if Felix knew what he did to her.

She tried not to let her disappointment show as Felix stood, removing his hand from her leg.

"I'll let you unwind or whatever," he said. "Dinner isn't until 5, so you have plenty of time to yourself until then. You brought a dress, right?" She nodded. "Good. Mum and dad insist on fancy dinner wear. It's a little embarrassing. I'll be in my room if you need anything."

And just like that, he was gone. (Y/N) sighed and fell back onto the bed.

This definitely was not how she expected to spend her summer. She had started her time at Oxford as an outcast, a scholarship loser among a sea of rich kids. She tired not to let it get to her. Getting into Oxford at all was a big deal, (Y/N) knew to be proud of that. But that didn't make the whispers and dirty looks directed towards her any easier to take.

She didn't seek out friendship with anyone, let alone with Felix. Of course, she had noticed Felix. Who wouldn't? He was beautiful and had charm for days. Everyone loved him. But (Y/N) knew better than to try and approach him. They were from two completely different worlds, and (Y/N) knew she didn't belong in his world.

To her surprise, it was Felix who initiated first contact.

They were in an English class together. Felix had sat next to her one day and asked, "Did you finish the reading for today?" (Y/N) was so shocked that he had spoken to her that she could only nod in response. "Can you summarize it for me? I tried to read it but it was so fucking boring."

Apparently, that one act of kindness was enough to consider (Y/N) a friend. Felix invited her to sit with him at the bar, to come study in his room, to go to the "invite only" parties on campus. His other rich friends didn't seem to enjoy her company, but he did and that's all that mattered.

When (Y/N) told Felix she had nowhere to go for the summer, he invited her to come stay with him and his family in Saltburn. He refused to take no for an answer. So now here she was, in a bedroom that only had a bathroom to separate her and the boy she had started developing feelings for but knew she couldn't have, in a house the size of a castle owned by a family who mad more money than she'd ever see in her life.

She let out another sigh for good measure before sitting up. She still had plenty of time before dinner, but she wanted to make sure she was presentable to meet Felix's family for the first time. She got up and went to the bathroom, locking the door that led to Felix's room just in case. There was no shower, so she had to opt for a bath. She tried to be quick, but once she had laid in the oversized tub and allowed the hot water to engulf her, she never wanted to get out. Maybe she could spend the entire summer in the tub instead of dealing with Felix's family.

When the water began to go cold, she reluctantly got out and returned to her room. She had packed the limited amount of makeup she owned just in case there were any formal gatherings she needed to dress up for. Now she was definitely glad she had if dinner was meant to be a formal thing. She did her makeup carefully to make sure it was perfect, then dug through her bag for the dress she had packed. It wasn't anything super fancy, just a royal blue, off the shoulder dress with a pleated skirt that came down just above the knee. It was the nicest dress she owned, so eh hoped it would suffice.

There was still some time before dinner, but (Y/N) figured it was time to meet the family.

She stepped out of her room and realized she had no idea where to go to find the dining room.

"Need help?"

(Y/N) jumped and turned to see Duncan stood, blank faced yet again, looking at her,

"Yes please," she responded, her voice soft.

"Follow me," Duncan told her. He didn't wait to see if she was following, she she quickly troted along behind him to keep up.

The Catton family was sat around the dinner table already when Duncan led (Y/N) into the room. All eyes turned to her when she walked in. She suddenly felt very self conscious and wished she was back in the hot, welcoming bath tub.

Until she caught Felix looking at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on.

"Oh, Felix, darling," an older woman sat at the head of the table - Felix's mom - said. "She is absolutely beautiful."

His mom stood from her seat and quickly approached (Y/N). She gently cupped (Y/N)'s cheeks. (Y/N) tensed, unsure of what to do. Mrs. Catton didn't seem to notice, or if she did she didn't let on.

"Honey, you didn't tell us how beautiful she was," Mrs. Catton said to her son.

"You never believe me," Felix retorted.

Mrs. Catton turned back to (Y/N). "Welcome, darling. We're very happy to have you here. You can call me Lady Elspeth." She took (Y/N)'s hands and squeezed them, then gestured towards the table. "We left a seat free next to Felix for you. Come, sit. Dinner will be served soon."

(Y/N) quickly moved to the table, oping to no longer be the center of attention. Felix was still smiling at her as she sat down next to him.

"You do look beautiful," he said.

Her face started heating up. "Thank you."

Across from them, a throat cleared. Felix glanced up at his cousin. (Y/N) didn't miss the subtle change in Felix's expression. "(Y/N), this is my cousin, Farleigh, and my sister, Venetia."

"Oh, I know Farleigh," she said, looking over at the other young man. He gave her an obviously forced smile. "I-I mean, I know of Farleigh. I've seen you around on campus."

"Weird that I haven't seen you. It's not like Felix to hide his friends away," Farleigh said.

"I wasn't hiding her away." Felix's face was tense. (Y/N) wondered what the story between him and Farleigh was. They seemed to get along well on campus, or at least Farleigh was in Felix's friend group.

Dinner was served, thus breaking up the tense moment. A plate was placed in front of everyone and they all began to eat. (Y/N) tried not to draw too much attention to herself, but she knew her presence alone was drawing attention. Both Farleigh and Venetia weren't very subtle with the way they were staring at her.

"So, (Y/N)," Elspeth said after a few moments of silence, "what is it you're studying at Oxford?"

"English," (Y/N) responded. "I'd like to be a writer when I graduate, but I know that's not an entirely realistic dream so I'm aiming to be an English teacher as a backup."

"Oh, writing! That's wonderful, darling!" Elspeth said. (Y/N) was somewhat shocked that Elspeth seemed genuine with her interest. "Have you written anything yet?"

"A few short stories." She shrugged. "Nothing major."

"'Nothing major'?" Felix questioned. "She's won contests with her short stories! Remember, you told me one of your stories was published in an anthology of short stories when you were still in high school?"

Elspeth and Felix's dad, Sir James, were impressed, while (Y/N) was surprised that Felix had remembered her telling him that. He was smiling down at her in pride and she couldn't help but smile back at him.

"Is that how you got your scholarship?" Farleigh asked. The look on his face told (Y/N) that his question wasn't as genuine as Elspeth's had been.

"Farleigh," Felix sneered.

"What? I was just asking. It's not like it's a secret that she's a scholarship kid. There's no shame in needing some financial help."

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Boys," James said, his voice stern in warning.

Dinner fell quiet after that. (Y/N) pushed her food around her plate, suddenly no longer hungry. She was back to wishing she could melt away into the floor and never be seen again. Maybe it wasn't too late to just go back to the school and stay in the dorms alone for the summer.

Once she had finished eating, she politely excused herself and went back to her room. She had paid enough attention when Duncan showed her to the dining room that she made it back with no issue. The minute the door closed behind her, she let out a sigh. A lump had started to form in her throat, but she was refusing to let herself cry. Even now while she was alone, she didn't want to give in to these feelings. She had to be strong, at least until she could get her things together and figure out a way back to the school.

As Felix had told her, the butlers had unpacked her bag while she was at dinner. It took her a moment to find her pajamas and makeup remover. She pulled on an oversized shirt she had packed to wear on the warm nights and was leaned over the dresser to start taking off her makeup, the shirt riding up just enough, when the door connecting her and Felix suddenly opened. Felix walked in, still in his suit from dinner, except he had removed his tie and the top few buttons had been undone. (Y/N) quickly stood up straight, pulling her shirt down to cover her ass.

"Don't you knock?" she asked.

"No, why would I?" he said.

"What if I was changing?"

"You weren't."

She rolled her eyes and went back to taking her makeup off, this time more cautious about how much of her was being exposed with Felix in the room.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about how Farleigh acted during dinner," Felix said.

(Y/N) paused for a moment. She glanced at Felix through the mirror. He was looking up at her with an expression that told her his apology was genuine.

"It's alright," she said.

"No, it wasn't alright. He shouldn't be saying those things about you. It's not like he's much different. My parents have financially supported him for years and let him stay here for free. At least you earned your scholarship, he only got his way in life because of his family."

"So did you, though." There was a beat, and (Y/N) quickly turned to face Felix. "Wait, I didn't mean - "

"No, you're right," he cut her off. "My parents have financially helped me, too. You're the only one among us who has really earned your spot at Oxford. It's not fair of Farleigh to try and make you feel small because you come from a different background."

(Y/N) wanted to tell him it wasn't just Farleigh, it was everyone at Oxford. Even Felix's own friend group had shunned (Y/N) when he introduced her to them. It felt like Felix was the only one who truly wanted to befriend (Y/N).

"You don't have to apologize for him," she said instead. "But I appreciate that you'd want to."

"You're my friend. I didn't bring you here to be insulted by my obnoxious cousin, I brought you here because I wanted you to spend the summer with us."

Friend.

Even though she knew that's all they were, it still stung to hear him say it. She wanted so much more than that, but it was wishful thinking to believe that Felix cause ever want more than that.

"I...I think I'm gonna just...get in bed."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "It's still only early."

"I know. All the travel just has me feeling pretty worn out."

"Okay."

He stood and (Y/N) expected him to go back to his room. When he started to unbutton his shirt more, her eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"What are you doing?!"

"I was going to stay over here tonight. If you were okay with that, that is."

"You're supposed to ask these things before you just start undressing."

Felix chuckled as (Y/N) turned her back to him. "You really don't want to watch as I undress?"

Of course I want to watch! "I'm just...trying to be courteous."

He laughed again. (Y/N) could hear the sounds of his clothes hitting the floor. She wondered why he hadn't at least gone back to his room to get a pair of pajamas. At least pajama pants. She was starting to get the feeling that at home, Felix didn't have to ask many questions, and that also extended towards his guests.

"Okay, I am covered."

When she turned back, he was under the covers of her bed, his hands behind his head so she could see that he was at least shirtless under there.

"The bed is big enough for us to share," he said, reading the shocked look on her face. "That is, again, if you don't mind."

"N-No. I-I guess that's fine."

(Y/N) crawled into bed next to Felix. She tried to put as much distance between the two of them as she could but, despite what Felix said, the bed certainly was not that big. She could still feel the heat from his body as she turned onto her side, her back to him. She could feel his nearness. And she could feel the fact that he was only wearing his boxers.

"You don't have to stay, you know," she said. "I'm not going to slip away during the night or something."

He bed shook a little as he laughed. "I know. I just wanted to stay over here. At the very least, I want to make sure you don't have any issues sleeping. I always find I struggle when I'm trying to sleep in a new place."

(Y/N) rolled onto her other side so that she could face Felix. The full moon was shining through the window, illuminating his face. He turned his head to look down at her.

"I really appreciate everything you've done for me, Felix," she said, her voice so soft it was nearly a whisper.

He smiled. "Get some sleep, (Y/N). I don't intend on having a boring day tomorrow if the weather is nice."

~~~~~~

When (Y/N) woke up the next morning, she completely forgot where she was. The bed was far too soft to be the one in her dorm at Oxford, and it was certainly too hot to be just a normal day during the schooling semester.

Not to mention the fact that there was a body laying under her.

(Y/N)'s eyes snapped open as she realized her head was resting on Felix's chest, and his arm around wrapped around her. At some point in the night, they must've shifted so that they were cuddling. (Y/N) wasn't sure if she should pull away or stay where she was. What would Felix's reaction be when he woke up and found them both in such a compromising position?

A knock came at her door. "Miss. (Y/N)?"

It was Duncan's voice. Now she was definitely panicking.

"Just checking if you're awake," he added.

"Uh...yeah! I am Duncan!" she called back.

"Breakfast is being served in ten minutes. Do wake up master Felix and let him know as well. His mother will want him to punctual since she didn't get as much time with him last night."

Her face burned. She wondered if Duncan knew Felix was in here with her, or if he meant for her to go over to Felix's room to wake him.

The sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway told her that Duncan had walked away. She let out a breath, relaxing into Felix's side yet again. She felt him move beneath her and she quickly pulled out of his arms before he started to wake up.

She was shocked at how beautiful he looked in the morning. The same perfect beauty he had when he fell asleep. Not a single hair out of place, no drool on his lips, no sleepy gunk in his eyes. It was really unfair just how perfect he really was.

His eyes slowly blinked open and he smiled when he saw (Y/N) looking down at him. "Good morning."

"Morning," she said. "Uh, Duncan was just here. He said breakfast is in ten minutes."

Felix groaned. "I don't want to get up yet. Why does mum have to have breakfast so early?"

(Y/N) looked at the clock hung on the wall. "It's almost 10am."

"Far too early to wake up in the summer."

She couldn't help but chuckle a little. Felix stretched his arms out and sat up as well. His face was suddenly very close to hers, almost too close.

"I suppose I should get ready for breakfast then," he said.

"Is there any dress code for breakfast?"

He shook his head. "Not for breakfast, but the dress code for today's events is a bathing suit. Once we finish eating, I'm taking you down to the lake."

~~~~~~

A few hours later, (Y/N) was following Felix towards the lake next to his house. It was a scorching hot day outside. One that was definitely better spent in the cooling water instead of cooped up inside.

Farleigh and Venetia were already by the lake. Farleigh was laid back on a towel, reading some book, while Venetia was sat by the lake with her feet in the water. She looked over her shoulder as she heard the two approach and smiled.

"Well, here they are!" she announced. "Finally you're here."

"Pull up a towel," Farleigh said, not looking up from his book.

(Y/N) went to sit on the grass, but Venetia called, "Not you! You're joining me down here. I've been surrounded by this testosterone for far too long."

She wasn't about to argue. She was already coated in sweat just from walking down from the house. (Y/N) sat beside Venetia and placed her feet in the water. The sudden cold was like a shock to her system, but definitely a welcome one.

"So, (Y/N)," Venetia said, "tell me, how did you and my brother meet?"

"We were in class together," (Y/N) responded. "I helped him with an assigned reading he had trouble with."

"Saved my ass from failing that surprise test the professor gave us," Felix added.

"It wasn't a surprise, he told us about it the class before," (Y/N) said.

"I wasn't there that class, so it was a surprise to me."

"Was that the day you were too hungover after a dorm party on a Sunday night?" Farleigh asked.

"A Sunday?!" (Y/N) laughed.

"It was a surprise party for one of my friends in the dorm," Felix responded. "He had gone home for the weekend so we had to have the party that Sunday. I didn't plan to get fucked up that night."

"You never do," Farleigh commented.

"What about your family, (Y/N)?" Venetia interrupted. "Are they okay with you spending your summer with a load of strangers?"

Felix opened his mouth to deter his sister from asking, but (Y/N) cut him off by saying, "My parents are dead."

A silence fell over them. Venetia looked a mixture of horrified and sad. Farleigh lowered his book to look over at (Y/N). Felix was trying not to look at any of them while (Y/N) was fixing her attention on the water in front of her. She was running her feet back and forth, disrupting the otherwise calm water.

"They died when I was ten," she continued. "Car accident, drunk driver. I've lived with my grandparents since then, but my grandpa died a year ago and my gran is starting to develop dementia. When I got accepted into Oxford, I made a deal with the Dean that I could stay on campus during the summers until I could afford my own place."

Venetia looked like she was about to cry. (Y/N) suddenly wished she had lied and made up some story about her parents.

"Way to ruin the moon, V," Farleigh commented.

"I didn't know!" Venetia retorted.

"No, it's fine," (Y/N) cut off their bickering. "It's tough, but I've had years to come to terms with all the death, and gran is in a nursing home now so she's being taken care of. I don't want anyone to tip toe around me like I'm made of glass."

