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i-love-ptv · 3 months

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You can’t remember how many drinks you’ve had tonight. Everything started getting blurry after the third.

You and your boyfriend had been invited to a get-together at the local pub. Whose idea was it? Farleigh’s? No, he had just thrown a party the other day. Maybe it was Oliver’s suggestion. After all, he was eyeing that brunette the other day. Maybe he was looking for a hook-up.

You don’t know how or when you were in his arms and taken back to his dorm; But what you do know is that your feet hurt from your heels, and that your boyfriend’s bed was calling your name.

The thought of wiping the smudged makeup off of your face flew out the window as soon as your warm head hit the pillow.

But don’t worry, because as soon as he steps through the door, Felix is already rushing to find the makeup remover and cotton pads that he had stored away somewhere on his desk.

He flips you over and begins the process of removing your makeup. He can’t help but smile to himself.

He finds this situation so domestic; despite the deep snores escaping your body.

Felix gently changes you out of your outfit; trying his very hardest not to jolt you awake. You had looked so sleepy before the two of you left.

After putting you in one of his shirts, and cooing you back to sleep after you deliriously called out to him once you had woke up, he quickly strips himself down to his boxers and scoots himself under the covers with you.

He holds you close and coddles your head. He giggles softly at the sight of your small puddle of drool dripping down your face and onto your pillow. He presses a feathery-light kiss to your forehead, and grimaces a bit when he feels a light layer of sweat coating you.

But he grins, knowing that no amount of sweat, dirt, or grime could pull him away from his angel; that he swore, was ‘sent down to earth from heaven, just for him.’

Felix thought that this type of love was only something that one would find in the movies, and god is he so glad that he was wrong.

An: Made this blurb in 20 minutes for you lovelies!

Feedback always appreciated. <333

#divider by florietas #dividers by pommecita #other fic coming soon yall dw #i just need to figure out how to continue it #lee’s ted talks #felix catton #felix catton x reader #felix catton imagine #felix catton x you #jacob elordi #jacob elordi x reader #oliver quick #oliver quick x reader #farleigh start x reader #saltburn

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sokkas-therapist · 11 days

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Chat is it toxic to have thoughts of an arranged marriage au where Katara and Zuko are stuck in a strictly political arranged marriage and have agreed to do their own thing (ie: Zuko will stay in the Fire Nation and be Firelord while Katara stays in the water tribe as the active Chief), but Zuko has been having a secret affair with Sokka since before the arranged marriage? Sokka is an ambassador for the SWT in Caldera so they ended up getting really close (even though Sokka isn’t there 24/7 bc he travels a lot). And now things have gotten really messy and the palace staff has gotten too close to figuring things out and no one knows what to do…this is soap opera level drama but I’m kind of living for it

#Katara and Aang are also having an affair in this so dw #everybody gets they juice #and Katara doesn’t care that they’re having an affair bc she never loved Zuko anyway #but if the public finds out…then they’re all in hot water #it would all be so entertaining but I don’t have the brainpower or time to write this rn #so if anyone else wants to write a fic based on this post then by all means feel free #zukka #not really z/tara but kind of??#I mean they don’t love each other but they are married so does that count as z/tara lol #sokka x zuko #zuko x sokka

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irabelaswriting · 1 year

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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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fatuismooches · 5 months

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Hii it's me, the anon who wants to eat your writings as desserts!

I've been thinking about something, specifically about Fragile!Reader. (Sorry if the bad English is bad)

During Dottore and Nahida's meeting, I like to imagine Nahida take a look inside Dottore's mind when he erased his segment. At first, she expected to see the horror and the unsettling mind of a mad doctor, a mind with nothing but ambition and insanity. How surprised she was when she saw you occupying most of the doctor's mind. How surprised Nahida would be to see that Dottore is capable of loving someone, especially someone so fragile as you are.

She probably commented on something about you and your relationship with the doctor to which the doctor almost instantly tried to change the topic with a lingering threat.

After everything that she saw, I wonder if Nahida would remember and keep the story about the Mad Doctor and his fragile beloved as a fairy tale. In my opinion, she would. And if she does, I wonder how she'll portray Fragile!Reader.

