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imagine-shenanigans · 5 months

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Hands on my knees.

Now I'm thinking of an au because of the nasty coworker soap hidden camera thing. AU where some prick you slept with left a hidden camera in your apartment for a live stream on the dark web (shut up i know its cliche let me live) and its a 24/7 stream of your bedroom with audio.

And one of the boys is a frequent viewer, watches a stupid amount of the time they're on leave. Eats dinner while watching their favorite show, etc etc.

(Dark stuff and NSFW ahead warning.)

Soap is the one who is the most impulsive about it. He's the one who feels guilty about it until he covers his own hand in his cum while watching you play a game on your phone. It's an insatiable need at this point. Can't cum without thinking of the bonnie little thing on his computer screen. You said the word Soap out loud once while talking to a friend on the phone or going through a list and he came so hard he saw stars. Went back and clipped the audio, he has it saved on his phone with other words, just so he can hear you say his callsign. He feels just a little guilty after he cums to you doing stretches.

But that's the allure of it, the taboo, knowing he's a fucking freak but doing it anyway. And god does he love it. Honestly the guilt fades REALLY quickly when he realizes how long the camera has been there, bordering on months. Such a poor thing you are, so vulnerable, so sweet. You just need someone to protect you from the nasty men in this world. Need someone even nastier to do it.

He makes the impulsive decision to go to the pub you mention on the phone with a friend. He waits until you're just a little drunk and "accidentally" bumps into you. Makes himself as charming as possible, smiles and laughs with you, until youre bringing him into your home. He positions you just right so the camera can see (he's recording the stream at home) and makes you as loud as possible, tongue laving over your inner thighs, leaving searing bites anywhere he can reach like he's claiming you.

(He is.)

He makes sure the camera gets a perfect shot of him cumming inside of you without protection. Hooks his fingers into your mouth so you can't stop the sounds you're making. He licks the drool from your chin and up into your mouth. Spends hours making you cum your brains out when he's not using you, well past the point of overstimulation by the time he settles, leaving you a hiccupping and sobbing mess as he rubs soothing cream over you, cuddling you to his chest so that this time, the camera can't see you at all.

He gives a peace sign to the camera after you fall asleep, and says "Alright ye bloody animals, shows over." before breaking the thing. Shoves it in the middle of your kitchen garbage before washing his hands and crawling back into bed with you. He sets up a new camera by the next morning, this one just for himself.

(and, if he releases clips of you two fucking online, that's between him and the rest of the god forsaken fucks on there.)

Price is shameless about watching you.

He knows he's going to hell, what's one more sin along the way? He indulges himself far more than any of the others. The silence gets to him when he's on leave, and what better way to fill it than with a pretty/handsome thing going about their life? He spends pretty much every waking and sleeping minute with his laptop open to your feed, watching you go about your day. It's mostly mundane, really, sick in nature but not a sexual thing for the most part. Of course, he gives his cock slow, languid strokes when he watches your hips eagerly buck into the vibrating toy you're using, whimpers falling from your pretty lips that John just wants to swallow whole. Too impatient for your own good, you need to be held down and edged for a good hour.

It's that thought that sends him spiraling.

How much better oof you'd be if you just had him to take care of you. Such a shame a nasty, terrible man put a camera in your room - he'll fix that.

He ends up moving into the flat/house next to yours when it mysteriously comes available. He really wants a cute little spouse to come home to - really wants to sit them on his cock until theyre crying and begging him to move. (And if he can get them to call him daddy, well, wouldn't that be a sight?)

He takes the longest out of all the boys, ends up being the model neighbor, coaxes you out like a feral little animal until you're spending more time in his place than your own. He hates that so many people (mainly men, his main issue is the men) can see you at any given time. Can take what should be his. So he waits until you're out for work one day and he uses the spare key you gave him (so trustingly, honey you shouldn't give things to strange men like him. He'll bend you over his knee until you learn your lesson.) and he sneaks into your room and moves the camera just a bit after disabling it. Just enough so its more noticeable in the light.

(If he steals a pair of panties, well... he does.)

And when you come crying and shaking to his doorstep later, he breaks the thing in his hand, and chucks it before he ushers you into his place and coos at you as he fingers you in his lap, edging you as you work through all those big emotions :( Poor baby, he's got you now, no need to be so scared, he'll get you nice and needy and then fuck you until you're brainlessly drooling into his pillow. He'll even be so kind as to slip his ring on your finger too, just to make sure you know he's not going to let anyone else have you anymore. That he'll make sure you're safe from now on, isn't that nice pumpkin?

Gaz I'm still trying to figure out how to write but I think he'd see the stream by accident, he's not gone looking for it, and he feels sharp revulsion when he figures out what it is while looking for some other information. And he's taking note of all of the things in the room, desperately trying to piece together where you live so he can do the right thing and figure out how to tell you about the stream. Definitely not because he's interested, and sure it's taking him a few days and repeated visits and- well, okay, you have this cute thing you do and- okay he's not... well he knows he's being a creep, but he's doing it for the right reasons. Totally. He's not... he's not being weird for no reason like some of these other creeps. And yeah, okay, he jacks off to you now and then, it's not that big of a deal, he's a little lonely and he's a little desperate okay?

He tells himself he's gonna quit, that he's not going to do anything, but then suddenly he's in your town on his leave, and he's putting himself in your path at every given opportunity. Of course, by then he's long since accepted he's being a real fucking freak by what he's doing, but doesn't he deserve something nice? Don't you?

And sure, okay, it's a huge ego boost when you do look at him and flush, when you try to collect your thoughts when you hear his voice. He smiles prettily at you and it all sort of spirals from there, until he's well and truly charmed you. He drops hints about the camera, but nothing directly implied. He finds a story on the news app on his phone about something similar and cringes, pretending like he isn't STILL watching the live feed of your apartment when he's in his own. Says something about how only a real freak would put a camera in someone's house. Good thing you've never done that to his place and he laughs, because he's never been to yours yet so you take it as a joke.

Weeks later, when you're doing a clean of your apartment, you find the camera and call him, and he comes over and hugs you, coos that it's probably not even plugged in, just some dick trying to scare you. He helps you run through who it could possibly be that did it, until he's given the dude's full name and address online.

He gives the camera a shit eating grin over your shoulder, looking directly into it even though you haven't pointed it out yet.

He presses a kiss to your forehead and offers you stay at his place for the night (when he really means forever.) He makes sure there's no cameras around you ever again.

Ghost is... the worst of them. In his own special way.

Assuming he isn't the one who put the damn thing in your room, he's definitely a regular on some of the grossest sites known to man, half out of sheer morbid curiosity, and half because he sometimes does end up finding things he likes. Your stream isn't the first he's watched, but it is the first he stays for. There's something about you that mesmerizes him. He ends up visiting the stream more and more until he's pieced together where you live and what your general schedule is. It takes a few months, but he wants you for himself - nothing else will do.

There's no preamble, no game that's played like the others. He forges a passport and documents and gets everything set up, and you don't even know that you're about to go tumbling into his net. He's quick about it, when he gets into your apartment. Ends up tying you up nice and neat, arms behind your back and ankles to your thighs while you sleep. Leaves the gag for last, just for the thrill of you screaming (so he can punish you) when you wake up. He blindfolds you, and moves the camera for a better view before flicking the lights on. He wakes you up with a slap to your ass, feeling himself grow hard as you panic. He cuts your clothes off with a knife, tells you not to squirm, and when you do and he knicks you, he just tuts and tells you that you shoulda known better.

Licks the blood from your skin with his mask rolled up before he pulls it back down (just a plain balaclava). He ends up hoisting you up so you're on your knees, positions you perfect for the camera to see, and fingerfucks you nice and fast, one hand on your throat to keep you upright, the other pitoning in and out of your hole. He makes sure to hit your g-spot/prostate every single time when he finds it, sets an absolutely brutal pace that has your tears leaking through the blindfold. When you get close, he bullies your clit/cock, moving fast and hard until you're screaming and you collapse. He tells you this is your fault, for trusting some prick and not even checking your own home.

Lines his cock up with you and doesn't prep you any further, only one orgasm and a little bit of finger fucking not nearly enough to prep you for what he's packing. He ends up fucking you hard, and fast, and brutal, still pumping your cock/rubbing your clit through the whole thing, not caring for anything but how you cry and squeeze so tight around his cock. He lets you heave sobs when he finally cums inside, no protection, and he pinches your nipples painfully hard to get your attention. When he's sure he's got it, he warns you not to let him drip out of you. Never tells you to stop crying, but tells you if you scream or try and get away, you will not like the punishment. He takes the gag out and you try to wriggle away, so he puts the gag back in while you try and apologize, ask for a second chance, and he just puts you on the floor, angles the camera just so, and takes the blindfold off. He tells you exactly how long he's been watching, how many people he sees in the stream at any given time, and then he ties a vibrator to your clit/cock and sets it on the highest setting it can go. He tells you to give the boys a good show before you retire from your acting career, and presses a kiss to your forehead through the mask.

He gives you an hour alone with your fans while he packs your stuff into the boot of his rental car.

#soap cod #ghost cod #cod #price cod #gaz cod #dark fic #mod strawberry #strawberry writing #if theres any mistakes no there isnt close your eyes #i typed half of it on mobile during work until i got too worked up and i had to set my phone down #smile emoji #im mentally unwell teehee sparkles

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rebeliz7 · 9 months

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LIHO ROMANOFF

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader x Liho

Word Count: 523

Request: Nat fluff idea: adopting Liho and not expecting the cutest reaction ever from the emotionless assassin

…

“Moment of truth, little guy.” You tell the fluffy ball sitting next to you on the couch, when you hear soft steps outside the front door announcing your wife’s arrival.

The kitty looks up at you, meows a tiny little sound but doesn’t move from his sitting spot next to you. You smile at the sight of him, your heart fluttering at how adorable he looks.

Keys jingle on the door and you look up, your heart now fluttering with nerves. You and Natasha have never discussed adopting a pet, and you have no idea how she’ll react when she finds this little guy on the couch.

Finally, the door opens and your wife walks inside. You watch in anticipated silence as she puts her keys in the bowl, then takes her shoes off and puts them in the small closet in the hallway, and then finally looks at you.

“Hi.” She smiles, a soft smile taking over her lips as she picks up her hair in a ponytail. “What’s up with you?” She asks when you remain silent.

“Nothing. Hi.” You shake your head, and laugh awkwardly. She frowns, her eyes adopting that analytic look she gets when she knows you’re lying.

“What is it?” She asks carefully, while she takes cautious steps closer to the living, and you.

“Well, you see--I--”

“Oh my God!” She clamors, hands on her mouth and chest, and eyes widening. “What is that?”

You close your eyes, your hand falling softly on the little cat next to you protectively as Natasha kneels on the carpeted floor in front of the couch.

“He’s the tiniest little thing.” She says, and your brain comes to a halt because--because Natasha is -for all serves and proposes- melting, right in front of you both.

“Someone threw him in the garbage.” You tell her, and she looks up at you with teary eyes and her chin trembling.

“Who would do that?” She asks with a trembling voice, and you reach out to cup her face.

“I don’t know.”

“How could they?” She asks, while reaching for the little guy and rubbing behind his ears.

The kitty begins to purr and his eyes lazily fall close under her ministrations. You were ready to plead your case, but it looks like you won’t need to convince Natasha to keep the little fella in your home.

“Oh my God.” She says, while taking a deep breath and taking your hand with her free one. “Can we keep him?” She asks you, and you melt too.

She might be even more adorable than the cat itself.

“If you want.” You shrug, and she smiles before leaning forward to kiss you quickly.

“We should call him Liho,” she says with a glint in her eyes, and looking so excited.

“Liho Romanoff.” You test it out, making her laugh and earning another kiss from her.

“Welcome home, Liho Romanoff.” She tells him, right before kissing his fluffy little head.

Who would have thought, certainly not you, that she’d become puddle in the paws of such a fluffy little thing.

You really did marry a good one.

…

PART 2

...

#natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #black widow imagine #black widow x reader #fluff

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shieldofiron · 26 days

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Dare Me

Frat Boy Stevie is life! Also on AO3!

Steve's mouth tasted like bad decisions and garbage. He groaned, rolling his head further into his pillow like an animal burrowing into the ground.

The hand around his waist answered by pulling him a closer, which sparked something in his brain. His body felt a little sore in some interesting places.

Of course his first thought was about Billy. It wasn't that uncommon for him to wake up like this after a night out at some gay bar, trying to lose his pointless crush on the dance floor.

But this was different. His sheets didn't smell right. His hair didn't smell right, not like his hairspray.

The night came back in bits and pieces, in between waves of nausea.

It had been Jason's idea, and Tommy was just sober enough to drive them through the night to the lights of Vegas, chanting their frat's chant whenever he started to get tired. Steve'd been stuffed in the backseat next to Billy, trying to ignore the searing heat of his thigh, the way he looked at Steve over his cell phone, blue bedroom eyes lit by the glow of his dating apps. The way he called Steve Bambi, all low and lilting. Smoother than tequila.

Drinking came easy, and besides, it was Vegas. Of course they got smashed, fighting their hangovers with more and more. Though the thought of taking even one sniff of alcohol now made him want to hurl.

Last night they'd been at some... show or something? An Elvis impersonator, he remembered that, and a woman in a showgirl outfit. He remembered crawling into the fountain at the Four Seasons and almost losing his Tau Sigma hat for... something.

The man next to him groaned, pulling Steve even closer and burying his face in the back of Steve's neck.

A name, he really needed to remember a name, but all that was coming forward was Billy... Billy in the fountain, laughing with his pant legs rolled up. Billy in the backseat of an uber, in the dark. Billy talking to Elvis, all blue bedroom eyes. Billy...

Oh no.

Steve shot up, swallowing against the urge to throw up.

Billy groaned, his hair sticking up in a frizzy halo around his head.

"Billy get up!" He shook at Billy's bronze shoulder.

"Five more minutes, baby, I'll make you breakfast."

Steve huffed, opening his mouth to reply before he bolted out of bed to throw his guts up.

He caught a glimpse of a cheap gold looking ring on his finger as he knelt down on the tile and let it rip, almost jumping when he felt a hand softly rub his shoulder blades.

"Billy," He groaned miserably, head hung in the toilet bowl, "We got married."

"What?"

Steve shoved back from the toilet, practically falling into Billy's arms, "I think we got married last night."

"Holy fuck, dude," Billy's brow furrowed, and then his eyes widened and he stared at Steve. Blue bedroom eyes. The whole nine yards.

"Do you remember anything?"

Billy's eyes slid to the ground, "Uh..."

Steve rubbed his hands over his face, "Oh my god, Billy. Fuck."

"Let's go back to bed. I'll order room service."

"Why are you not freaking out more?" Steve covered his eyes, "Billy I'm so fucking sorry."

"What are you sorry for, Bambi?"

"I just... I must have... dared you do do this or something. I'm so fucking sorry." He jerked away from Billy, scrambling against the tub.

Billy frowned, "And what makes you think I didn't do this... on my own."

"What do you mean?"

Billy just stared down at him, licking his lip, "Bambi..."

Steve shook his head, just a little, not understanding.

"Why would you have dared me?" Billy asked, cocking his head to the side.

"I mean, obviously... it's a j-joke or something."

"A joke?"

"No I mean...." Steve ran his hands through his hair.

"You like me, Bambi?" Billy smiled, and Steve's stomach dropped to the cold, nasty tile floor.

"I... I just mean..."

"Because I like you. Obviously."

Steve shifted, bumping into the bathtub.

"Don't fuck with me." Steve said softly.

Billy crawled closer. His eyes darted over Steve's face, blue gone electric in the shitty bathroom lighting.

"I'm not fuckin' with you."

Steve backed as far as he could against the tub, "You're not mad."

Billy shook his head, taking Steve's jaw in his hand, "I could never be mad at my husband."

Steve shivered, "Don't kiss me I just threw up."

Billy smiled, and his eyes lit up like the lights of Vegas, "Dare me?"

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #shieldofiron #billy x steve #steve x billy #my writing #vegas wedding baby!#Harringrove

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veritable-trash · 11 months

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maybe it's never truly over

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader(nickname used but no descriptors!)

Summary: It's been a long time since you've seen each other. For you it hasn't been long enough but for Miguel things are a bit more complicated.

Word Count: 1K

Rating: E - for eventual smut, friends to enemies to friends to lovers i think??? this chapter is tame just seeing if people are interested in what i might decide to cook up <3 :)

A/N: alright alright alright like literally everyone i watched spiderverse and have now descended into the black hole of being obsessed with every character from that movie but this one right here????? yes yes i like him very much. anyways wrote this for fun think i might try another series and see what comes of it. this is not sticking to any canon(lol miguel would be PISSED but this is my multiverse bitch!) because there's such a depth to his character that i want to just play with in this story potentially.

anyways if you like this little intro and want to read more and see where these two little weirdos spin their way off to reblog, send me thirsty thoughts about this man, comment to your heart's content about how his body is shaped like a dorito and i want to eat HIM!

also @dameronscopilot wrote an absolute SPICED piece for Miguel so go read that now if anyone sees this!!!!!

enjoy :)))))))))

masterlist weeeeeeeee

~~~~~

There was something different about today.

Air shimmering like it was about to crystallize and crack at any given moment.

Like the world was gonna stop all of a sudden and dissolve into some weird cosmic puddle.

But not for you. Never for you because even when things felt like they were about to snap, crackle, pop, your life tended to stay a bit boring. It had been a long, long time since you’d felt any kind of twinkle in your life, and you didn’t mind it. The last time things had fizzled like that you’d been left a bit shattered yourself.

Even still, the niggle at the nape of your neck wouldn’t let up. even the sidewalk seemed to wobble under your feet as you traversed the packed streets of Nueva York. Your palms can’t help but start sweating, heart kicking up its pace as the people around you seem to crowd and crowd and crowd.

Alley. You need to find an alley and fucking breath.

You turn in fast on the tight corridor, the smell of garbage helping to clear the dizziness in your head but it still isn’t gone. The feelings still there. Why won’t it just fucking leave you-

“Lyla I got it. Just check the other dimensions and report back to me I haven’t seen any signs of them here.”

And now you know why this an entire day has been like walking through jelly.

Because the second Miguel O’Hara turns around and sees you, everything absolutely shatters.

It’s been years, maybe over a decade since he’s seen you, but you’ve seen plenty of him. The magazines, the news, online, every god damn street corner of this godforsaken city conveniently reminds you of this Dorito-shaped dip shit man.

Nothing changes in his demeanor, to an unseasoned eye, but you remember Miguel from before. Gabe’s older brother Miguel, mama’s boy Miguel, your best friend Miguel, and his eyes can’t hide the things you know deep in his heart.

You don’t even know what to say. There’s nothing left in your brain, just him, still staring, but now from new heights, with new scars, and it scares the shit out of you.

And pisses you the fuck off.

“So what? You go radio silent for over ten years and now you’re gonna stalk me in some alley like creep? Very on brand Miguel but I thought you would have fucking grown up by now.”

His shoulders tense and you can’t stop the way your lips curve as you sense you’ve gotten to him, even if only a little. But then he’s turning away, slowly walking down the alley towards the brick wall and you realize he’s not going to say anything to you. That he’s going to just leave again without a single fucking word.

“Miguel if you don’t turn the fuck around right now and say something to me I will beat the shit out of you I swear to god. I know your weak spots don’t make me fucking use it!”

(it’s just under his ribs, but only on the right side)

“Bichito, pleas-“

“Don’t you dare fucking call me that. Don’t you fucking dare. You lost the right to call me that when you disappeared on me. Fuck you Miguel, honestly I don’t even have anything left to say to you just fuck off.”

This time his face face does crumple just a little bit and you preen at his pain. Suck it into your lungs as the boy who trampled your heart finally gets a taste of how you bled.

You turn back to the chaos of the street and throw yourself into the people, away from Miguel and all the bullshit, earth shattering happening behind you. It’s been a long time since you’ve needed Miguel O’Hara and it’ll be an even longer time before you come back around to his antics.

Probably never.