As if to make her point, (Y/N) pushed off the edge of the lake and into the water. She shrieked as the cold engulfed her. Venetia followed suit, and soon enough both of them had convinced Farleigh and Felix to get into the water as well. The conversation was long forgotten as they swam around, splashing one another as if they were children.

~~~~~~

That night, (Y/N) was sat in the garden underneath her bedroom window. With the sun gone down, the air had cooled off, but only slightly. The room was still too stuffy for her, and opening the window just made it worse, so she opted to sit out in the cool air before she tried to sleep again.

Footsteps approached and she expected it to be Felix. When she turned, she was surprised to see Venetia instead, dressed in a sheer nightgown and carrying a lit cigarette between her fingers.

"Mind if I sit?" Venetia asked.

"I feel like I should be the one asking you that, considering it's your house."

Venetia chuckled and sat next to her.

(Y/N)'s first impression of Venetia had been wrong, and she was kind of glad it had been. She thought that, like Farleigh, Venetia was also going to be a little catty and condescending towards her. But after their day by the lake, she felt a sort of kinship with Venetia. They were the only two young girls at Saltburn, they had to look out for one another at the very least.

"So, how are you enjoying your stay so far?" Venetia asked.

"It's lovely here," (Y/N) said. "Much better than spending the summer at the Oxford campus along. At least there's a lot of the house to explore, and at least two people who seem to want me here."

"Three, if you count mum. She's ecstatic to have you. If you're not careful, she might just try and adopt you."

"I wouldn't complain."

Venetia took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. "And, um...has Felix been treating you well?"

(Y/N) looked over at her with confusion. "I'd...say more than well. Why?"

"I just..." Venetia leaned over, resting her arms against her legs. "I'm not saying this to try and scare you or anything. I truly like you, (Y/N), and I just want to warn you because I know how my brother is. He often takes someone who is a little more...damaged than him under his wing and brings them back here for a few months. But once the summer ends, or once he's lost interest, he casts them aside for whatever new shiny toy catches his attention."

Venetia's words hit (Y/N) like a ton of bricks. She had been telling herself for months since meeting Felix that their friendship was too good to be true, that he was going to realize he was making a mistake and move on. But when he didn't, when he asked her back to his house for the summer, she thought that maybe she was wrong. Maybe he actually did care for her and wanted to be friends with her. She had a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe this summer would bring them closer together, that they could become more than just friends.

If anyone would know how Felix was, it would be Venetia. She was his sister. She had seen a lifetime of the way Felix acted with friends. If she was warning her of the possibility that Felix might toss her aside once the summer ended, then she felt inclined to believe Venetia.

"Again, I'm not telling you this as a way to make you upset," Venetia added. "Trust me, I want nothing more than for you to stay with us for the summer. I just really do not want you to get hurt if that's what happens with Felix."

Tears were forming in (Y/N)'s eyes again. She was having a harder time at fighting them than the night before after all Farleigh had said to her. She quickly stood and murmured a "goodnight" to Venetia before rushing back inside the house. She got to her bedroom just in time for the tears to start falling.

Stupid! You're so stupid for thinking you belonged here in his world. You're nothing more than a charity case for him!

(Y/N) sunk to the floor and buried her head in her hands. She cried and cried until the tears dried up and she was essentially dry sobbing. Her eyes felt heavy and her body was aching from being on the floor for so long. She just wanted to go to back to the school and pretend this entire trip never happened.

When she finally coaxed herself to stand, (Y/N) went to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth before bed. She looked at herself in the mirror and winced. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks were flush, and there were tear stains on her cheeks from crying. She grabbed a face cloth and wet it down with warm water. Before she could start wiping her face, the door leading to Felix's room opened. She froze, the wet cloth in her hands.

"Hey," Felix said. She thought for a moment that he hadn't noticed her state, until suddenly he was beside her. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, wincing again at the sound of her horse voice.

"You don't look or sound fine."

She began to wipe her face, trying to ignore Felix's presence. As she rinsed the face cloth again, she said, "I think I'm going to call the Dean tomorrow to ask if my room is still available at the school, then look into getting the next train back to Oxford as soon as possible."

"What? Why? I thought you wanted to stay."

(Y/N) shook her head. "I don't belong here, Felix. This is your world, not mine. I'm just the girl with dead parents and a scholarship, struggling to figure out how or if I'll ever be financially stable enough to live on my own once the school kicks me out."

"What did Farleigh say to you?"

"It wasn't Farleigh!" she snapped, finally turning to face him. "It was Venetia! She told me that you don't let people stick around for long. That you take in the charity cases and toss them aside when you're bored. And I knew that's what was happening with me, I knew there was no way you could possibly want to be friends with me, but I was also stupid enough to let myself believe that maybe it was all real. That maybe you actually cared and you actually wanted me here!"

She was crying again. She must've looked and sounded insane. She wished she had never accepted Felix's offer to come here. She could only imagine what he would say about her when she left the next day.

"I'm not staying here and waiting to be hurt, Felix," she said. "You may think it's fun to toy with people's emotions, but I don't. Not when I trusted you in telling you about my parents, about my stories, about my sad little poor life."

She had more to say, although she wasn't sure if any of it would've made sense, but Felix cut her off before she could. He took hold of her face and pulled her in for a kiss. It surprised her at first and she pulled away almost immediately. He looked down at her, worried, like he was scared he had just crossed a line. When her brain finally caught up to what was happening, she quickly leaned back in to kiss him again.

Her hands held on to his shirt while one of his still cupped her face and the other started to move down her body. With one quick movement, he had lifted her up onto the counter and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands moved to tangle into his hair. His tongue moved across her bottom lip, silently asking for entrance to her mouth. She realized he was commando under his pajama pants when she felt him pressed against her, the only layer between being her panties as she was once again in the oversized shirt she had worn the night before.

Felix broke away first. She tried to follow him, but he held her back, a playful grin on his face.

"I don't want you to go," he said. "I want you here. Not just for this summer, but every summer from now on. I want you in my dorm room back at school, and eventually in my own place when we finish with school. I want you, (Y/N). You're not some toy to me."

"How long have you felt like this?" she asked.

"Since before I spoke to you in class that first day."

"Why did you wait so long to tell me?"

"I kept chickening out. Every girl I've been with has only wanted me for my money, or my looks, or both. No one has ever really cared for me as a person. When you did, it almost intimidated me. I needed to know for sure you'd be here for the long run, so I brought you home to see how you'd react to everything."

"Am I passing the test?"

He chuckled and kissed her again. "With flying colors."

She couldn't get enough of him; of his lips, his smile, his body against hers, his hands on her. She wanted all of him all the time. She suddenly never wanted to leave either of their rooms for the rest of the summer.

"You can still go back to school if you feel uncomfortable here. I wouldn't blame you there," he said. "But if you're going back, I'm coming with you."

She shook her head. "I couldn't take you away from your family."

"Then stay. I want you to be here, too. I want to be with you."

She grinned cheekily back at him. "If you're going to beg, you should be on your knees at least."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "If that's what you want."

She wanted all of him all the time, but she decided not to say that just yet. She was still a little cautious. She had to make sure Felix meant what he was saying, even if she felt deep down that he was. He needed to prove himself to her before she opened up that much to him.

But for now, she would definitely take the sight of him on his knees, his face between her legs as his hands pushed the shirt up around her hips.

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

oh fuck

offer my hand and I'll take your name

Felix Catton x fem!Reader x Oliver Quick. (AO3)

It's yours and Felix's wedding night. That doesn't withhold you from inviting Oliver to join in on the fun of conceiving an heir.

pwp, breeding, threesome, praise, cum-eating, general filth.

“He’s good at that, isn’t he?” Oliver asks you, his voice calm and collected in the quiet of the bedroom you’re in. You choke on a sob of pleasure as you nod in agreement, feeling the corded muscles of Oliver’s thighs flex from where they are cushioned underneath your head.

Oliver’s deft fingers gently carding through your hair are a stark contrast to Felix’s, which are digging into your waist to stop you from sliding up the bed with each animalistic slap of his hips against yours. Felix’s brand-new wedding band gleams in the flames of the candles dotting the room, a welcome reminder that this is allowed now, that it’s even required of you two — the familiar slide of Felix’s thick cock inside of you unimpeded by a condom for the very first time.

“Our Felix knows exactly how to fuck your little cunny, doesn’t he?” Oliver teases you.

Above you, Felix groans, his sweat-slick skin like molten gold, “Jesus Christ, Ollie”.

Oliver lets out a pleased hum, his fingers giving a tug on your hair. His other hand wanders down your skin, first possessively curling around your throat before lowering to knead at your breasts. Your nipples harden at his attention, arching your back to urge him on.

“Look at how needy she is, Felix,” Oliver goads you, “Our pretty girl’s been begging you for this, huh? She’s been wanting you to breed her for ages, and she’s finally getting what she’s asked for. She should be grateful, hm?”.

You answer him with a desperate moan, eyes rolling back to glance up at Oliver through your eyelashes. His eyes are dark and stormy, his lips bitten red.

“C’mon now, darling, aren’t you gonna thank Felix for fucking you so well?”.

“Thankー oh fuck, thank you, Felix” you moan.

Oliver tuts, a sarcastic little sound that sends a delighted shiver down your spine, “I know you can do better than that”.

Oliver’s hand slides down over your tummy, fingers gliding over your puffy folds before thumbing at your sensitive clit, your slick easing his movements. You were dripping with it, making a mess of your marital bed. Felix’s hips stutter as he watches Oliver’s movements, entranced by the way his fingers slide against you.

“Thank you for breeding me,” you gasp in between moans, “Always so good to me, letting me have — oh god, right there, Oliver — everything I want. For making me your wife”.

Felix grinds his hips, slowing the drag of his cock inside of you. His impossibly large hands slide up, his arm brushing against Oliver’s as he gropes your breasts, looking you right in the eyes as he does, black pupils eclipsing his warm brown eyes.

“Tell me what you need,” Felix demands, looking like a modern-day Greek god as he towers above you and Oliver, his chest heaving from the exertion of fucking you, “Anything you want, you can have it”.

“Want you to fuck me full, Felix,” you moan, clenching around his cock, “want you to give me your babies”. The confession makes you blush, your already reddened cheeks deepening in color.

Felix groans at your words, a guttural sound that makes Oliver’s fingers twitch where they’re furiously rubbing at your clit. Felix readjusts you, tugging on your legs to place them on his shoulders before he leans in, almost folding you in half as he does. Oliver’s hand is squished between your cunt and Felix’s stomach, cramped but never-stilling against your sweat-slick bodies.

He fucks you with a force that makes your toes curl. The heavy press of Felix on top of you paired with the steady presence of Oliver below you is enough to make you feel dizzy. The muscles in your lower stomach clench deliciously, Felix’s cock now pumping into you even deeper than before.

Above you, Oliver has taken advantage of Felix’s new proximity to lick and suck at the taller man’s neck, adding to the smattering of red marks that were already there. Felix preens at the attention, his thrusts quickly growing sloppy.

“Fuck Ollie,” he moans, “I’m really fucking our girl raw. She’s gonna look so pretty with my cum leaking out of her little pussy”.

You sob out another desperate moan, hips twitching from the stimulation you’re receiving from both men. You feel yourself tipping over the edge, your orgasm suddenly so very close.

“There you go darling,” Oliver encourages you, “cum all over your husband’s cock for me”.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, punching the air from your lungs as Felix continues to fuck you through it, your walls twitching around him. Oliver’s praise barely registers for you, what with his fingers continuing to rub tight little circles on your pussy. The overstimulation sets in quickly, your hips twitching and whiny noises spilling from your lips.

“God, darling, your pussy is milking me,” Felix gasps, jackhammering into you as he chases his own orgasm.

It doesn’t take much more than that to push him over the edge, Oliver’s wet mouth against the column of Felix’s throat as he unloads inside of you with a drawn-out moan. Oliver’s hand stills its movements, sliding out from in between you and Felix to trail back up your torso. He brings them up to your face, Oliver’s digits shiny with your slick as he prods at your lips, prompting you to open up for him. You do as he wishes, obediently sucking his fingers clean from your own spend as you watch Felix pull away, your legs slipping from his shoulders as he pulls his softening cock out of you.

“Ollie, you should come see this,” Felix speaks reverently, sitting back on his hunches, bottom lip gripped between his teeth as he holds your thighs apart, watching as his cum slowly begins to drip out of your puffy pussy.

Oliver is quick to join him, sliding out from underneath you to join Felix at the foot of the bed. You feel exposed in a way that makes your skin tingle, having these two men stare at your dripping core like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. You throw your arms up to cover your eyes, blocking out the sight of your lovers, while you try your hardest to catch your breath.

When one of them leans in, their hot breath fanning over your cooling skin, you aren’t even sure at first if it’s Oliver or Felix who does it. All you know is that there’s a tongue licking broad strokes against your freshly fucked pussy, cleaning up the mess you and Felix had made. You choke out a shocked moan, lifting your arms to find Oliver crouched between your legs, eyes blissfully closed as he laps away at you. Felix sits next to him, lips parted in silent pleasure as his eyes flicker from Oliver to you, his cock soft but stubbornly twitching in interest.

“Look at our boy licking it all up,” Felix croons, reaching out to pet Oliver’s brown locks, pushing him closer up against your sensitive pussy.

Oliver’s hips gyrate against the plush material of the mattress, moaning against your folds as he licks and sucks at you like a man starved. Your thighs clench around Oliver’s head, a wanton attempt at keeping him close. He brings his fingers up to slide inside of you, pumping them at the same pace that he’s grinding his cock against the bed. Before long, Felix’s filthy praise and Oliver’s tongue and fingers pushed you over the edge a second time — your orgasm the drawn-out, toe-curling, shake-inducing kind that washes over you like a tsunami.

Between your legs, Oliver comes with a muffled shout, his face pressed against the sheets as his hips still their erratic humping.

“You’re both so fucking beautiful,” Felix praises, laying himself down on the bed next to you, an arm thrown lazily over your stomach. Oliver eventually scoots himself up, still breathing heavily, and lays down on the other side of you. His hand rests on your hip, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your skin. You feel calm and satisfied in a way that you know won’t last very long, what with Felix’s cock already back at half-mast next to you paired with the still-hungry look in Oliver’s eyes. You fidget with your wedding ring, feeling its unfamiliar grooves and diamonds with the pad of your fingers.

If this was your first night as Mrs. Catton, you couldn't wait to find out what the rest were going to be like.

#felix catton x reader #oliver quick x reader

2K notes · View notes

sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

saltburn has made me feral omg

False God

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, smut, threesome, alcohol and ambiguous substance consumption, lip biting, a little bit of blood, oral (m&f receiving), facefucking, spitroast, a lot of bodily fluids, squirting, a teeny bit of bi!Felix, a little bit of butt stuff, not fully canon compliant (let’s imagine that Felix didn’t find out about Oliver lying)

Word Count: 2k

Felix wasn’t the type who liked to share his toys. Whether it be his girlfriend, or his shiny new friend who comes to visit every summer, Felix felt a certain possession over them that he didn’t like to admit. But Oliver came to Saltburn with that woeful, wide-eyed gaze that Felix couldn’t fully resist. He also couldn’t deny how he looked at his girlfriend and how she looked at him. All of the shared glances across the dinner table, how she’d swallow when he had something witty to say to her, how his gaze would linger on her just a little bit longer than hers.

Felix trusted her, he knew that she’d never go behind his back. And it’s the trust he holds in her that fuels his desire to let this happen. He adores her. Especially now with her, as Farleigh calls it, slutty fairy costume, and he’d do anything to make her happy, even if it meant letting Oliver touch her in ways that were solely reserved for him.