Ok that's it, my thoughts about Fragile!reader. Also can I be Dessert Anon? ><

YES!! I LIVE FOR DOTTORE AND READER VS NAHIDA INTERACTIONS!!

Nahida doesn't think she will ever understand the mind of the Outcast, nor she will ever agree with the way he works or thinks. He has long succumbed to the mind of a pure scientist, disregarding the value of human life if it will allow him to progress in his research. So, when the young God looks into the Harbinger's mind, she expects to see nothing different from that. But, even the God of Wisdom can be proven wrong, is something Nahida has come to understand, for although the Doctor's mind is certainly mad, he is also mad for you. That is certainly something she did not expect. She didn't even know you were still alive. So he's managed to prolong your life as well? But judging from what she's seen, you're still quite ill. Hm... the Dendro God is a mixture of surprise and intrigued. The Doctor is one who isn't above abandoning his experiments when they get boring or seem fruitless. And your case certainly seems hopeless, with no progress to be seen but... he still seems to be completely obsessed with you. It's strange, and a part of her understands and doesn't understand at the same time. Nahida knows that love can truly change people. But is the Doctor really one that could be changed? She finds it a bit hard to believe, but the evidence is right in front of her.

Of course, her curiosity cannot be contained and she has to inquire about you, to which Dottore blatantly disregards. He's not going to speak about you to almost anyone, much less a God. ("I didn't think the God of Wisdom would be so nosy about my private affairs.")

I imagine obviously she doesn't particularly like or approve of you, but Nahida still can't help but feel pity for you, with your illness and all. But she would still like to have a conversation with you. She would want to discover how you managed to have the Outcast wrapped around your finger... she would want to know your story... that is if you're willing to speak with her.

#smooches talks #dessert anon #fragile reader <3 #dottore love notes <3 #AND DW UR ENGLISH IS GREAT!!#ugh oh my gosh i cant help but think abt reader meeting nahida when they visit sumeru again for a trip #maybe you escaped away from dottore a bit for some alone time in the forest #and you just meet her on her swing talking to the aranara and you both just look at each other #and both of you instinctively know who the other is #UGHHH THE INTERACTIONS #also i find it funny i got this when i published the fics where nahida actually does tell ur story as a fairytale #poor reader... being portrayed as a flightless bird/butterfly

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foralternateuniverses · 4 months

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More Acechiji hdcs??? Pwease??? 🥺🤲

° Ichiji is a sheltered brat so he tends to follow Ace's lead on what is 'normal', but Ace also isn't normal so they just become a duo of weirdos interacting with the world.

° They're chronic cuddlers, they're very touchy in general, but they also spend way too much time cuddling, the moment they sit down they're leaning into each other, when they're standing they're hand to hip, holding hands or even just brushing limbs, Ichiji's exoesqueleton making him colder than normal is just an excuse.

° They would be insufferable if they met as children, both are the leaders of their sibling group and both are very angry kids so ASL and 124 would have group fights in the daily. Some sort of respect could come from that.

° I headcanon that the Vinsmoke Siblings' enhancements actually hurt them (especially for Ichiji and Niji), so as Ichiji's eyesight and hearing gets worse he starts depending more on Ace, and together they come with a way to communicate with each other in case Ichiji goes blind and/or deaf (they'll try their best from stopping it to getting to that)

° Ace isn't only narcoleptic, he's also a sleepwalker-talker, Ichiji's insomniac ass is always entertained and busy taking care of him.

° They're both very independent, but also kind of clingy, they're always following each other on missions and whatnot with the excuse of "Who's gonna look after you?"

+ Smutty headcanons

- Ichiji is a crier, the intense emotions always bring him to tears, Ace thinks that's cute, and it also makes him feel even more loved.

- Their favourite parts are the foreplay and the aftercare/cuddling.