~~~~~

He fucked up.

Miguel didn’t know how he’d dropped the ball this hard, but he’d fucked up big time and for once it didn’t involve some stupid fucking multiverse drama.

It involved you.

You, the girl from down the block who used to wrestle Gabriel and make flower crowns out of the flowers growing between the cracks in the concrete.

You, the girl who stayed up till the sky started to turn pink again listening to him rant on and on about his shitty dad and his shitty life.

You, his Bichito, his little bug, his best friend, the center of what he thought was his tiny little universe so many years ago.

But he’d left that behind. Thought that he could find something else, find something better, finally be happy in ways he’d never even dreamed of.

And look at where it had gotten him.

He wasn’t ever supposed to run into you again. He was supposed to be vigilant, cautious, knew that running into you would derail him a thousand times over and he had bigger things to be focusing on. Multiverse-altering, dimension-destroying things to focus on.

Yet the universe had dropped you both in that alley and something deep in his chest rippled with feelings he couldn’t seem to find a word for. It was fucking terrifying and he wasn’t going to let it fester.

He had things to do. Universes to fix. An ever growing mantle of responsibility hanging of his shoulders.

A constant reminder of his fuck ups and the reality that he wasn’t going to let himself slip up again.

And yet as his claws carry him up and onto the rooftops of Nueva York, Miguel O’Hara has a terrifying suspicion that he may no longer be able to stay away.

~~~~~

hehehehAHAHHAHA god i love this twisted little sad sack man who just wants to be all rough and tough. anyways haven't written in ages and this character has gotten me at least sorta interested in writing so i just wanted to throw this out there, get something moving, even if i go back into dormancy for another millenia.

well heart eyes for you guys and forehead kisses for anyone who reads i hope your day is a dream <33333333333

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #oscar isaac characters #he is so hot yes yes yes he is so sad yes yesyes #previous tag was literally a little song and dance moment #anyways hot man i want him goodnight

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arroganceisherfavoritecolor · 3 months

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I will take ANYTHING with colin and/or rodrick (#I'm desperate i've read everything twice) Sorry if thats vague, but I'm like a garbage disposal and will take anything atp. Thank you if you look at this, have a great day/night!

Something about whats-her-name

"Mr. Heffley, whats got you daydreaming away in my class, hm?" Rodrick snapped back to reality, the brittle voice of his teacher shattering his thoughts about- wait... what was her name again? Oh, that's right, Y/n. Y/n L/n, how could he have already been in his 3rd year of high school and barely notice her? "Oh, sorry, it wont happen again" Rodrick said, like an idiot. The teacher simply rolled her eyes and went back to the lecture. As the teacher was talking, Rodrick went back to thinking of Y/n. Since they had just came back from winter break, Y/n must have moved her schedule around and ended up getting put into his 4th period English class. The seating chart app must have been on Rodrick's side when it was determining the new seating chart for the remainder of the year, because it had placed Y/n one person above him, but still in the row next to his, giving him a perfect view.

She was more than just gorgeous, more than ethereal, more than any word that Rodrick's pea-sized brain could come up with. She wasn't like all the other girls Rodrick had liked in the past, most of them quite prissy and rude. But Y/n? Y/n was cool, stylish and you could tell she was NOT just another brick in the wall. Although she was seen hanging out with Heather and her goons sometimes, you could tell she was nice. Rodrick knew she had an amazing personality, and he wasn't just saying that because he was totally head over heels for her. Every time he saw her from across the campus during lunch, she had that gorgeous smile of hers on her face. When he had asked his friends about Y/n, they had only good things to say about her. After a few weeks, Rodrick decided he HAD to get to know her, so he set up a plan.

Rodrick had came to the conclusion that he was going to throw a party that weekend. Since his parents and youngest brother would be gone, Rodrick felt it was the perfect (and probably only) opportunity to throw a sick ass party and impress the girl of his dreams. He sent out a group text in his schools group chat, which soon got screenshotted and posted on various social networking's. Most of the time, Rodrick didn't give a damn about what his peers thought of him. He had gone through all 11 years of school being seen as a dorky, emo weirdo. But now that Y/n was in the picture, Rodrick gave every damn and a bag of chips. He knew this kickback of his had to be off the hook, it was really his only chance to get Y/n to fall for him.. because y'know, he cant just go up to her and ask for her number or something... boy logic.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

The Heffley household was PACKED. Teenagers coming in like ants marching. 30 minutes after the party started, Rodrick chose to stop answering the door, and just leave it wide open. People were drunk, some partying it up inside the house, and others passed out in the yard. As he surfed through seas of people, Rodrick made his way to the backyard. There, he saw Y/n sitting on the porch, alone. He opened the sliding glass door, feeling the fresh air on his skin. Y/n turned around, eyes widened. They soon softened when she saw Rodrick. He stood there, looking down at Y/n. She smiled, scooting over to make some room for Rodrick. He smiled, sitting down next to her. Finally, he broke the silence. "So... am I interrupting something? Or are you only out here 'cus my party's lame?" Y/n smiled, Rodrick swore he could feel his pupils dilate. "Nah, of course not. It just really stuffy in there, needed a breath of fresh air." She broke eye contact with him, looking down at her drink. Rodrick saw it wasn't even beer, it was Coke. As he continued to stare at her, Rodrick realized that Y/n is even prettier up close. She turned her head to look at him, which made Rodrick snap out of his trance. "Is there something wrong?" Asked Y/n, her head cocked to the side. What kind of question was that? Of course there was something wrong. Rodrick is sitting outside with the girl hes been damn near stalking, ALONE, and he probably creeped her out because he can't keep his eyes off of her for two seconds. "No, nothing wrong. You're just.." Rodrick couldn't find it in himself to spit out what he so badly wanted to say. "I'm just what?" Y/n's eyebrows were furrowed, a confused expression on her face. "You're so beautiful" Oh shit. It just slipped out, he didn't even mean to say it. Her eyes were wide, her once confused face now turned surprised. "Oh- oh my god. I'm.. i-i'm so sorry Y/n i ju-" Rodrick's stammering of nonsense was cut off by Y/n's soft lips kissing his. Her hands found his face and thumbs gently began to stroke his cheek. Y/n pulled away, a sweet smile on her face. Rodrick's mouth was hanging open, speechless from what had just happened. "Whoa, okay uh, alright." Rodrick said, which made Y/n giggle, eyes scrunching up and sparkling. "I don't wanna sound conceited, but I know everything Rodrick. I can feel you staring at me during 4th period, I notice how you purposely walk by my table during lunch, I even see all the profile views you leave on my socials." With every word that came out of your mouth, Rodrick could feel his face getting warmer and warmer. "O-oh my god Y/n, I'm sorry." He covered his face with his hands, trying to hide the blush. You laughed and softly grasped his wrists, uncovering his cute face. Y/n looked into Rodrick's eyes, deep and dark and desperate looking. "I don't mind at all, Rodrick." She said, eyes switching from looking at his eyes to his lips. "Why didn't you ever talk to me sooner, Rodrick?" Oh lord, hearing his name coming from your voice sounded like music to his ears. "Well I mean, you're just so... I cant even think of a word. I guess I've just been intimidated by you, I didn't know how to approach you." Y/n's eyebrows raised. "Oh, is it because i'm just sooo scary and discouraging, that it took you 6 months to have a conversation with me?" Rodrick laughed, feeling the tension wearing off. "Well, I guess you cant be THAT scary since you just ate my face" Y/n rolled her eyes, gently slapping his arm. "Seriously though, I really like you Y/n, I know i'm a wuss for not talking to you sooner." Y/n smiled at him as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Kiss me again, Rodrick."

And so he did.

A/N: THIS IS NOT MY BEST WORK GUYS! Lowkey rushed bc school stuff lol (i'm dying inside) PLEASEEE request more stuff!! thank u so much for requesting @my-sibling-wears-a-muumuu !!

#rodrick heffley #rodrick heffley x reader #diary of a wimpy kid #doawk #rodrick x reader

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hentyehottie · 1 year

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i am so upset. we’ve been moots for like a month now and i haven’t come to throw some filth in your ask box yet 😩 buT it’s not too late!

alsO hI miya it’s nice to officially greet you 👉🏾👈🏾 i’m glad you enjoyed reading warm bodies! how are ya?

clears throat this is so long and i’m sorry but i like to ramble when i have ideas

So, I was lowkey just scrolling through your blog (i need to read more of your tasty ass work fr fr) and I noticed you reblogged a short fic about villian Kiribaku… A concept that has been untouched by my brain and was probably for good reason because now all I can think about is Red Riot the hardening villain who uses unbreakable to strike fear into civilians, heroes, and villains who dare to threaten his authority. Red Riot the villain is fucking huge and bulky and still has a smile of sunshine but a heart darkened by a selfish society. He honestly gives me Pain vibes, and idk if you’ve ever watched The Boys but I think he’d fit in perfectly with them, he definitely wants to kill heroes who don’t deserve to be called heroes.

Red Riot is very meticulous about the crimes he commits but there is one thing for sure— he loves a good fight. Doesn’t matter where the fight is or when it is, if there’s a fight brewin’ he’ll be there to find it. Also, random fact, he likes rocks soooo… he robs a lot of jewelry stores when he wants to add to his collection or he goes “shopping” at museums.

For example, big boy Riot has left the headquarters in search of a way to get his knuckles bloody, cruising around, looking for a hero to pick a fight with. Listen, even he’s got standards. He’s murdered a couple of people but never innocent ones, only heroes that don’t deserve their titles. And for that, he’s wanted by the Japanese government… Why’s he still walkin’ around like he’s some regular civilian though? I don’t even know. But… oh! Look at that, a hero.

The name of this hero doesn’t matter, he’ll scrapbook it later. A grin spreads across the villains face, a set of razor sharp teeth reveal themselves as he begins to approach the unsuspecting hero, following them to a more secluded part of the city to minimize witnesses as well as collateral damage.

This particular hero has quite a destructive quirk, so it’s truly no surprise that as soon as Red Riot attacks him, the hero begins to lay in blows that aren’t held back in the least. Indiscriminate waves of the disastrous quirk, that Red Riot easily dodges or blocks, cause nearly irreversible damage to nearby buildings, which no-doubt is putting civilians in even more danger than Red Riot’s presence alone. This is exactly /why/ he does the things that he does. With just one stupid fucking test, anyone could become a hero, even psychopaths like this.

As the hero is attempting to knock Red Riot down, the redhead villian doesn’t halter in anyway, getting closer and closer to the hero that looks like their about to shit their pants right in the alley. He’s nearly a foot away from the hero when he hears a blood-curdling scream that appears to be coming from above. He takes a moment to glance up and sees a woman plummeting to her death from the destroyed building that was just beside the alley. Then he looked back at the hero to see if he would do anything.

No. He was far too busy trying to keep his own ass safe. And for some reason, that pissed him off beyond comparison. He’d been holding back since the fight began, giving the hero a chance to defend himself, but it appeared time was running out. Hardening his fist, he aimed a blow directly to the hero’s face, satisfied with the sickening sound of flesh and bone breaking from the heavy punch, and watched the hero fly back into a pile of garbage bags, deserved.

With the screaming come closer and closer to where he was, Red Riot used the debris of the crumbling building to propel himself upwards and easily captured the woman who’d been falling, only then taking note of the bundle of life that she had protectively curled over. As they approached the ground, he hardened his legs and landed with ease, causing quite an indent in the earth.

While she’d been falling, hero eyes remained shut the entire time, but when she stopped falling, suddenly becoming hyper aware of her surroundings and the big strong arms that were wrapped around her rather protectively, she slowly opened one eye to take a peek at her savior.

In all his glory stood the infamous new Hero Killer, staring down at her with an arched brow on his handsome yet rugged face. The childhood scar on his eyelid had somewhat faded but fresh scars had been added to his face, a few nicks on his chin, cheek, and forehead, but they didn’t take away from his handsome appearance. He’d been wearing a red sleeveless hoodie, that showed off his muscular arms and a sleeve of ink that started from his right wrist, up the entirety of his arm, and disappeared under the hoodie no-doubt covering his right pec with a decorative tattoo, along with some plain black cargo shorts. His hair was spiked in the front and the rest flowed down his back in a mullet of sorts. She hadn’t realized she bad been silently staring at him in awe until he cleared his throat, asking if she was alright. Weirdly enough, she felt comfortable enough to answer him honestly, along with thanking him for saving her life. Unexpectedly, a cocky grin spread across his face and an idea came to mind.

“I’ve got other ways you can thank me, lil’ diamond.”

Next thing she knows, Red Riot aka Hero Killer 2.0 is mumbling some name that starts with a ‘K’ and a portal of purple smoke suddenly forms beside them out of thin air. Poor girl is basically kidnapped right then and there, but who woulda thunk Red Riot wanted a reward for taking down another hero and that reward just happened to be the lil’ milf who’d just dropped from the sky (or destroyed apartment building more specifically).

Don’t worry though, he may be a villain but he’s sweet and kind when he wants to be. And that includes taking care of you and your kid. Just like any normal abductee you question this motives and why’s he suddenly taken you from your home. He easily corrects you, saying that your home no longer existed and it was the manly thing to do to offer his surface to provide for you until you were able to get back on your feet.

(insert that one Soulja Boy audio where he says ‘HUH?!’ hella loud)

Why in the flying fuck would this man offer to take care of you? He had to have some kind of objective. But… to your surprise, he didn’t. In fact, you were free to leave whenever you wanted, and he made that clear.

Much to your surprise, Red Riot didn’t live in the LoV headquarters, he lived by himself in his own lil’ cabin in the woods that could easily fit a family or two. It was strange. You were thankful that he saved you and your baby’s life, but he was still a villain. A really, really handsome one at that. After his oh-so-caring suggestion, he mentioned if you wanted him to he would drive you back to the city and drop you off wherever you wanted to go. You dunno how it happened exactly but he’d been holding your baby while he was speaking to you, rocking the sleeping infant in his arms like he was their biological father. How was this man so fucking charismatic and sweet to you? He HAD to have some kind of ulterior motive.

Spoiler alert: yes, yes he did, but not the one you would expect from him.

Y’see… he’s always wanted a family. And here you were, dropped right into arms for the taking, and you didn’t seem to want to leave anytime soon, so he was going to use this opportunity.

A day turned into a week, a week turned into a month. And just as he promised, he took you out the house whenever you wanted and asked you each and every time if you wanted to be left in the city after your daily adventures (shopping and shit y’know, yes this man goes grocery shopping). But you always went back to his cabin with him, each and every time. Was this Stockholm Syndrome? No… couldn’t be, he openly told you to leave if you wanted to, then did that mean you were falling for the rugged mass-murdering villian? Looks that way.

As expected, the developing relationship between the three of you was not normal in the least, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He’d even introduced you to some of his buddies from LoV, only the ones he trusted tbh, and after that— you now had some willing and ready babysitters on call whenever you two needed.

Who wouldn’t abuse this opportunity? After some time convincing you, Red Riot, who had disclosed to you his real name was Eijirou Kirishima, managed to get you to go on a real date with him with just the two of you. And soooooo, ya did.

Who knew a villain could be so romantic? Certainly not you. He’d wined and dined you like his life depended on it and you were now putty in his hands. Perfect. The real games could begin.

He’s called a driver to take you both home and before you know it, Eijirou’s carrying you over the threshold like the two of you had just said ‘I Do.’

cracks knuckles

Now, this is where the real fun begins.

Red Riot, the hero-killing, tall, muscular, BDE, long-haired, thick-thighed, scarred, tattooed, smiling, thieving, hardening villain… has a breeding kink. And not just that, he’s got a big fucking dick that’s usually impressively hidden behind his usual wardrobe of loose fitting pants. But, you’ve seen him adjust himself more than a few times when he thinks you’re not paying attention, but you’re sure he just does it subconsciously without even realizing.

So there’s no real surprise when he’s dropped you onto your shared bed after a date and you can see the imprint of it through the black slacks he chose to wear. You coulda swore you saw the fuckin’ thing throbbin’ through the fabric but maybe your mind was playing tricks on you.

He’s now staring you down, noticing how your eyes have stayed glued to his crotch, with a timid look with some worry hidden behind your eyes. He grins and decides to have a little show for you. You’re struck back into reality when he suddenly grabs it, giving it a lil’ squeeze and a tug, causing your thighs to rub together in anticipation.

“No need to be nervous. It ain’t gonna hurt ya, baby. Promise.”

He purred, stroking his cock a few for times for you through his pants before moving his hands to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“Think you could strip for me, mamas? I like that dress on ya… Think I’d rip it to shreds if I tried to take it off.”

Sweet fuck, when’d you become so obedient???

Before you know it, you’re both naked and on top of the bed, not even bothering to get under the comforter or the sheets. Seems you two were impatient.

Eijirou was splayed out on his back, cock on fully display as it rested against his stomach that wasn’t exactly chiseled with abs, it was a lil’ squishy but the muscles in his arms and chest were hard to ignore. And would ya look at that, you were right, he did have a nagasode and hikae style tattoo with a dragon, flowers, and other symbols. His monstrous cock was almost teasing you with its ridiculous width and length, how was that going to fit in you? With its thick tanned shaft, and its fat brink pink circumcised tip that was dribbling precum despite being only half erect. The happy trail that led to a trimmed bush of onyx hair made you think about the hyped mane of hair on his head.

He’d decided to leave the gel out of his hair this evening so the bright crimson locks flowed in waves under his head… what kinda conditioner did this man use? Them locks shiny as a muhh’fucka- No, no, no, don’t get distracted.

Where were you?

He’d had you sitting on his chest, beckoning you to straddle his face with your thighs, and when you hesitated he took matters into his own hands and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you right onto his face.

Maybe I should have mentioned earlier that he’d got a forked tongue…? Y’know, the kinda tongue a snake has… He kinda got into a bit of body modification after dropping out of U.A.

And the way he uses his forked tongue on you is heavenly. So heavenly, that you nearly hunch over and run away from his skilled tongue, whining and whimpering his name, pathetically asking him to calm down and give you some time to adjust. The iron grip on your hips forces you stay right where he wants you, thick digits easily sinking themselves into your plush hips like memory foam. He’s absolutely ravishing you with the rapid fire motions of his tongue, writing out every Hiragana symbol in the charts, observing how you react to every trace of ever symbol. And when he draws out that one symbol, his tongue acting as a brush drenched in ink and your pussy acting as the paper, he notices the way you shudder and let out a guttural moan, clenching at his hair hard enough to make his scalp burn just a fraction— he smirks, abusing this new power.

ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki ki.

Ironically, the symbol that makes you shudder and silently scream sounds a bit like laughter, and laughter you shall receive. It is the best medicine after all.

Abusing this particular symbol, it is no surprise that the hardening villian soon rips an orgasm right out of your body, the searing heat that builds up inside you releasing into his mouth as you squeeze his head between your thick thighs.

Easily, Eijirou laps up your sweet nectar while groaning about how sweet and delectable you are, and gives you a moment to collect yourself, hearing the sweet pants and huffs that escape you as he rubs comforting circles onto your hips. That won’t last long, however.

“Think ya can cum on my tongue a few more times, lovely? Gotta make sure you’re slippery enough to bounce on my cock a lil’ later after all, hm? Be a good girl f’me, ya know ya can.”