So, the three of them find themselves in this predicament, with her draped against him, and Oliver leaning against the doorway.

“Baby, know Oliver, right?” She nods, pressing herself closer to his chest. Felix wraps a comforting arm around her midriff, rubbing circles into her exposed skin with his thumb. “It’s his birthday today, and I thought this would be a nice present.”

His lips pressed against her neck, her pulse thrumming against them, while his hands wandered, pushing the little skirt that she wore past her hips, exposing the intricate set that he bought for this occasion.

Oliver grins, stepping closer to the pair. He looks at her, the antlers on his head casting a shadow over her glittery doe eyes.

“She’s a very nice present.” His fingers push at the strap of her fairy wings, letting them fall to the ground with a soft clatter. “How’d you know I was into her?”

“Saw you looking.” He chuckles and expertly unclaspes the back of her lacy bra. “But I can’t blame you, she’s pretty.”

His large hand palms at her now exposed tits, rolling a nipple between his fingers.

She whines and lets her head fall back against his chest, still covered in the ribbed fabric of his tank top.

“Don’t tease, Felix.” She sighs.

Oliver approaches them, stripping himself of his embroidered suit in the process. The pair watch with bated breath as he sinks to his knees in front of her. He noses at the inside of her thigh, taking in how soft and plush she felt.

He savors her, kissing and nipping at her thighs, letting his fingers drift from her ankles up to her knees. As he pushes her legs apart, Felix thumbs at her pussy through her panties, creating a wet patch on the expensive lace.

“Can I give her a taste?” Oliver asks, lips parted and eyes gleaming, staring up at Felix.

“Of course you can.” Felix carefully positions her on the bed, her back flat on the mattress and Oliver places himself in front of her, right in between her thighs.

Her shaky fingers push the lace waistband past her hips, but Oliver stops her, letting his teeth catch on the fabric to do it himself. He hums at the sight of her pussy, all wet and wanting.

Felix places himself over her, jerking at his cock as Oliver licks a strip along the length of her folds.

She yelps, pulling back, oversensitive from Felix’s previous ministrations, but he tightens his hold on her, keeping her in place.

“C’mon, be a good girl. Let him make you feel good.” She turns her head, bashful at how his words affect her, but he takes her chin and forces her eyes to meet his. “You’ll be good for Ollie, for me. Won’t you?”

She licks her lips, shallow breaths making her chest rise and fall.

“Yeah, I’ll be good,” she whispers.

He smiles, and affectionately pats her cheek, and her thighs widen as she shifts against the mattress, trying to relax.

With a nod of approval from Felix, Oliver grabs her thighs and pulls her onto his face. His tongue laps at her, circling her clit and teasing at her entrance.

As she parts her lips, moaning at the heat that grows in the pit of her stomach, Felix places his thumb against her tongue, keeping her jaw open. He takes this as an opportunity to slip his cock into her wanting mouth. She sputters around him as the length of his shaft fills her mouth.

“Fuck.” He groans. “Taking me so well, baby.”

Felix fucks himself into her mouth, letting his tip hit the back of her throat. She hollows her cheeks before sucking, letting her lips wrap tight around his shaft, saliva dripping past her lips with every drag of his cock.

Oliver wraps lips around her clit and slips two fingers into her dripping entrance. His fingers curl and she cries out.

“Do that again,” Felix demands. “She likes it.”

He angles his fingers, letting the pads of his fingers press against her G-spot. At the sight of her legs shaking, he curls his fingers, practically forcing her hips to jerk against his face.

She feels her body tense, falling closer and closer to the edge, as Oliver teases her, over and over again. Her arousal, in combination with his saliva, is spread across his lips.

It’s messy, but none of them care. Both she and Felix love the sight of his flushed cheeks, eyes half-lidded in pleasure from the way her cunt tastes.

“Don’t let her cum yet” he breathily orders “Have her suck you off first.”

Felix manhandles her onto her knees and crawls onto the mattress, he taps his cock against cunt, dripping with a mixture of both her arousal and Oliver’s saliva. She looks up at Oliver, keeping her mouth open and drooling, and sticks out her tongue, an open invitation for him to start fucking her face.

“So well behaved,” Oliver whispers, tapping his hard, flushed cock on her tongue, pre-cum dripping down into her throat. “You’re Felix’s good girl, aren’t you?”

Before she can respond, Oliver shoves his cock past her lips and Felix pushes himself inside her, forcing all of him into her cunt. She yelps around Oliver’s cock, the vibrations from the back of her throat making him shudder.

The sound of skin slapping against one another fills the room as Felix fucks into her, letting his hips slam against hers.

The reflection in the mirror across from them is obscene. Her chin is covered in her own drool, smeared across her cheeks and chin, dripping onto the expensive sheets. Felix has his head thrown back in pleasure, hands on her hips with a bruising hold, sweat gleaming on his skin, soaking through the front of his thin tank top.

Oliver takes Felix’s face and plasters his lips against his. He’s taken by surprise, but he grabs the back of Oliver’s neck and pulls him in closer, forcing Oliver’s hips to push his cock deeper into her mouth. She grabs at the back of Oliver’s thigh, digging her nails into his skin. He hisses at the sting and bites down on Felix’s lower lip, a metallic taste blooming on his tongue.

They pull away from each other, and blood trickles down Felix’s chin.

Oliver stares at Felix, about to apologize, but Felix grins. “I could taste her on you, you know? Doesn’t she taste good?”

All he can do is nod in agreement, cock twitching in her mouth.

Oliver nods and leans forward, licking up the blood pooling on Felix’s lips. The pair lock their lips together. Wet sounds of their kisses and Felix’s cock being sucked into her pussy reverberate throughout the room, accompanied by her gagging and choking.

She whines, drawing both of their attention back to her.

“Aww, my baby needs some attention?” At the sound of her whimpering in confirmation, Felix chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ll give you some attention then.”

Felix reaches forward, pressing his thumb into Oliver’s open mouth, biting his lip at the sight of him swirling his tongue around the digit. With a loud pop, Felix removed his thumb from Oliver’s mouth.

Wet with Oliver’s saliva, Felix’s thumb circles her other hole, slowly teasing it open. She whines, feeling a foreign stretch as his thumb pushes past the muscle.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight.” He groans. “Don’t know why I haven’t fucked your tight little ass yet. Maybe I should tomorrow, I know your pussy’s going to be sore.”

Her holes clench around Felix, the feeling of fullness, overtaking her body. She shudders, legs about to give out underneath her, as he forcefully drives his cock into her and teases at her hole, letting his thumb push against the rim, stretching it open.

“Oh, she likes that, doesn’t she?” Oliver grins, messily grabbing at the length of her hair, forcing her to look at him. “You like it dirty? Like getting all of your holes filled?”

She blinks away the dark streaks of mascara that run down her face, trying her best to nod. He lets his cock slip free of her lips and gives her cheek a pinch.

“Come on, use your words.”

“Yes,” She gasps, back arching, pushing herself into Felix. “I like it.”

He presses her front into the mattress, forcing her back to arch deeper into Felix. His fingers wrap around his hard, leaking cock, letting her spit lubricate his hand as he tugs, slowly bringing himself closer and closer to his own release.

She tightens around Felix, whining as she feels an oncoming orgasm about to wash over her.

Her glassy eyes look up at Oliver’s and he coos, thumbing at her cheek.

“You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Ollie, I- ah!”

Felix lets his thumb hook inside of her clenching muscle, pulling her into him.

His cock buries deep inside of her, forcing itself against her cervix. She screams, and Oliver is thankful for the loud music playing throughout the house. Her arousal gushes, spraying against both her, and Felix’s thighs.

“Fuck, baby, making a mess over here.” Felix groans. His head falls back, panting, his grip on her tightening.

His hips still, with tense thighs and stifled moans, he cums, coating her insides. Carefully, he slips himself out, using his fingers to spread her pussy open, watching with pride as his cum and her arousal drip out of her clenching, gaping cunt.

Oliver pushes his cock back into her mouth, releasing down her throat. Her eyes tear up at the sudden intrusion. She’s overwhelmed and over-sensitive, but she swallows around him, obedient as always.

The trio collapses on the mattress, chests rising and falling in tandem. Felix wraps a strong arm around her and pulls her in close, letting her temple rest on his chest. Oliver gently grazes her shoulders with his fingers, calming her down and letting her shaky and twitchy body slowly fall still.

The lights of the party filter through the large windows, illuminating their sweat-slicked bodies. They shimmer, her body glitter having rubbed onto each other.

Distanced from the commotion happening outside of his room, it was just the three of them, sprawled across Felix’s bed. It was the three of them. Felix, their shining Adonis, and her and Oliver. Felix’s favorite toys.

#felix catton x reader #oliver quick x reader #felix catton x reader x oliver quick

2K notes · View notes

sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

Something Holy || Tommy Shelby x reader

summary: in which even the devil can be religious

warnings: brief mention of drugs, mentions of blood, implied smut

word count: 3.1k

author’s note: this is my first tumblr post so please excuse me if i’ve formatted something wrong. in the future, i’ll probably end up transferring some of my other works from wattpad here. thoughts? let me know!

Frantic stable boys scramble out of the way as sharp, heavy hooves clop down feverently upon the cobblestone ground. Hands reach up to snatch at the horse's bridle and then are jerked out of the way, scarcely avoiding being torn off by sheer force. Deep, ragged, labored breathing comes from the stallion's flaring nostrils, and foam slathers the o-ring bit in his mouth. He jerks his head about indignantly before I am able to reach him, synching the curb chain tightly to finally settle him down. The vast whites of his eyes still flash wildly, but the pinching chain in his mouth has busied him for now.

“Tie him over by the water pump behind the stable and cool him down. I'll be over in a minute," I instruct, passing hold of the leather bridle over to a groom.

Still fighting but finally starting to feel the downhill effects post race, the stallion trots along, dragging the groom with him. His coat is such a deep red that the sheen of sweat on his body gives off the unsettling allusion of blood dripping from him as he walks away.

"And I thought only we gypsies used magic charms and such."

My attention drawn away from the horse, I turn towards the man to whom the voice belongs to, my guard rising up at his suggestive statement. A newsboy cap obscures half of his face, which is squared with a sharp jaw and prominent cheekbones. If the glint of the razor blade sown into his cap doesn't give him away, his violently blue eyes do. They're empty and calculating and cold. His hands are shoved in the pockets of his expensive suit lackadaisically, however, his aura suggests anything but. The way he casually walks towards me reminds me of a predator approaching its prey.

"I was raised Catholic, by a preacher in fact," I dismiss over my shoulder as I walk after the groom. "And I don't know what you're talking about."

He follows me around to the back of the barn, watching as I hoist a pail of water over the stallion's broad withers. He pulls a hand from his pocket, letting it rest on the horse's nose.

"You don't, do you?" he asks, drawing his hand away and holding it up to his nose before tilting it towards me. Fine white powder dusts his fingers. "So you wouldn't know anything about snorting a horse with Tokyo before sending him out on the track?"

I freeze, and for a moment we both stand there, observing each other. A groom walks by and I snap my head towards him. At the last moment, Tommy drops his hand back to his pocket, out of sight. When the groom passes, I sigh, returning back to our conversation.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Shelby?" I don't need him to answer my question. Working for Billy Kimber, I already know who he is and what he does. I already know that the moment he had become suspicious of the game I was playing at, he could have shot me. The fact that he hadn't yet made me incredulous; almost suspiciously so.

"Same as you. I do business with horses," he says. His cold eyes stare intently at me, almost challenging me to imply otherwise.

I look away. "Mr. Kimber is sorting pay outs with the bookies. I can have someone take you to him," I offer, wanting to get rid of him. Dealing with people of the likes of the Shelbys was always dangerous business, and I wasn't looking for that kind of business. Kimber and the men who worked under him were bastards and crooks like all the rest of them. But Thomas Shelby made Billy Kimber look like a saint.

As part of a mutual agreement, I raced and trained horses under Billy Kimber's name. He made sure my horses were the favorites on paper, and I made sure the horses won. Anything under the table, I had no hand in. Anything under the nose, he turned the other way.

"I came to talk to you."

"Just to talk?" The metallic black butt of a gun flashes from underneath his suit, hidden in a holster against his waist coat. A warning.

"You and that horse cost me two thousand quid today. Last week it was a thousand. I'd rather it not happen again. So I'm offering you a deal." His haunting blue eyes haven't left me. He's being very serious.

"A deal or an ultimatum?"

He almost smiles. A short, amused chuff of a breath escapes through his nose and he saunters closer to me. The stallion's breathing is shallow now, all but a quiet whisper in the stillness around us. We're the only ones left lingering behind the stable. The safe distance I had previously put between us, now diminished.

"Smart girl," he comments, leaning towards me. The praise drips with his smooth Birmingham accent. My throat constricts and I swallow. "So here's what's going to happen. I've already staked claims on the five horses running. All you have to do is make sure this horse, and every other horse Kimber has money on, crosses the finish line dead last next week."

"And why would I do that?" Genuinely, I know why: because he's Thomas Shelby and he's not asking. But a part of me wants to know why he doesn't just take care of the situation himself. The rumor has never been proven, but it's not uncommon for the favorite horse to be found, a bullet embedded in its skull, the morning of the race.

"Once I take on five race horses, I'm going to need a respectable name to entice the betting a little. The people here trust you. You'd have shared ownership in addition to protection under my name."

I shake my head, a little taken back by his forwardness. "You failed to mention my change in employers." One moment he's asking me to fix a race, the next he's offering me a job.

He scoffs, "You work for Billy Kimber, is this really such a bad thing?"

"If Kimber finds out I could be killed—"

"[Y/N]!"

Speak of the devil. My sentence is cut off as Mr. Kimber tears around the corner of the stable, heading briskly for us. His weasley accountant follows close behind him. Fearing the confrontation that is about to occur, I look back to Tommy, but he's already gone from beside me. His hand grabs my arm. "Saint Peter's Church. Tonight at quarter to twelve." His mouth is close enough to my ear that I feel his hot breath against my skin. And then he pulls away, dipping his head curtly towards me and makes his exit, disappearing just as Billy Kimber reaches me.

"[Y/N]!”

Kimber, who despite his polished manner, always gave me the impression that he was filthy; both morally and physically by the way he slicked back his greasy black hair over his forehead, likely to conceal a receding hairline. His constant attempts to touch me made my skin crawl. I want to gag when he draws an arm around my waist, jerking me to his side.

"Who was the gentleman you were talking to? I asked you to go up to the bookies' box after the race. Roberts and I were dealing with some business," he says in his nasally voice, chastising me like a child.

I tip my chin away from him, resisting the urge to shove him away. "A Mr. Shelby," I say, feigning cluelessness. "He said he worked with horses."

“Fucking bastard, Thomas Shelby," he growls. "What did he want?"

I pause for a heartbeat. I can feel Kimber fingers digging into my waist through the thick outer layer of my coat. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

“Thomas Shelby never goes anywhere without a reason," he retorts.

————————

If the streets of Birmingham were dangerous during the day, they were deadly at night. Barren of any street lights, the cobblestone walks glisten with foul sewer water against the moon light. Stray dogs with skin stretched over their ribcages trot along alley ways, and men with broad, soot covered clothes loiter suspiciously outside work stations. I'm grateful for the concealment that the dark trench coat around my shoulders provides. I've lived in Birmingham my entire life, but no one is ever safe. The front steps of St. Peter's Church seem to welcome me with quiet hostility. Seemingly a strange place to meet, but no one would suspect us here. Tommy Shelby is waiting outside the door, gold pocket watch in hand.

He opens the door, gesturing me in silently with his hand. I take a few reserved steps past the threshold of the church. The door shuts quietly behind us. It's empty of course, but the flames of lit candles illuminate the altar. Prayer intentions.

Tommy clears his throat. He's taken a seat in one of the pews. Nothing looks more out of place than Tommy Shelby in a church. The wooden pew creaks loudly into the silence as I sit down beside him.

"So I've impressed you, eh" he says simply, and then it becomes silent again while he waits for my response. His empty blue eyes remain forward, looking over the altar at the front of the church.

"What makes you think I agreed?"

"Nothing happens without me knowing it. You removed your usual jockey from the post list this evening." I don't say anything, but he's right. I had to pay off a few people to keep their mouths shut, but fixing a race isn't as terribly conflicting as it may seem. "You'll be a good addition to Shelby Company Limited," Tommy says assuringly.