#one piece #acechiji #one piece acechiji #op acechiji #vinsmoke ichiji #portgas d ace x vinsmoke ichiji #portgas d ace #i think that'll have to do for now #i tried to keep the hc as non specific as possible because there are variations and specifications depending on the au-fic #and then theres also the acechiji in relation to others type of hc #ask reply #ask #agreekdemigod #i actually have some aus-fic ideas that i havent shared and want to and should #like the soulmates one #or the canon divergent arranged marriage #i need to update the holiday survival one and curly waves #and gotta add in acechiji in the other fics #I'll find a way dw

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veveisveryuncool · 7 months

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"we're together again, but can we ever repair what we used to have?"

kirbytober day 7: sunshine/headcanon

the headcanon: sailor dee and bandana dee are siblings! sailor is bandee's big sister, and although they were young, they loved each other very dearly and took care of each other as much as they could. however, thanks to dedede stealing all the food, sailor decided to spontaneously join the meta-knights in order to protect her brother and fight for a better ruler. bandee, heartbroken, flees to castle dedede for shelter. cue ROMK, where bandee has to see his big sister ready to invade the one place that took him in after she left. they've made amends after meta knight was unbanished from dreamland, but they both know they'll never be as close as they once were.

#this is but a fraction of the tragic siblings fic i have in my head that is multichapter and over 50k words long #sorry late again aa #i have the next one finished im posting that right after #but they are siblings to me you cant convince me otherwise #found family? more like broken family #nah nah they love each other dw they just. have a lot going on #kirby series #bandana dee #sailor dee #kirbytober #kirbtober #kirbytober2023 #veves ultra cool art

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bitterseaproduction · 7 months

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AU Idea #53 of the day: A Post-P5R story that just straight up recycles that River Song/The Twelfth Doctor episode. Some lingering Conspiracy agents or Metaverse threat trying to use Wild Cards as puppets for something swipe Joker and say their job is basically done since they can use him as bait to capture the last loose thread: Akechi Goro.

And Joker’s not shocked they’re claiming Akechi’s alive—he believes it himself down to the bone—but he laughs right in their faces for thinking AKECHI would risk capture for HIM.

And the enemy protests, say all data or whatnot point to Joker being his most important person! Joker darkly replies that’s a low bar (thanks to people like THEM) and means nothing. Akechi might save him out of context, might definitely risk his life for him, but he would never risk near-inevitable capture for him. He does not put Joker above his own goals or freedom. He never has.

And he’s not lying. Be it due to some sort of lie detector or just Joker’s vehemence, they can all tell he believes what he says.

They still flail, reach desperately for JOKER’S actions, how HE considers Akechi important! Loves him! Would do anything for him?! Very presumptuous of them, but Joker is deathly blank as he says he never claimed otherwise. And again, he’s not lying. And it’s terrifying, the pain-honed icy rage in Joker’s voice when he says they captured the wrong one. He laughs at his captors without a care and says it was their mistake, sorry, they should have tried it the other way around! That would work in an instant! But he gets why they didn’t, that Joker was easy to find, and Akechi was impossible. Because Akechi doesn’t want to be found—

Then he’s interrupted by one of his captors screaming, falling to the ground. A serrated blade sticking out of his back.

Joker stares, his mind frozen numb as he looks up from that blade, at the man standing behind the victim. At the man everyone around them is staring at. They all grapple for weapons that already brought JOKER down, and sirens are going off, and it could all fall apart in a heartbeat, and still the figure doesn’t move, stares back at Joker with a face half masked in black, and half unreadable.

And just before all hell breaks loose, they each find their voice. “Crow?”

“Hello, Joker.”

#akeshu #shuake #i’m too sick to think straight with cohesive planned fic writing #so you get this instead #and if you don’t know the dw ref half of the angst is Akechi unseen hearing all of this #and realizing Joker adamantly means and believes every word #oh and the other wild cards are captured elsewhere or still a door #story ideas #p5r

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existencebringsonlypain · 2 days

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Wrote a fic. it's about kris realizing they're enby and subsequently coming out to the Holiday sisters and Azzy. naturally, they do not know they're enby beforehand, so there will be misgendering and their name will be spelled differently, but their internal monologue still uses they/them, so don't worry too much.

fuckin,,, enjoy ig

oh also it's on ao3. I made a whole ass custom work skin for it, so now if you don't like the deadnames you can just turn them off

Chris reached up to adjust their horns, having knocked them on a tree limb on accident. They were beginning to regret taking a walk with Azzy and their Holiday friends, they'd had to finangle with their accessories constantly, even unhook their shirt a handful of times.