my bad, my bad… went a lil’ crazy on this one 🧍 do with this as you please, aLsO i had an urge to draW hIm but i haven’t colored the lineart yet 😩 ill show ya when im doNe

You’ve been reduced to nothing but a whining, whimpering mess on the redhead’s tongue. He’s flipped and twisted your aching body so many times to get you in the perfect position, but nothing beats that good ole spread eagle.

Your hero turned villainous lover has both of those big hands holding you wide open for him, fingertips sunk into your plush flesh.

One knee is flush against the bed, the other is up against your chest, leaving nothing hidden from his fiery gaze. Your pretty pussy is his to abuse, at the mercy of that dexterous tongue and those razor sharp teeth.

Your moans and sounds are so cute to him, so pretty he wants nothing more than to keep fucking you on that long tongue.

You peer down at the beast between your thighs and the sight has you immediately tossing your head back, a breathy sigh passing through your lips.

Eijirou looks so precious—crimson eyes hooded and low, the thin sheen of your slick spread around his mouth while he licked and sucked you to another release.

‘Cu-cumming.’ Is how you’ll warn him before your pussy is creaming around that tongue again. You’re so sensitive, clit so swollen and red even the waft of his breath hurts.

But Eiji loves seeing you squirm, so much that he’s lathering your poor clit in spit, sucking the nub into his mouth just to hear you squeal as you claw at the sheets.

“Ei, p-please baby.” You’re begging, pleading for just an ounce of mercy from your lover’s tongue.

He raises his head to look up at you, or what’s left of you, granting a brief intermission as he flips you onto your belly.

He’s palming the fat of your ass, spreading you until he’s face to face with your delicious cunt and puckered asshole, his moistened lips curling up into a devilish smirk.

He loves this. He loves you and your perfect fucking pussy so much that tonight he plans on making you a mommy again. As soon as you cum for him one more time he plans to split you open and breed you.

“Just one more pretty girl, I promise.”

It’s nice to meet youuu, I love your work 🥺❤️Villian Kiri makes my pussy brain melt 🥹 I hate that it’s so short but I’m writing like 4 other one shots and my brain is a can of baked beans right now 😭

Hey bae, care to join us? @darkmajesty-xo

#kirishima smut #villain kirishima #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x you

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johannestevans · 1 year

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i would love a batjokes concept with Joker pursuing Bruce that really digs into the fact that Bruce Wayne is way more of a false identity than Batman is

and the Joker is smart, just like Selina and other partners to get close to Bruce - he'd REALISE that and be fascinated by it

my favourite variations of Bruce Wayne are never the garbage grimdark ones where he's Really Serious and Broody, bc like. that's ridiculous (and too hetero). batman is really serious and broody. bruce wayne needs to be the opposite of that.

now some stories go for a bruce wayne that's just incredibly earnest, who's genuine and kind and full of love - and by definition HAS to either be misrepresenting himself, or is so naive that he never really hardens himself to the people who lie to his face

my FAVOURITE, though, is when bruce wayne goes HARD on being a himbo. he's a bright-eyed grinning playboy, he's a billionaire, he's kind in the thoughtless, easy way of a man who's so incredibly rich he can throw money at whomever and whatever cause he pleases

this is the bruce wayne who's always at parties and is always having fun and drinking, who dates all these beautiful models and he does funny videos playing with puppies for gotham's equivalent of buzzfeed and he uses the cutest filters on insta, he does stupid dances on tiktok

and the thing is, it's ALREADY fun if. it's known among certain of bruce's compatriots that this is false. bruce has glazed eyes during the board meeting but he's listening to every word; he looks pretty, so people invite him to important shit, and then bruce CAN be disarming

because in a city like gotham, of COURSE bruce wayne would pretend he's a beautiful himbo with nothing going on between his ears - it's the perfect defence mechanism. none of the corrupt cunts at the mayor's office will hurt him, bc they don't think he's a threat

and so bruce can pretend to just stumble into valuable philanthropy, he can work on certain fundraisers and similar, and he won't be targeted the same way his parents were

and that alone would FASCINATE joker

like once he got close enough to realise, to grok this - like, he's brushed this pretty billionaire off as some hot eyecandy, but WAIT, there's a BRAIN behind those baby blues? that sexy carved jaw and cleft chin isn't even as interesting as what he can SAY?

and just like… bruce having to juggle the fact that suddenly joker is stalking him and making a big show of making notes about his behaviours like he's birdwatching, but joker ISN'T being violent, and he's actually occupied, so bruce just-- lets him

it's the perfect cover, right? bruce wayne is already an act where he pretends to be something he's not, so why would anyone ever think that there's ANOTHER secret identity under that?

i was just reading a Batjokes fic that isn't delving that much into this, but there's a moment where Joker picks up the picture of Bruce's parents in his office and makes some comments, and Bruce snaps and grabs him by the throat

and FUCK but like. can u imagine a moment like that in a story like this, where Bruce Wayne is a little scared of Joker, but genuinely trying to be nice - probably thinks he can rehabilitate him, the sweet, pretty idiot - and Joker is filtering out where he's acting

he's gorgeous and he CAN read, he CAN do maths, he CAN play people against each other

but then bruce snaps and suddenly joker is bent back against a wall or shoved to the ground or over a desk, and he's staring up at him, AWED

because, o ho ho, Brucie. this doesn't match in either column - should I be adding a third one to my table, huh? Brucie the playboy, Bruce Wayne the businessman, and… who's THIS?

and. fuck. what is Bruce supposed to say?

especially because a story like bruce's is EXPLICITLY and CONTINUOUSLY about masking and being closeted, like. joker could get very excited over what this reveals which is a bruce that's NOT soft: it's a bruce that's gay and KINKY, which is why he likes joker in the first place

#batjokes #batman #joker #batman x joker #dc

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irabelaswriting · 1 year

Text

influx

pairing: morpheus x f!reader | rating: E | words: 8.7k | ao3

tags: sexy dream stuff blurries the line between dreams and reality you say?, count me in, alternatively titled what no dick does to a mfer, service top dream, afab reader, oral sex, masturbation, sexual fantasies, pining, mentions of choking, mentions of spanking, mentions of public sex, no use of y/n

summary: "My name. You wondered about my name," the dream that is no longer a dream says. As plainly as possible, as if he's not a stranger in your home.

"Do- do you have one?"

"All beings do."

You meet a stranger in a dream.

And then you meet him again.

a/n: i am dipping my fat littles toes in this particular pond. hope y'all enjoy!<3 let me know what worked and what didn't!

It’s really starting to get cold out.

October has just rolled around – autumnal colors all around. Pumpkins freshly harvested from patches set out on the steps of the houses you pass, leaves slowly making their descent from tree crowns. A promise of frosts sits in the air; come morning, the cold would make the warm colors more vibrant.

If it gets too cold you might need to start commuting, you decide, no longer taking the oh-so familiar road you’ve incorporated into your daily routine for months now.

The streets are wide, a winding path you walk along – passing by garbage and street lights, small little shops and narrow alleyways just out of the corner of your eye every so often.

Every day, you walk down this road. It’s routine – just like how putting on socks or brushing your teeth is.

Yet, as you pass another alley, something stops you midstep.

Something about this particular alley on this particular day makes you turn your head as if you’d just caught the eyes of a long lost acquaintance across the room.

And unbidden, an image flickers across your mind.

Large hands pushing up your skirts, finding the gusset of your underwear between your thighs soaked through, all for him, deft fingers sliding beneath wet fabric. A teasing touch against you, the slick slide audible in the dark, quiet alley. Someone could find you, see you, if they had mind enough to just look hard enough for a moment longer.

Your heart skips a beat – the memory as clear as day on your retina.

As if it had been real.

The dreams… the visions, had started a while ago. Unbidden, as wet dreams – ugh – usually were. Of course, it was all just a normal part of being alive, you rationalized. Heated situations in a dream with a crush or someone whose outwardly attributes you liked more than the person themselves was a totally normal, natural response to non-reciprocated attraction.

What wasn’t normal was having them about a person you didn’t even know. And, that they were recurring.

Not one night of reprieve had been awarded to you since it all had first begun.

Every night, he visited you in your dreams.

The man in your dreams hadn’t been known to you. Well, not previously. Now, you felt as if you’d recognize him in a crowd, that you could pick him out in a lineup of all your previous lovers despite him not truly being one of them. Stoic and pale, tall and lithe, composed of lean muscles that rippled under smooth skin, with hands so very large in comparison to your own. A voice that whispered into your ear, deep and dark and holding promises of pleasure everytime it raked across your brain.

The first time you’d seen him it had been a seemingly ordinary dream. Usually, they’d be about losing all your teeth at once while simultaneously trying really hard at an exam in school only to realize you were taking it naked. All the people involved, witnesses to your embarrassment, were usually pieces of a puzzle coerced together simply under the guise that you had some bias from having them there.

Yet… the dream in particular had been nothing but ordinary; not even sexual. You had gone about your usual routine, said your usual hellos and goodbyes, walked on the very road you were trudging along right now, when he had caught your eye. A face in the crowd of muddled features.

He had stared back at you – with consciousness, a responsiveness that didn’t belong in dreams.

It had been impossible not to look back at him – meet his striking gaze.

One moment, he had been there, and in the next, he was gone.

They weren’t real, you tell yourself yet again, bending down, pretending to fix a shoelace in case some unbidden voyeur was privy to your mindless stop on the street. Above, a tree canopy rustles as a bird takes flight, the only evidence of it ever sitting there being the dark feather landing by your feet as you rise.

The way home is a winding one – but the scene replays in your head enough that you feel a sticky heat coil in the pit of your belly. A hunger wanting, no– needing to be slaked with the ease of your own fingers (all the while imagining someone else's) sliding across heated skin.

You think that you must've met him somewhere.

That your subconscious is pulling a mean prank on you with blurry half-imagined images of a man you might’ve maybe (hopefully) snogged on a night out and can’t recall more than that fuzzy encounter of.

That it’s not a stranger, but rather surely some acquaintance or a mutual friend of a friend you’ve been introduced to at a party and promptly forgotten the name of.

That you’ve somehow baked him into your subconsciousness like a calzone.

That you’re so starved for attention that you have wet dreams about the one guy who has proved to be somewhat of a constant in your life.

Good gods, were you really that starved for affection that you had wet dreams about a guy you’d only seen in your dreams?

Your depravity was endless, a bottomless pit.

Because it hadn’t happened just once – no, now, the image of him panting above you was etched to your mind as the code into your apartment complex was.

Finally, you reach your destination – home. You take the steps to your apartment two at a time, riled up by the promise of what awaits in the solace of your bedroom. The steps are made of polished limestone filled with fossilized ammonites that you’d otherwise stop and look at but you’re on a mission now.

Everything lays forgotten as you move into your abode, closing the door and securing it with a physical deadbolt. Then, the weight of the day hits you. A layer of grime and dust surely lingers on your skin, sweat and dirt that came with moving about your business–

A change of plans.

Instinctively, you move towards the bathroom, chucking clothing items as you go, leaving them for a future you to take care of.

You let the water get hot before getting in.

In the shower, you let yourself go, fingers slipping down between wet skin to an even wetter core, teasing yourself just slightly before really getting to work at easing the orgasm out of your body.

In your mind's eye, in your dreams, it’s easy to let fantasy do the work; change your position, have your hands tied or free at a mere whim, shoved faced down or facing your unknown, nameless lover.

It blurs together into a mess – but it’s orderly, kind of – every whim you have is met.

If you imagine him grabbing fistfulls of your hips and pushing down, spewing lewd vitriol against your ear – you get it.

If you imagine your hands tied and him using them for leverage until the change of altitude makes you woozy – you get that too.

Every urge is abid and sated, the fantasy adjusting at once depending on however you’re feeling inclined.

That’s the easy part, recalling the intimate moments as if they’ve been real, emulating his touch on your body.

His hand moving down along your naked front; cupping your pussy in his hand, fingers skirting along slick folds but being withholding, not giving you anything, not until you’re writhing in his grip, reduced into a needy, begging mess–

He talks, too, you recall, fingers picking up their pace – with a deep, baritone voice that ushers praises and harsh little words at just the right moment. Instantly, you incorporate it in your fantasy.

“So good,” he whispers by your ear as you titter on the precipice of yet another orgasm at his hands, fingers working inside you just so, “so good for me.”

No, take it slow, you inwardly scold. Prolong the pleasure just a bit longer. Listening to the constant stream of water running over your body and down down the drain, you steady yourself.

Rewinding, you alter the daydream.

Fingers pressing into you only after you’ve earned them on your knees – your reward a perfect curling motion that has you keening. A sound that only has him roughly pulling you deeper down on his fingers, your back arching as heady pleasure rolls over you in thick, heavy waves.

You moan into the air, air that’s filled with water vapor that condenses, droplets of saturated water that run down your bathroom mirror. Despite the water steadily streaming across your body, you feel the sensation of sweat beading behind your knees; a surefire way of predicting the impending orgasm. Swallowing thickly, fingers pick up their pace.

Hands tied tightly behind your back, large fingers skirting along your innermost thighs, grabbing fistfulls of plump, supple flesh, lightly smacking the fat of your ass, the soft waves of pain and pleasure making your belly coil together hotly. Knowing what’s to come when–

Just right, you curl your fingers, pinching a nipple simultaneously. Teasing at first, building up the anticipation of filling yourself up with your fingers, circling your core until you can’t take it any longer and give into the first few moments of blissful fullness.

One moment, on your back, the other, on your knees. Throat stuffed with cock and cum, and in the next–

Shamelessly moaning into the air, you goad yourself with more to tip over the edge.

His hand twisting in locks of hair, gently coaxing your head towards him, tucking his face against your shoulder, hand covering your mouth as he whispers for you to be quiet, pounding you through an orgasm in a dirty back alley.

Hips undulating, you tense up – voice vibrating in the humid air, reaching a crescendo.

Slender fingers circling your waist, before finally settling on your hips and pulling you down on his cock with soft, pliable resistance–

But it isn’t him. It isn’t real. Has never been.

You stop abruptly.

Defeat washes over you – and still, you try again, scratching at that particular itch, that particular daydream, yearning for the release.

The fall over the edge never comes. Blissful pleasure never arrives despite being right there, and soon the movement of your fingers is a chore, the throbbing in your lower belly almost hurting.

A groan leaves you, head against the bathroom tile, as you flex your cramping fingers, finally relenting. Panting now, hot all over, water still flowing freely across your body.

Only thing you were achieving now was running up your water bill.

Pride swallowed, you twist the blender into icy cold, dousing yourself until you’re nothing but a shivering mess.

You step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body, cursing yourself under your breath.

This was all so– so stupid.

It had never been an issue before. Really, you could bust a couple out in an evening if the mood struck – but since this all started, your statistics for masturbation ending with a climax had dwindled hard. Had the graph of your sexual habits been recorded somewhere it would’ve been exponential in it’s decline – off the charts with failure.

You take the disappointment and frustration out on your hair, doing your best in drying it before making your way into the living room. It’s cold there too, and you feel goosebumps rise along your arms, prickling on the back of your neck. Even the mess you’ve left for yourself to take care of annoys you, no help in bettering your rapidly souring mood. You kick a shapeless mass of clothing into a corner, trying to stop the beast in your belly from blossoming and tearing through.

One blanket secured later, you plop down into the sunken down couch – exhausted. Still shivering, you turn on a rerun of some show you’ve already seen a hundred times on Netflix.

All in all – it serves as a little distraction from your already wandering thoughts.

The failed orgasm is still lingering in the back of your mind, a steady thumping in your core that won’t go away with anything other than time. You don’t click the little skip intro prompt that pops up this time; and boredom soon takes over as a scene you know by heart starts playing. With a sigh, you turn over, starting a mindless scroll on your phone instead, nuzzling into the couch that’s finally starting to warm up your shivering body. The show provides a soft chatter in the background, filling the void with some non-tangible noise – a mere background buzz.

Body heavy, you sink down, down, until there’s nothing but the soft embrace of sleep to catch you.

Bent over a desk, cheek pressed into unrelenting varnished wood, slender fingers around your neck as he thrusts inside you, buried to the hilt with one languid roll of his hips. A deep groan ringing through the air, your own sounds muted from his grip around your windpipe.

Your ass high in the air, fingers digging into the divot where thigh meets hips, one large palm ghosting over the round surface of your rear, rising up to give the already tender flesh another well placed hit.

The same rough pace still persists, forcing stuttering little words from your lips, fingers now digging into the softness of your sides. Livid bites left along your neck and shoulders, a hand slipping between your thighs. A sheen of sweat covers your back, as well as the forehead that’s pressed to a shoulder blade.

The gasp that escapes you as the room contorts until it’s no longer recognizable echoes through the void. It’s not even your bed anymore, the sheets you’d hand picked out of the bargain barrel replaced with the softest of silk that flows like water between your clutching fingers.

He’s in front of you, above you–

Behind you.

Fingers tug the towel wrapped around your body off.

You yelp – instantly going to cover yourself.

“Nothing I haven’t already seen,” a murmured whisper intones, goosebumps rising along your skin. “Don’t be shy.”

His hands are cold – in clear difference to your already much too hot body – and your back arches as if to escape from his light touch against your ribcage.

Instead, he’s behind you, and you’re in his lap, with nowhere to run now.

You try again to cover up, but large hands grasp your wrists and pull them back.

Finally, you relent, relaxing.

“There we go,” right by your ear, you hear him, feel him rest his chin on your shoulder, peeking down the valley of your now bared breasts.

Eyes glimmering like stars watching as his own fingers trace gently along bare thighs before finally pushing apart the sticky folds of your pussy. Soft, teasing graces toying with you before finally pushing inside. Curling just right, adding just the right pressure, until you throw your head back against his shoulder, a leg darting out for purchase against the incoming wave of pleasure, thumb flicking against your clit just as he finds that spot inside you–

He stops.

You whine – almost crying from the let down, feeling that fire die down by not being tended to.

“So desperate,” he chides, lips barely tracing yours as you jerk more, convulsing in his hands from being denied. “Still not enough?”

“No– please, more,” you murmur against soft lips, speech rendered into a mess of sloppy and slurred kisses. It could never be enough – you want him, you want to beg for him, want a name to call out into the night, some title to give him more than this shape that comes to you each night.

Your hand digs into him, keeping him close. As if he would disappear if you didn’t.

You want to know him – taste him, share more than just this simple fantasy with him – you want more, crave it even as he’s on top of you, inside you–

“Tell me, do you think you’re awake?”

His voice echoes in the nothingness surrounding you.

What did he mean by that?

He has deviated from the usual course, the script that you’ve willfully, intently, set in your mind and eagerly fulfilled your role in–

“Realizing you’re dreaming wakes most people up.” His hands are on you again, moving across your skin until he’s right by your ear, whispering. “Interesting.”

