I’m hopetohell on ao3; come check out my body of work here . Some fics are only on ao3 as of now.
Masterlist for August Walker
Dream State (August Walker x Reader)
Masterlist for Walter Marshall
Masterlist for Mike
Christmas Senses (Mike x Reader)
Masterlist for Captain Syverson
Masterlist for miscellaneous Henry Cavill characters
Mob Will Masterlist (Will Shaw x Reader)
Masterlist for Evan Marshall
Threesomes Masterlist (now with a foursome!)
Henry Cavill RPF Masterlist
Ash and Sigil (August Walker x Evan Marshall, ao3 link)
Miscellaneous Characters Masterlist (Daniel Brühl, Chris Hemsworth, and more!)
Billy Lee Masterlist (Bad Times at the El Royale)
Helmut Zemo Masterlist
Bucky Barnes x Helmut Zemo Masterlist
Loki x Möbius Masterlist
Eddie x Venom Masterlist
Travis Hackett Masterlist (The Quarry)
Miscellaneous MCU Masterlist
A Fairytale in Silver and Glass Masterlist (Adhemar x Reader)
Fulgurite Dreams masterlist (Adrian Toomes x Reader)
Hector Munday masterlist
John Wick masterlist
Stobotnik masterlist
I’ve got a tendency to yeet micro fics, blurbs, little bits and bobs— holler if you want to see more of something. Requests are always welcome although there are no guarantees you’ll actually get what you asked for.
This entire blog is outrageously 18+ and NSFW so proceed with caution (this means no minors). Asks are always open; I promise I don’t bite. Much.
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a rock and a hard place. Stobotnik. Mild body horror. This is completely undignified. Doctor Robotnik has been eaten alive. Swallowed whole, in fact. He doesn't seem to be in any danger of being digested at the moment, though, so he's got plenty of time to work through a few things while he's stuck in the belly of the beast. Weirdly enough, his thoughts keep circling around to Stone.
----------
Something has eaten Doctor Robotnik. It could've been a bear or a werewolf or some alien something or other, but anyway it doesn't matter. The doctor gets gobbled up and that's that. It hurts at first, what with all those sharp teeth and the tight squeeze of the creature's throat working around him, but after that? Not so much. It's unexpected, and Ivo Robotnik does not like the unexpected. The whole thing should be a quick ow ow ow followed by lights out, bye bye Doctor, that's all she wrote.
Instead there's this. Maybe his skin's been burned away by stomach acid, cutting off the signals that should be lighting up his brain like unholy fire. The idea doesn't feel right, not quite, but it's so damn dark in here. If he had a light he could look and see if he's been dissolved to the bone yet, if he had the guts— ha— to look. Stone always has a lighter on him, even though he doesn't smoke. Or doesn't anymore, anyway. Maybe he used to. Too bad the Doctor got gobbled up before he had the chance to ask.
It's tight in here. Cozy, you might say, like a turtleneck sweater that's a size too small and also made of slime. Or maybe— and the thought makes his stomach turn over, assuming he still has a stomach— maybe it's more like being in the womb. Oh, ew. To think there was ever a time when he was helplessly bound to the will of his environment, subject to the whims of the flesh. No logic dictating when to enter the world, only the faceless uncaring swirl of hormonal stew that at some point abruptly says "get the fuck out."
Thing is, the looming specter of death has hung over him often enough that it's no longer interesting, but merely tedious. Kidnappings, attempted murder, getting exploded by weird little hairy guys with sneakers but no pants, the list goes on. Dying and staying dead would at least be something different. What even is the point of waiting around in here? The whatever-it-is should just digest him and be done with it already. Maybe the damn thing will get a bellyache. Serves it right for making him wait.
This is so damned boring. Maybe he can wiggle his toes to give himself something to do at least. Ooh, just like that: movement. But no, that's not him doing the wriggling and it's not just his toes. It isn't even a proper wiggle, more like a rhythmic squeezing and relaxing that pulses all around him. Peristalsis? Is that the right word? If he had a dictionary he could make Stone look it up, make sure he's got the meaning right before he tries to use the word where someone might hear. But he doesn't have a dictionary, or Stone, or anything else for that matter. And how is he breathing? Is there something like an umbilical cord feeding him the oxygen he needs in order to not suffocate in here?