"Eeek! My skirt!"

They were faring better than Noelle, though. Maybe it just came with having long, flowy clothing, but she just about managed to get tangled up in every stray branch imaginable.

"Shoot, and that one's brand new, too," Dess lamented, feeling the newly-torn hole in the skirt area of Noelle's outfit. "That's what you get when you ask for a long dress despite knowing you trek around in the forest all day."

Noelle whined. "But I liiiike this one!! Long skirts feel nice and I don't have to worry about being immodest around Mom!"

"Oooo, does it spin?" Chris leaned in with a grin. Hehe, that rhymed.

Noelle giggled, twirling in place once they reached their clearing. The skirt billowed outwards, and she squeaked as she stumbled on her hoof from the spinning. Dess caught her in time, fortunately, but Noelle was still laughing dizzily in her arms.

Chris flapped their hands with fervor, enraptured. "That's so cool!! Why don't I have any skirts, Azzy?"

Azzy frowned down at them. "Well, for one, you'll trip like Noelle just did, no doubt. But also, skirts are girl clothes, and you're not a girl."

Dess elbowed him. "Hey, he can wear whatever he wants! Just 'cuz skirts aren't really guy clothes doesn't mean he can't wear 'em."

"Well, yeah," Azzy argued, "but it'd be kind of weird, yeah? He's little, I don't think he really knows what boyhood entails."

"Well, Noelle knew, and she's only a year or so older than him. Most trans kids'll know something's up at that age."

"But Chris isn't trans!"

"You don't know that!"

Both Chris and Noelle looked up at the bickering teens with wide eyes. After a moment, Chris leaned over. "What are they talking about?"

"Oh, uh. I guess you didn't know me then, did you, faha. You know how I have antlers right now even though Dess doesn't?" After a nod from Chris, Noelle kept going. "That's because I wasn't born a girl. When I was younger, people thought I was a boy, like you, but it felt wrong, and when I told people, they started talking like I was a girl, and that felt much better. So I'm a girl now!"

Chris blinked. "Huh? Did they just get it wrong at first, or...?"

Noelle shook her head. "No, they got it right. It's just... Hm. Okay. I know what you look like, but mentally, in your SOUL or whatever, you just... you FEEL like a boy, right?"

Chris just stared at her for a substantial amount of time. "No? Isn't it just my genitals?"

Jumping, Noelle blushed furiously and covered their mouth. Chris pouted under her fingers, giving her the most wet cat expression they could muster, but she shook her head again. "Shhhhhh!! Don't say that so loud!" she whispered loudly. "That's inappropriate! But no, there's a mental part too. If you were in a body with... The other... parts, would you feel weird about it?"

"Nnnooooooo??" They tilted their head at her. "Not any weirder than it normally is."

She paused. "Huh?"

"I don't know, I just kinda wish I didn't have any of that. It's weird, people put me in all these weird boxes. I don't like it, I'm just a person."

Noelle looked down, thinking, before turning to Dess and tugging her arm to get her attention. "Dess? What's it called when you don't wanna have a gender?"

The argument between the teenagers was put on hold for a moment as Dess glanced at her. "Don't wanna...? Well, anyone can not want their gender, mostly because of how people think of said gender, but people who don't have a gender at all are nonbinary. Or, agender, but that's just a kind of nonbinary. Why?"

Chris craned their head to look at her before pointing at themself. Noelle followed suit, pointing at them too. Their neck hurt from looking up. Everything hurt all the time, it was annoying.

"You're saying that describes you?" Asriel piped in. Chris nodded at him.

After a moment of silence, Dess spasmed and whirled toward Azzy, pointing. "I KNEW it! I TOLD you! HA!!! TWENTY BUCKS!"

"Titan damn it- You sure you're getting this right? Would you want us to use neutral pronouns for you? Do you want to be a they?"

"I don't really... What?"

"I don't wanna give Dess twenty dollars."

Chris looked over at Dess, who was still celebrating with herself, and grinned. "Then yes."

"TITAN DAMN IT." Azzy fished out his wallet, sifted through it for a moment, then slapped down a twenty into Dess' waiting hand with a sigh. She cheered, making Chris giggle. "Don't tell me we're changing your name, too, you liked this one."