Halfway – that is how far your fingers, reaching out to grab his own, make it before the world tilts and changes again.

With a start, you wake up, immediately sitting up from the pile of blankets on top of you.

Blearily, you blink.

Are you still watching? Netflix questions, mockingly.

You– you must’ve fallen asleep – the throb between your legs has only intensified, coupled with your heart hammering in your throat and you know– you remember what he had said–

Out of the corner of your eye, something moves.

A man is in your living room.

Not just any man – it’s him.

As clear as day – across the room from you. Dressed in all black and staring at you with familiar, gleaming eyes.

“Um,” you start, heart hammering hard behind your ribcage, working overtime in keeping you alive, “c-c-can I h-help you?”

Ah. Yes, the good ol’ fight or flee or freeze or fawn or–

Customer service.

You clutch the blanket around you even tighter, backing up into the corner of the couch – hyperaware and noticing everything in what feels like a millisecond.

How you’ve slept through at least two episodes of the show you put on. That the street lights outside your windows are bright, casting luminosity on the streets below. That there’s no immediate sign of a break in, no broken door hanging off its hinges. That you’re in nothing but a towel and covered by a blanket.

And, that the man currently across your living room is staring at you.

“My name. You wondered about my name,” the dream that is no longer a dream says. As plainly as possible, as if he’s not a stranger in your home.

“Do–do you have one?”

“All beings do.“

At a loss for words for a moment, mind racing (how did he know that? followed by a frantic oh god why is he here? and how did he even get in?) you offer him your own name, and the side of his mouth twitches upwards, as if he’s known it all along.

“I am Dream of the Endless. Lord of dreams and nightmares, and ruler of the Dreaming.” His voice is deep and calm, much calmer than you yourself feel at the moment. A rich baritone that carries across the room despite him not even raising his voice.

It sounds… pompous, but not untrue. Still, you can’t keep yourself from asking. “Any more titles?”

“Morpheus. Lord Morpheus.”

You hadn’t seriously considered that there’d be more.

“... The Dreaming?”

“Yes, it is my realm, where I hold sovereignty,” he explains, “I am the maker of dreams and nightmares for all beings of this plane.”

For a moment, you wonder if you’ve gone insane. If not getting your rocks off for the past weeks has changed your physiology somehow, that you’re so pent up that you’re hallucinating this. That this isn’t real – just a dream of a dream to soothe your already fragile, underfucked psyche.

“Sleep well?”

Your breath hitches in the otherwise silent room at the question.

At once, you’re aware that he knows. He knows. He’s solidifying that fact with that question – a question he probably knows the answer to too, and is simply asking because your inherent uneasiness of the situation must also be known to him.

Or, as you might suspect when your eyes flick to meet his own and notice the hint of smugness present in them, he is simply asking to embarrass you further.

“Ah, yes, uh,” the heat on your cheeks is mortifying, shame welling up at the base of your throat, “I’m sorry. If– if you’re able to see them and all–”

“I do.”

No need in explaining what they are, then.

“So sorry about that, erm,” the words fumble out of your mouth, “they’re just– fantasies, right, my, uh– my l-lord?”

You probably actually don’t need to address him as such, one of the many titles, but something about him demands your attention, your respect. Is it shame? A part of you cringes inwardly, finding it difficult to meet his hard eyed stare. Eyes that are simply observing you – not eating you alive, not even undressing you. Yet you get the distinct feeling of being under a microscope, every part of you being dissected. Evaluated.

Deciding to err on the side of caution – he is, afterall, a stranger – because you’re not completely sold on what he’s selling you.

Which is an explanation to all of this.

“I don’t understand,” you say, shaking your head. “Are you– are you the one doing this to me?”

Dark brows pull down. For a moment, you think he’s cross with you–

Maybe that’s just the guilt rolling together in your stomach, all bile and acid, because he knows. He knows everything. He’s the unwilling participant, no– object, of your fantasies.

“... These dreams are–” Morpheus pauses.

Filthy, dirty, wholly indecent, you mind intones on its own, preemptively wincing.

”Very imaginative. Thoughts that are all your own work.”

No hammer falls to sentence you – judgment simply not present in his tone.

Unbeknownst (or simply not caring) of your internal dilemma, Morpheus takes in your space, the adjoining kitchen and door to your bedroom before continuing, voice the same even tone. “My involvement never stemmed greater than simply… appearing. It seems you’ve grown attached.”

Attached to the idea of him, just as you’d find a kind stranger enticing. It wasn’t… had it truly been him?

“I just thought–” you don’t even know what you’ve been thinking, how you’ve cause this more than– “that since I daydreamed about it– it could alter what I dreamed of while sleeping–”

“It does. Not to this extent, usually, but you seem to have acquired a gift not many are even born with.” Morpheus says, carefully stepping over the heap of clothes you kicked earlier. “A form of lucid dreaming.”

“... I’m shaping my dreams?” You had seen a couple of videos on lucid dreaming during your teenage years. Followed the seemingly simple instructions a lady in harem pants had listed in a 16 minute long youtube video – but to no avail. Now, however, you would envision scenarios, make up context for your fantasies, was that what he meant?

“Are you surprised?” Morpheus asks, head tilted to the side slightly. “Every day life affects dreams, yes, even fantasies and wishes do. That is not the unusual part.”

Pieces of a puzzle started to form a cohesive picture – you couldn’t control what happened in your dreams as much as you could perhaps entice a certain end to happen. Set one ball rolling and hoping it triggered a response in kind.

Maybe, if you could still find it, you should leave a comment on that video praising its effectiveness.

“Willing them to happen as you see fit, however, is.”

Immediately, you think back on the dream you’d just been pulled out of rather roughly – where you’d been denied, where he had denied you–

“That is why I’m here.” He answers your unasked question as he steps further into your living room, continuing. “It’s usually a gift sought out and refined by dark arts practitioners, not by… lonely girls.” Morpheus almost scoffs a bit at that, as if he’s noticed the singular plate drying on your dish rack, the adjoining single pair of cutlery and glass from last night's dinner, and realized exactly what you are.

Now, you glower at him. You weren’t lonely in many ways of your life – you had friends, family, hell, even coworkers who all adored you. It was just… a lonely life in one particular department, one that you weren’t fully ready to admit to even really coveting.

Yet he isn’t outright judging you – nor the contents of your dreams. Moreso, he seems mildly annoyed at being pulled into this.

That wasn’t wholly true though, was it? No, he had done this – he was the weird magic dream guy, not you.

“I didn’t want this,” you almost hiss back at him, “you’re the one– who's done this– you’re the reason I can’t–”

The words hang in the air, unfinished.

–can’t get my rocks off.

You don’t want to say that – to frame it that way, to admit it.

Some part of your subconsciousness obviously found him desirable, attractive – you couldn’t keep that from him, even now, as he imposed himself in your apartment and had almost scared you half to death – because he had been in every single dream since you’d first laid your eyes on him. Appeared in them, he had said, as if he was just a supporting role in all your fantasies. Knows about the predicament the dreams leave you in every morning – has to know.

Instead, you just glare at him now, grit your teeth. Accusingly. “Fix it.”

At your words, he looks like he’s on the verge of an emotion – but like he can’t decide on which one. Incredulity and genuine curiosity both flit over his stoic features; you dare order him? as well as clear unfeigned interest that that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“As I said,” he finally says after a moment, “you’ve grown attached.”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You mortals do like excuses.”

Instantly, you regret all the very good things you’ve inwardly thought of him, a flash of annoyance welling up inside of you. Morpheus was certainly much ruder like this than in your dreams, where he was all willful, enthusiastic compliance to your whims. You suck your teeth at him. “Why are you even here?”

“I have already told you. It’s a phenomenon rarely seen, and I’ve come to inspect it further.”

Describing it like you’re nothing more than bacteria on a petri dish, a mere body ready for autopsy – clinical, medical, distanced.

“And you’re doing that by… breaking and entering my home?” You look away from him, fighting against the flush of emotion moving up your shoulders and neck. “Could’ve just knocked on my door instead of sneaking up on me in my sleep.”

“Only one of those statements is true.”

You’re just about to question which one he meant when you note the faint lilt of amusement in his tone.

You don’t need to see him to know that he’s pressing closer to where you’re still sprawled out on the couch.

“Here I thought you were inviting me over when you asked for more.”

Your head whips back to him – just to find him peering down at you.

Much closer than before.

Tendrils of heat sink their clutches into you at once.

“I can’t help but wonder… if you got a taste of the real thing, would it stop? Would you stop calling me to come fill you up in the middle of the night?” Leaning down, his fingers wrap around your chin. “I do have a realm to tend to, other duties to… see to.”

The shift in the air is palpable.

Your mouth is so dry now. This feels so much more real than anything else before – you’re conscious, this is not a dream, you finalize like a mantra, fingernails digging into your palms.

A light slap to your cheek, ordering you to open up your mouth, to show him his spend on your tongue before being allowed to swallow.

The image had come unbidden – that it’s a particularly degrading one is even more mortifying. Pupils blown wide, you peer up at him through your lashes.

“Even now, you want it.” His thumb brushes against the plump of your lower lip as he regards you. His tone indicates that he’s almost… surprised at it, your willingness.

Embarrassed, you come to your own defense.

“I don’t.” You lie.

A peculiar sound leaves him – something halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“You are as predictable here as you are in your dreams,” he says, sounding far too amused for your liking, thumb sweeping along your cheekbone.

Then, he kisses you, all slow and soft.

The protest that had sat on the tip of your tongue is swallowed down.

One hand curls in the front of his shirt, the other wrapping around a bicep reached out to support himself on the couch’s backrest, searching for purchase. The rest of your body freezes, not yet answering the kiss in kind.

Eyes squeezing shut, you try making sense of this, this whole situation. The interest that’s been rewarded you has been for reasons you barely understand, abilities you didn’t even know you possessed in the first place–

At once, you sink into the couch pillows, escaping the kiss but not the hand that has settled on the back of your neck. Still, it lets you fall back with no resistance.

He – Morpheus, you inwardly remind yourself of his name – hovers above you, tilting his head to the side imploringly. Like a crow would, or how dogs do at funny sounds.

Swallowing uncomfortably, you break the gaze he has you in. Despite that, his eyes stay on your face, pinning you to the couch as much as the weight of him above you does.

At first, you don’t know how to put the words that sit on the forefront of your mind. You were overthinking this, you were thinking far too little, you were–

“What you said before… Am I controlling you? H-have I been controlling you?” Your eyes search Morpheus' face.

He snorts. “You are not nearly powerful enough for that.”

Good to know, you think, shifting beneath him, still. At least there’s that.

Even with his body hovering above you, with layers of clothes and fabric separating your bodies, you feel yourself flush, an instinctive reaction to him, the object of all your desires and pining, being so close, so real.

After a moment of silence, you start again. “You’re doing this to make it stop? Will it work?”

Morpheus seems to weigh his options a bit – all of them, the consequences of whatever reply he’ll give you obviously fluttering across his mind – before he goes on.

“It is… a working theory. If simply fulfilling your imaginations in the Dreaming would have been enough to keep you satiated,” he lingers on the word enough that you feel a fresh flush travel up your shoulders, “then I would worry about how much power you’ve already managed to steal from me.” After a moment’s longer deliberation, he adds: “... Honestly, it is seldom something like this occurs.”

“I haven’t stolen anything.” You huff. You hadn’t willfully robbed him of anything.

“Maybe not. Perhaps it was a gift.” Fingers trail up your bare arm, goosebumps rising in its wake, his eyes following the path he traces. Almost contemplatively, as if he’s just seen you for the first time, he goes on. “When I first felt the promise within you as you dreamt… it was a mistake showing myself in your dreams. Now, I am simply dealing with the consequences of my own recklessness.”

Reassurement aside, it is also a bit gratifying, knowing that he’s at your beck and call. That he’s here because of you – because it’s you. That the interest is mutual, in some capacity.

That this isn’t a pity fuck – not one solely reserved for lonely girls who happen to call the Lord of Dreams into their own little fantasies. This was as much him as it was you.

“Then– take it back.”

“Oh, I am eager to make sure it is returned to where it belongs,” the slightest uptick of his mouth punctates the last bit, a promise of imminent closeness, the word stressed with weight as he leans down to whisper right by your ear, “for the both of us.”

And even though he’s kissed you hundreds of times in countless dreams – this first, proper one is tentative, uncertain. A chaste press of his lips to your own, all soft and unimposing.

Searching for any lingering doubts, making sure–

A pause follows as your eyes meet again. Morpheus pulls back slightly, brows tugging down again. Instantly, your arms move on their own accord, wrapping around his neck. You pull him back down, into another kiss, this one claiming more, allowing more. Fighting against the smile you feel spread across your lips when he answers the kiss with the same fervor is hopeless. At once, fire starts to spread under your skin, cinders smoking in your belly, his hands clutching you against him in return.

He tastes soft, like rainwater and fog, and dark and deep like wine, musky and minty all at once. Something to get drunk on, lost in. Nothing like you could ever conjure up yourself.

Your hands leave his neck – moving down his collar between layers of fabric and shoulder blades, feel them move as he settles against you, hands adjusting you underneath him, scratch your nails against whatever skin he’s allowing you to see, to touch. Searching for a definite clutch to assure you that it’s real. As if on cue, he lets the dark coat fall off him, your eager hands just as helpful as his own when in return he makes short work of the fabric between you. The towel falls off your body as easily as it had in your dream, discarded and out of sight.

Despite yourself, you keen into the kiss, feeling a soft haze settle into your mind, as if you’re on the verge of slipping into easy sleep, hitting your senses and spreading through you like the first warmth of a bath.

It’s delicious, languid bliss.

Bodies molding against each other, settling into the natural curve of each other, thighs spreading to let him between them; teeth and tongue and lips mingling together in the kiss. Your fingers tread through the hair at the nape of his neck, humming softly when he pulls back from the kiss.

Slender fingers dig into bare skin, his hands maneuvering you beneath him. They touch every inch of skin within reach; the pads of his fingers dragging against hip bones, along every rib, between your bare breasts and trailing along the natural curve of them.

Finally, his hand sweeps across your neck, the tips of his fingers running along the column of your throat before lightly tracing your collarbone. When the hand pulls back, it’s replaced with his mouth finding the side of your neck, teeth biting down. Your breath hitches from the sting, clutching at him even harder as a delicate sound leaves his own lips.

“What do you want?” Morpheus mummers against your ear, lips brushing against the sensitive skin. “Ask and I’ll give.”

“Mouth,” you whisper out, breathlessly, “I want your mouth on me.”

He must know what you meant, where you mean.

Yet the path there is tortuous and slow.

Arms unwrap around him to give him freedom to travel the path further down, another press of his lips to the intimately hidden skin behind your ears, your clavicle and sternum given the same attention. Little love bites left in his wake, never hard enough to bruise or break the skin even if they make you squirm beneath him.

Finally, he finally seals his lips around one stiff nipple without anymore of the slow, teasing buildup. Toying with the hard nub with lips and tongue, teeth nipping lightly, shockwaves of warm pain and pleasure spreading out from your chest, curling in on itself deep in your abdomen. It’s not until you start to shake and whine earnestly that he switches over and lavishes its twin with the same attention, kneading the other in his broad hand.

Your fingers tread through dark hair, urging him down with more force than needed to further incite him downwards. Even as he maneuvers you easily, your fingers fist in the back of his collar, tugging upwards before he catches on and lets you drag the shirt off him.

When he finally relents, it almost takes you by surprise. Large hands get a hold of your hips, hauling you down until you hang off the edge of the couch, before letting them settle on the back of your knees. The soft pressure of his forearms urges them up, like you’re nothing but a doll in his hand, tilting your pelvis up while he simultaneously sinks down his knees. Hearing his breathing deep at the visual of your spread legs, center slick and heated, is almost as gratifying as the swipe of his thumb against your clit that follows. Eyes locked with yours, he tastes the wetness as your mouth falls open as a new wave of want rushes through you, hips arching up to entice him into hurrying up.

As if on demand, a large hand circles around a thigh, butterflying out against the softness of your belly, a throaty hum leaving Morpheus.

It’s a visual for you too – seeing him on his knees, framed by soft thighs, eyes gleaming as he finally leans down–

Slowly, a silken, dexterous heat envelopes your clit.

The sound that leaves you is desperate; long and pitched low in your throat, the joints in your fingers almost locking with how you tense up. It nearly hurts with how good it feels – and you let it be known, vocal cords not able to keep in the loud moans. Thighs clamp shut around him, starting to squirm with a needy gasp as his tongue flutters over your clit in broad, slow strokes. His grip tightens around your thighs, giving a hard squeeze, the soft pressure on your belly increasing.

It’s almost impossible to not tilt your hips up and meet the unhurried laps of his tongue, and it’s almost harder to remain unmoving when you notice the prickly friction of stubble across your innermost thighs. Not a wholly unpleasant sensation but rather… tickling. The soft laugh that makes it past your lips as you squirm yet again is rewarded with a hard stare and an even harder hold circling your thighs, keeping them open as he pushes you further into the couch. A silent order to keep still.

You bite your lip as he uses his teeth softly against your thigh, fingers flexing in the upholstery below you. Morpheus has given you all the incentive to obey.

Not until you're well and properly still does he move again.

He’s warm, not at all like in your dreams, and he’s velveteen against you; tongue rolling in repeated soft circles against that bundle of nerves, swollen with need.

You think that there’s an easy way around this all – Morpheus doesn’t need to do… any of this. Not only the reassurement he had so willingly provided after you’d shown the slightest of doubt, but also–

You’d been slick and ready from the moment you woke up. Really, the dream he had pulled you out of had been more than enough to ensure that. This was as needless as an AC on the North Pole. Maybe, it’s simply because you asked.

Yet, as you peer down at him again at a particularly long stroke of his tongue, you meet his eyes yet again. The striking eyes are already watching you; taking it in, watching you come apart underneath him. A new rush of arousal surges through you, wetter at the mere thought that he’s enjoying this, that this is for him as much as it’s for you – following your whims, making your fantasies come alive–

Morpheus’ motivations are a mystery to you – and impossible to focus on, too busy letting the high tide of pleasure swallow you whole. His tongue circles around your center without pushing past the ridge into you, so close in giving you something to tighten around.

“Please,” you gasp, hands twitching with need to hold onto something, to ground yourself with, to fill you up with, “I– I need–”

Two fingers sink into you.

Instinctively, one hand tangles in his disorderly dark hair, anchoring him closer, harder into you, the other grabbing his hand splayed out across your belly still.

Morpheus’ smug hum vibrates through you, nose brushing against your clit as you start to stutter.

Soft and easy, meeting plump resistance and your own tightening walls, soft and wet heat, a slick sound as he starts moving the digits. Lazy, languid movements that give you delicious stretch, friction. A steady rhythm that’s just what you need – flashes of electricity moving up your spine with every slow pump of his fingers.

Then, they curl into a coaxing motion, and the pressure is almost punishing, coupled with his lips locking around your clit again, sucking as he repeatedly taps against that soft place inside of you.

It’s devastating.