Ugh. There go the womb metaphors again. Does he have some kind of complex about it? Probably. Mommy issues, daddy issues: he's got the whole shebang rattling around his psyche. It's unfair. He should've emerged fully-formed from the warm embrace of a supercomputer, not ejected from someone's body in a flood of blood and slime. He sees the world in numbers, in geometric forms and in electrical circuits, not the disgustingly squelchy mess of stupid human emotions. How unfortunate that he should be made of meat.
Gross.
To be fair, though, there is something comforting about being squeezed like this. Despite everything, it quiets the part of his brain that shivers like a cornered animal in times of stress. Maybe he should ask Stone to tie him up. It wouldn't be quite the same, but it might be nice anyway. Look at him, planning for the future when he's in the belly of the beast, but there's nothing like a little bondage fantasy to pass the time. He can practically hear Stone now. "Of course, Doctor. Would you prefer cotton or silk rope?" And if Stone wasn't already competent with knots— unlikely, given the way he seems to be prepared for every damn thing except, apparently, his boss being fucking eaten— he'd learn quick.
He'd probably be annoying as hell with his check-ins, asking "is this okay?" and "it's not too tight, is it?" or "do you know how fucking gorgeous you are right now—" Hmm. How did that last bit get in there? No way he's thinking about Stone like that. He's definitely not thinking about the brush of skin on skin as Stone checks the knots, or the susurrus of a callused thumb sliding over his lips before it slips inside his mouth. It would taste like salt and gunpowder and machine oil, better than any aphrodisiac. There's a greater than zero percent chance he's twitching hips that he's not even sure he still has, succumbing to the hormones that are redirecting bloodflow down into his dick. Maybe if he thinks about it hard enough he can make it real. And maybe hedgehogs can fly.
This must be like someone getting a boner when they're hanging from the gallows. It's just more of those stupid useless biological processes. This would never happen to a roomba. Not that Robotnik would ever use one of those pieces of crap, anyway, not when he's got Stone to clean up after him, kneeling on the concrete floor with a dustpan in his hand and looking up with those giant pleading eyes. If he had a dollar for every time Stone looked at him like that, he could get off the government teat and fund his own damn research. Probably best to keep Stone down there on his knees, then, where he belongs, keep those imaginary dollars flowing into his imaginary bank account until they've finally collected enough interest to fu—
Maybe oxygen deprivation is finally getting to the Doctor. He doesn't like Stone. On a good day he tolerates the guy. He's useful. Mild-mannered to a fault, right up until the bullets start flying. Then the smile drops away and he's got Robotnik by the back of his jacket, steering him to cover. Guiding him low to the ground with a firm hand that allows for absolutely no backtalk. And somehow the Doctor always ends up safe, buzzing head to toe with adrenaline, although now he's starting to suspect it might not all be from the fight-or-flight response. Fat lot of good that's gonna do him in here.
Stone will get him out sooner or later, though. He'll rip open this freaking creature with his bare hands and look in at the Doctor. Stone's face in silhouette, light shining behind him like a halo. Any minute now. All the Doctor has to do is wait.
a rock and a hard place. Stobotnik. Mild body horror. This is completely undignified. Doctor Robotnik has been eaten alive. Swallowed whole, in fact. He doesn't seem to be in any danger of being digested at the moment, though, so he's got plenty of time to work through a few things while he's stuck in the belly of the beast. Weirdly enough, his thoughts keep circling around to Stone.
----------
Something has eaten Doctor Robotnik. It could've been a bear or a werewolf or some alien something or other, but anyway it doesn't matter. The doctor gets gobbled up and that's that. It hurts at first, what with all those sharp teeth and the tight squeeze of the creature's throat working around him, but after that? Not so much. It's unexpected, and Ivo Robotnik does not like the unexpected. The whole thing should be a quick ow ow ow followed by lights out, bye bye Doctor, that's all she wrote.