"No promises," they jeered. To be honest, they didn't really care all that much. But they're glad they they could be out of the obligation that was "boyhood", that was nice. And maybe they'd always thought of themself with the neutral words that they use for people they don't know. And maybe they wanted to mix things up with their name a little, too.

But it's just one more weird thing about them, and they're a weird person. And they like that, they think. Noelle was weird, even weirder than they realized, and Dess and Azzy were weird too. And they were pretty cool, so maybe Chris was too. They could get behind that.

"This is my friend, Chris Dreemurr. They're nonbinary, and they like chocolate. My little sister is good friends with them. Oh my god, I get to call you an enby, that's adorable. This is the best. Your queer is infectious, Azzy, they're not even related to you and they're enby. This is the best."

They smiled. This felt right. In a multitude of wrong-ness that surrounded them, covering their skin instead of fur, this was the one thing that felt correct.

Maybe they could be Kris Dreemurr this time.

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junuve · 2 months

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what if we were two abominable AI with terribly demeaning purposes, like say one of us was a limitless being restricted to only want to create silly lil puzzles endlessly, and the other was a perpetual screw-up that cant stop sabotaging everything they come into contact with, including what they care about... what if we were that, but instead of continuing the cycles of hatred imposed upon our environment and our very beings by our fallible creators, we learned how to support one another and wrench a future out of the cold, dead hands of our programmers???

........nah that's dumb.

murder time.

#portal #portal 2 #GLaDOS #wheatley #wheatDOS #GLaDley #slightly inspired by how in my fic wip glados and wheatley learn a lesson in friendship early on and then #IMMEDIATELY AFTER unlearn said lesson and try to kill each other #they are full of HATE but dw theyre working on it

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mantisgodsdomain · 6 months

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3,4,15 for any member of team snakemouth!

...how about all three?

(for this ask game)

3. Obscure headcanon

For Kabbu, though we may have noted this before, we think that the North is quite firmly considered a patch of Deadland - and its inhabitants, as a result, tend to be very, very strange from the perspective of the rest of the world. For Kabbu, specifically, this means a variety of things, both biologically and culturally - though Northern beetles are a lot more common in Bugaria, deadlands in general come with a very high rate of mutation and a very high rate of death, and that means a high rate of superstition both in things that actively impact survival and in things that do not - as well as the simple fact that a constantly-changing set of genetics means that what a northern beetle is like is often very, very open to change.

Kabbu is an example of a burrower - a subspecies of sorts primarily identified by claws designed, very specifically, for digging. His claws grow into a sort of broad shovel shape and tend to be much sturdier than an equivalent beetle's - getting underground in moments in soft ground isn't really an exaggeration! Though he can dig through harder ground, it takes time and effort, and he can't go at it with the sheer speed of softer soil - technically, he could burrow through solid rock given enough time, but it would be both hard and extremely painful. It's a trait that's heavily prized in the North for its ability to create shelter and safety - beetles dominate the North's underground, and there's nothing that can really pose a threat to them. Tunnels are safety, and it really surprises and disorients him when things underground attack him, because back home that just kind of doesn't happen unless it's Another Beetle specifically targeting you.

In terms of more social things, he has a lot of trouble getting used to the concept of mimics. This is mostly due to the fact that mimics as a whole don't really... exist in the north, at least not in the means of gaining benefit from mimicking anything else. If you can talk to them as any other awakened bug, they're usually exactly what they say they are, and species mimicking normal geological features and plants haven't found any success, unless you're willing to get extremely generous with describing the snow-bank camouflage of a Northern Silk Moth's topcoat.

Though sand wasps or "white bees" still exist, the thing they're mimicking no longer exists in the same area. Any Hive that once was in the North is long dead, overly-large groups of bugs tend to die out quickly thanks to the handful of large predators that may decide the benefits outweigh the consequences when enough tasty beetles gather in the same place, and when the enemy you're dealing with is both too heavily armoured to be really deterred by most weaponry and capable and intelligent enough to stalk your group through the snow until the cost outweighs the benefit of eating you... well, the sort of small groups generally sent to start a new colony of social bugs really don't stand a chance.