“I’m– I’m gonna– oh–” you breathe out, managing to unravel your voice from where it’s stuck in your throat, everything seizing up into one big wave, grip on his hair turning steely. He doubles down – giving you just what you need, latching onto anything you’ll give him.

Hot white lightning floods your veins – and the pent up weeklong backlog of being denied bursts through, wringing itself out, tightening up like a vice. Stars sparkle behind your eyes, a broken moan leaving your lips as you twist on the fingers working the orgasm through your entire system, legs trembling. All of your synapses are on fire, feeling every precise flick over the oversensitized nub wreak havoc on your nerve endings, every crook of his fingers prompting an influx of heat.

The force of it nearly makes you fall off the couch.

Luckily, his hands are there, holding you down, securing you against the furniture so you have no wiggle room, unable to do anything but take the shockwaves that flood your system, no choice but to just take the fingers working the orgasm through you.

When your muscles finally relax and you go limp in his hold, you fill your lungs with oxygen, chest rising and falling. Panting into the air, feeling the aftershocks sending flickers of electricity through muscles contracting. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air, the faint soapy smell of your showergel, as well as something wholly different from yourself. The hand on your belly moves, and you notice that you’re still clutching at Morpheus’ hair. You let the cramp like hold relent, and he unlatches himself from between your still shaking thighs.

A line of gossamer slick still connects his mouth to your core. Thoughtlessly, you dart your hand out and collect the wetness with your fingers. All motor skills leave you in his hands – your body acting on its own accord rather than how you want it to.

Heady eyes move between the slippery fingers and your own gaze, peering up at you through thick, dark lashes. With the barest of motion, he takes the digits into his mouth.

Eyes wide, pupils blown, you watch the peek of pink tongue run over your fingers, heat coiling together tightly in the pit of your abdomen. His lips are warm, soft against the pads of your fingers, as he pulls back, drinking in the look plastered on your face.

“You are just as demanding here as you are in your dreams,” he says, sounding too amused for your liking. A secret joke you’re not wholly in on.

You watch him rise up between your thighs, eyes immediately lowering–

Now, you notice that he’s as naked as you are as he stands between your spread legs. And he wasn’t done with you yet.

You gasp when he pulls you up with him. He grabs just below your knees as he stands, adjusting you until your knees bend inwards towards your head.

A thin, barely there, trail of hair on his chest and stomach catches your eyes, almost translucent and unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it. You run your hand over it, fingers skim along his adonis belt, following the natural curve of the bone and down. “Imagine if I was more demanding,” you say, a bit breathlessly, watching alabaster skin twitch under your touch, the flesh that’s stretched over bones and lean muscle, pressing your fingers to his heart to really see if there’s something there, “what then.”

In return, Morpheus grabs your wandering hand, pressing his lips to the back of your fingers hastily. The both dark and bright glimmering eyes catch your own. The cosmos must be in them, you think, as they sparkle with something much more indelible than you could ever hope to be.

What you’re thinking of, the realization that hit you, must show on your face, because the faintest of smiles graces his lips as he traps the wandering hand to your side, stopping any further investigation of him.

“More,” he finally answers, as something blunt and slick presses between the apex of your thighs, the glide made easy by your own wetness, when it catches on the ridge and–

“I’d give you more.”

With one surefire thrust, he’s filled you to the hilt – the baritone groan leaving him reverberating through the room.

Your mouth agape as your vocal cords work, but no sound comes.

Quickly, you snag your fingers around his wrist, around one bicep, and his own fingers dig into soft, pillowy flesh. He pulls back and thrusts down, the stretch of him instantly making your legs quiver, supporting himself on the edge of the couch, easily maneuvering a leg over his shoulder.

Staggered at first, the pace he sets has your eyes rolling with every inch pushed into your waiting cunt. A groan rattles through his narrow chest, cock seated inside of you, grinding his pelvis against your own. You moan, hips arching up, plainly asking for more. And he grants it; the leg over his shoulder that he’s keeping there almost cramps up from the pleasure, and you feel a hot breath let out against the soft skin behind your knee, his lips pressed against the skin he’s able to reach.

He fucks you through the couch.

At least, that's what it feels like.

It’s a pounding – the couch springs underneath you doing little to absorb the shock as you take his cock, barely offering any plush comfort. He fills you completely, reaching deep and hitting something completely shattering within you. Broad hands grip your thighs, keeping you flush and filled completely with him. Every snap of his hip brushes against your clit, adding little bursts of stars behind your eyelids.

When you start calling out his name, begging for more, he murmurs against your skin, back bending to kiss the salty sheen off your brows and collarbones.

And suddenly, you’re caged under him.

Slender fingers settle into the plump of your rear, and instinctively your ankles lock over narrow hips. Letting gravity do the work as he thrusts down, Morpheus drives the pace even further, making your wail and digging your nails into his back, shoulders, anything you can reach, tugging on the hair at the nape of his neck.

When his mouth covers yours it’s mostly to keep you quiet, you’re sure.

It’s comforting – the heat of him above you, covering you like how blankets of snow cover the streets in the middle of winter. Finding comfort in being wanted and needed, coveted, in the way that you feel you need him, cling to him, head thrown back as his strokes hit deeper and deeper, whispers of encouragement leaving his lips all the while.

What was tentative and searching at first turns into a fervor; more, you think, more.

Even as he surrounds you utterly, completely. In every breath, you smell him, taste him, feel him as he rocks into you. Lips eagerly opening for each other without any hesitation, a hot need, a want, rising in your chest. Every ounce of closeness that he offers, you take and swallow whole. Nails dig into his shoulders, as his own fingers do the same to your hips, grip on the cusp of bruising.

You feel bent in half – his forehead against yours, a salt sweat covering your body. You start to moan in earnest; you feel yourself clutching around him, the first warning pulses of an orgasm rippling through from your toes to the veins in your throat seizing up. All the air rushes through your lungs – up and out, twisting into a shout.

Every movement is precise, every caress and kiss and bite he rewards across your skin serving a purpose. It’s perfect; it has you keening, writhing like molten metal has filled your veins. The air is filled with your quick, rapid breathing. His own low, dark grunts and praises against the shell of your ear are private, reserved only for you. Your toes curl as if there’s hot sand below them, like you’re racing across the hot dunes of a desert, like you’re falling into quicksand and sinking down into the hot center of the earth. The way he takes you is rigorous; leaving nothing behind to have you wanting. It’s deliberate, knowing, of both you and your wants, and you think that anyone else would pale in comparison to him.

No one would – could – ever compare.

The second orgasm unfurls, wicked and hard, crashing through you. It burns a hole in the pit of your stomach, clutching at Morpheus, back arching to keep him close–

It doesn’t stop, he doesn’t stop, not relenting an inch as he pushes you over the edge you’ve been begging for, imagining for weeks on end. Every thrust tightens your cunt until everything inside you is fierce and tense, chest heaving with almost seismic force, wet and hot bliss.

It’s devastating, utterly destructive – complete pleasure that soars through you.

Head dropping to your shoulder, Morpheus drags himself over that same brink as soon as you’re done toppling over, hips stuttering against your own until his pelvis presses against yours and stays there, grinding deep with a throaty groan.

Gradually, things start to return to you; Morpheus' forehead pressed to your sternum, the tranquility around you, watching dust particles dance in the soft light coming from outside your window. The breath he takes as he holds you still is deep, slowly pulling himself out of you. Immediately, gravity makes itself known by the sticky wet that runs down your innermost thighs. You shudder at it, the unpleasant feeling of cum slowly leaking out of you.

It doesn’t matter though – no, you couldn’t do anything about it if you wanted to.

You’re boneless. Joints all locked up, stiff from the position, panting breath rising towards the ceiling. A dull throb still persists between your legs, aftershocks of the way your muscles have been working, the comedown starting to kick in.

The couch is worn down, sunken in after years of diligent use.

But at the moment, it’s the most comfortable thing you've ever felt.

And you sink down into it, let yourself be taken into Morpheus arms as he leans down into the couch.

You groan into the air, hand thrown over your eyes.

“Sated.” Morpheus’ voice is soothing, but the statement is plain. As if you’re some fairytale beast he’s just offered a sacrificial lamb to, and was now awaiting a boon. Pleasure lingers, as does the weight of him, the feel of him inside you. His voice is smooth, lulling, a promise of the sleep that would come, eventually – as inevitable as dreams themselves.

Fleetingly, you wonder if he’d still meet you there, in that inbetween place, where all your previous encounters had taken place.

“Are you serious? Who– where else could I get fucked like this? I’m ruined.” You moan, like you’re a maiden who's just been sneaked out of her virginal purity by showing too much ankle.

The thought, that certain consequence, hasn’t seemed to dawn on the King of Dreams, Lord Dream or whatever it was. Or at least, that’s what his silence tells you. When no reply comes after another moment, you part the fingers across your eyes, just in time to see him move.

And then, he’s rolling you over, hovering above you as you lay beneath him, heart suddenly stuck in your throat – staring down into your eyes intently.

“Maybe,” Morpheus closes in on you again, leaning over you, lips barely skimming yours as he follows up that particular thought, “this shouldn't be the last time then?”

---

i read a total of three (3) morpheus/reader fics before i started writing this. happy sandman renewal and what not!!

is the ending a set up for a sequel? well,,,

let me know what worked and what didn’t! <3

EDIT: this ended up getting a sequel! read halcyon here

#morpheus/dream x reader #the sandman fanfic #morpheus x reader #the sandman #morpheus smut #dream of the endless #my writing #influx #yes i posted this a couple hours ago on ao3. what about it #anyways tags are for secrets;#yes this would absolutely not leave me until i wrote it. it eroded my brain until it was out #it's filthy. wholly indecent.#am not abandoning any other fics for this dw dw this just needed to come out in a cathartic fashion #mdni

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thezombieprostitute · 3 months

Text

Sparks Fly - Part 1

Summary: After working as an engineer for Wilford & Gilliam Trust for several years you find evidence of seedy dealings and burned books. After turning in the evidence you find yourself in danger and seek help. You're taken into the protection of a mob family where you run into your high school best friend, Mace.

Word Count: ~1000

Warnings: Implied violence and attempted murder. Please let me know if I missed any.

A/N: Kind of a short chapter to get things started. At the moment Reader has no descriptors. This is part of the Garbage Men AU.

Part 2

Series Masterlist

Mace was enjoying his time at the bar. It wasn't often he and all the other guys got to go out together. Well, all except Curtis. Him and Teach were still in their Exciting New Relationship phase. He couldn't fault them, especially since he was able to prod Curtis on how he'd been right all those weeks ago.

He was enjoying watching Hal trying to teach Jake some pickup artist stuff when he got a text: Prep the guest suite. Mace put his phone away and paid his tab before letting the guys know what was happening.

The Guest Suite was the name given to one of the nicer apartments the family kept as safe houses. Mace was generally in charge of their upkeep, seeing as how he was handy with just about everything they needed. Furnaces, fuses, water heaters, even plumbing, he was really good at fixing and maintaining the apartments. It’s why he was officially in charge of the maintenance for the low-income housing that the Family funded.

Several apartments were kept empty for specific reasons. The only one Mace didn’t touch was the Basement Studio, where Barnes and Fowler did their more intense interrogations. Curtis took responsibility for that one and Mace was happy to let him. Most of the others were Singles, kept open for victims of abuse or runaways in need of a safe space. There were a couple of Lofts for when Family members needed to lay low for a while. But the Guest Suite was something special, reserved solely for potential witnesses that the police were unable to keep safe. Its upkeep was focused on making it feel warm and welcoming and catered to witnesses, making them feel more inclined to testify, if only because they felt safe to do so.

Part of prepping the Guest Suite was stocking the place with food. It was an off hour but Mace managed to gather up enough to last someone a couple of days, making a note to pick up more at a better time. He got to the apartment and set to work making the place ready. He stored the food, got the heater going and kept an ear out for any off noises while he did the rest of his work. He made sure the bed was made and even checked that the dishes and cooking supplies didn’t have a layer of dust.

While he was checking things he got another text, We’re here. Mace kept working and listened for the door to open. He made sure to keep himself where the guest would be able to see him immediately. It wouldn’t do to startle the guest. He was just double checking the security bars on the windows when he heard the door opening.

“Now this is where you’ll be staying,” he hears Huffman say. “Mace here has got the whole place secured and full of food. And if you need anything else, we can get it for you.”

“Mace?”

He turns around and sees you. It takes his brain a second to recognize you, “DC?”

You run up to Mace and hug him, “AC! God it’s been so long!”

“What kind of trouble are you in that brought you here, DC?”

“Umm…well..” you stutter.

“She’s got dirt on Wilford & Gilliam,” Huffman interrupts. “You two know each other?”

Mace looks at Huffman, “we went to high school together. We were really good friends, bonding over a shared interest in engineering.”

You giggle, “we were such nerds we even nicknamed each other after the AC and DC electrical currents. I was DC, Direct Current, because I had my life all planned out and was a straight shooter.”

Mace smiles shyly, rubbing his hand on the back of his head, “and I was AC, Alternating Current, because my plans were all over the place and my interests kept varying from month to month.” He turns to you, “you’re in trouble with Willford & Gilliam?”

“I…I was working for them and found some…irregularities in the finances. And the blueprints. And a few other things.” You start shaking at the memories of the past week and Mace pulls you in for a hug to steady you.

“They sent goons to kill her,” Huffman continued. “They’ve managed to find her at three different safe houses under my department's jurisdiction. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a mole or something. Barnes approved getting her set up here.”

Mace nods, “who do you have set for guard duty?”

Huffman gives Mace a once-over, “I’m thinking it should be you.”

“Woah,” Mace argues, “I’m not guard duty material. I’m just maintenance and information!”

“Mace,” you whimper, “please? I’d really like to be protected by a friend, not a stranger.”

He looks into your eyes and sees how tired and stressed out you are. He knows you’d be safer with someone else but he can tell you need something familiar and safe or you’re going to be a nervous wreck.

“Okay,” he concedes. He turns to Huffman, “I’m still gonna want some back up or something.” Huffman nods in agreement. “And someone’s going to have to tell Curtis I’ve been commandeered for a little while.”

“I’ll make sure he agrees to the plan.”

“So you’re gonna talk to Teach?”

“Well, I do value my life, Mace.” Huffman heads out, leaving you and Mace alone together.

Part 2

Series Masterlist

Please let me know if you'd liked to be tagged in this series.

#mafia!james mace #mob!james mace #james mace x reader #mace x reader #mafia au #mafia!mace #mob!mace

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ladylooch · 4 months

Text

The Spiral [Lio Meier] - Part 4

A/N: One more part after this! things are starting to turn around for our Lio 🤭

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: allergic reaction, lots of medical talk, angst, childhood trauma themes

ICYMI Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The morning after his concussion, Lio thinks it would have been better to have been crushed by a garbage truck. His head hurts so bad, worse than any hangover headache or migraine he’s had in his life. But worse than that is the fog that has settled into his brain. Details of last night are fuzzy- the game, Lucie, their conversation. He thinks things are better, but is worried about facing her this morning.

He rolls over to his back, tentatively opening his eyes. The world doesn’t swirl like it had been last night. But he feels like the front of his forehead is going to explode off from the pressure. Is that normal? Fuck.

Slowly, Lio adjusts his position to sit up. The smell of something baking hits his nose. He smiles. Lucie is still here. It takes awhile before Lio can get out of bed, changed, and hit the bathroom. By the time he is done with that, he feels like he could go back to sleep. Instead, he drags himself towards the kitchen. Lucie is at the stove, a large stack of pancakes to her left. As he gets closer, he can see the rainbow sprinkles poking out of the cakes.

“Lucie pancakes.” He chuckles, approaching her.

“They still hit even as an adult.” She shrugs.

“Doesn’t Stell think these are her creation?”

“Yeah because of her dad.” Lucie rolls her eyes. “Connor thinks she created everything, even though I made these all the time when I was pregnant with her.”

“So he thinks because she was there, she made them?”

“He thinks she created the craving for me, so it’s from her.”

“Your mom could set that straight.”

“Mmm, I don’t think anyone can set that man straight about his sweet girl.” Lucie takes off two more pancakes. “Sit down and eat. You look awful.”

“Thanks.” Lio mumbles, resting his head delicately in his palm. He sets his elbow on the counter watching as Lucie slaps two pancakes on his plate. “Still hate syrup?”

“Yep.” Lio confirms, picking up his fork to cut into a pancake.

“I heard from Ben. He wanted you to check in when you got up.” Lio nods, grabbing his phone.

While he eats small bites, him and Ben talk about how Lio is feeling. Ben is concerned about the intensity of Lio’s headache. He wants him to go to the hospital for a CT scan.

“Can you send a car? Lucie needs to go home to her family.”

“No, I can take you.” She says, waving away his worries. “Con is taking Stell to the rink for practice. She is loving her mommy-free life right now.” Ben and Lio chat more. The team doctor is going to meet them at the hospital and they will know more after the imaging is processed.

Lucie and Lio finish breakfast, then head into Newark. Lucie waits while Lio is being scanned and afterwards while they wait for the radiologist to do a quick read. Everything looks good. Lio’s brain isn’t showing any damage, but he does have one hell of a concussion. The news is good. Lio feels like he can breathe and be more at peace with where he is at.

“You’re going to have to take it easy.” The doctor reminds him. “At least two weeks before you do any exercise.” Lio agrees. He can’t imagine getting on the ice right now with how shitty he feels.

“Is it okay if I drop you off and head out?” Lucie asks Lio when they are back in the car. “Connor is going to the Children’s Hospital to see some of his kiddos. I need to get home before he leaves again.”

“Yeah, I will be fine. Thank you for staying with me. And.. um tell Connor thanks too. I appreciate it. Know he isn’t my biggest fan.”

Lucie drops Lio in front of his building, then heads back towards her city. Lio’s doorman greets him warmly, opening the big door for him.

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“Tough one last night, Mr. Meier.”

“Hey, boys pulled out the win tho.” Lio waves as he walks through.

“Your mama is waiting for you in your apartment. She was mighty frazzled this morning.” Lio stops in his tracks. There are two people who have unlimited access to his apartment besides him. One just dropped him off. The other lives in Switzerland.

“Ah, thanks. Moms…” Lio trails off with a shrug.

Lio seriously contemplates sprinting out of his building. Doctor’s orders be damned. The only woman to ever love him unconditionally is upstairs and he is not ready to face her. Not ready to see her after the horrible things he said to her. Not ready to face his own shame and self-hatred. It’s why he left Switzerland without seeing her even after telling his dad he wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t deserve her or her love.

But she is here. Already. He knows how many hoops she must have jumped through to get to him. He senses his dad’s involvement as well. The strings Timo Meier would have pulled for her are unlimited. So Lio Meier gets into the elevator and rises the 6 floors to his awaiting fate. Outside his apartment door, he takes a deep breath, then puts his key in the lock. He pushes the door open, not seeing her on the couch like he expected.

“Mama?” He calls into the apartment.