"Mr. Shelby, I—"

"But you're a terrible liar, [Y/N]," he adds without changing his tone of voice, still sounding very matter of a fact. "No good Catholic girl would forget to make the sign of the cross when entering a church."

I swallow, my throat dry, only just realizing my mistake. "And you're an atheist in a chapel so what's it matter?"

Tommy's thick, suit clad shoulders shrug, and he leans back, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. "The devil does not know he's the devil," he quotes. He balances the cigarette between his lips and cups his palm to protect the flame as he lights it. "Like I said, I know everything that happens in Birmingham. So when some young upstart began winning big races like the Epsom, naturally I checked into you." My mind begins racing, frantically trying to recall anything that he could have heard about me.

"Your father wasn't a preacher."

“No," I say carefully.

There is a heavy pause as I wait for him admonish me for lying to him, maybe even pull out the gun that I know is resting underneath his suit.

I was raised under the roof of one of the biggest drug lords in Birmingham. My father was a dealer for many of the trainers at the race track. He was found dead in the Cut when I was twelve.

Tommy removes the cigarette from his mouth, and smoke floats from his lips. "We'll win the derby the proper way. There will be none of that business like with Kimber."

Softly, I nod. Drugging the horses was never my decision. Kimber wanted to win at any cost.

And then suddenly he's shifting towards me, the pew creaking in protest. Without his cap on, I have an unobscured view of his perfect face. Hollow cheeks followed by a sharp jaw line and cold, dead eyes. His tongue runs over his soft pink lips before he speaks. His voice is soft but dangerous. "And there will be no more fucking around with fucking Billy Kimber," he breathes out. Tommy's blue eyes hold mine, unmoving. I wonder if he can hear my heart pounding in my chest. My face is hot with embarrassment and anger.

Finally, I compose my self enough to speak. "Yesterday I was smart, and now I'm Billy Kimber's whore?" I seethe. How dare he.

He leans back again, no longer eye to eye with me. Solemnly, he exhales and smoke leaks out of his mouth. "Everyone's a whore, (Y/N)." We stare at each other from across the pew.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say with my jaw clenched, and abruptly stand up, tugging my coat around my body as I do so. I swear I see him form something that almost resembles a smile when he sees the flash of a pistol tucked into my waistband. I leave him sitting alone in the church, a thousand conflicting emotions inside my head.

————————

Derby day, was perhaps, my favorite day of the entire year. However, today was an entirely different day than what I was used to. I did not hold the usual excitement at the prospect of one of my horses cashing in its weight in pay outs. Every single horse I had trained would either be scratched or finish last. Except for one.

I watch as Tommy Shelby leans in close to his prized stallion, a nightmarish devil of whom I had the pleasure of meeting just about a week ago. Under Tommy's watchful eye, I'd done what I could to make a winner out of him in a matter of days. The horse was magnificent, he just needed to make it onto the track without tearing into a jockey. Surprisingly enough, Tommy was the only one who could handle him.

“Easy, easy," his voice whispers against my ear, his cheek brushing my own. His hand is pressed against my stomach, holding me firmly against his chest as we move forwards, towards the stallion. He guides my outstretched hand slowly towards the horse until my fingers brush its velvet soft nose. The settling darkness of the evening swallows us whole.

I smile, watching as Tommy holds on to the horses bridle, pulling the beasts face level with his own and murmurs something in thickly accented Romani Gypsy. The words are foreign to my ears, but it feels like such an intimate exchange that I clear my throat to gain his attention. Tommy releases the horse's head from his grasp when he sees me and walks over the short distance.

“Listen, there's been a change of plans," he begins, hands in his pockets. "You're going to head up and watch the race with Ada and Aunt Pol. I've got some business to take care of."

The soft smile on my face drops a bit. "Oh. But you'll miss Gypsy Man's debut." My concern has little to do with Tommy missing the race. But I don't know how else to say I can't let you get shot without letting the words come out of my mouth.

Tommy must read the expression on my face because he reaches over to cup my cheek, his palm cradling my chin in a rare act of kindness. "Hey, hey look at me," he repeats softly. "I'll find you after the race, eh?" Piercing blue eyes stare into mine, trying to seal a promise he won't keep.

I won't allow him an answer, instead staring back at him with a sullen, blank gaze. A partial sigh leaves his mouth, and he leans forward, using the palm of his hand to cup my cheek, bringing my face to his. His mouth is so soft and gentle, smooth with whiskey; I can't help but think he tastes like goodbye. Slowly, Tommy pulls away, his eyes meeting mine again before he drops his hand from my face. My suddenly heavy heart watches him as goes.

Tommy does not find me after the race. I cheer his stallion across the finish line alone and drink celebratory champagne with his brothers, John and Arthur, and his Aunt Polly. I go to bed convinced that he's lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

———————

The knock on my door just past midnight forces my eyes open, and I have to look around to recall where I am. I'd fallen asleep on the chair in the living area of my small apartment. Still in my clothes, I don't bother to grab a coat before cracking open the door. The devil himself is at my door.

“Got any whiskey?" Tommy croaks out. Blood leaks from his temple and drips through his dark eyelashes. One eye is swollen, a bursted blood vessel blossoming red around his blue iris. More blood stains his pristine white dress shirt. He looks like he’s been drug from his grave.

“Bloody hell, Tommy," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose, however unable to hide the relief that he's still alive. "God, come in."

Had I been a better person, I would have shut the door in his face. But neither of us were very good people anyhow. And all I have thought about since he kissed me is that maybe even bad people deserve to be loved.

His first steps through the door are unsteady and I have to rush to his side as he stumbles against a chair.

“I'm alright, I'm alright," he says, shouldering my hesitant hands away from him. "Just get me a drink."

Reluctantly, I back away from him. When I return, he's still leant over the back of the chair. "Here," I say and hand him the glass in my hand. Painfully, he straightens up and grabs it, tilting his head back with obvious difficulty to down the whiskey. Closing his eyes, he swallows as if the liquor has breathed some sort of life back into him. He stands there a moment, just existing in my living room.

Finally, his blue eyes come to rest on me. "Your neighbors didn't see me come in," he states plainly.

“Then you didn't come in," I reply.

Quietly, in no particular rush, he walks towards me. I inhale deep into his shoulder when his arms wrap around me, taking in the aroma of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. Slowly, his large hand wraps around the column of my neck, his thumb pressing against my jaw to tilt it upwards. My unquestioned obedience is rewarded with a kiss pressed to the side of my jaw and then the firm attachment of teeth to the sensitive skin of my throat. Tommy’s other hand rucks up the fabric of my dress.

“Tell me to stop,” he groans, but makes no move to do such a thing. “I’ll ruin you,” he promises. We’re walking backwards now. I already have his shirt unbuttoned, his widely sculpted shoulders tossing it aside, lost amongst the floor of my hallway.

“You already have.”

And then I let him take me, hands grasping at his cropped hair as we move together throughout my dark bedroom. We continue, completely consumed in each other until my eyes are heavy with sleep, and even then Tommy kneels before me, his hand wrapped around the back of my thigh, kissing the inside of my legs like I’m something holy.

Amused, his eyes look up to mine. “Some good Catholic girl you are.”

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

head, heart, hand. {Oliver/Reader/Felix}

It had been a long time since your world has revolved around anyone but Felix Catton. He was like that; undeniably, unassumingly magnetic. You'd watched countless fawning, fairweather friends drawn into his orbit, only to be cast out when he eventually got bored of them, but not you, never you. Maybe you were a toy in the beginning, the thing they'd all called you when they were feeling especially petty, but it became clear that Felix has wanted to keep you around.

You weren't a toy, you weren't family, you were a sharp and beautiful tool, too good, too useful to be put down. Your loyalty was rewarded with a life in his shape. Felix was like the sun, and you lived your life enjoying his warmth, and wanting to keep him shining.

And there's something about the way Oliver Quick thinks and talks that you almost recognise. The others call him a toy but the look in his eyes says he's capable of so much more than that. Oliver Quick is not one to be tossed aside either, and you'll do all you can to make Felix see that too.

The three of you; head, heart, hand.

Oliver thinks. Felix feels. You do.

Need to Know: established fwb!Felix/reader, there will be smut, Oliver is a weird obsessive perv and reader recognises and is pretty into it, obviously manipulation, AU with a happy poly ending

[ IN PROGRESS ]

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

[ PLUS + ]

Reader's Family History of Wealth

a long way down to the bottom of the river - SALTBURN CANON ENDING AU (angst / one-shot)

Taglist: @strangemaximoff @renaissance-mama @tsach @malscorner @xhoneymoonx134 @yelchinweasleylothbrok @tarriea @florencediet @butitsbetterifyoudoittoem @belladonnadarksshade @fandom-multiamory @snazzynacho @jubileexoxo @soocore @be-lla-vie @nightingale2124 @willow-sages @null4ndv0id @gracieluvthemoon @day2dream @marvellover98 @navixfr @bitxhinthecomments @daintylovers @alesunsets @noturningbacknow @d0llysposts @alilcloudy @callsignwidow @moviequotes23 @325575 @bonnieblue0606 @osoqueen125 @hot-dino-nuggies @darkness-falls-xo @mattymurderdocks @flowerecs @weepingwitchofthewest @ilovemydinoboi @marsmallow433 @king0flies @cashtons-wife @jessicascharacterbananza @gossvedd

TAGLIST OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

things friends do.

felix catton x reader (wc: 3.1k)

summary: things friends do include but are not excluded to: sleeping in each other’s bed, kissing, sharing beer, fucking each other

warnings: 18+ smut, unprotected sex

author’s note: y’all i have refused to believe that jacob elordi was attractive but saltburn did me in

————————————————————————

You were not in love with Felix Catton.

And Felix Catton was not in love with you.

He was a lover boy, but he was not your lover boy.

The thing about Felix was that he had just about everyone at his disposal. Girls, guys, it didn't matter. Everything belonged to him so long as he wanted it. But it didn't feel that way. You never felt as though you were owned by him. It was just that he was Felix and who didn't want to belong to him?

Of course 'just friends' didn't constantly have their hands all over each other, didn't sleep in each other's bed or see each other inappropriately naked. And 'just friends' definitely didn't kiss each other on the mouth.

But this was Felix.

Not Oliver, or Farleigh, or Veneita. Felix.

—

The party is so electric that you're not sure if it's the music or your own erratic heartbeat thumping in your ears. The place is so packed that at some point the entire bar had become part of the main dance floor in order to accommodate for the dizzying array of overheated, intoxicated bodies moving this way and that. Blue light illuminates the otherwise dark room. Flashes of neon green splash across swaying bodies, highlighting dancers as they navigate the floor.

To no one's surprise, Felix is in the center of it all. He'd gravitated towards the pole in the middle of the room like a magnet and had taken to it to pay his dues, his slender body rolling to the music with all of his typical charisma.

After a few beers, you're pleasantly buzzed, but you'll probably be toeing the line once you finish the fourth in your hand. Felix is well on his way to a monster hangover, one that he'll sleep off on the floor of your dorm room. Farleigh is right behind him, likely just as intoxicated, but with him you could never tell. Farleigh was always the same catty bitch no matter how drunk or sober he was. You loved him, but he was a bitch.

A heavy weight suddenly staggers upon your shoulders, and you groan against the weight, both you and Felix swaying dangerously to the side as he throws his arm around you. Usually this wouldn't work because he's so ridiculously tall but the alcohol had made him a little less coordinated than usual and he's slouched down to closer to your height. Beer sloshes over the rim of his plastic cup and splashes onto the floor at your feet.

"Having fun, darling?" he asks, half shouting in your ear to be heard over the music.

"Always," you laugh, though it's mostly directed at him.

His skin is clammy with sweat and his breath is coated with the familiar, yeasty smell of beer. "Where's Farleigh?" Felix doesn't even wait for your response before he's shouting for him. "Ay! Farleigh!" There's a cigarette pinched between two fingers of the same hand that's holding onto his cup, and he raises it to get his friend's attention.

His arm still around you, you dodge the spilling liquid heading for your feet. "Felix! Felix, careful!" you scold him, still laughing, so the smile doesn't disappear from his face.

In an attempt to solve the problem, he leans forward and starts to swallow back the remainder of the beer in his cup. He must underestimate just how much he had left to go because it starts to escape past the sides of his mouth, dripping past his jaw and down the front of his open shirt.

You shriek again. "Felix!"

Laughing, he pulls the cup away and brings it towards you. Before you can protest, he's tipping it back into your mouth. He leaves you no choice but to swallow it or wear it across the front of your shirt so you do your best to drink the remaining beer, more nursing from the cup than gulping as Felix was.

It leaves your lips and chin wet, and before you can wipe the excess beer away, Felix does it himself, somewhat roughly dragging his thumb under your lip. He then sucks the digit into his mouth, hardly thinking twice about it. It would have been erotic with anyone else. But this was everyday with Felix. It would have been weird if you hadn't chugged the backwash of his beer.

His attention is just as quickly drug from you to Farleigh. You hadn't noticed the other boy approaching. He gives you a wicked smile, a look in his eyes like he wants to say something but refrains. You tilt your head, prepared to ask him what his mischievous look is all about but Felix interrupts you.

"Farleigh, mate," Felix begins still hugging you close. "The girls are looking a bit bored. What do ya think?"

Across the room, India and Annabel are sitting on a couch together. The piece of furniture itself has certainly seen better days, torn and stained with bodily fluids of varying levels of disgusting. There's a guy with his arm slung around India, but for all she's paying attention to him, he might as well not exist. She's drinking from a bottle of champagne and couldn't look less interested in him.

Farleigh's eyes track from you to Felix, as though making some sort of connection, then he smiles cheshire-like. "Oh yeah, mate. You know, I do think India was actually looking for you earlier." His sinister brown eyes lock with yours, as if waiting for you to object. "Why don't you go put her out of her misery. (Y/n) and I will go busy ourselves at the bar."

Felix grins crookedly, nothing but honest fun shining in his blown pupils. "I will see you two later."

He straightens but not before twisting his neck, body still plastered to yours, and he plants a sloppy kiss to the side of your mouth. His lips taste like beer and nicotine. It's not really even a kiss, just a lack of coordination on Felix's part that he didn't catch your cheek. If Farleigh hadn't been trying to start something in the first place, you wouldn't have even thought twice about it.

It's not the first time Felix has kissed you. Hell, he's probably even kissed Farleigh at some point. Maybe not on the mouth because they were cousins, but that's besides the point. Friends kissed each other all the time. This wasn't anything new.

As Felix removes himself from you, his tall figure walking over to grab India's hand and lead her from the couch, the guy who had been flirting with her for the past hour glaring after them, you level your stare with Farleigh's. "What's that look about?"

Farleigh crosses his arms, looking as full of himself as ever, and rolls his eyes. He really was a bitch sometimes. "Fuck the friend code and fuck him already. You know you want to."

It's your turn to roll your eyes. "I don't want to fuck him, Farleigh."

You don't. Things just weren't like that between you and Felix. Sure, maybe there had been a few occasions where you'd sucked him off and he'd done the same for you in return but that was all purely situational. There were no feelings attached. Just two friends who were close enough to do that kind of thing without it being weird.

Farleigh just scoffs at your ignorance, pushing past you with his shoulder to head over to the bar. "Just like sweet little Ollie doesn't want to fuck him? Please, neither of you look at him all that different."

"Everyone looks at him like that," you argue. "He's Felix."

"No, everyone looks at him like they want his dick in their mouth. You look at him like you'd let him do absolutely anything he fucking wants to you. And honestly, (Y/n), it's kinda sad." He says the last part with faux pity, his voice demeaning.

You scowl at him as he turns back around and walks over to the bar.

Fuck Farleigh. You did not want to fuck Felix.

And fuck him for putting the thought in your head.

—

It's nearing two am by the time you remove yourself from the bar. You're no more intoxicated than you were earlier, having cut yourself off after chugging the last of Felix's drink, but you weren't particularly keen on walking in on Felix and India after tonight so you'd resigned yourself to sitting on a barstool for the remainder of the night.

You keep telling yourself that you weren't bothered by him having sex with her, but Farleigh had put the thought in your head and it wouldn't leave.

Of course you liked Felix. Who didn't like Felix? But did you want to sleep with him? No.

Maybe.