Instead there's this. Maybe his skin's been burned away by stomach acid, cutting off the signals that should be lighting up his brain like unholy fire. The idea doesn't feel right, not quite, but it's so damn dark in here. If he had a light he could look and see if he's been dissolved to the bone yet, if he had the guts— ha— to look. Stone always has a lighter on him, even though he doesn't smoke. Or doesn't anymore, anyway. Maybe he used to. Too bad the Doctor got gobbled up before he had the chance to ask.
It's tight in here. Cozy, you might say, like a turtleneck sweater that's a size too small and also made of slime. Or maybe— and the thought makes his stomach turn over, assuming he still has a stomach— maybe it's more like being in the womb. Oh, ew. To think there was ever a time when he was helplessly bound to the will of his environment, subject to the whims of the flesh. No logic dictating when to enter the world, only the faceless uncaring swirl of hormonal stew that at some point abruptly says "get the fuck out."
Thing is, the looming specter of death has hung over him often enough that it's no longer interesting, but merely tedious. Kidnappings, attempted murder, getting exploded by weird little hairy guys with sneakers but no pants, the list goes on. Dying and staying dead would at least be something different. What even is the point of waiting around in here? The whatever-it-is should just digest him and be done with it already. Maybe the damn thing will get a bellyache. Serves it right for making him wait.
This is so damned boring. Maybe he can wiggle his toes to give himself something to do at least. Ooh, just like that: movement. But no, that's not him doing the wriggling and it's not just his toes. It isn't even a proper wiggle, more like a rhythmic squeezing and relaxing that pulses all around him. Peristalsis? Is that the right word? If he had a dictionary he could make Stone look it up, make sure he's got the meaning right before he tries to use the word where someone might hear. But he doesn't have a dictionary, or Stone, or anything else for that matter. And how is he breathing? Is there something like an umbilical cord feeding him the oxygen he needs in order to not suffocate in here?
Ugh. There go the womb metaphors again. Does he have some kind of complex about it? Probably. Mommy issues, daddy issues: he's got the whole shebang rattling around his psyche. It's unfair. He should've emerged fully-formed from the warm embrace of a supercomputer, not ejected from someone's body in a flood of blood and slime. He sees the world in numbers, in geometric forms and in electrical circuits, not the disgustingly squelchy mess of stupid human emotions. How unfortunate that he should be made of meat.
Gross.
To be fair, though, there is something comforting about being squeezed like this. Despite everything, it quiets the part of his brain that shivers like a cornered animal in times of stress. Maybe he should ask Stone to tie him up. It wouldn't be quite the same, but it might be nice anyway. Look at him, planning for the future when he's in the belly of the beast, but there's nothing like a little bondage fantasy to pass the time. He can practically hear Stone now. "Of course, Doctor. Would you prefer cotton or silk rope?" And if Stone wasn't already competent with knots— unlikely, given the way he seems to be prepared for every damn thing except, apparently, his boss being fucking eaten— he'd learn quick.
He'd probably be annoying as hell with his check-ins, asking "is this okay?" and "it's not too tight, is it?" or "do you know how fucking gorgeous you are right now—" Hmm. How did that last bit get in there? No way he's thinking about Stone like that. He's definitely not thinking about the brush of skin on skin as Stone checks the knots, or the susurrus of a callused thumb sliding over his lips before it slips inside his mouth. It would taste like salt and gunpowder and machine oil, better than any aphrodisiac. There's a greater than zero percent chance he's twitching hips that he's not even sure he still has, succumbing to the hormones that are redirecting bloodflow down into his dick. Maybe if he thinks about it hard enough he can make it real. And maybe hedgehogs can fly.