“Lee?” He hears her call from deep inside. She comes rushing out of his room. With zero hesitation, she grabs him and wraps him into her body for a hug. “Oh” She sighs, holding his head against hers. She sucks in a deep breath then lets out a relieved sigh at having him close to her. “Are you okay?” Her brown eyes are deeply pained. Lio closes his eyes, unable to see more.

“Um, well, I guess but also no. What are you doing?”

“Your laundry.”

“Of course.” He chuckles, shaking his head. He has been grown for awhile, but she still insists on taking care of him. It makes Lio less worried for whatever is to come.

“Well, I was very anxious waiting for you. I had to do something.” She insists, waving a hand in front of her face. “Now, go sit down. I have lemon water, hot oatmeal and toast ready for you.” She gently guides him forward. “And vitamins. You need extra nutrients to get better.”

“Mama.” Lio sighs when she turns to head back to the kitchen. He feels like such a piece of shit with how she is jumping right in to take care of him. The undeserving suffocates him, tightening his throat until he struggles to breathe. “Don’t do this.” He finally chokes out. “Don’t double down and love me harder right now.”

“Lee.” Emma comes back to him, putting her hands on his cheeks. She kisses his forehead, right over where his head aches so badly. “I am never going to stop loving you hard or taking care of you. I’m your mother.” She runs her fingers through his hair, then moves back into the kitchen. His blue eyes follow her.

“Is dad here?”

“Yes, of course. Boys are with Uncle Neeks and Auntie Lex, but Livy is coming this weekend.”

“You both didn’t have to come and Liv needs to stay in California. She has school.”

“Mmm, but we did.” Emma looks over her shoulder at him. “We needed to see that you were going to be okay.”

“Dad isn’t here now?” Lio looks down the hall towards his bedroom.

“No, we felt like it’s you and I that need to talk. Not the three of us.” Lio looks away. “Don’t be mad at daddy. It was me. He didn’t want to do it.” Lio’s blue eyes find her again in the kitchen.

“You don’t get to tell me to not be mad at him.” He whispers.

“Probably not. But I love your dad very much and if I can save him from your wrath, I want to.”

Lio goes to the couch, sitting down, laying his head back on the top. He is exhausted from his morning. He feels the air of his mom coming around the couch. She puts her hand on his forehead, smoothing the wrinkle of distress there.

“What’s the news?”

“Concussion.” Lio mumbles.

“Is your brain okay?”

“Yes.” Emma sighs in obvious relief. Her hand drops to his shoulder. She strokes her hand there, quietly contemplating where to go next. When Lio opens his eyes, she begins.

“Lio, daddy and I love you more than I even know how to say. I never thought I would have to find words to express how much and I’m deeply sorry that you’ve been so hurt.” She sighs, running her hand through her hair, then looking out the floor to ceiling windows to the city. His apartment is only a few blocks from where her and Timo lived when she was pregnant with Lio. That feels like so long ago, but she tries to go back to who she was then to give Lio more insight into their life.

“I was the one who wanted to fudge your story. I know daddy told you that this summer, but he doesn’t know all of the things that went into that. You and I had experiences when you were a baby that made me feel very protective of you. People judged. They were horrible and social media made our life so accessible, even as Daddy and I tried to hide you. But this was never because we were ashamed or didn’t love you.” Disgust and substantial disagreement scrunches Emma’s nose. “It was the exact opposite.” Emma puts her hands on her cheeks for a moment, then continues.

“When you were 10 months old, the Devils were playing in the Eastern Conference finals. Daddy was hurt. He was playing through it as he always does, so he wasn’t performing very well. People were upset.” Lio watches his mom become increasingly uncomfortable. “You and I were out at a store after the Devils went down in the series. There was an incident in public where someone came up to you, a little baby, and called you that name…” Emma closes her eyes. “They went on to literally blamed the entire playoff situation on the fact that you were born out of wedlock. Daddy’s play as well. We were being punished for our sin of having you.”

Lio can see how much this still hurts his mom decades later.

“I’m sorry, mom.” He says sincerely.

“That person got to me.” Emma shakes her head. “I felt you deserved a better story. A more picture perfect story because of how much joy and purpose you brought to our lives. I..” She sighs. “I felt like we ruined your childhood before it had even really begun. I tried to fix it the way I knew how. Instead I hurt you.”

“But Lio, please know, I have loved you since the moment I knew of you even when I was crying on a bathroom floor. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to figure it out for you. When I got up off that tile, whatever decision daddy wanted wasn’t going to shake my decision. You were coming because I wanted you. It would be me and you against the world.” Emma stops, looking at him, then she chuckles. “But daddy wasn’t going anywhere. He was all in. He loved us so much. You’ve seen the videos from when I was pregnant with you. Nothing about that was forced.”

Lio remembers the one of his dad laughing hard as a three week old Lio tried to latch onto Timo’s big chest. The pictures of him on the ice at The Rock for the first time in skates that looked massive on his feet. Tons of videos of Lio and Timo napping together the year of the Devils first cup run. He looks across his apartment at a picture of his parents and him with the cup. It was only Lio and them at that time. Well, his mom was pregnant with Livy, but they barely knew that. Although the most difficult to win trophy in sports is right there, his dad’s hands are on a young Lio, engulfing him and his mom in his sweaty equipment.

“It felt like a lie.” Lio hears himself say. He gestures to the picture. Emma follows his gaze. “Like it looked like that. But then you and dad would make a comment about wanting me so bad you couldn’t wait and my whole life felt like a lie.” Emma swallows hard, nodding.

“I see that now, Lee. I’m very sorry. But that was real. That was our life, baby.” She reaches for his hand.

“It hurt me.” He whispers. Emma winces, then runs her hand up his arm to squeeze his shoulder.

“I know. I am so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.” Emma purses her lips together, then looks at Lio with tears in her eyes. She brushes her thumb over the hairs behind his ear. “So loved. So wanted. Never a mistake.” Lio nods, then reaches to hug her. They hold one another tightly.

“Love you, mama.” Lio inhales heavily. “I can see how you wanted to protect me.”

“I love you, Lee. So much sweet boy.” When they pull apart, Emma stands to grab Lio more water, then comes back to the couch.

“She wasn’t even pregnant.” Lio confesses. “False positive.”

“Oh.” Emma blinks. This is the first time she is hearing this. “How does that make you feel?”

“Relieved.” Lio answers honestly. “More than any of the other reasons I said this summer… I just don’t want kids, mama.” Emma nods. She has suspected so for awhile.

“It’s your life. You get to decide. But you need to be more careful because at some point, it becomes not your choice.”

“Kay, pot.” Lio jokes with a light-hearted smirk. Emma tisks, chuckling and smacking Lio’s leg.

“Don’t slut shame your mother. You didn’t see how good James Bond looked that night.”

- - -

A brisk and skin drying wind has picked up on the East coast in the middle of November. Old man winter is roaring its way to the East coast with a winter storm warning in effect beginning tomorrow. With the impending weather, things are sure to get dicey in the booming metropolis of New York City. Despite the lingering effects of his concussion agitating him today, Lio is currently being dragged from room to room in the Bubble Planet by Stella Wood.

“This way! This way!” She yells, struggling to pull his heavy weight with her little body.

“Stell, I’m coming. Just chill.” He laughs.

“She doesn’t know that word. She’s three.” Lucie jokes back to him.

They weave through room after room, each one more exciting than the last. Stella is having the time of her life, especially when she is on Lio’s shoulders, getting to touch the bubbles falling from the ceiling.

“Mama, this is the best day! I wish daddy could come!” Lucie and Lio avoid looking at each other, just like they avoid the giant elephant that is Connor Wood between them.

Although Lucie and Connor have discussed more about what happened this summer, he is not ready to move on. It got particularly heated when Lucie asked if Stella could see Lio. Connor questioned Lucie’s motives, worried about the implications and confusion Stella would have about Connor not being there. These were fair and valid points, but her inquisitiveness hurt less than her tears about missing Lio.

“Baby, you do what you need to do, but I’m not interested in spending time with him or fixing this. I’ve made concessions along the way. This is where I am at. Stell stays here with me.”

Lucie respected that. She dropped it completely. But suddenly the next morning, Connor had given her quiet permission for her to bring Stella to breakfast with Lio. That was a month ago. Connor heads to the rink on days when his girls are meeting up with Lio, always having an excuse about training or treatment or nutrition. Lucie kisses him extra hard on those days, wanting him to know she loves him deeply and understands so much of this is difficult for them.

Now, as she watches Stella up on Lio’s shoulders, all she can fathom is the immense hole Connor’s absence brings.

“Baby, are you getting hungry?” Lucie asks her daughter as they bop out onto the New York avenue.

“Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

“Mac and cheese!”

“You had that for dinner last night.” Lucie laughs.

“She is a good Swiss girl!” Lio nods approvingly.

“Her favorite is Kraft.” Lucie points out.

“We’ll work on it. She’s three, ya know.” He jostles Lucie’s shoulder, then immediately regrets it at the way the world swirls upright for a minute. “Oof.” He rubs at his temples.

“Careful, Lee. No setbacks.” Lucie cautions, gripping his shoulder.

The three of them head a few blocks down to a diner, settling into a red booth with huge, plastic menus and a coloring page for Stella. Lio sits on her side of the booth, taking turns coloring a troll in a field of daisy.

“Not pink!” Stella scrunches her nose, pushing Lio’s hand away.

“What? You said I could pick any color.”

“Yeah, any one but pink.”

“You love pink?”

“When I was two.”

Lucie and Lio both snort, attempting to pursue their lips to keep their laughter in. Stella Wood is an absolute hoot.

“Can I share a milkshake with you?” Lucia asks Lio.

“I was gonna share with Stell.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” She raises her eyebrows then looks away with a smirk at her menu. She decides on a simple Strawberry shake. “Stell, do you want to share with uncle Lee?”

“Yeah.”

“Which flavor?”

“Reese’s! His favorite!”

“No, you can’t have those, baby. You’re allergic to peanuts.”

“No peanuts in there?”

“Yes, there is peanut butter.” Lucie calmly reminds her.

“Sorry, Uncle Lee. I get sick.” She pats her little pot belly.

“It’s okay. I was thinking chocolate.”

“Oh yes.” The little girl sighs happily.

The waitress comes and takes their orders. The adults grab cheeseburgers with fries while Stella happily exclaims she needs Mac and Cheese. The waitress practically swoons out of her Keds at how sweetly Stella thanks her for going to get their food. More coloring is done and a quick few games of hangman using three letter words like cat and dog and hat. Stella is getting so good at her ABCs. The milkshakes come out first. Stella watches in awe as the shake is split between two cups for her and her uncle.

“You gonna be able to finish that?” Lio asks.

“Mhm.” Stella nods enthusiastically. With one hand she grabs the glass while the other helps her balance on the table top. She sucks up the milkshake quickly, then sputters, coughing.

“Oh, that was a big sip. It’s cold, huh?” Lucie chuckles, handing Stella her water glass. She holds it up to the little girl’s lips for a sip.

“Ah!” She exclaims. “Mmmm.” She sucks up more of the thick liquid. Lio and Lucie chuckle, watching Stella enjoy her ice cream. Lio leans back farther in the booth, looking across the table at his cousin.

“I’ve had so much fun with you today. I missed this.”

“Me too.” Lucie murmur. Stella coughs again, loudly, then seems to gag. Stella sits up straighter, looking Lucie in the eyes with wide orbs. “Are you okay, baby?” Lucie straightens. Lio sits up as well, reaching out for Stella. She makes a wheezing noise, then sticks her tongue out.

“Oh my god. Stell?” Lucie covers her mouth, watching a red, angry rash begin to form on Stella’s face. Lio grabs Stella as she begins to sway backward.

“She is very warm.”

“What is going on?” Lucie whispers, she looks around the table then she smells it, the faintest whiff of peanut butter coming from the ice cream in the glass Stella was drinking. “Oh my god. Peanut butter.” She reaches for her purse, fumbling around. “Um.. ohmygod.”

“Do you have an Epipen?”

“Um.” She nods vigorously, beginning to pant herself. Her stomach tightens, fear dashes down her spine. She rips her hands through the contents of her purse, looking for the injection she always carries with her since the first reaction Stella had a few months ago in Switzerland. But it wasn’t like this. It was nothing close to this.

“Luc, come on.” Lio calls to his cousin, picking up Stella into his arms. “You’re okay, baby. It’s okay!” He tries for a cheery voice as Stella being to sob. “Luc, dump the purse out.” Lucie picks the bag up, emptying it from the handles. Lio sees the EpiPen immediately, tossing the cap off hastily. He does the injection, pausing to watch Stella’s reaction. Her wheezing gets tighter, but she can no longer speak to him or even cry. Lio’s heart is racing in his chest as he watches her struggle.

“Do you have another one?”

“No! It’s with Connor at home.” She shakes her head frantically. “Oh my god. Someone call an ambulance!” Lucie sobs out to the restaurant. In the haste of dumping her purse out, her phone fell underneath the booth. But she is frozen in paralysis. She can’t move. She can’t breathe. She is forced to watch her baby struggle.

Adrenaline takes over Lio like he was injected with the epinephrine. He calculates out where they are in the city, the amount of time it will take for an ambulance to get there and he knows Stella’s chances of making it are slim with how much she is struggling even after her first injection. He has seen this before with a kid in school when they still lived in Jersey.

“There isn’t time for the ambulance. I’m taking her to Children’s.” The hospital is at the end of the three blocks they walked from Bubble Planet, close to Lucie’s car. Lio secures Stella to his chest and begins to run from the restaurant. He leaves Lucie at the table to scramble her things back into her bag. He runs as fast as his body will go. Stella jostles against his shoulder, going limper and limper and Lio quite literally races against time.

“You’re going to be okay, Stell. it’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.” He promises the little girl in his arms.

Tears blur his vision. His concussion rears it’s ugly head, pulsing against his temples and making the sidewalk shift with his blurred vision. He can’t let that stop him. Stella needs him. He pushes his injured and weak body to go harder the next block, dodging pedestrians and cabs in walk ways and dogs on leashes. He hits the emergency entrance of the hospital, screaming for help.

“Help! Please! My nieces is going into shock! She was exposed to peanuts!” Nurses swarm him, snatching Stell immediately and taking over.

“Did you give her Epinephrine?”

“How was she exposed?”

“Is this her first exposure?”

Lio answers the questions as best he can. Yes, ingested and no. He looks over his shoulder, wondering when he can expect to see Lucie. But then they are taking Stella away on her bed. Another nurse holds him back as they rush down the hall with her.

“Sir, I need you to wait in the lobby.”

She is right. He needs to wait for Lucie anyway. But that doesn’t make it easier to turn around. He heads to the doors he just sprinted through, avoiding the gazes of curious onlookers. He walks outside into the cold air. His chest tightens immediately and he turns to the side, looking for something he can vomit into. But then he sees Lucie Wood, rushing down the sidewalk, clutching her purse to her chest, sobbing so loud he can hear every inhale and exhale of her shaking body.

“Luc, they’ve got her.” Lio calls to her. He opens his arms up and Lucie collapses into his body. His shirt is immediately wet from her face. Large hiccups shudder her frame against him. He squeezes her tight, smoothing her hair down. “It’s going to be okay.” Lio whispers to her, hoping that maybe if they chant that together, it will make it real.

Several minutes pass. Lucie continues to sob into Lio’s body, even after he moves her inside to get out of the wind. The doctors come out looking for him, finding him and Lucie together. Stella is stable. They can go see her, but she will need to stay for several hours for monitoring as they had to give her two more injections. Lucie heads right into her daughter’s room, curling up with the little girl who looks drugged and exhausted in the center.

“Mama is here. You’re okay.” She cries to her daughter. Stella is upset and shaken from the ordeal. She clings to Lucie like a monkey, balling her shirt up in her little fists.

“LuLu, do you want me to call Connor?”

“Yes.” Lucie whispers, barely able to get the word out of her shaking lips. She reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, handing her phone to him. “If you call he won’t answer.” She says simply. Lio tries to brush that off like it doesn’t hurt, but it stings as bad as the wind biting his cheeks during his sprint to the hospital.

Lio takes a deep breath, then clicks on Connor’s contact. His heart is pounding in his chest like he’s about to take a face-off in the final minute of a trailing game. He licks his lips, leaning agains the wall, waiting on the call to connect.

“Hey baby! I’m just about to leave.”

“Ah.” Lio coughs. “Hey, it’s Lio.”

Silence.

“Where is Lucie?” A definite snap tightens the words through the line.

“She’s with Stella. She asked me to call you and tell you what is going on.”

“What? Are they okay? What..”

“Lucie is okay.” Lio starts.

“Stell? Whats wrong with her!?” Connor’s voice is beginning to escalate. “What did you do, Lio?” Connor snaps. Lio closes his eyes.

“I didn’t do anything. It was a mistake at the restaurant.”

“Fuck!” Connor yells. “Where are you?”

“At Children’s hospital off 34th.”

“You have to tell me what happened, Lio.”

“I’m trying to, but you’re not letting me get much out here, man.” Connor sighs. Lio takes his silence as compliance. “We were out grabbing lunch and she had an allergic reaction and we had to bring her to the hospital. Her Epipen wasn’t enough.”

“Fuck, I have the second one. We usually have the two together, but Lucie and I had plans the other night and…” Connor’s voice is distraught.

“It happens. But you should get down here. They need you.”

“I’m on my way.”

Lio removes the phone from his ear, looking at the lock screen of Lucie, Connor and Stella. Lio took that photo of them this summer in Switzerland, before everything happened. He sighs heavily, then comes back into the room.

“Connor is coming.” Lio assures Lucie. She doesn’t take her crying eyes off the little girl in her arms. She sniffs and nods in acknowledgement, continuing to touch her daughter’s face soothingly. Lio can’t tell if it’s for Stella or Lucie.

Connor Wood arrives thirty minutes later with squeaking sneakers on the tile floor of the hospital hallway. Lucie and Stella are dozing in an overwhelmed sleep. Lio sits in the chair next to them with one hand on Stella, rubbing her arm. Lucie’s hand clings to his wrist, needing comfort in one of the worst moments of her life.

“I’m a terrible mom.” She had told Lio tearfully.

“You’re not. It was scary.”

“What if you weren’t there?”

“It doesn’t matter. I was.”

“Luc! Stell!” Connor rushes into the room then locks in on Lio. He shifts his worried eyes to the bed, seeing Lucie and Stella curled together. His lips pull into a deep frown, then his eyes seemingly dim when he takes in Lio in the place he should be.

“They’re resting, Lucie is pretty upset.” Lio says as he slowly works his wrist out of Lucie’s grasp. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to see me. I’ll leave now, I just didn’t want to leave the girls alone before you got here.”

“What happened?” Connor asks. Lio can see the way his chest rapidly raises and falls beneath the Rangers logo on his chest.

“Stella somehow got a peanut butter shake at the diner. Wrong order. She had some and started having a severe reaction.” Connor’s face gets ghostly pale. He puts his hand on his head over his blue hat, waiting for more. “Um, Luc, She… she panicked. It was all scary. Truly awful. But I gave Stell the injection, but it didn’t do enough. She became mostly unresponsive.” Connor closes his eyes, bringing his hands to his face in anguish. “There wasn’t time to wait for help, so I grabbed Stella and ran here with her.”

“You ran?”

“Yeah. Stell didn’t have time.” Lio reiterates. If he is mad at Lio for that, then so be it. Maybe it was reckless, but Lio had to make a judgement call and Stell is going to be okay because of it. Connor stares at Lio. Then suddenly he steps forward around the bed. Lio stands up taller, preparing for anything. Connor wraps an arm around Lio’s shoulders to bring him into his body. Lio brings his hands up, clasping Connor’s back as they share a deep, sincere hug.

“Thank you.” Connor whispers, tears coating his voice. Lio squeezes Connor tighter, not wanting to let go of his best friend. Suddenly, it hits Lio. How close they were to losing Stell. How dire she had looked when he ran through the doors of the ER. How Lucie had every right to be that terrified at the table. It had been bad. Horrible. Worst case scenario.

Lio can’t help it. He begins to sob. Everything that has happened the last few months weeps out of him. From losing Savannah, to screaming at his parents, to only having his little sister, to losing the three people in this room with him. His concussion… almost losing Stella on that New York street.

“It’s okay, Lee. She’s going to be okay.” Connor puts his hand on Lio’s head. “You saved our girl.” Lio nods, shuddering as he pulls away. Both men wipe their faces with their hands, then look over to the two girls laying in the bed. Stella has a sleepy grin on her face, watching them.

“Daddy!” She giggles, reaching out to him, flexing and unflexing her fingers for him to come closer.