It wasn't like he wouldn't do it if you asked. But Felix would have sex with anything that walked. And you weren't India. You were his best friend. And no matter now many times you two had pushed the line of being just friends, having sex with him would completely ruin the line all together. And then what? There nowhere to go after you start dating your best friend. If it crashes and burns it's game over. And with Felix, that was a guarantee.

You pass India going opposite of you down the hall. One of the straps of her dress is hanging off her shoulder, bedazzled high heels in her hands as she struggles to slip them back on. There's a dark purple hickey at the junction of her throat and collarbone and another lighter one above her breast. You don't say anything to her, just push past her into Felix's dorm.

He's sprawled out across the top of the bed that he never makes, shirtless and only a pair of flimsy boxers to cover his bareness. His head rolls towards you, cigarette between his lips.

"Hey," he greets, smoke spilling from his mouth. "You have a good time with Farleigh?"

You pick your way through the disaster of his room, stepping around empty boxes of pizza and abandoned articles of clothing until you find something that looks wearable. You unzip your dress, only half turned away from him as you pull on one of his shirts. He's seen you naked before and so your ass and the side of your boobs is hardly scandalous to him.

"Farleigh is an ass," you retort, crawling onto his mattress to settle into the empty space at his side. It's without a doubt the same space that India had been just a few minutes before.

Felix frowns, the piercing his brow moving downwards with the expression. "What's he said to you?" His tone is concerned because he knows how his cousin can be.

You just sigh in response, shifting into a more comfortable position at his side. Felix takes another drag of his cigarette while he waits for your response. Farleighs words run through your head again.

"Why haven't we had sex?"

He actually laughs at that one, sitting up on one of his elbows so that he can see you better. The shag of his dark brunette hair hangs over his forehead as he looks down at you. "Do you want to have sex?"

While his tone is amused and humorous, you know he's genuinely asking. Felix would never make fun of you for that kind of thing.

You shrug, looking up into his bemused brown eyes. "I don't know. Maybe?"

This conversation shouldn't be as casual as you're making it out to be, and maybe it wouldn't have been with anyone else, but this is Felix. He's your best friend.

Slowly, he leans down and places a kiss on your lips. It's fairly brief, hardly even long enough for you to kiss him back before he's pulling away. "Then let's have sex," he says, and it's as simple as that.

Felix leans down again, connecting your mouths. Without breaking the kiss, he shifts from where he'd been laying beside you to bracket your hips with his knees. His long fingers find the buttons of his shirt that you just put on and begin to unbutton them, his hands sliding down your sides until you're squirming.

"Felix," you whine, already short of breath from his touch.

"Relax, baby. I've got you," he murmurs into your mouth, sliding one of his hands into your hair, the blunt of his nails scraping against your scalp. It gives him enough purchase to tip your head back and expose your neck to his unrelenting mouth. The hot heat of his mouth pants against the underside of your jaw, the wet muscle of his tongue laving along your throat.

His other hand slides down your hip, then your thigh before coming to your panties. You have to force yourself not to squirm away in anticipation. Thankfully, Felix isn't a tease and he uses two of his fingers to pull your panties to the side. You do, however, jump when he slides them into your slick hole without any hesitation.

The bastard snickers against your throat. "Sorry," he apologizes, kissing apologetically at your jaw. "I guess I should have warned you."

All you can do is huff, your fingers tugging at his tangle of brown hair. He grins at your inability to respond before kissing your mouth again. He swallows the noise that escapes you when he curls his fingers and your back arches off of the bed. He does it again, this time scissoring them to stretch your hole. The burn is more pleasurable than uncomfortable, but it leaves you gasping into his open mouth.

Just when you think that's all he has to offer with his fingers, they somehow slip even further, hitting some part deep inside of you that you didn't even know existed. He curls them and you actually cry out, your knees knocking at his hips to push him away.

"I know, I know," he soothes, using the broadness of his shoulders to keep your legs in place. Felix curls his fingers into your smooth walls a few more times, his thumb circling your clit until you swear you can't take anymore. It's torture, the length of his two fingers inside of you.

Finally, he pulls them away before you can actually start crying. Your arousal coats his long fingers and drips down his wrist, glistening in the darkness of his room. Felix's brown eyes hold yours as he sticks them into his mouth, refusing to look away even as his tongue dips between them. You can barley swallow the spit in your mouth.

Felix grins, leaning down to kiss you. Even if you hadn't wanted to taste yourself on his lips, he doesn't give you much of a choice, his tongue dipping into your mouth. He moans, and it's quite possibly the hottest thing you've ever heard.

Then he's disconnecting your mouths to slide down his boxers. His hard cock bobs free, brushing against the lean planes of his stomach. You've seen Felix's dick before. It's no surprise to you how large he is— incredibly long with a perfectly mushroomed tip— but you've never had to think about it actually going inside of you.

His hand catches your jaw, forcing you to look at his face. There must have been flash of fear in your eyes because he murmurs sweetly, "Look at my face, okay? I want to see you."

You nod as best you can in his hold.

You're not sure if it's on purpose or not but he misses the first try, his cock sliding through your slick and nudging at your clit. Your whole body jolts but his hand at your throat holds you in place.

The second time, his mushroomed head catches at your hole and he slips in, meeting little resistance. He slides in only another inch or so before stopping, his cock already snug inside of you. You whine when he tries to push in further.

Felix kind of laughs, his hand reaching down to circle his thumb at your clit. "M'sorry, baby. You're so tight. Just give me a second."

You swallow, willing back tears. It's not that it hurts, not really, just the fact that he feels so good and you want him inside of you.

Without warning, his hand splays across your stomach and he uses the leverage to push further inside of you. This time your muscles relax enough around him and he slides all the way in.

You moan at the feel of him entirely inside of you.

“There we go,” he groans, the muscles of his abdomen contracting as he holds himself up. Now fully inside of you, he begins rocking his hips, his dick hitting that spongey spot inside of you with every thrust. Felix is breathing heavily into your ear, the squelching of him sliding in and out of you the only other sound in the room.

Soon Felix hits a spot inside of you that makes your toes curl and almost immediately you’re coming, clenching around him as you do so.

“Fuck,” he whispers. Felix thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out just before he can come inside of you. He spills partially onto the bed and partially onto your stomach. When he’s finished, he holds himself up over you avoiding his own release leaking onto you stomach.

When his eyes find yours, he grins, that signature crooked smile appearing onto his face. You can’t help but laugh, your head falling back into the pillow. Felix laughs too. Not because he particularly knows what’s so funny but because you’re laughing.

You’re laughing and he loves you.

He leans over grabbing a tissue from the box beside his bed and wipes you off as best as he can before tossing it onto the floor and laying back down beside you, an arm behind his head You rest your head on his other arm, scooting in closer to his side.

“Are we going to talk about this?” he asks, looking down at you.

You smile to yourself, watching his toes nudge yours instead of looking back at him. “About what?”

“(Y/n), we’ve been friends since grade school and probably kissed a million times.”

Eventually you look up at him, doing your best to not look so sheepish. “Farleigh told me I was worse than Oliver. Can you believe that?”

Felix scoff, his fingers scratching through your hair. “I wouldn’t fuck Oliver.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes playfully at him. “Yeah you would.”

Felix barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I would,” he agrees.

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

I Know (Dhawan!Master x Reader, Thirteen x Reader)

Part 6 of 'Shackled' Masterlist | Previous Part

Alone. Endlessly isolate, stuck in a silent solitude, imposed by a madman who knew the way loneliness saturated into weary bones. Silence held words too quiet to hold immediate weight, a slow enemy, but the years wore sores, whispers worming into the brain. The universe's discordancies had melded together, swirling, enrapturing in this new silence. Solitude would drive you mad, the only company your thoughts.

But you knew that. And he hated the power it had imbued you with.

The roar of his rage still rang in your ears. Alone. But not quite. That red pulsing fury had ebbed, seeping out of you and leaving you so numb. Simple, fickle, human emotions so empty, pale, meaningless in comparison.

Sickening.

It listened. It whispered in your mind, trying desperately to destroy the rebellious thoughts that welled up against its dam of control. The river had grown too strong, the words rushing up against it, overpowering.

He still couldn't leave you alone.

Obsessive, manic, desperate to return you to the dull, droopy peace that had settled into your bones. He couldn't control you anymore. Nothing worked. You'd been through it before. And now you understood.

He hated it.

Thinking of me? Still? How... pitiful.

Derisive, mocking, cruel. Almost laughable. You smothered a smirk, resting your head against the cool metal of the dingy cell.

He had lost.

I don't lose.

But despite the protests in your mind, you laughed. How could he ever expect to win now?

ALL

@underratedhotties @mxacegrey

SHACKLED

@startrekkingaroundasgard @queerconfusionthings

Dhawan!Master

@kjaneway1

13th Doctor

@better-dead-than-smeg @fromflametofire @Natalia-Helena-alianova-romanov @ghostlystudentpersonasludge @wewaitinthatspace @Sylumarts @gurkiloni @trying414 @meandthebirdss @averyisbackinthetrashcan

#dhawan!master x you #dhawan!master imagine #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #sacha dhawan #doctor who #doctor who imagine #thirteenth x reader #thirteenth doctor x you #thirteenth doctor x reader #thirteen x you #thirteen x reader #thirteenth doctor #doctor who x reader

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

Text

ugh i love this

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 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.

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.

“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, grey-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 sch��ner 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.

You pull away from the Toymaker and lean against his counter, feeling terribly smug for having figured it out.

Oh, hang on a minute, you think. This guy might just be a genius.

“This is a marketing trick, isn’t it?”

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!”

“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.”

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’.

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.

“Get out of my head,” you say quietly.

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.

“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’s smile cracks like the earth preceding a quake.

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…”

“You vill stay vith me und play mein games forever!”

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?”

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.”

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 delightful. 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.

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.”

It’s the same dress that the doll on the shelf is wearing.

"You're sick," you hiss.

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.”

“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.

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!”

“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.

“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.”

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.

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 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.

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.”

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. H’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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 here 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.

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.

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!

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. 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.

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 surprise 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 face. You take a step back and return the bow with a curtsey.

“Ja, genau,” you grin.

The Toymaker’s smile could have outshone the sun.

That night, when you return home, you take all of your dolls out of your closet. You line them up with care on your shelf, making sure to pose them prettily and smooth out the creases in their frocks.

But you keep your new doll in your hand, and clamber into bed with her. Before you turn out the light, you look one last time at her perfect, dimpled face.

Oh, what games will you and the Toymaker play next?

#the toymaker x reader #the toymaker x you

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

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aw thank you so much for including me

Last Updated: 2023-12-25

A/N: Happy Holidays Everyone, I feel so blessed to be part of such an amazing community!

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Loki Odinson stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

❆ A Christmas Wish [President!Loki] by simplyholl • 18+ • 〔E〕 •

Summary: "A drunken confession at a Christmas party leads to delightful consequences."

❆ All I Want for Christmas by sserpente • 18+ • 〔E᜶F〕 • ♥︎ •

Prompt(s): "Imagine Loki asking you what you wish for Christmas but there is nothing you want. Except him."

❆ All Wrapped Up by muddyorbsblr • 18+ • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Summary: "After getting in hot water with Fury about his shenanigans that revolve around candy cane, you give Loki some advice on how to seduce someone if he really wants to go down the red and white striped road. Even if it hurt you to do so."

❆ Art of Decorating by fictive-sl0th • 16+ • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Loki and [you] decorate this years huge Christmas tree in the tower's common room…"

❆ Aurora Lokialis by fictive-sl0th • 18+ • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: Loki surprises you with a birthday getaway to Norway, setting the stage for an intimate celebration.

❆ Birthday Magic by holdmytesseract • 〔F᜶C〕 •

Summary: "Everybody around you tends to forget your birthday, because of all the Christmas trouble. Except Loki, of course..."

❆ Christmas Delivery￨Prt. II by the--sad--hatter • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Summary: {…}

❆ Cupid's Contract by lokiodinsonofasgard000 • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Summary: When speculation arises around your and Loki's relationship, it prompts a conversation about making things official.

❆ Dreaing of a Green Christmas￨Prt. II by joyful-enchantress • 〔F〕 •

Summary: {…}

❆ Expectations and Opportunities by muddyorbsblr • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Loki has some questions about the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe."

❆ Getting Through the Winter by anonymousfiction211 • 〔F᜶C〕 •

Summary: "Noticing something is amiss with you. With a little help from Natasha he makes it his mission to cheer you up, while battling with his own anxieties in the process."

Invitation to Stay [Jotun!Loki] by fictive-sl0th • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Following the Jotunn prince royal's invitation to his Yule feast, you came with adoration for Loki who made sure his dear n would never leave again."

❆ It's Not a Secret I Try to Hide by hopelessromanticspoonie • 〔F᜶M〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "You push and you push and you push. But the doors around Loki's heart won't budge, even as his arms open wide. Will it ever change?"

❆ Let It Snow by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

Prompt(s): "Imagine sneaking out in the middle of the night with Loki to play in the snow."

❆ Merry Mischief by coldnique • 〔F〕 •

Summary: {…}

❆ Mischievous Miracle by spilledkauffie • 〔F〕 •

Summary: Used to stressful family Christmas, Loki offers you the opportunity to spend the holidays with him instead.

❆ Mistletoe Kiss by winterfrostlovetriangle • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "What will one kiss under the Mistletoe cause the God of Mischief to do? Will his girlfriend see past his tricks and accept his offer?"

❆ New Year's Kiss by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

Prompt(s): "Imagine kissing Loki on New Year's Eve."

❆ On the Naughty List by joyful-enchantress • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: {…}

❆ Peace by lokisgoodgirl • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "After an outing to the Christmas Tree Farm goes awry, Loki does a little soul searching in his."

❆ Perfect Present, the by coldnique • 〔F᜶M〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: {…} It's Christmas at the compound your and Loki's first chris

❆ Silly Tradition by fanficshiddles • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Loki thinks Christmas is ridiculous and a waste of time. Until you surprise him with a gift, then he finds that perhaps it's not all that bad after all."

❆ Snow Day by writings-of-a-british-fangirl • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Whilst enjoying a snow day in Asgard, you discover Loki's true parentage."

❆ Snowed In by winterfrostlovetriangle • 〔F᜶C〕 • ♥︎ •

Prompt(s): "So, we're kind of snowed in."

❆ Traditional by asgardwinter • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Loki finds out some midgardian traditions that he had no idea about, and he likes it very much."