This must be like someone getting a boner when they're hanging from the gallows. It's just more of those stupid useless biological processes. This would never happen to a roomba. Not that Robotnik would ever use one of those pieces of crap, anyway, not when he's got Stone to clean up after him, kneeling on the concrete floor with a dustpan in his hand and looking up with those giant pleading eyes. If he had a dollar for every time Stone looked at him like that, he could get off the government teat and fund his own damn research. Probably best to keep Stone down there on his knees, then, where he belongs, keep those imaginary dollars flowing into his imaginary bank account until they've finally collected enough interest to fu—
Maybe oxygen deprivation is finally getting to the Doctor. He doesn't like Stone. On a good day he tolerates the guy. He's useful. Mild-mannered to a fault, right up until the bullets start flying. Then the smile drops away and he's got Robotnik by the back of his jacket, steering him to cover. Guiding him low to the ground with a firm hand that allows for absolutely no backtalk. And somehow the Doctor always ends up safe, buzzing head to toe with adrenaline, although now he's starting to suspect it might not all be from the fight-or-flight response. Fat lot of good that's gonna do him in here.
Stone will get him out sooner or later, though. He'll rip open this freaking creature with his bare hands and look in at the Doctor. Stone's face in silhouette, light shining behind him like a halo. Any minute now. All the Doctor has to do is wait.
a rock and a hard place. Stobotnik. Mild body horror. This is completely undignified. Doctor Robotnik has been eaten alive. Swallowed whole, in fact. He doesn't seem to be in any danger of being digested at the moment, though, so he's got plenty of time to work through a few things while he's stuck in the belly of the beast. Weirdly enough, his thoughts keep circling around to Stone.
----------
Something has eaten Doctor Robotnik. It could've been a bear or a werewolf or some alien something or other, but anyway it doesn't matter. The doctor gets gobbled up and that's that. It hurts at first, what with all those sharp teeth and the tight squeeze of the creature's throat working around him, but after that? Not so much. It's unexpected, and Ivo Robotnik does not like the unexpected. The whole thing should be a quick ow ow ow followed by lights out, bye bye Doctor, that's all she wrote.
Instead there's this. Maybe his skin's been burned away by stomach acid, cutting off the signals that should be lighting up his brain like unholy fire. The idea doesn't feel right, not quite, but it's so damn dark in here. If he had a light he could look and see if he's been dissolved to the bone yet, if he had the guts— ha— to look. Stone always has a lighter on him, even though he doesn't smoke. Or doesn't anymore, anyway. Maybe he used to. Too bad the Doctor got gobbled up before he had the chance to ask.
It's tight in here. Cozy, you might say, like a turtleneck sweater that's a size too small and also made of slime. Or maybe— and the thought makes his stomach turn over, assuming he still has a stomach— maybe it's more like being in the womb. Oh, ew. To think there was ever a time when he was helplessly bound to the will of his environment, subject to the whims of the flesh. No logic dictating when to enter the world, only the faceless uncaring swirl of hormonal stew that at some point abruptly says "get the fuck out."
Thing is, the looming specter of death has hung over him often enough that it's no longer interesting, but merely tedious. Kidnappings, attempted murder, getting exploded by weird little hairy guys with sneakers but no pants, the list goes on. Dying and staying dead would at least be something different. What even is the point of waiting around in here? The whatever-it-is should just digest him and be done with it already. Maybe the damn thing will get a bellyache. Serves it right for making him wait.
This is so damned boring. Maybe he can wiggle his toes to give himself something to do at least. Ooh, just like that: movement. But no, that's not him doing the wriggling and it's not just his toes. It isn't even a proper wiggle, more like a rhythmic squeezing and relaxing that pulses all around him. Peristalsis? Is that the right word? If he had a dictionary he could make Stone look it up, make sure he's got the meaning right before he tries to use the word where someone might hear. But he doesn't have a dictionary, or Stone, or anything else for that matter. And how is he breathing? Is there something like an umbilical cord feeding him the oxygen he needs in order to not suffocate in here?
Ugh. There go the womb metaphors again. Does he have some kind of complex about it? Probably. Mommy issues, daddy issues: he's got the whole shebang rattling around his psyche. It's unfair. He should've emerged fully-formed from the warm embrace of a supercomputer, not ejected from someone's body in a flood of blood and slime. He sees the world in numbers, in geometric forms and in electrical circuits, not the disgustingly squelchy mess of stupid human emotions. How unfortunate that he should be made of meat.
Gross.