“Hi baby.” Connor smiles brightly, leaning down to kiss her cheeks. “Can I lay with you and mama?”

“Yeah.” Stella yawns as she says the word.

“Sleepy.” Connor chuckles, kissing her again. He curls her and Lucie into his body, trying to be careful not to wake his wife. Lucie jolts up at the feeling of his hands on her. “Me, Luc. It’s me.” She visibly relaxes when she sees her husband. “I’m here.” He brushes her cheek with his thumb.

Lio watches from the end of the bed, then anxiously rubs at his forehead. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Um, well I’ll head out so you all can be together.”

“No, don’t go.” Lucie shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Luc. I’ll see you later.”

“You should stay with us.” Connor says softly. “We want you here.” The insinuation of the we has the corners of Lio’s mouth sliding up.

Lio makes his way back to the chair by the bedside, sitting down in it. Him and Connor share a look of understanding. Lucie trails her nails along Stella’s back as another big yawn stretches her little mouth.

“Uncle Lee?” Stella murmurs.

“Hm?”

“You gonna be here when I wake up?”

“Yeah, Stell.” He sighs. “I’ll be right here.”

#lio & lucie

44 notes · View notes

modelbus · 2 months

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eyup model!! Hru?? Hope all is well… but lets get to the important shit, THATS RIGHT! ITS ME, YOUR SELF PROCLAIMED FAVOURITE ANNON, ✨🌌🌙!!! Y’know, the one that writes SUPER detailed, SUPER long and SUPER off-topic-for-the-first-half requests!!!! (If I keep this up for long enough, you’re gonna have to add a ✨🌌🌙 Annon section to your master list. /hj)

that makes me think about when I first requested, I wonder how long its been.. I THINK my first req was Cut Chaos.. one sec lemme check………

AYE IN 4(ish) MONTHS IT’LL BE A YEAR SINCE I STARTED HARASSING YOU WITH MY THINK OF BRAINS!

been a while.. I’ll need to remember to write a DUMB request in june.

SO. REQUEST. YES. I DO THAT? I DO THAT.

okay so idk how to format this but here,

She/Her pronouns for plot. y/n is honestly, REALLY bad at pvp, she’s know amongst the SBI for being.. a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but the wolf has no teeth. She likes flowers, pastel pinks, purples, and blues, she likes cottage core dresses and corsets.. So on the surface she looks like a pretty, little, innocent streamer!… yeah, no. Sure, shes pretty as fuck, but little? She is SURPRISINGLY TALL. half the fan base is fully convinced EVERY photo shes in is photo shopped, but sure enough, shes 6’4! Innocent? Say the words ‘Arson’ ‘Crime’ or ‘Manslaughter’, and you practically summon her. (Every SMP she has been on, has in-fact seen not only her enemy’s but HER OWN, Builds being blown up and/or burnt to the ground AT LEAST, 3 times.) shes also know for her ADORABLE builds (shame half of them end in ash..), her parkour skills.. and uh.. being complete garbage at anything pvp.

Well twitter being twitter, a lot of sexist 12 year old boys, and Andrew tate fans like to be.. REALLY creepy and all ‘perfect house wife’ about her. (You get the gist no more detail needed.) While they may not know it(they ignore it/pretend its fake), she’s actually quite strong in real life, often picking up her friends in irl streams and running away with them as a bit (with consent ofc)! But in minecraft, that doesn’t really show.. so naturally being the absolute fucking queen she is, about a year ‘n a half ago, she decided she was gonna be fucking great at pvp. Naturally not telling anyone but techno (so he could teach her, duh) and avoiding all pvp for a year, lead to people joking about it more often.. this didn’t bother her, it was actually perfect, she had been getting better. Like really. Danm. Better. Practicing even without techno and on an alt, and at this point? It felt natural to be disappointed at a 25 win streak.. she went from 0 to about 30-40 average win streaks.. in a year and a half.. she was dedicated, okay? Her fans did notice her getting a little rusty at parkour but they just assumed she had been to busy to practice as much.. they were right but not about what she was busy doing.. So, she obviously invited the sbi, and a few other friends (Tubbo, Ranboo and Dream.) to play a custom pvp themed game, with the stream titled ‘I haven’t pvp-ed in a year and a half, and now I’m doing it again.’ where they were split into two rounds, (y/n and techno being in both but the rest in one) all in hardcore and spawned on opposite sides of the map, having 30 minutes to gear up, before pvp was turned on, and no going to the end, no other rules than one hour to be the last one standing, they could team, they could camp, they could use tnt minecrarts, they could go to the nether, anything. it was all game.

only two people expected her to crush almost everyone. I’m not even sure if those two people were expecting her to come second one round, and WIN the other.. but with her getting half the kills in round one and losing to techno in a final battle where she held her fucking ground like a boss ass mother fucker, and winning after techno killed Dream and she ambushed him after using a god apple..

lets just say after a couple things trending, a lot of fanart and A LOT of sapphic women going crazy, nobody dared to question her dedication to proving she was a fucking force to be reckoned with again.

(It also became a very popular running joke that she got more women than any other Minecraft CC.. you don’t gotta include that just- just make it cannon.. oops, dropped my gay onto the request lemme fetch that rq..) (yes, I wrote this y/n as my fuckin dream girl, I’m a simp okay..)

haha.. ha.. BRO AT THIS POINT I’M JUST WRITING A FIC AND TELLING YOU TO RE-WRITE IT BUT MAKE IT GOOD I- feel free to change what ever, the top half is mostly just context- even if you don’t do this request you should reply to it so its not lost to the void- I.. I’m sorry man I keep doing this to you-

OH WELL JUST PRETEND THIS IS WAY SHORTER THAN IT IS OR IGNORE IT IDC EITHER WAY HOPE THIS GIVES YA INSPO POOKIE (the pookie was ironic I swear-) - ✨🌌🌙 Annon

For our one year anniversary I’ll make a special section of my master list just for you bbg <3 also don’t judge me for this title I was STRUGGLING

Pairing: what the fuck anymore Actual pairing: Fem!Reader x Cc!Phil, Cc!Tommy, Cc!Technoblade, Cc!Dream, Cc!Tubbo, Cc!Ranboo

Flower Power

You were pretty happy with who you were. A badass woman who just so happened to be the epitome of flower power? Hell yeah.

Fairy lights twinkle in the background of your setup, a wall full of vines and LED signs providing extra ambience. That’s not to mention the special keyboard—resin flower keycaps, they were on sale okay—alongside your setup in general. Even your mic had cute animal stickers on it. Well, except for the one Tommy gave you of his face? It was weird.

Right now, though, you aren’t at your cute setup. No matter how much you loved it, you were at least aware that you couldn’t send every waking moment at it. You weren’t quite that much of a content machine.

So of course you go outside to film vlogs with Tommy! Totally reasonable break from filming content: film more content!

Jokes aside, you loved hanging out with your friends. Getting dressed up just for Tommy to inevitably ruin it was practically your good luck ritual. The sheer number of skirts, shawls, and even socks he owes you is astronomical.

Today he had promised nothing messy (for once), so you took your chance. Pale blue corset embroidered with flowers and a flowy white skirt, you were practically screaming your aesthetic to anyone who looked at you. And Ranboo had given you a dandelion for your hair, which only added to it.

”Tall fuckers to the back for the photo!” Tommy shouts, and the poor bystander he roped into taking the photo stares. “Which obviously means me—“

“Get your short ass back in front.” You order, snagging his shoulders and forcing him in front of you. From your side, Ranboo snickers.

“Welcome to the club, king.” Tubbo tells Tommy before grinning at the camera.

“What the fuck.” He grumbles. “She’s hardly any taller than me!”

“Keep lying to yourself.” You put your elbow on his head, just to add insult to injury.

“Um, I got the photo I think.” The stranger says, holding Tommy’s phone out to him. He takes it without even looking at the photos.

“Thanks.” He says after you clear your throat pointedly to prompt him.

Seeing their chance to escape, the person just nods and hurries off without a single glance back. Probably glad to be rid of your wayward group of streamers and YouTubers.

“It’s a decent photo.” Tommy begrudgingly admits.

“It’s my cue to leave, actually. I’ve got plans.” Tubbo says, checking his phone.

“Why do you get more bitches than me?” Tommy whines.

“…it’s my mother.”

“And we all know I get the most bitches.” You jump in, high-fiving Ranboo blindly. You nearly hit his face, but that’s okay. It would’ve been funny.

“Oh shut the fuck up.” Tommy elbows you, all gangly limbs and pointy bones. “We’re playing Minecraft later, right?”

“Not me.” Tubbo reminds him.

“No shit. I was talking to these two idiots.”

“Hey!”

“I’ll be on.” You lean over him, looking at his phone for the time. “You’re aware we need to leave if we want to make your stupid fucking steam time?”

He looks down, eyes widening. “Oh shit!”

Just for making you run home, you blow up his house on Minecraft. For the fourth time. It was ugly looking anyway, nothing like your adorable mushroom house, so he was practically begging for it to be exploded.

It’s his fault. Always.

“You really want to attack me from there?”

Your hands freeze on your keyboard mid-movement, making your character in game also freeze at Techno’s words.

“Not anymore?” You laugh nervously.

“Right answer. Try this again and I’ll pretend like I don’t see you.”

PvP training was going great, and by that you mean you’ve been killed every single time by one swing of his axe. It was no secret that you were bad at fighting. Your go-to tactic was to load up on TnT and hope for the best, which met… many criticisms.

And you were sick and tired of it. It’s time to reinstate your badass reputation and become a ruthless killer in a video game. Innocent bedwars players would never know what hit them! Hopefully, at least. Right now, you’re still working on that.

“Fuck!” You exclaim as Techno kills you yet again, the respawn screen flashing up.

“If you with to defeat me, train for another—“

“I’m trying!”

@ GenericUsername Anyone else notice that our resident flower girl has been avoiding PvP… poor girl is TIRED of being flamed

-> @ EatingLipSkin She deserves it for how shit she is for dying to magma blocks that one time

Slowly, so fucking slowly, you watch your bedwars win streak increase. Slowly, you watch your skywars win streak increase.

Somehow, against literally all odds, you’re learning how to girlboss PvP. Although when you told Techno that he seemed mildly confused, but you were definitely girlbossing PvP.

Which was exactly why you knew this stream was a good idea.

After a year and a half, you were hosting a huge stream with a bunch of your friends competing in a PvP tournament. Tommy insisted on there being a prize, so whoever wins gets the highly esteemed Tesco’s gift card you’ve had in your desk for five months. A battle of true honor, of epic consequences.

“Alright guys, so here’s my plan.” You tell your stream, mining some wood to craft basic tools. Everyone has 30 minutes to gear up, then it’s an hour till the winner is crowned. With the map having a small border, you’re counting on some cheeky kills from sneaking up on others. “I mine first, stock up on iron. Make a diamond axe if I can, but mostly go for lava buckets and backup gear.”

Your plan is put into motion quickly. With the new iron veins, it’s incredibly easy for you to get geared up within fifteen minutes. Venturing back up to the surface for food, you spot Tubbo without any armor killing sheep.

Perfect.

Sneaking to hide your name tag, you venture up a tree to get closer to him. You added a proximity mod, so you can hear him talking to his stream.

“We need lots of food, chat. All these guys— these guys don’t know the importance of food!” He’s saying. It’s a smart plan; if only you weren’t planning on killing him and taking his food.

“Hi Tubbo!” You shout, dropping down and killing him with a few swipes of your axe. “One down, just a few more to go!”

As people die left and right—most dying to you, to everyone’s surprise—you pointedly avoid Technoblade. The student will never surpass the master, after all. All your tricks came from his playbook and you really didn’t want to see how competitive he’d get for a gift card he’d never even use.

Dream was slain by Technoblade

Your eyes widen in surprise at the chat message, quickly stretching your fingers to press tab and bring up the list of players left alive. Only yours and Techno’s show.

“Oh no.” You breathe, freezing. “Oh God, chat. I have to murder Technoblade. I have to disassemble his organs and destroy his aorta.”

Suddenly, you’re paranoid as all hell. Randomly going into F5 as you kill cows, checking every angle.

“The student thinks she can challenge the master?” Techno asks, and you shriek in surprise as he digs up from below you.

“I fucking knew you’d say that! You predictable pig!”

“But you didn’t know where I was going to come from.” He points out. You know him well enough to detect the faint line of amusement in the words.

You groan, eating a steak. “Let’s dance, Technoblade.”

“Let’s die, actually.”

He comes at you with an axe, immediately disabling your shield. In retaliation, you swap to a fishing rod to lure him back in when he tried to run off.

As the two of you fight, you find yourself getting closer to your monitor, keeping your mouth shut as you concentrate. Fingers flying across the keys, you scroll to your lava bucket and attempt to burn him. By some miracle, he manages to avoid it and get a hit in on you.

“Oh my God.” You breathe at seeing how many hearts it takes. “Is that fucking enchanted?”

“Is yours not? Get good, nerd.”

You jump past him, placing a quick block to act as a barrier as you smack him with your own axe. Diamond, so it should make up for the difference in strength of his enchanted iron axe.

He loops around a tree, but you momentarily lose track of him. “Where the fuck—?”

As you notice your hearts depleting, you whirl around. Instead of doing the smart thing a retreating, you jump forward and crit him out. If he were any other player (cough cough, Tommy), he’d run. But he’s Technoblade. And all he does is crit you in return, killing you.

“Fuck.” You groan, leaning back in the chair.

<Technoblade> If you wish to defeat me train for another 100 years

Rolling your eyes at the chat message, all you can do is wait for the server to be reset with a new map and everyone living again.

You do the same tactic again, gearing up as quick as possible. It seems like other people have stolen your idea, but go about it in different ways based on the achievements. In the chat, you watch as Ranboo gets the achievement for entering the nether and then Tommy gets it right after.

“I will gift twenty subs if one of them isn’t dead within… five minutes.” You wager to your chat, laughing slightly. They’re still busy freaking out that you placed second last round, making you smile. “Guys, what’s wrong? You didn’t think I’d get kills? What am I known for if not manslaughter?”

A few minutes later—just under five minutes, might you note—Ranboo’s death message pops up. And then so does Tommy’s. Ranboo was killed by Tommy, but apparently Tommy burned to death? You can definitely picture his dumb ass walking into fire.

“Well… looks like I’m aiming for Phil.” You sigh. “I’d feel too bad to kill Tubbo again. But I’m not fucking with Dream or Techno— losing fights and all that.”

You start mining up to the surface, digging through some deep slate you had gone through. “Wait, is this wood?” You ask, scrolling to your axe to mine through the oak planks. You mine directly through a mineshaft, gasping in surprise. “Oh!”

There’s a chest in a minecart right in front of you, so you open it, hoping for some cheeky diamonds. You’ll even take wheat; food is food.

“Oh my God!” You shriek, probably bursting more than a few eardrums. “A god apple— oh my god! We’re fucking winning this one, guys! Cower at my name! But first we’re getting out of here before a spider kills me.”

You run around for a few minutes before stumbling into Dream and promptly running the other way directly into Phil’s house. Why he was building a house on a PvP server? You’ll never know.

“Oh, hi mate, what’re you doing?” He asks, hands empty of any weapons. You scroll onto your flint and steel silently. “Listen. We can talk about this. You don’t need to do this.”

“It’s too late, Philza Minecraft.” You answer, lighting some of the logs on fire. “Should’ve made it out of stone!”

Turning, you light the ground under him on fire then scroll over to your axe. He’s not expecting it, and although he gets a hit in with his empty fists, you still kill him.

“Just Techno and Dream left now.” You note. “Let’s just… hope they battle it out.”

To keep yourself occupied as you wait for the last five minutes before the borders shrink, you start setting cows on fire and collecting flowers. Poppies and dandelions fill your inventory, your little good luck charms.

“Alright guys. Someone go sneak into Techno’s chat and snitch on what’s happening for me.” You laugh, shaking your head. “Kidding, kidding. Don’t do that.”

Just as the one-minute warning pops up I no chat, Techno’s death message does. You gasp loudly, before grinning. “It’s my time to shine! I’ll avenge Techno!”

The world border starts to shrink behind you, but you’re already on the move. Knowing Dream, he’ll probably be in the center of the map. If you can catch him while he’s looting Techno’s body, you have no chance of losing.

“Stop saying good luck chat, I don’t need any good luck.” You grin, spotting Dream’s name tag. “I’ve got skill.”

Before you throw yourself at him, you eat your enchanted golden apple. If you trade blows, you’ll end up winning with the extra health. And two hearts is all you need.

“Ohhhh Dream!” You shout, catching him with a swing of your axe as you jump past him.

“AHH— what the fuck? Where did you come from?” He runs after you, making you do awkward jumping around to avoid his fishing rod.

“Stop! Stop that, I can’t— Dream!”

“Are you regenerating? Did you go to the nether?” He asks, and you can’t help but smile.

Because God apples don’t just give you extra hearts; they give you regeneration.

“I did one better.”

You hit him with your axe again, trading blows with him just like you thought you might.

“You’ve got to be low, how low are you?” He asks, hitting you again, but it’s too late. His body explodes on his death, his items flying out everywhere. You throw your chair back, jumping up and shouting.

“SUCK MY FUCKING DICK HATERS! I’M THE NEW PVP GODDESS AROUND HERE!”

@ WomenLover MOMMY? SORRY... MOMMY? SORRY

->@ TheRealBIcon dont be sorry we all thinking it she HOT HOT

@ S4pph1cSarah Anyone else see that fanart of her winning the PvP tournament… woo boy…. I’m… not okay…

@ S4pph1cSarah A thread of the HOTTEST fanart I’ve ever seen of our beloved streamer <3

@ SmexyWomenNearMe Me: “where is she?” “Her parkour skills are rusty how odd” “she’s streaming less” Her: “Watch this fuckos I’m badass and a killer”

->@ TwilightReference ”this is the face of a killer Bella”

@ CottagecoreBadass Can we talk about how dedicated she is? Like yeah she’s hot. So hot. But she’s also insanely badass and commited???

->@ CuteBuilder101 Best type of woman fr fr ->@ StarAnon Cottagecore + badass + chaotic force of nature = her (my dream woman)

@ StarAnon She really just drew all the women lovers outta hiding huh

@ ThisIsTheWriter Idk if I want to be her or if I want her but man. Oh man. I’m so bi.

#dsmp #mcyt #mcyt imagine #tommyinnit x reader #tommyinnit x you #tommyinnit #technoblade #tubbo x reader #tubbo #tubbo x you #ranboo x reader #ranboo mcyt #ranboolive #ranboo #philza x reader #philza

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redflagshipwriter · 2 months

Text

Reassembly 2

link to first post

Masterpost

(the one where Peter Parker wakes up post-snap in a LoA lazarus experiment)

It was New York City. Peter thanked his blessings and the transportation gods. He didn't wait for the train to stop because he was kind of afraid that it wouldn't and he'd get carried somewhere else.

If he'd been a regular teen, it would have been like, super dangerous to jump off of the top of a moving train and land on cement. Peter rolled like he'd been taught and came up safe. He shook his wrists a little as he straightened and tried to figure out where he was exactly.

Okay. Operation solo hero was a go. Here he was, in NYC. He didn't have any help. But he was Spiderman. Peter tried not to feel discouraged about losing all his tech, his friends, and his mentors. He could remake his web shooters and a suit. He needed access to materials, but he could do it. His first formula had been made in a school lab.

'But I wasn't homeless and undocumented then.'

Oof, that felt bad.

'Can I even keep my name? I can't exactly go to Midtown and tell them to make Peter Parker plural.'

Yikes. That was a whole lot of yikes.

Well. One problem at a time, right? He needed to get himself into a more stable position for survival first. Now that he knew where he was, he could change his strategy from calling for help to becoming self-sufficient.

He wasn't exactly sure what to do. The first thing that came to mind was that he needed more clothes. Even if he had liked this outfit, he definitely needed more than one set. This was gross. And honestly? He was kinda cold. And he was increasingly uncomfortable about not wearing underwear.

'I don't have any money and I can't borrow some. I can't steal from anyone. What can I do?'

Peter racked his brains. Go through the donation bins for a thrift store? That seemed wrong. But … stores throw things away.

'Department stores get new things all the time. They must be throwing away old clothes. If I check their dumpsters, I bet I'll find something.'

With a plan in mind, Peter made his way to the closest big store he knew about. Even though he was stranded, at least he was in his city. New York City was way more comforting than Metropolis had been. He navigated by memory to a store he knew called-

Huh. The store was where he thought it would be, but it had a different name. Peter quietly read it aloud, wondering if this place would have the same bland, safe fashion as where he'd meant to go.

Well. There was only one way to find out, and it wasn't by going inside. They were locked up for the night anyway.

He found the dumpsters. Peter braced himself for a moment, taking a deep breath.