❆ Up on the House Top by thepokyone • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: It's Christmas, an this holiday season Loki is planning a very special surprise for you

❆ A Cozy Christmas by holymultiplefandomsbatman • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ A Promise Sealed with Light by asgardwinter • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Are We Doing This Right? [Immortal!Reader] by asgardwinter • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ As the Clock Strikes 12 by thepokyone • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Bested by jewels2876 • 〔F〕 •

❆ Decorating by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

❆ Freezing by asgardwinter • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Ice Skating by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

❆ Late Christmas by your-highnessmarvel • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Mistletoe by acciotherapists • 〔F〕 •

❆ Mistletoe and Mischief [President!Loki] by sserpente • 16+ • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Mistletoe Kisses by sleep-i-ness • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Reliable Liar by curseofaphrodite • 〔F〕 •

❆ Thank Stark by thepokyone • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Winter in Jötunheim by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

❆ Kissing Loki Under the Mistletoe… by gaitwae • 〔F〕 •

See Also: Navigation || Loki Odinson Master Index

Authors: @acciotherapists || @anonymousfiction211 || @asgardwinter || @coldnique || @curseofaphrodite || @fanficshiddles || @fictive-sl0th || @gaitwae || @holdmytesseract || @holymultiplefandomsbatman || @hopelessromanticspoonie || @jewels2876 || @joyful-enchantress || @lokiodinsonofasgard000 || @lokisgoodgirl || @muddyorbsblr || @the--sad--hatter || @simplyholl || @sleep-i-ness || @spilledkauffie || @sserpente || @thepokyone ||@winterfrostlovetriangle || @writings-of-a-british-fangirl || @your-highnessmarvel ||

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sleep-i-ness · 4 months

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All That Glitters Chapter 10 (Dhawan!Doctor x reader)

Doctor Who tag list: @v4n1r, @queerconfusionthings, @yourneighbourhoodclown, @love-of-fandoms, @emilythezeldafan, @fabulous-jj-style, @theseeker945, @pleadingeyes, @kjaneway1, @truthbehindthemysteries, @im-a-muggleborn, @startrekkingaroundasgard, @mythandmagik, @geocookie21, @zerocanonlywriteshit, @thewinterpoet2, @anteroom-of-death, @night467, @clarasoswaldd, @sessa23, @mxacegrey

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

“Why,” you asked, “did you take me up here?”

The Doc inhaled deeply before glancing over at you. He grinned and you realised that this was the happiest you had seen him.

“Yorkshire,” he said, “no place quite like it.”

“I agree with you there.”

“Can’t you see how clean the air is?”

“It’s so quiet.”

“It’s peaceful.”

“Then why do you live in London.”

“More work,” he said bitterly, “Better wages.”

“Right,” you lifted up your suitcase, “now where is she?”

“You alright lifting that?” the Doc said, “you won’t break a nail?”

“I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work.”

“You’re current lifestyle rather says otherwise.”

You rolled your eyes and chose to ignore his comment. You tapped your foot and looked around with a frown on your face. The Doc stood next to you and said,

“What did you mean, now where is she?”

“Well,” you said, “When you told me that we were going up here I had a thought.”

“Makes a change.”

“So I contacted an old acquaintance.”

“I thought you said that you didn’t have any friends.”

“Acquaintance,” you said, “we went to finishing school together.”

“Finishing school.” The Doc raised his eyebrows and you looked away embarrassed

“My parents made me,” you said, “apparently it’s meant to be good for young ladies.”

You rolled your eyes and kicked at the dirt.

“Didn’t do much for me but the one thing it did do was give me a lot of connections. Olivia married some sort of lord or something who lives up here. Now I thought, if there’s a thief and possible murderer-“

“Definitely murderer.”

“Ok, then she’ll be looking for her next target? Why not have some sort of party. Attract her over.”

“That’s,” the Doc paused before slowly saying, “not a terrible idea.”

“High praise.”

You looked up when you heard the sound of a car pulling up. It had just stopped and a young woman jumped out of it. She squealed when she saw you and ran up, flinging her arms around you.

“Y/n, darling!” she said, “It has been far too long! How have you been? Really though, why did you have to come up here. Nothing ever happens. It would’ve been so much more fun to meet up in London!”

Her attention was suddenly on the Doc. She smirked at you and nudged you.

“And who might this be?” she said, “Did your parents finally find a husband for you. No, if they did I would’ve heard about it in the papers.”

“Nothing like that Olivia,” you said, your cheeks hot, “he’s… well, we’re working together on something.”

“Oooh, do tell me more!”

“Let’s do it in the car.”

“Your necklace!” Olivia burst out laughing, “Oh that is terrible.”

The smile slipped from her face and she gave you a nervous look.

“That really is terrible,” she said, “Do your parents know?”

“If they did I wouldn’t be here,” you said, “I’d have been shipped off to the countryside so quickly I’d barely have time to register it.”

“And you’re helping her find it,” Olivia asked the Doc, “how chivalrous of you.”

“Just doing my job.” Said the Doc

“I’m sure you are,” she smirked at the your of you, “so where do I come into this?”

“We’re thinking of laying a trap,” you said, “with bait.”

“A trap,” Olivia’s smile widened, “how exciting! So you want me to host a little party?”

“Might need to be a bit bigger than little.” You said

“Perfect,” Olivia said, “just what this place needs.”

“Your husband won’t have any issues?” asked the Doc

“Oh don’t worry about him,” Olivia said with a smirk, “I’ll be able to persuade him. So, what else do you need me to do?”

“You seem very excited about this.” You said

“Most exciting thing that’s happened to me.”

“Now this next bit, you might not like.” You said

“Tell me!” said Olivia

“Got any precious gems you don’t mind using as bait?”

“Ah, why did have a feeling you might be asking that question.”

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sleep-i-ness · 9 months

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WHERE ARE YOU TRAVELLING TO?

gif imagines masterlist

dialogue masterlist

you do not have permission to repost my work.

marauders

harry potter

twilight

stranger things

bridgerton

middle earth

little women

marvel

star wars

gilmore girls

the witcher

the hunger games

pirates of the caribbean

#fics i want to read again

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sleep-i-ness · 1 year

Text

ahhh i love this fic!!!

Tony Stark x Female!Childhood Friend!Reader: Brightest [Ch. 17]

Summary: [F Name] [L Name]: Tony’s Stark’s “invisible friend.” She’s invisible in all the wrong ways–at least until Tony spots her years after telling her to get out of his life. With Yinsen’s words in mind, Tony decides to pursue their lost relationship, only to find that [Name] might not be as willing as before. What Tony doesn’t know, however, is that the confusion of her life might end up the best of his.

Ratings/Warnings/Tags: M (love triangles; friends with benefits; sexual situations; non-consensual sex with a significant other (note: I will mark this specific chapter accordingly); cheating on significant other portrayed in a positive light; verbal abuse from parents and significant others; toxic relationships of several kinds; rumors of an inappropriate relationship between an older man and his son’s teenage friend; set in between Iron Man 2 and Avengers (2012); references to characters not yet established in the MCU as of time of writing)

Pairings: Tony Stark/Reader; Justin Hammer/Reader; Tony Stark/Reader/Justin Hammer; Pepper Potts/Happy Hogan; past!Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Tag List: @imaginesfire; @frostay; @downeyreads; @angelcakes12332; @sleep-i-ness; @jkknoxvilles

Master List

Chapter 17: The Prettiest Girls

Your reflection in the mirror the following morning startled you. Back and forth you paraded in front of the glass for the hour and a half or so that it had taken you to get ready to spend the rest of your day taking photographs for your gallery. You hadn't done anything major, just showered and applied makeup and put on regular clothes as usual.

Okay, so maybe you'd dressed up a little, knowing that Tony would see you briefly in this getup. Putting on your "photography costume" while still inside your parents' home was out of the question. Still, anyone who knew you—the real you, the you not gearing up for a magazine shoot for your father or prepped for another interview that would inevitably turn to questions about your sordid relationship with an older man—wouldn't call this "dressed up." You hadn't exactly donned a ball gown for the occasion; you'd simply forgone your usual no-one-important-is-seeing-me-today standard of sweatpants and a tank top.

But it wasn't your clothes or your face or your hair that startled you about the woman staring at you from the mirror. What was it? Leaning in, you examined yourself from every angle. Nothing seemed different. Your skin had the same blemishes and your forehead the same wrinkles. You even had a zit in a familiar place. On the other hand, your shoulders looked a little straighter. Something in your eyes sparkled. You weren't huddling in on yourself like you usually did before you strode out of your room to discover just what you'd done wrong with yourself this time.

What was it that your mother had accused you of yesterday? Being so happy that someone was bound to notice? Could that be it? Could the significant change in your appearance be chalked up to a sudden influx of happiness?

The blaring tone of your text alert put an end to any further musings on this subject. You leaped as though the noise were a gunshot, all thoughts of happier girls being prettier girls flying far afield. Who could be texting you so early in the morning? A quick mental run-through of the short list of people who bothered texting you at all only made you worry more. Your mother never got out of bed before eleven if she could help it. Your father wouldn't bother resuming speaking relations without being there in person to yell at you. Rhodey wasn't a texter.

You didn't need to be the genius your father wished you were to know just what you would find on that screen once you picked up the phone. Tony wanted to cancel. Of course he did. Why on earth would he want to spend time doing anything with you that didn't involve lackluster sex? Photography was your hobby, and a lousy one at that. He had better things to do with his time than help a mediocre photographer with her work. You should never have pestered him with an invitation. If he hadn't desperately wanted a shower with you, he never would have agreed to join you on today's expedition in the first place.

The dread built up higher and higher in your chest the longer you stood there staring at your phone. You forced yourself to scoop it off the table before the text alert could chime again, but you could go no further. You couldn't look. You had to. You couldn't. You would. Showing up and waiting for him for hours when he had no intention of showing up would only look more pathetic. One gulp seemed to squish your anxiety down just the notch you needed. Only after that did you peek at the screen.

Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, read the message punctuated by a sparkling heart.

Since when had Tony started calling you by the name of specific princesses? As you frowned at this text, another came in:

[Name]? Hellooooo? It's about time to get out of bed, don't you think?

Why was Tony so concerned you wouldn't make it to your prearranged meeting spot on time? You'd never been late to anything having to do with him before.

Are you sleeping? Or are you just too busy to bother talking to me again?

That was when the name above the messages finally caught your eye. Justin was the one giving you a wake-up call. You really needed to pay more attention to the little details, preferably before failing to do so gave you a heart attack. But for once, seeing your boyfriend's attempt to contact you flooded you with relief. Tony wasn't canceling on you after all!

You unlocked your phone to reply, but Justin didn't give you the time to formulate an answer.

What is it that's got you so busy these days anyway? I know your dad kicked you off the project. It's not like you've got anything important going on. Would it kill you to check in with me every once in a while? I haven't heard anything in over a week!

Had it really been that long since you called Justin? Your thumbs froze mere millimeters above the keypad as your mind whirred. No matter how hard you racked your brain—or how far down you scrolled through your recent calls list—you could find nothing to prove him wrong. So caught up in your real project (and finding new places to have sex with Tony) had you been that you'd simply stopped trying to get ahold of your actual boyfriend.

A surge of guilt washed over you from head to toe. Could there be a worse girlfriend anywhere? Sure, you were sleeping around behind Justin's back with his worst enemy, so you really didn’t have a leg to stand on to begin with—but, as your mother had pointed out, that was only a temporary dalliance! The least you could do while this was going on was to make sure your real boyfriend was doing all right from time to time!

Justin, you started to type. You're absolutely—

Hey, do you mind if we get together about an hour early?

This new text did come from Tony. It did not immediately quell your fear that he, too, found your interests too silly to indulge any longer. Your unsent apology to Justin forgotten, you quickly responded to Tony instead:

Why? Do you have something else to do? You don't have to come if you don't want to.

Nice try. You're not getting rid of me that easily, he answered, then followed up with, I just had a great idea is all.

What kind of great idea?

A great surprise idea.

I'm not sure I'm up for one of your “surprises” this early in the morning.

[Name], it's past nine. It's not that early. And anyway, it's not THAT kind of surprise this time around.

You make plans regarding other stuff?

Occasionally. Otherwise, the government would have a completely different reason to want to get their greasy paws on my armor.

Hello??? [Name]???? Justin fired off several rapid texts in succession. Are you ignoring me????

Oh, right! You'd been trying to make amends with Justin before Tony distracted you. Justin must have seen that you had read his text and wondered why you weren't rushing to explain yourself to him.

My surprise has to do with our work. If I can pick you up early, we can start exactly when you wanted to, Tony said.

Honestly, I don't understand what's gotten into you lately. It's like you've turned into someone else. What happened to my sweet little [Name]?

What had happened to Justin's sweet little [Name], you wondered. Your reflection in the mirror certainly seemed to say you'd turned into someone else. You thought you'd only made improvements, but would Justin still love you when he came back from Queens? And how could you tell him how those changes came to be made?

So are you in or are you out? Tony asked.

Your thumbs hovered in place once more. This hesitation only lasted for half a second, though, before you swapped back to your conversation with Tony and quickly typed back: I'm in.

******

JARVIS didn't need to alert Tony to your reply. Tony still grasped his phone in his hand when your answer to his suggestion came shooting back. You were in. A breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding escaped from his chest the moment he saw that. Every day the same scene played out as he waited for you realize what a bad choice he was—but today was not that day. Today you still wanted to speak to him.

"Sir—"

"Yeah, I see it, JARVIS. Thanks. Hey, Pepper."

Tony slipped back inside his lab to find it completely unchanged from when he stepped out to text you minutes before. Over by the largest table in the room stood one of his closest friends, her hand on her chin as she observed the enormous holographic tower blueprint hovering mere inches from her face. Pepper looked up, however, when she heard him speak her name.

"Yes?" she asked.

Tony held up his cell phone. "Heard back from [Name]. She's agreed to meet me a little earlier than we planned this morning, so..."

"So let me guess: You want to me to fetch myself a clean toothbrush and make myself scarce before she gets here."

"Exactly. Minus the toothbrush. I think I've gone through the bulk supply you got me."

Pepper cocked her head to one side and regarded him in that way that only she could. Tony felt as though he were being x-rayed for any inappropriate motivations for skipping out on a business meeting. Then:

"All right," she said, picked up her purse off the floor, and swung it over her shoulder.

"Thanks." Tony opened the door for her before her acceptance hit him. "Wait. That's it?"

"What's it?"

"No argument? No snide remark about my behavior around women? No reminder that the board of directors is out for blood and no amount of garlic will keep them away from me?"

"Tony, you're a grown adult. You don't need me to remind you to do your homework, or wash behind your ears, or to not mix colors when you do the laundry."

"Actually, a reminder for the last one every so often probably wouldn't go amiss."

"Besides," Pepper went on, without acknowledging she'd probably seen his handful of newly-pink dress shirts waiting for ironing on her way to the lab, "we've done enough work this morning that I can let you play hooky the rest of the day. And I like [Name]. I think it's good that you're spending time with her."

"You do?"

"Well, not if my saying so makes you want to spend less time with her. What?" she added when Tony snorted.

"Nothing. She thinks I'll do whatever you say to make you happy. You think I only do the opposite of what you say to drive you crazy. I just can't please anybody, can I?"

"Why does [Name] think you always do what I tell you?"

"Probably something to do with you being so desperate for some peace and quiet that you're willing to send me all the way across the country."

"Is that what you told her? Tony, you know very well that I want you on the clean energy project in Manhattan because you're the best man for the job."

Tony shot her a knowing look.

"And it would be nice to not worry so much about what you're doing in your retirement," she allowed.

"Well, whatever the reason, [Name]'s not crazy about me moving to New York just because you think it's a good idea."

"And her opinion matters to you?"

"Of course it does. I mean," Tony did not like the little smile on Pepper's face, "not as much as how much of a hassle it's going to be to move all my armor up there without anyone noticing. [Name] and I aren't anything serious. Once we're done with our project, she'll be glad to see the back of me, and I'll be ready to sing Sinatra whenever you say the word."