To be fair, though, there is something comforting about being squeezed like this. Despite everything, it quiets the part of his brain that shivers like a cornered animal in times of stress. Maybe he should ask Stone to tie him up. It wouldn't be quite the same, but it might be nice anyway. Look at him, planning for the future when he's in the belly of the beast, but there's nothing like a little bondage fantasy to pass the time. He can practically hear Stone now. "Of course, Doctor. Would you prefer cotton or silk rope?" And if Stone wasn't already competent with knots— unlikely, given the way he seems to be prepared for every damn thing except, apparently, his boss being fucking eaten— he'd learn quick.
He'd probably be annoying as hell with his check-ins, asking "is this okay?" and "it's not too tight, is it?" or "do you know how fucking gorgeous you are right now—" Hmm. How did that last bit get in there? No way he's thinking about Stone like that. He's definitely not thinking about the brush of skin on skin as Stone checks the knots, or the susurrus of a callused thumb sliding over his lips before it slips inside his mouth. It would taste like salt and gunpowder and machine oil, better than any aphrodisiac. There's a greater than zero percent chance he's twitching hips that he's not even sure he still has, succumbing to the hormones that are redirecting bloodflow down into his dick. Maybe if he thinks about it hard enough he can make it real. And maybe hedgehogs can fly.
This must be like someone getting a boner when they're hanging from the gallows. It's just more of those stupid useless biological processes. This would never happen to a roomba. Not that Robotnik would ever use one of those pieces of crap, anyway, not when he's got Stone to clean up after him, kneeling on the concrete floor with a dustpan in his hand and looking up with those giant pleading eyes. If he had a dollar for every time Stone looked at him like that, he could get off the government teat and fund his own damn research. Probably best to keep Stone down there on his knees, then, where he belongs, keep those imaginary dollars flowing into his imaginary bank account until they've finally collected enough interest to fu—
Maybe oxygen deprivation is finally getting to the Doctor. He doesn't like Stone. On a good day he tolerates the guy. He's useful. Mild-mannered to a fault, right up until the bullets start flying. Then the smile drops away and he's got Robotnik by the back of his jacket, steering him to cover. Guiding him low to the ground with a firm hand that allows for absolutely no backtalk. And somehow the Doctor always ends up safe, buzzing head to toe with adrenaline, although now he's starting to suspect it might not all be from the fight-or-flight response. Fat lot of good that's gonna do him in here.
Stone will get him out sooner or later, though. He'll rip open this freaking creature with his bare hands and look in at the Doctor. Stone's face in silhouette, light shining behind him like a halo. Any minute now. All the Doctor has to do is wait.
a rock and a hard place. Stobotnik. Mild body horror. This is completely undignified. Doctor Robotnik has been eaten alive. Swallowed whole, in fact. He doesn't seem to be in any danger of being digested at the moment, though, so he's got plenty of time to work through a few things while he's stuck in the belly of the beast. Weirdly enough, his thoughts keep circling around to Stone.
----------
Something has eaten Doctor Robotnik. It could've been a bear or a werewolf or some alien something or other, but anyway it doesn't matter. The doctor gets gobbled up and that's that. It hurts at first, what with all those sharp teeth and the tight squeeze of the creature's throat working around him, but after that? Not so much. It's unexpected, and Ivo Robotnik does not like the unexpected. The whole thing should be a quick ow ow ow followed by lights out, bye bye Doctor, that's all she wrote.
Instead there's this. Maybe his skin's been burned away by stomach acid, cutting off the signals that should be lighting up his brain like unholy fire. The idea doesn't feel right, not quite, but it's so damn dark in here. If he had a light he could look and see if he's been dissolved to the bone yet, if he had the guts— ha— to look. Stone always has a lighter on him, even though he doesn't smoke. Or doesn't anymore, anyway. Maybe he used to. Too bad the Doctor got gobbled up before he had the chance to ask.