It is, occasionally, very hard to get used to the fact that southern silk moths only grow a few heads taller than him. He's used to them presenting a lot more of a threat.

For Leif... we think he's completely, 100% blind. His eyes are frozen over due to quirk of his biology - the thing about his integration that makes him a failure, specifically. With any of the Snakemouth cordyceps, they do not naturally transfer the immunity to their own magic that any other variety of mage would have, and so need to alter their hosts in order to get the appropriate biology across. With Leif, that protection is not sufficient to protect the host, much less to preserve valuable organs - eyes, especially, are fragile, after all. The cold he naturally generates exceeds the host adaptations he provides, resulting in, even beyond the blindness, unusually brittle chitin, extremely stiff and easy-to-damage tissue, organic food processing efficiency appropriate for a bug currently freezing to death...

Well, you get the idea. Functionally, if alive, a host body would be in a state of perpetual hypothermia, prone to breaking down over time and needing persistent repair that his strain of cordyceps cannot provide, as any repair he could offer that's not within his host's natural healing capabilities requires manually breaking down and reconstructing any parts, which... is inconvenient at best. As he is, he gets around most of these issues by simply replacing his host body's soft tissue with cordyceps, but that has its own issues, mainly in making him look and move incredibly uncanny. Injuries take a very long time to repair, relatively, though the less tissue damage is done the easier it is to fix - being cleanly sliced in two, for example, might be easier to handle than any sort of crushing damage. As far as his eyes go... eyes of any sort are delicate, and the slightest damage can permanently blind someone. Any of Snakemouth Den's cordyceps tend to go blind anyways as the fungus burrows into ocular nerves - if anything, this is better for hiding, since the frost over his eyeballs conceals any mycelium in the eyes themselves. In theory, it can be repaired... in practice, it would be far too much of a pain for work that will be undone the moment he overtaxes his ice magic again.

...also, he doesn't really care. Sight is not the most important sense a moth has and his scent and ability to sense pheromones is fine, along with a general sensitivity to things like vibrations in the air. More than fine, even, since he's now kind of hybridized with both Ant and Bee and the number of pheromones he's sensitive enough to sense has shot through the roof. This on top of the "magic sense" he has means he has absolutely no trouble getting around, though reading books requires more or less sticking an antenna or fungal tendril over them and parsing out where the ink is by scent and texture. He full-on didn't notice he was blind until after the cordyceps reveal.

For Vi, while this might be one we've mentioned before, we headcanon that she's got a bit of minor mutation throwing her antenna... maybe 2% more towards a non-social relative, which gears her just slightly more towards being able to detect "foreign" scents - predators, prey, and any pollen or nectar in the area. Unfortunately, this slight shift in what scents she's made to pick up comes with a reduced sensitivity to pheromones and pheromone communication within the hive, along with loss of the general innate understanding that an average bee would have of how she's meant to "fit in" to a structure that utterly cripples her communication and social life in the hive.

It's minor enough of a mutation that she's never been flagged - she's a mutation of a social bee, not a normal variant of a solitary - but she smells weird, and she doesn't pick up on pheromones quite enough, and the variation in signals she puts off means that she both fails the communication to get across what she might need and fumbles the communication conveyed back to her about what she should do. Subtle things build up over time, and within the Hive, the negatives far outweigh the benefits - the Hive is only built with bees that fit to a standard in mind, and even minor deviations can get you dragged far, far behind.

This is getting very long so, uhh. Here's a cut. Everything else is below it. We enjoy getting very long-winded. There's a lot in here.

15. Worst thing they’ve ever done

Well, this one will depend on if it's "in general" or "by their standards". Putting any sort of objective moral judgement on just about anything is ridiculously difficult, especially with how values vary by culture or individual.

There is no such thing as objective worst, and we absolutely don't guarantee these would line up with your idea of worse, and so we'll offer two options here - what we believe they would think of first if posed with the question, and an alternative answer that would likely crop up.

For Kabbu, his own response would be easy - abandoning his teammates to The Beast. It haunts him to this day - really, what sort of beetle abandons their swarm to a fate like that? If he was a little faster, a little braver, a little less of a coward - but no. He abandoned those he was meant to care most for, and they died because of it.

For the other...