He didn't feel good about this. He didn't. Not morally- if it had been thrown away, it didn't belong to anyone– but looking at the outside of a dumpster really hammered in the desperation he was in. He was poor. He had nothing and he had no one.

Peter shook that off. "That's not true," he told himself. Hearing a human voice, even his own, helped a bit. "I have a great sense of humor and a positive outlook."

Still, uh, he was ready for a lifestyle that included underwear. He carefully lifted the lid and rested it against the wall so that it didn't make any noise. Then he hopped up onto the rim and squinted into the bin.

There were big plastic bags full of fabric. His first impulse was to tear them open and look, but he refrained. It would make a mess for the garbage workers. Instead he painstakingly untied the string at the top and opened a bag. Then he pulled clothes out one piece at a time and examined them.

His heart fell. He'd been right. These were all perfectly good, unused clothes with the tags still on them, so he could even sort by size. But someone had taken scissors to them all before throwing them out. Peter held up a t shirt and squinted at it. It wasn't that bad, really. They hadn't been super thorough. This one had kind of a snip through the middle.

…it wasn't like he didn't know how to sew. He'd done lots of repairs that way, and even made a Halloween costume one year.

If he just stitched that up it would be kinda obviously repaired. That was okay, but Peter dug around until he found another T shirt in a different color. It was hard to tell in the darkness but he was pretty sure it was blue. It had a similar cut.

"Okay," he planned aloud. "I cut them fully apart, even out the edge, and then sew them together so it looks like being bi colored is a fashion decision."

He dug around for a couple more shirts, trying to get four different colors that in the daylight he could hopefully mix and match. Then he shoved everything back in that bag and tied it up. He hung his haul over the edge of the dumpster and started opening bags on a hunt for jeans. A pair of jeans and a pair of sweatpants was basically all the wardrobe a teenaged boy needed, anyway.

It took four bags until he found some, and they were too big. But the next bag under that had his size range. These had been snipped too, but Peter huffed a laugh. So what? Lots of jeans had tears in them as a style choice. He dug out two pairs and wiggled into them one after the other to check the fit. It was a relief to have his legs covered. They were kinda long but he was expecting a growth spurt any day now, so that was great. He was pretty sure one was black and one was blue, so that was a good variety.

He wanted underwear and socks. Maybe a heavier coat, if they had one. He searched and searched and came up with nothing. He did find a shoulder-strapped canvas bag that had probably been returned- there was a subtle stain on the inside. Peter would have preferred a backpack, but he shoved the clothes inside the bag anyway. This was a lot better than just walking around holding a handful of fabric. He put the little bag from the guy’s locker inside of it. He still hadn't even looked at what was in it.

Still. He stared mournfully at the clothes. No underwear, really? He was willing to compromise on socks, but underwear and shoes that fit were a big deal.

"I guess they don't need to seasonally change those so much." Peter sighed to himself. "Wait- no. That can't be right. For socks maybe but shoes? They must throw out a ton of shoes."

Just not today, apparently.

Disappointed, he closed the dumpster back up and adjusted his haul over his shoulder. He left without looking back. He was already churning through possible solutions for his outstanding problems. Socks, shoes, underwear, and a sewing kit so that he could use his changes of shirts.

'Fancy hotels have those little repair kits as part of the free goodies.'

Oh, man. Peter steeled himself for social embarrassment. He was going to have to wander in and out of hotel lobbies by himself, take a repair kit, and leave.

'Maybe they'll think I'm a guest,' he thought hopefully. 'I don't look that bad. I look kinda like I'm going to school or traveling light.'

Oh. That was an idea.

'Lots of hotels have free breakfasts. I could just walk in, eat, and leave. Even if the desk staff thinks I'm probably not a guest, they probably won't say anything.'

It seemed kinda wrong. But it was a buffet. Leftovers were going to get thrown away. And he only had to wait until the morning.

Peter tabled the idea for later. It was going to depend on just how hungry he got. He was already really hungry, if he was honest about it. Whatever bodily numbness he'd gotten from the green jello stank tank had worn off.

'I'm going to get too hungry to manage before too long even if I have a huge breakfast every day. I’m used to running on a lot of calories. What would happen to my ability to be Spiderman if I can’t eat enough?'

He shoved the realistic part of him down and tried not to feel discouraged by his demanding metabolism.

Focus. The first thing was fixing the clothes.

'No,' grumbled a mental voice he knew he should recognize. It was coming through a fog of distortion. Shelter is first, Spiderman. Shelter, water, food, and then supplies like clothes.'

He frowned and rubbed at his temples. He didn't know how to solve that problem. It seemed more practical to address the problems that he knew how to fix first.

Well. A hotel buffet would probably have drinks as well, but they wouldn't be open for a while. He didn't know what time it was but it was actually night.

At least he had a tentative plan for it.

Peter steeled himself for embarrassment and started looking for hotels. The first one he found was too fancy- the amenities weren't placed in the lobby. He walked in and his attention was immediately caught by the soft golden gleam of a bell on the reception desk. It was under a strategic light.

'This one won't be good for breakfast either, there's nowhere for a buffet,' Peter noted. Thankfully, no one was waiting at the desk. He walked back out and realized that would probably be the case for most places at this time of night.

He felt better going into the next hotel. This one had amenities out, but not a sewing kit. Peter took a toothbrush, two of the packets of wash products, and a cheap razor. Maybe this would be the time his facial hair started to come in and he'd need to shave.

'I really need a wash,' he noted, not for the first time. 'So bad.'

The green stuff didn't smell …too bad when dry. It definitely didn't smell as sour as it had tasted. But his skin itched and his hair was crunchy.

The third hotel was the winner. He had the idea to look for a cheaper hotel aimed at business class travelers. It had free wifi, what was definitely going to be a breakfast buffet from 5:00 am, and it had the sewing kit that he needed. Peter took one gratefully, wondered if it would have enough string, and then took a second kit just in case.

Okay. Next priority was getting clean. That would double up with getting water- now that he'd thought about it, Peter was thirsty enough to drink shower water from the faucet.

He looked for a gym. He found a fashionable 24 hour one and dismissed it. Entrance was clearly only by key cards there. He needed someplace older. At least this was his city. He could guess the general area that would have what he wanted. Peter walked around until he found one and wiggled his way up to the third floor, heaved open a window, and went in search of a shower.

"Good thing I grabbed this," Peter said, stripping all of his clothes and palming one of the tear-open packets of individual soap and shampoo. There was absolutely nothing in the shower in terms of amenities. Gym patrons probably brought their own stuff.

He took the longest shower of his life, wished he had a washcloth or two, and ended up using both packets of soap to get his body clean enough. Then he hauled his clothes in, all of them, and washed them as best as he could using what was left of the shampoo. He wrung them all out and then put on his new jeans, totally damp. It didn't feel great on his skin. But at least it was clean. For now, he put on one of the black t-shirts. He'd apparently managed to grab two in black, one in red, and one in blue. This t-shirt had a v- shaped cut on the stomach, but he pulled the brown jacket over and zipped it up enough that it didn't show. It was all damp and very weird, but they'd dry quickly on him since he was moving around, right?

When he looked at himself in the mirror, Peter looked like himself. Sure, he was damp and messy haired. But he was clean! He shot himself a thumbs up.

He left the rest of the clothes hanging to dry and wandered the gym. It was eerie but also really interesting. He'd never spent much time in an actual gym.

That might be a cool hobby to take up. If nothing else, he could maybe find some classes.

Oh! A clock. Peter squinted at it in the dark. It was 3:42 AM. It wasn't actually that long until the hotel breakfast bar opened, then. He'd been walking around all night.

'I need a way to tell time on my own. There's not that many clocks in public.'

The first thing that he came back to when he thought of his problems was money. Money, money, money. He needed it. And he needed ID- did the ID come before the money, or the other way around? He needed tech to be Spiderman and to live in general– man, it was weird to be without a phone– so, how?

His first thought was to go to school and use the laptops there. But he wasn't a student. That would probably freak people out- or worse, draw attention to him. Was it more illegal to exist without documentation, or to be a minor who wasn't in school?

Peter shuddered. Yeah, no high schools.

But a public library? That had potential. The computers were always pretty old but they were free to use.

That was most of an itinerary for the day, then, he realized. It made him feel better to have a plan. He was going to wait a while for his clothes to dry (should he point the blow dryer at them?), and shove them in his bag. He'd go back to the business hotel for breakfast and probably more soap, then go to the library.

'I need to eat a lot at that buffet.'

His stomach rumbled in agreement. Oh man, this was kinda bad. He had no idea how to get another meal today.

Well. He could look into it when he was at the library.

He ended up turning the blow dryer on his clothes to get them dry. They didn't seem any dryer than they'd been when he wrung them out. That made for a tense hour of pointing the little machine while his arm got tired and he kept jumping at sounds that might be someone coming to open up the gym.

Stupid, Peter chastised himself. Of course a couple hours in a humid room wasn't enough to dry anything. They'd get moldy first.

He got them dry enough to fold up and put in his canvas bag, and then he went out by the same window that he'd come in.

'I hope they don't start locking that. If I don't have a place to stay soon, I'm gonna really need these showers.'

It didn't take him long to get back to the business hotel. It was somewhere between 5 and 6, which meant that the buffet was fully out but not busy. Peter walked in and beelined to the food, trying desperately to look like he belonged.

Nutritionally, it was pretty good considering the circumstances. Peter grabbed an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl and got a glass of milk as well as orange juice. He wasn't going to get scurvy, at least!

Glass containers had a selection of baked goods that honestly all just looked okay. He picked out a couple of plain rolls and then something that had walnuts in it. For protein, his options were some queasy looking sausages and a tray of scarily yellow scrambled eggs. He took a generous portion of both and finally started eating.

Whoa. As soon as he'd had a few bites, it was like the dial turned up on his hunger. Peter ate at record speed and caught himself looking back at the buffet.

No one was looking. There was only one other person in the buffet area, a young woman staring grimly into a cup of coffee and using her phone. The receptionist wasn't paying attention at all.

Peter felt worse, somehow, about going back for seconds than he had about coming here in the first place. But he was too hungry for shame. He grabbed two bagels and toasted them at the same time and stuffed his pockets with cream cheese packets.

'I could take a bit of this with me. A roll or two and maybe a banana? Ugh, it's weird, but the cream cheese has protein in it…'

He put another couple of packets in his pocket. No one was going to count and realize he was taking two of them out the door.

While he waited for the bagels to toast he refilled his drinks and added a coffee and an apple juice. He felt ridiculous with four drinks, so he drained the milk and put the empty cup in the clean up bin.

He filled a second plate of sausages and scrambled eggs (they weren't that bad) and piled the bagels on it as soon as they popped up.

Once he'd eaten his second serving, Peter felt a lot more human.

He also felt exhausted. Like, he was beyond tired.

'I didn't sleep at all so that figures. And I don't have any idea where I can sleep today. So… maybe one more coffee while I wait for the food to give me energy I can use?'

He couldn't quite stand the idea of gulping down all that liquid right then. It seemed like a good time to see what was in the little bag he'd gotten from the probably evil scientist's locker.

'The guy worked somewhere that stores human bodies in rancid green jello. If he's not an evil scientist, it's only because he's an evil janitor or receptionist or something.'

That… It wasn't ideal but it made him feel a little better and a little braver.

The instant he unzipped the little bag, Peter realized that the guy basically had his whole life in the bag. That included a phone, which was either turned off or dead.

"Whoops," he muttered. He considered turning it on but paused. Would that be safe? He might need it. But what if someone realized it had been stolen and tracked it?

He left it alone for now and looked at the wallet.

The first thing was a Metro City transit card. Peter looked at it and put it back in place. There were a couple more cards- credit or debit, an expired gift card, membership cards to three different pizza places and a gym, and an ID. Peter glanced around guiltily to be sure no one was looking before he checked the name and photo.

Richard DeWitt was blonde, apparently 5ft 10 inches, and 170 lbs. He had a lopsided smile and dead eyes in his photo. Brown eyes.

DeWitt was 37- no, Peter corrected internally. He grimaced. He was 5 years in the past, so DeWitt was only 32. One of the ID cards was for work, which was a goldmine. Or it could have been, if the company name had been written instead of the initialism LOA.

Better than nothing, at least. He memorized the letters and logo.

The debit and credit cards were no good to him. Peter made a mental note to destroy them later, so that no one else could pull them out of the garbage and use them later.

He paused for a long moment over the cash. He felt like a spotlight was about to shine down on him and an announcer would call him a thief. But he counted it: 87 dollars. That wasn’t Tony Stark money, but there were a lot of problems it could solve for him.

'The money isn't the same as back home.'

His eye caught on the one dollar bills. He picked them out of the pile to look at them more closely, like an inspection was going to make them change.

Assuming DeWitt didn't have fake currency on him, the US dollar was different.

Peter stopped. He belatedly processed that.

There was no way in a million years that the picture on the dollar had changed in the last five years. It had always been the same guy.

But here it was, unmistakably a US dollar with a man Peter didn't know printed in the center.

That changed things.

'I"m not on my earth, unless this is a hallucination. Where else could I be!?'

He would like to stop having paradigm changing realizations, any day now.

The only thing that kept him from having a total nervous breakdown was that he was in public. Sort of. There was no one directly looking at him, but that would probably change if he went into the fetal position and started wheezing.

This was bad. This was really, really, bad, actually.

He needed to go back to the drawing board. For all he knew, there was no Peter Parker here, no Tony Stark, no one he could go to for help.

And the people who had kidnapped him-

Oh, hell. They could be anybody for all he knew. Heck, what if that was a government thing? If they didn’t even have the same presidents, he couldn’t assume this was the same country, in a sense.

‘I need to look into that, as soon as possible. What if I’ve got the universe equivalent of like, HYDRA or something looking for me? That would be a bad surprise.’

He had the address of that building, at least, and the name of an employee. That was something to go off of.

Peter forced himself to exhale long and slow. He picked up his mess. He didn’t finish going through the guy’s wallet but he didn’t have the nerves for it right now. He stuffed it back into his satchel and left with a nod at the desk clerk.

He needed information, and that meant the library was even more urgent. It was the only way he knew to access the internet.

The walk wasn’t too bad. His nerves were a knot in his throat as Peter crossed morning traffic on what had to be a weekday, but his memory of NYC didn’t lead him wrong. He bounded up the stone steps to a big library two at a time, shot a queasy smile at the man behind the desk, and ducked his head as he walked in and did a little tour of the place.

There were three floors. The first floor had a dedicated computer lab for students, and long desk with four computers for public use. Near it there was a little table with pitchers of coffee, water, and paper cups with a sign encouraging free usage. There was also a reading corner, a collection of tables for quiet group projects, and rows of media like DVDs. Wow, so old. Peter marveled at that on his way up the stairs. There was a huge papier-maché wolf on the stairwell for unknown reasons. He patted it on the head as he passed.

The second floor had that intense library smell to it and a lot of signs strictly enforcing absolute quiet. He craned to see tall rows upon rows with labels like science and law, as well as a sign for reserved meeting rooms and bathrooms. The third floor was apparently mostly for group collaboration. Each table had a sign begging people not to bring in outside food and to leave their drinks on the table. Peter glanced over to the only table that had someone at it already, spied her huge coffee cup, and suppressed a snort. He didn’t see anything, but he could smell bacon and eggs. His stomach twisted into a knot.

Still, she didn’t seem to be causing any terrible destruction with her breakfast sandwich. He noted that she had four different colored highlighters next to her notebook, but tore his attention away before he felt like a creeper.

Okay. He had the lay of the land. It made him feel weirdly better. This library was now his base of operations, the center for his information gathering campaign and the subsequent plan… construction …campaign?

He’d workshop a name later. For now, he jogged back down a floor and went to the modern history section. He just read titles for a while, trying to paint a picture of what shared history he could confirm.

He saw lots of familiar country names referenced, and a few of the names that cropped up were familiar as well. The eerie feeling that he wasn’t home just got stronger, though, because there was no reference to half the modern wars and much less on WW1 and 2 than he'd expected. They were shelved in with books about the Justice League.

Justice League?

There was a whole lot of scholarship on that, whatever it was. Maybe it was like the U.N., Peter guessed. He flipped open a book and flipped pages randomly, scanning for words that stuck out. Ah, nope, there’s a reference to the U.N. So, this was a different thing entirely.

Okay, well. That gave him a starting point of something to look up.

He went back to the first floor and started a session on one of the public use computers. He had to write the time and his name on a check in sheet. He started to write ‘Peter’ out of force of habit and scrawled to a stop after writing the Pe.

For all he knew, that could be a bad idea. He shouldn’t leave any record that actually led back to him.

‘...So what else starts with Pe?’

It took him an embarrassingly long time to come up with Peyton. He wrote that down, exhausted and relieved, and then realized he needed a last name too. Oh, heck. He wrote a random letter -K- and then searched his brain for a plausible sounding last name. He came up with Kensington and then sat down, idly wondering if that was actually a name or just like, a place in the U.K. or what.

‘...I only thought of that because it ended in ‘ton’ like Peyton,’ he had the delayed realization. ‘It sounds kinda cheesy together. Fakey.’

Okay. Realistically, no one was ever going to look at that register. So it was fine that he wasn’t good at lying on his feet. He probably needed to sit down and come up with a couple of fake names to use in future.

Well. Maybe he didn’t have to be that creative. He opened a window and searched ‘Tony Stark.’ His heart fell as he scrolled through the results.

Tony Stark didn't exist here.

There had been people with that name, don’t get him wrong. But they weren’t Mr. Stark. There was no Mr. Stark in this universe. He tried looking up current billionaires instead, just in case Mr. Stark had a different name. He flipped through their photos with a sinking heart. That guy was too bald, Mr. Stark would never have a mustache that silly, Mr. Stark wasn't that jacked, no, no, no.

He tried other names- Happy Hogan, Jamese Rhodey, Virginia Potts (he initially forgot that her name wasn’t really Pepper and ended up on a site for kitchen goods).

The result? No result, more like. Not great.

He tried celebrities. Musicians, actors, philosophers, everyone he could think of. Weirdly, lots of them popped up.

The difference seemed to be around 1940. Historical names came up the way that he would expect them to. But anyone who was modern just didn’t.

Out of extremely morbid curiousity, he googled Anne Frank. He found a semi successful novelist in her 90s who lived in Prague.

Peter put his face in his hands. Okay. Okay, he knew approximately when the universes or whatever had diverged. That was wild.

His hands were shaking. He got up, realized he didn’t have a reason to stand, and then went to pour himself a paper cup of the complimentary water so he didn’t feel like a crazy person.

This was a whole different world. He couldn't assume that his background knowledge was helpful.

That made him feel so safe and secure. Thanks, universe.

#marvel dc crossover #red reassembly #peter parker

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