"Really." She didn't allow him to get a single word out to retort. "Be that as it may, I think it's sweet that you're helping her put together a photo gallery."

"Yes, real—who told you about the photo gallery?" Tony asked.

"Rhodey told me."

"Of course he did. Guess you got all my friends in the divorce," he grumbled.

Pepper's smile widened before she leaned in and kissed Tony once on the cheek, much to his surprise. "I'm just glad you're happy, Tony."

"Me, too. I'm glad you're happy, too. You are happy. Aren't you?"

"Yes, Tony. I'm very happy." She stepped into the hallway leading to the stairs at last. "And now I'm going to leave before [Name] shows up. Maybe I'll pick up some coffee for Happy on the way to work, since I have a little extra time."

"He'd like that. Goodbye, Pepper."

"Talk to you soon, Tony."

She vanished quickly up the steps. Tony listened as the sound of her heels faded to the floor level of the house, then disappeared entirely when she exited through the front door. Pepper was gone. For the first time in what felt like ages, he didn't feel bad about her going either. But he didn't have long to think about what might be behind this change in attitude. He had a few things to put together before you arrived.

******

Something was wrong. You couldn't put your finger on what exactly, but nothing around you felt real. Maybe you'd fallen asleep after you got to Tony's house, and everything since had been a dream. Perhaps you'd never arrived at your destination to begin with. Could it be you'd got knocked on the head by someone suspicious of your activities before you'd even left your own home? What were the chances that you'd simply died and somehow earned a happy afterlife?

You could not have asked for a more exceptional morning. The sun shone so brightly that your surroundings disappeared into a haze on the edges. Cool but not cold, you could smell the sea salt on the breeze without its scent overpowering that of the boxes upon boxes upon boxes of sugary doughnuts sitting in the back of Tony's pickup truck stationed in the lot of your favorite photography-taking park.

(Yes, Tony's pickup truck. A modest one, too. "What?" he had asked at your obvious shock at seeing something a normal person would drive pulled from his garage. "It's my getting-out-of-town-unseen car. Rhodey went camping last week, so I asked him to take the truck and not bother cleaning it when he gave it back.")

Around this plethora of breakfast treats gathered a crowd of people. Some wore exercise gear in pristine, eye-searing colors. Plenty others wore casual outdoorsy clothes. Most, however, wore a patchwork in varying colors of fading, gray, or dirt. All of them had been coming and going since you and Tony had set up camp—a few people more than once.

"Hey."

Caught daydreaming instead of paying attention once more, you looked up, hot-faced, to see one such gentleman standing in front of your table. He had on multiple layers of old clothing. The moment your eyes met his, he went on without waiting for you to acknowledge him:

"You saying I have to sign one of these before I can have another doughnut?" He pointed to a stack of permission forms resting on the table next to your elbow.

"Oh, no, sir!" You couldn't scramble out of your fold-out chair fast enough. "Please, take a doughnut! If there's a picture of you here and you don't want it to be used in my art gallery, then don't sign anything. You can just point it out to me, and I'll destroy all my copies of it as soon as I get home."

The man narrowed his gray eyes at the line of photographs on your table. You held your breath. He would not be the first person to yell at you that day, nor would he likely be the last. But you would keep your word and get rid of anything he told you to, whether the subject of the picture looked like him or not. After a few seconds, he snorted and rejoined the throng around the back of Tony's truck.

"Do you even have a picture of that guy?" you heard someone behind you ask. When you looked over your shoulder, you found Tony standing there. "That's about the sixth time he's come over here to ask...and the fifteenth doughnut he's left with," Tony added as the man headed off toward the public restrooms.

"Maybe he's not sure if he wants to give me permission yet. And it's not like you didn't bring enough food for everyone, plus some."

"I don't care how much food he leaves with. It's more about his tone. You're trying to help him out, but he clearly thinks you're up to something."

"I really don't mind. He has every right to be suspicious."

"Yeah, you really look like you're into something nefarious. Money laundering via doughnuts is a crime on the rise in this city, I hear."

"He doesn't know me from Eve," you said. "He might not even know that I took his picture, if I did."

"He could still quit accusing you of bribery."

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Tony, this was all your idea."

"Which just goes to show you that even I come with duds once in a blue moon."

"Well, I think it was brilliant. We need permission to feature the photographs, and now no one goes home hungry. It doesn't matter to me if no one else agrees to let me use their image. A small gallery is better than no gallery at all."

"You only think I'm brilliant. I've blinded you with my good looks and charm."

"I don't think that's it," you said with some feeling. "This really means a lot to me. Thank you, Tony."

"Anything to make you smile, Princess."

Something about Tony's mouth looked different when he used his nickname for you that day. This you could put a finger on: It wasn't his usual sardonic smile. He just grinned, causing your heart to jump straight into your throat. You swallowed it back down at once. What were you thinking? Of course it was still sardonic! If you waited around much longer, he'd probably follow it up with a suggestion to try out car sex in a pickup. Worse still, he might figure out how easily his smile made you weak at the knees. Then he'd pack up, drive away, and ruin an otherwise perfect day.

Before any of that could happen, you moved to put the plastic table between the two of you.

"Could you man the permission slips for a few minutes?" God, you hoped your voice didn't sound as high-pitched to him as it did to you. "I need to go talk to someone really quick."

You didn't wait to hear his reply, though you thought you heard a note of confused acquiescence from his general direction as you stumbled away from the horde jostling around his vehicle.

Away from all the people and noise, you could breathe a little easier. Strange how it took longer for you to get to that point nowadays—and how much more quickly you could come down from it. You slowed from a trot to a walk as you took several deep breaths in and out. Even the air smelled wonderful that day. Above your head, the sun didn't look like it had moved a single inch since your and Tony's arrival. At least another hour of joy lay ahead of you—and more literally ahead of you along the sidewalk you stood on lay the only person other than Tony that you wanted to see.

Gladys sat on a peeling park bench and didn't look up at your approach. A flock of scraggly brown birds hopped around her feet, peeping for and pecking at the remains of the doughnut she held in one gnarled hand. She threw another handful of crumbs without bothering to look up at you. This went on for a couple of minutes before you summoned up the courage to politely clear your throat.

"Hey," you said, a little awkwardly.

"Finally remembered I exist, have you?" was Gladys's reply.

"I never forgot you." You plunked yourself down on the bench next to her. When she didn't protest, you took that as permission to stick around. "I've been running the permission table. Thanks for spreading the word, by the way. I've got about twenty signatures thanks to you."

"Uh-huh."

Another few minutes passed in silence while Gladys fed the birds. You didn't speak up. Having someone to be with that didn't want to verbally spar all the time felt good...although you couldn't help sneaking looks over at Tony every handful of seconds. This your friend noticed. When you looked back at her for the sixth or so time, she had finished with the doughnut and now stared straight at you.

"What?" you asked.

"Guess I can't blame you for being distracted," she said. "That boyfriend of yours is pretty hot."

So were your cheeks after that comment. "He is not my boyfriend."

"Sure he's not. I may not be the smartest person you know, but I've seen a lot of children in love in my day."

"We are definitely not in love."

You must have said that in a convincing enough tone, because Gladys broke out into a loud laugh. "Just sex, then? I wouldn't have known you had it in you!"

"You and me both," you muttered, but this didn't put a dent in her smile.

"Good for you, [Name]. Good for you. He looks like Tony Stark, so he has to be pretty good in bed!"

"He—what?"

"You know, I wonder if he is Tony Stark. Sure looks like him. But you'd tell me if you were dating Tony Stark. Wouldn't you?"

"I can assure you she is not dating Tony Stark."

Once more, then man in question seemed to materialize out of thin air right in front of you. Even Gladys jumped at the suddenness of his appearance.

"Not that I'm offended by the comparison. He's a handsome man." Tony caught your eye, grinned, and added, "Would Tony Stark really be slumming around handing out free doughnuts with his side piece on his day off? I think his women are usually a little higher class than that. Sonny Frisco. Good to meet you," he added as he offered Gladys his hand.

"I suppose you have a point," Gladys said, eyeing the hand suspiciously.

Tony didn't press the point. Instead, he just handed her a small stack of doughnuts he had carried over. "Saw you were low on bird food over here, so I brought you some more. [Name] tells me that's your favorite activity."

"She does?"

"Yeah. She talks about you all the time. It's a real honor to finally meet you."

Gladys looked a little confused, but her suspicion was clearly evaporating rapidly. You could only assume that Tony had the same effect on most people, even when they didn't know who they were talking to. She took the doughnuts from him as she threw an incredulous look at you. Good grief. Alias or no, he couldn't suppress his charm. If you didn't act now, someone would figure out who Sonny Frisco really was.

"You've done a lot for me, Gladys," you said. "Are you sure you won't come to the gallery opening?"

But she had already gotten up to pack her extra doughnuts into her shopping cart. That was answer enough. "I'd just cramp your style. See you around, [Name]. And you," she barked at Tony, who straightened at once. "Even if it is just sex, you hurt this girl, you won't be welcome around here anymore. I don't care how good-looking you are. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am," he answered.

"Good. Thanks for the bird food."

Gladys bid you her normal farewell of a brisk nod before setting off down the path. You stood to watch her go. Though you hadn't expected Gladys to accept your invitation—she'd feel out of place, and any offer on your part to dress her up for the occasion would only offend her—you couldn't help but feel a little disappointed as you watched her go. Any aspect of your gallery that Tony hadn't provided, she had. It only seemed right for her to be there, too.

Did Tony sense your mood? He wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you closer. "She's really something, isn't she?"

"Yeah," you said. "She is."

It did not take long for Gladys to disappear from your field of vision. At least the weather would be good for her that night. After a moment or two of looking at the point at which she'd vanished, Tony kissed the side of your head and let you go.

"Ready to get back to work, Princess?" he asked.

You replied by breaking out of his grip and running back toward the table. A short respite had been all you needed. The more work you did, the better for Gladys—and the better for you. You had Tony all to yourself until your gallery was over and done with. While the day was beautiful, while he'd kiss you at random, and while you felt like you were lighting up from the inside, you wanted to keep going for as long as possible. Happiest girls were the prettiest girls, after all, and you had never felt more beautiful.

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sleep-i-ness · 1 year

Text

i love love love this!!!

siren song || - xavier thorpe

requested: yes! requests: open! second part of siren song!

A/N: thank you for the love on siren song! to read part one, click here! i hope you enjoy this part <3 i had to rewrite this considering i accidentally deleted it :')

wordcount: 4.736 warnings: xavier being a bad friend, curse words, slight memory loss, incorrect information about siren song probably, use of weed.

After finally convincing Bianca to use her Siren Song, you get some well-deserved peace in your head. How long does it take for Xavier to notice the changes?

"What?"

The question catches Bianca off guard, not something that happens a lot. Tears are staining your face as you sniff, trying to not start sobbing again.

"Hey, it's okay. Come in."

Her arm is placed on your shoulders as she guides you into her room, placing you on her bed before grabbing her desk chair, sitting next to you.

"What has gotten you so upset?"

You look down at your hands, biting your cheeks as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. You feel embarrassed to sit here, crying in the dorm of your friend that used to be Xaviers girlfriend, but you didn't know anyone that would know how you feel. No one except for Bianca.

"I think Xavier hates me."

"What?" Bianca exclaims shocked. "Why do you think that?"

If there is one thing that Bianca was sure of, it was that Xavier is completely infatuated with you. Even during their relationship, he still made sure to spend some time with you, and Bianca never cared. She trusted both of you, as you became her friend when the relationship was going on. When the couple broke up, your friendship watered down a bit, but you were still both friendly.

"We just had a fight," you whisper. "He never yelled at me like that. Never."

She hands you a tissue, breathing in deeply.

"He has been ignoring me for weeks. He became so obsessed with Wednesday that he did not have any time for me. She- she asked him to the Rave'n and then he found out that she just used him," you ramble. "I asked him to come with me, not even as a real date, but just so he wouldn't be alone. And then he totally ditched me there the second Wednesday came in. The worst thing is, she doesn't even like him. She told me."

How stupid can a boy be? Bianca grits her teeth, shaking her head.

"He is dumb. If there is one thing that he should do, it's to get his head straight. I can't believe that he would do this. Especially after all you have done for him!"

"What if I just become more like Wednesday? I- I can braid my hair? I will even learn to play the cello. He- He said that she was better than me... That I just bother him. Am I too obsessed or- or annoying?"

Even Bianca's heart breaks at that point. The tears are rolling down your face again as you still don't dare to look up at her.

"Am I really that bad of a friend?"

"No!" Bianca immediately responds. "No, Y/N, if anything, you are a great friend. Too good for him. You don't need to be Wednesday to be better. I think she is too emotionless for her own good."

"I wish I was that way," you sigh. "Please, Bianca. If I tell you that I really want it, can you really not use your Song?"

Bianca takes a deep breath, her leg bouncing up and down. Her eyes fall down to the amulet around her neck. It is very against the rules to use her Siren Song, it is something that could get her in a lot of trouble. But, at the same time, she knows exactly how you feel. Xavier is just someone who deserves love, yet he doesn't know how to act around it when someone is literally handing it to him on a silver plate.

Her heart tells her to help you, to give you everything you deserve, but she knows that she also needs to think about the possible consequences. Though your grades have been slipping and your mood has been down for a while now as well. So many factors.

"Y/N, I really don't know."

"What if I consent to it? Surely that must be fine. I- I will sign a contract, even. Write it myself. I- Even only thinking about doing this for me would already be enough."

You must genuinely sound so annoying now, but you know that this will help.

"Why won't you try talking to Kinbott first?"

"I just need something... Something that will work immediately. A Siren Song can always be undone, right?"

"I'm not sure about that," Bianca grimaces. "It's hard, Y/N. I promise you that I will think about it. Just... Try and get some rest, okay?"

You had spent the rest of the weekend laying in bed, napping or reading, and sometimes you would head to the Quad to get something to eat. Kent made sure to try and cheer you up, which did work to an extent. You appreciate having a friend like that.

Even from the distance you sit at now, you can still see the figure of Wednesday Addams, sitting alone at her table while writing something down in her notebook. Ajax waves Xavier over to get him to sit at your table but is quickly rejected as the long-haired boy decides to sit with Wednesday. She looks up with the deadliest of looks, though it doesn't seem to phase him at all. Can't he see?

Bianca looks out from the second level of the Quad, spotting both you and Xavier. Not one word is exchanged, though your body language speaks for itself. Your shoulders are slumped and even though Kent tries his hardest to make you laugh, it isn't enough.

Seeing you so upset about someone who doesn't deserve it makes her feel bad. Even in her relationship, she felt like you were more important to Xavier, and that is something she just... Accepted. She never blamed you for it, as Bianca could never really trust Xavier either. But the feelings he has for you are totally real.

After that dinner, you retired back to your room. Yoko would be hanging out with Divina anyway. Just as you let yourself fall on your bed, you hear a knock on the door.

"Coming!"

You kick your bag underneath your bed before walking up to the door, opening it to reveal a Bianca behind it.

"I will only do it after you agree to all the consequences."

She walks in as you close the door behind her, trailing after her.

"You're serious?"

"You deserve to have some peace, Y/N. God knows I wish someone could have done this for me when I was in your situation. I will tell you every consequence," Bianca looks at you sternly. "And I have some conditions."

"Yeah- Yeah totally."

Bianca sits down at your desk, handing you a pen and paper.

"You are to write down that you agree with the Siren Song. I can't just use it whenever I want. Principal Weems will have my head if she finds out."

"Anything, Bianca."

You start writing, still listening to the siren as she explains everything.