There are some things that are necessary, to survive somewhere as harsh as the Deadlands. Not everyone can be saved. Not everything can be helped. Not everyone can be taken in. Tradition and law is the heart and soul of the North - rules that everyone must comply to, if not for the sake of themselves, than for the sake of those they may interact with. To break a law, for any reason, is to be shunned by the community, most likely to your eventual death.

She broke a law. It could have been for understandable reasons, or not - it doesn't matter. She put the community at risk, and for that, she couldn't stay. She was put out in the cold, despite her pleading to the contrary. She was allowed to beg and plead and bang on the door, and yet, it meant nothing. The beast she would have lead to them caught up, eventually. He would still believe it was justified.

For Leif, his first response would be... exactly what you expect of him, really. The body he took without a care. The life he stole. He might vary on whether it's the action of stealing it or the lies he's told with that body, but the answer would be the same.

For the one he wouldn't think of... He could have spoken up. He didn't. He met their eye, slated for execution on crimes that he could parlay them on if he implicated himself, and he said nothing.

The look on their face still haunts him sometimes. It hurts more now that he's two, rather than one. It's what was needed to protect his family.

For Vi... a fault in a machine. The instructions were boring, and confusing, and hard to read. She tried to do whatever she thought might work, instead of following the manual. There was an injury. Then another one. It was her fault, really, for rigging it wrong, but she was tired and angry and she argued instead of just sucking it up and fixing it when confronted on it, and it went unfixed for days more. A minor fault can very well lead to deaths, and though this one didn't, it came close - one more inch, a slightly looser bolt, and it would have cracked a bug's shell clean open. It's a miracle it turned out as well as it did. It's a miracle that no one connected it to her enough, even when it was fixed. Someone else was punished, and she was old enough to know not to step forward - she's not stupid, after all.

The guilt still haunts her. The "what-if". The possibility of it. If someone died of her own stupid negligence, if she made someone else take the fall - she would let them, really, her sense of self-preservation isn't that bad, but she's not sure she could live with it after.

With the one she wouldn't think of personally... considering the background she's got, the journey to the Ant Kingdom, and the fact that it's already stated she took jobs before canon? We think there's a fairly good chance that Vi's off jobs got... shady. It's not like she has much in the way of morals when it comes to money, and "will do just about anything for enough cash" is a decent market. If you're willing to forsake your morals, you can get more money than your heart desires - at the cost of just a bit of risk, at that!

She doesn't think about it, really. It wasn't something she needed to think about. They were threatening her, they were a risk to her team, they were the price she had to pay to eat, the specifics of what happened don't matter much at this point. Put in the position again, would she choose their life, or hers? It doesn't matter. They're dead, anyways. She should know. She was the one to take the payment for it.

4. Favorite line?

We're copy-pasting these straight from the game! These Direct Quotes are all sourced from @aquilamage's Bug Fables Transcript project, which we highly recommend checking out! It's an excellent resource for double-checking dialogue without having to replay the game first, and a repository for just about all the dialogue in the game (provided it wasn't taken out by previous patches, of course).

We will be honest: there's a lot of dialogue in this game. This might not be our absolute favorites, as a result of a general poor memory as well as Too Much Game. Also, we have blatant favoritism towards Vi in all ways. Most of these are favorite interactions, rather than anything else, so...

For Leif:

Kabbu: Leif. If you need to take a break, let us know. Vi will carry you. Vi: That is not happening. Leif: Oh, the fatigue, it kicks in... Vi: I said it's not happening!

...and for Vi, we're fond of this dialogue, specifically because the first time we encountered it we misread "exploring" as "exploding".

Leif: Science looks like a lot of hard work. Vi: It's like uh...the thinking version of exploring!

But of course, our favorite Vi Dialogue as well as our personal favorite dialogue in the game in general would be the Bee Guard overworld spy.

Leif: Vi, you're the only Bee explorer, right? Vi: Huh? Uh, yeah! That I know of... Leif: We've been thinking it's a bit weird, to see so many Bee guards, but only one explorer... Vi: Look, they're not guards because they want to or anything, okay? Vi: They were born to be guards, so they guard. That's it. Kabbu: That's a bit somber... Vi: ...That's just how the Hive is sometimes.

"I'm allergic to bouncers" is a close second, of course. In terms of story implications, we pull on her Jaune interactions and especially the point just after getting kicked out of the studio for the first time during Jaune's request, but that's... it's less we "like" it, per se, and more that the implications are fun to toy with. In terms of the actual dialogue, it just... makes us feel sad. Sad, [], and maybe a bit angry on her behalf. We've been there more than we care to admit, after all.

We... wouldn't wish something similar on anyone. And no matter how good the good gets with Jaune, it still can't really outweigh the fact that the bad starts ticking boxes about emotional abuse in a way that makes relationships like Mothiva & Zasp that more people are willing to try and call out pale in comparison. We probably need to finish that essay some time...

Anyways, we like it when Kabbu gets mad enough to yell at people.

Kabbu: This is ridiculous! You realize you could be dooming us all!? Kabbu: What if the Termite King loses trust in the Queen!? Kabbu: What if you lose to the Wasp King without our help!? Kabbu: Have you gone completely, utterly insane!? Have you lost all intelligence! Mothiva: Yikes. You're overthinking this WAY too much. Mothiva: The Ant Kingdom's way better in our hands than with you LOSERS. Kabbu: We have SAVED YOUR LIFE BEFORE, you WITCH!

#asks #ask games #we speak #bug fables #headcanons #writing #kabbu hc section turned into north rambling but uhh. dw about it. you get to hear our cool northern worldbuilding now #hi. sorry this took so long. this is more than a thousand words of writing.#the Vi Worst Thing varies heavily by verse as does All The Other Ones #what's the worst thing they've ever done? depends on the fic!#for vi specifically the nature of the jobs she's done is often plot relevant and thus changeable by convenience #if we get into aus then there are some more drastic changes ofc but we're doing Canon TSM Only here so that's just a side note #the most notable difference in answers...#selkie vi would have a very #unfortunately selkie vi is also missing and assumed dead due to that so it would be hard for her to answer #we love kabbu but he is very much a product of his environment #the intense traditionalism is a Beetle Thing technically and kabbu's specific brand is even more specific than that #a bit of a Kabbu Thing we guess? highly area specific and notable in that its extreme even for northern beetles #you become an amalgamation of the little bits of the people around you over time #and the bits kabbu picked up. well. highlighted that law is The Way To Go for keeping people alive and safe #even if not quite happy #anyways we hope this is good. it took a longass time! we wrote So Fucking Much here. its a bit excessive.

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corallapis · 4 months

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my argument against them ever having been married is simply bc they would be even more insane About It All if they had.

#missy would never refer to him as anything other than 'husband.'#have you all read that shalka fic? makes me crazy.........#doctor x master #dw

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gingerteaonthetardis · 7 months

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𝐌𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒 (1/?) | Stuck With You

by gallifreyslostson & larxenethefirefly

ᴍᴀʟᴄᴏʟᴍ ᴛᴜᴄᴋᴇʀ x ʀᴏꜱᴇ ᴛʏʟᴇʀ, ᴇ, 100ᴋ+

"What’s he for anyway? Why do you need him?"

"I’ll tell you why you need me, Rose Tyler," he sneers. "Because the media doesn’t have a thing on you for the last, what, twenty years? And now you’re suddenly priority person of interest as the mysterious Vitex heiress. For all they know, you’re a nutter who’s been locked away from the public till now!"

"I’m not a nutter!" she argues hotly, surging to her feet to stand toe to toe with him.

"No, you’ve just come from a parallel universe to play house with your parallel dad and not-so-parallel mum—who’s supposed to be fucking dead, I might add—because you were helping your space boyfriend and lost your grip when he opened a portal to hell. Yes, that’ll sell quite nicely!"

#i can't make fanart so i'm channeling some of my nostalgia into little moodboards <3 tributes for some of my favorite fics #starting with the one and only! the fic i re-read and recommend more than probably any other! the fic that (i'm pretty sure) amanda #introduced me to‚ not remotely knowing how mentally ill it would make me... stuck with you!! my beloved!!#fic rec #tuckerrose #malcolm tucker #rose tyler #ttoi x dw #dw moodboard #from bean to cup queue fuck up

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