"I can genuinely not say if I am able to undo the Song. There is a high likelihood that it will not return to you and Xavier being best friends. I also do not know what to do if this news ever reaches Weems. No one knows that we are planning to do this, no one except for us."

"I promise you, I will take all the blame," you nod, a weak smile on your face. "It is the least I can do."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" She looks at you, her eyebrows stuck in a frown. "It's not something small. You deserve much better than how Xavier acts now."

"I- Yeah. I thought about it all day yesterday. I just... I want to. I promise."

You hand her the paper in neatly written handwriting.

I, Y/N Y/L/N, fully consent to the use of the Siren Song by Bianca Barcley. I have willingly agreed to be under the influence of the song for as long as I wish. All punishments that are given for using the Siren Song are punishments I will take over. Bianca Barcley is not to be lectured nor punished for her actions.

Underneath it is your handwriting, together with the date of today. Bianca takes a deep breath, nodding as she reads it over and over again.

"What exactly... Is it that you want me to do? You just... Want to forget him?"

You nod.

"I was thinking that... I don't want to be scared of him, I just want to stay out of his way. If that makes any sense?"

"Xavier Thorpe will be the one you forget, from now on his name will stop sounding in your head," Bianca mutters, trying to practice whatever she will say. "Distance is something that you will keep, he will not be the reason as to why you... Weep?"

You will forget Xavier, make sure to keep your distance, and not cry over him. You do feel guilty for making Bianca use the Siren Song on you, but in your eyes, it feels like the only way out.

"I think you will just return to how it was before you met Xavier," she then nods. "I will try to make sure that you will not get too close to him again, but I can't promise anything. If you have feelings for him now, you might just... Start liking him all over again."

"I just need to forget," you say, handing the handwritten note to Bianca. "Thank you so much, Bianca."

"This might be the first time I feel guilty for using it," she laughs nervously. "But, you deserve it. Truly. Xavier just needs to get his act straight. He loves you, he's just dumb."

You don't fully believe her. You want to, but you can't. You truly thought that he liked you back, that he was also interested in you. But now you were not even sure if he liked you as a friend anymore.

"Ready? You will probably be sleepy after this."

Trembling hands and nervous sighs.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Bianca nods, pulling the necklace off of her neck. She closes her eyes, holding your hands in hers.

"Xavier Thorpe will be the one you forget, from now on his name will stop sounding in your head. Distance is something that you will keep, he will not be the reason as to why you weep."

You had woken up with a slight headache. Your limbs are still sore from the Rave'n dance, but that can't stop you. Not that you remember a lot of it; they must have spiked the drinks. You pick up your bag from under the bed, emptying it out before filling it with everything you need for the day. After finally finding all your books, pens, and notebooks, you exit your room.

"Hi, guys!"

With a big smile, you greet your friends, plopping down in between Kent and Bianca. You had gotten a sandwich from the dining hall, trying to get some breakfast in before your first class.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Kent snickers. "You're up before me most of the time."

You shrug, taking a bite of your sandwich.

"I was so tired," you mumble, wiping your mouth with the napkin. "I'm still sore from all the dancing!"

Ajax and Enid soon also join the table as Enid huffs.

"I feel like the paint is still in my hair," she complains. "I mean, it was a good post for my blog, but that dress was my favorite dress ever! "

You let out a chuckle, closing the sandwich container before placing the leftovers in your bag. Yes, the paint was a pain to get out of your hair and your dress has also been stained, but the rest of the evening went splendidly.

After fifteen minutes, the first bell rings, signaling that classes are to start in only five minutes. You sling your backpack onto your back before standing up from the table.

"You ready for Botany?" Bianca smirks.

"Well," you sigh. "Can I use your notes? I can't find any of mine from the last three weeks. I don't know what I did during class, but I know that there is a test coming up and this is not my best subject."

Bianca's smile falters for a second, realizing that you really don't remember a lot about Xavier anymore.

"Yeah, you can sit with me. Might be the easiest anyway."

You nod, entering the class as you greet miss Thornhill. She had already placed some strange plants in the front of the classroom as other students slowly entered the classroom.

Some students already picked a spot, including Wednesday. She is placed next to another person, hair to his shoulders and a frown on his face.

"Good morning, Wednesday!"

You sit down on the opposite side of Bianca as she and the boy sit between you and Wednesday.

He feels familiar. It is almost like he was in a dream. Like you accidentally bumped into him once or twice, only seeing him in your classroom once in a while. It's like the lingering smell of perfume when someone walks past you, or when you see a half-erased line of pencils on a page. He is mesmerizing, yet extremely intimidating. It is almost like you can't rip your eyes off of him, but you are also too scared to keep looking.

Bianca gives you a look before placing her notebook in front of you, making sure that you can read all of it as Thornhill starts talking. You try to write down all she says, making small sketches of the flowers and plants she shows while also trying to write down all the notes from the last few weeks.

"Alright, so, I will be expecting the essays about the Ghost Orchid and at least two more carnivorous plants. No maximum amount of words, but at least 450 words per plant."

Thank God for Bianca's notes. Without those, you would have actually failed this.

"I think I'm going to be doing my homework in the Nightshade library," you whisper to the girl. "I really need to get started on this."

After writing down the last few sentences, you drop your pen. Your hand is cramping from all the writing and your fingers are covered in ink. Only Biology and one hour of fencing left and after that, you were going to sit with the Choir Club, even though you're not a member. You would often hang out with them, sitting on a bench nearby while waiting for your friends to finish. You yourself were actually in the Art Club, but you tend to hang out with other clubs on days that you didn't have any.

A small break after Botany, just long enough to grab a hot drink from the dining hall before getting dressed in your fencing suit again.

"Bianca? You want to team up?"

She raises an eyebrow, smirking while grabbing a saber, switching it from hand to hand.

"I thought you would never ask."

"I can use some competition. And improvement."

Bianca won. Not once, not twice, but five times. You groan as you end up on the floor again, the tip of the saber pointing to your chest. You hold up your hand before pushing yourself up.

"We get it," you let out a laugh before pulling the mask off of your head. "I'm going to need a break."

She holds out her hand, helping you get up before taking her own mask off. The two of you walk towards one of the small wooden benches that sit against the wall of the room, grabbing a bottle of water before cracking it open, and taking big sips.

Everyone else is still training, the clanking of sabers and the sound of shoes against the mats filling up the classroom. You let out a big sigh, pushing some strands of hair out of your face.

"I don't know if I will ever fight you again," you mumble.

"You're getting better," Bianca laughs, closing the bottle back up. "I have seen worse."

You look at everyone around you, some also taking off their masks to catch their breath as Coach walks around, giving out tips and advice where needed.

The boy with the long hair is here again, yet you still don't know where you know him from. Bianca sneakily looks at you, blinking before looking at Xavier. He acted like you weren't even there as he just fenced against Ajax. She does still think the two of you fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, but Xavier first needs to figure himself out. She knows he likes you; it is clear as day. But as long as he acts like this, he doesn't deserve you. Not at all.

Has he always just been in the background? It is like a ghost, you know that you have seen him, yet you don't know where or when.

"One more round?"

"I think I'll be heading to the library now," you tell Bianca. "I genuinely don't know what happened these last few weeks, but I am behind on all my homework."

Half of the Choir Club time has passed as they rehearsed their songs for Outreach Day. They were to perform when the new statue in the town square was going to be revealed. But you had more than enough homework to do.

"I might join you later," she sighs. "Some quiet would be nice."

You tell your friends goodbye before slinging your bag over your shoulder, hurrying down the Quad and into the small hidden hallway leading to the Poe statue. With two snaps you get in, making sure that the entrance is closed off again before going down the stairs.

Nice and quiet.

After around forty-five minutes, you hear some more rumbling. Ah, Bianca must be here. You have gotten a lot of work done, actually. The Ghost Orchid part of your essay is already done, now moving on to the Crimson Pitch plant.

"Hey, Bianca!"

The footsteps descend the stairs, but the figure does not belong to Bianca. The tall guy with long hair walks into the library, the one that felt like he lived somewhere in your memory. Your eyes grow big as you immediately throw everything back in your bag. You didn't know that he was a Nightshade as well.

You close your bag hurriedly. Something about him is so intimidating, but he is absolutely mesmerizing at the same time. Why are you so afraid of him? When walking out you accidentally bump into him.

"Sorry," you quickly mumble, running up the stairs before he can even reply.

Bianca is cleaning up when you get out of the library, so you run up to her. Luckily she is still there.

"Can I do my homework in your room? Yoko was inviting some friends to my dorm and..." You look around, making sure no one is around them. "That guy showed up again. The new one."

Bianca clenches her teeth, grabbing the last few papers before stuffing them in her bag, taking your arm to take you up into her room. She can't have Xavier mess this all up. You haven't been this happy in weeks.

You sit down against her bed, laptop on your lap as you are typing away. But the words are getting stuck, the same sentence being rewritten multiple times before finally getting one that slightly makes sense.

"Is he new?"

Bianca turns around on her chair, looking at you.

"Who?"

"The guy with long hair. He was in the Nightshade library. I- I didn't know if he was supposed to be in there because I wasn't sure if he was in our group."

Why does he have to be there at the exact same time as you? It almost makes the Siren Song useless. You might avoid him as much as you can, but he isn't under the spell.

"He's new."

"He's kinda pretty."

Bianca scoffs.

"Pretty weird. It might be best to stay out of his way, he needs to work on himself before making new... friends."

Xavier groans, dropping his bag on the floor. You had been fully ignoring him, but to be fair, he totally deserved it. He had noticed you sneaking into the library and his plan was to try and talk to you, but you had fled before he could get one word in.

He had called Ajax, asking him to come down to the library as soon as he could. Xavier spent some time sitting in the room, biting on his lips while bouncing his leg up and down. He really, really fucked up.

Rumbling of stones and footsteps.

Ajax shows up, slightly out of breath. He had ran here from his dorm. Xavier said that there was a big problem and if he was needed in the Nightshade library, it would probably be huge.

"What's up, man?"

"I fucked up," Xavier runs his hands over his face. "Like, really bad."

The Gorgon frowns, looking at his friend. Xavier looks stressed out, more than usual. His hair is messy, his eyes are red and he has big eyebags underneath his eyes.

"What did you do?"

The artist breathes in shakily, pacing around the room while fiddling with his hands.

"I have been a total asshole to Y/N," he mumbles. "I left her at the Rave'n, drenched in that paint, and then she went up to visit me. I wasn't only a horrible date, but I was an even worse friend."

"Xavier?" Ajax asks yet again. "What did you do?"

Xavier breathes out roughly, blinking while pursing his lips. He is too ashamed to say it, but he needs to tell someone. He needs someone to set him straight.

"I treated her like shit. I told her Wednesday was better than she is."

His friend gasps, looking at his friend almost disgusted. How could he have said that to her? After all those nights of the artist hanging out in Ajax's dorm, him smoking some weed while listening to his friend blabber on about how much he liked you, and then he does this?

"What the fuck? Xavier, you have liked her for years, why would you say that?!"

Xavier rubs his eyes. If anyone is disappointed, it's him. He was so in his head that he took it all out on you. Wednesday isn't better than you. He has liked you for the longest time now, and this just messed it all up. Xavier his mental health has been declining, especially now that he is also suspected of being some type of monster. But that isn't your fault. None of it is. You have always, always been there for him, and he just swept you to the side.

"I'm going to be honest, dude," Ajax looks at his friend. "I am really disappointed in you."

"As you should be," Xavier whispers.

"I'll help."

Xavier looks up, kind of shocked. For some reason, he expected Ajax to just abandon Xavier in the library, leaving him to fend for himself.

"Only if you promise to never do this again. Go to Kinbott more, try and talk about your feelings. Y/N never cared, you could show up crying at her dorm at three am and she would make sure that you're fine before she even thinks of going to sleep."

"Ajax- Thank you so much."

"Yeah, yeah. Just try to talk to her. I'm serious, Xavier. You might be my best friend, but this is not cool."

For the last two weeks, Xavier had tried to talk to you on multiple occasions. He even sat at your table, though Kent and Bianca were hovering around you, not even letting Xavier get one word in.

During Botany he tried to draw a butterfly, making it float in the air before it quickly gets swatted away by Bianca who just gives Xavier a disgusted stare.

During Fencing he walked up to you, wanting to ask you to train with him like you usually did, but you quickly darted away once you saw him coming for you.

He went down to the Nightshade library to wait for you, yet you never came.

What he did do was 'accidentally' bump into you. He would calculate when he had to stand up to go to class. The first thing you would put in your bag was your notebook, followed by your pencil case. After that you would close the zipper; his sign to stand up. After swinging the bag on your shoulder, you would walk off.

You accidentally bump into someone's back, making the bottle of water that they had in their hand fall.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

As you go to pick it up and give it back, you see the boy again. The boy that appeared in your dreams as if they were faint memories. The boy reminded you of ink splatters and the smell of freshly painted walls.

You quickly hand him the bottle, excusing yourself before finding your way to a picnic table again. He makes you nervous, and you don't know in what way. Bianca warned you for him, so all you could do was listen.

In your room, you had a collection of handwritten notes, asking you to meet up in the Nightshade library. You never did. Once you showed them to Bianca, she immediately shook her head.

"I don't know what else to do," Xavier furrows his eyebrows, "She just doesn't want to talk to me. I don't blame her for not wanting to, but sometimes she even completely ignores me. As if she doesn't even know my name. I tried everything."

Ajax takes a hit of his joint, his eyes tinted red before he blows it out of the window. The moon is lighting up Nevermore, its stars shining around it.

"Everything?"

"Yeah," Xavier responds. "I tried to talk to her, give her notes, even accidentally bumped into her. But, Bianca and Kent are just acting like bodyguards to her."

"If you want, I can try to talk to her tomorrow."

"You would do that?"

"Yeah," the Gorgon shrugs. "She still talks to me sometimes. Hanging out in the Quad after classes. I'll let you know how it went."

"Y/N! Hey!"

Ajax runs up to you, a big smile on his face before he pulls his beanie back down.

"Ajax! It is nice to see you again."

"What are your plans for today?"

Hm, what were your plans? You did really want to go to the Weathervane to get a drink, but considering it is a Thursday, you weren't too sure. There are no shuttle buses today, and walking in the chilly weather for twenty-five minutes didn't sound too appealing.

"I have some homework I still need to do. I was thinking of going to the Nightshade library to study. Want to join?"

The boy eagerly shakes his head, following you through the hall and down the stairs. The small table gets filled with books, pens, and notebooks. Ajax didn't really take a lot of homework, but he did provide some snacks.

The two of you talked about all different types of things. How he was planning on asking out Enid, how you expected Outreach Day to go, which homework you were doing, and much more.

"Can I maybe ask you something personal?"

You hum, looking up from your paper.

"Of course."

"I was just wondering," he awkwardly laughs. "What happened at the Rave'n?"

"I have no idea," you shrug. "I think there were some Normies who set off the sprinklers. All I know is that my dress is still stained and that, whatever it was, really burned my eyes."

Ajax frowns, what are you talking about?

"Yeah, no, I was there. One beanie destroyed," he chuckles. "But I meant more like... After the Rave'n. What happened?"

It is your turn to be confused.

"Well... I showered, tried to wash the stains out of my clothes, and then hung out with Bianca."

Do you just really not remember?

"What? No, Y/N, I mean... What happened with you and Xavier?"

Even more confusion spreads on your face as you put your pen down on the paper. What is he talking about? All you did was dance, drink punch, took a break, danced more, and then went to clean yourself from the sticky red paint. And who is he talking about?

"Who is Xavier?"

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

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