It's tight in here. Cozy, you might say, like a turtleneck sweater that's a size too small and also made of slime. Or maybe— and the thought makes his stomach turn over, assuming he still has a stomach— maybe it's more like being in the womb. Oh, ew. To think there was ever a time when he was helplessly bound to the will of his environment, subject to the whims of the flesh. No logic dictating when to enter the world, only the faceless uncaring swirl of hormonal stew that at some point abruptly says "get the fuck out."
Thing is, the looming specter of death has hung over him often enough that it's no longer interesting, but merely tedious. Kidnappings, attempted murder, getting exploded by weird little hairy guys with sneakers but no pants, the list goes on. Dying and staying dead would at least be something different. What even is the point of waiting around in here? The whatever-it-is should just digest him and be done with it already. Maybe the damn thing will get a bellyache. Serves it right for making him wait.
This is so damned boring. Maybe he can wiggle his toes to give himself something to do at least. Ooh, just like that: movement. But no, that's not him doing the wriggling and it's not just his toes. It isn't even a proper wiggle, more like a rhythmic squeezing and relaxing that pulses all around him. Peristalsis? Is that the right word? If he had a dictionary he could make Stone look it up, make sure he's got the meaning right before he tries to use the word where someone might hear. But he doesn't have a dictionary, or Stone, or anything else for that matter. And how is he breathing? Is there something like an umbilical cord feeding him the oxygen he needs in order to not suffocate in here?
Ugh. There go the womb metaphors again. Does he have some kind of complex about it? Probably. Mommy issues, daddy issues: he's got the whole shebang rattling around his psyche. It's unfair. He should've emerged fully-formed from the warm embrace of a supercomputer, not ejected from someone's body in a flood of blood and slime. He sees the world in numbers, in geometric forms and in electrical circuits, not the disgustingly squelchy mess of stupid human emotions. How unfortunate that he should be made of meat.
Gross.
To be fair, though, there is something comforting about being squeezed like this. Despite everything, it quiets the part of his brain that shivers like a cornered animal in times of stress. Maybe he should ask Stone to tie him up. It wouldn't be quite the same, but it might be nice anyway. Look at him, planning for the future when he's in the belly of the beast, but there's nothing like a little bondage fantasy to pass the time. He can practically hear Stone now. "Of course, Doctor. Would you prefer cotton or silk rope?" And if Stone wasn't already competent with knots— unlikely, given the way he seems to be prepared for every damn thing except, apparently, his boss being fucking eaten— he'd learn quick.
He'd probably be annoying as hell with his check-ins, asking "is this okay?" and "it's not too tight, is it?" or "do you know how fucking gorgeous you are right now—" Hmm. How did that last bit get in there? No way he's thinking about Stone like that. He's definitely not thinking about the brush of skin on skin as Stone checks the knots, or the susurrus of a callused thumb sliding over his lips before it slips inside his mouth. It would taste like salt and gunpowder and machine oil, better than any aphrodisiac. There's a greater than zero percent chance he's twitching hips that he's not even sure he still has, succumbing to the hormones that are redirecting bloodflow down into his dick. Maybe if he thinks about it hard enough he can make it real. And maybe hedgehogs can fly.
This must be like someone getting a boner when they're hanging from the gallows. It's just more of those stupid useless biological processes. This would never happen to a roomba. Not that Robotnik would ever use one of those pieces of crap, anyway, not when he's got Stone to clean up after him, kneeling on the concrete floor with a dustpan in his hand and looking up with those giant pleading eyes. If he had a dollar for every time Stone looked at him like that, he could get off the government teat and fund his own damn research. Probably best to keep Stone down there on his knees, then, where he belongs, keep those imaginary dollars flowing into his imaginary bank account until they've finally collected enough interest to fu—
Maybe oxygen deprivation is finally getting to the Doctor. He doesn't like Stone. On a good day he tolerates the guy. He's useful. Mild-mannered to a fault, right up until the bullets start flying. Then the smile drops away and he's got Robotnik by the back of his jacket, steering him to cover. Guiding him low to the ground with a firm hand that allows for absolutely no backtalk. And somehow the Doctor always ends up safe, buzzing head to toe with adrenaline, although now he's starting to suspect it might not all be from the fight-or-flight response. Fat lot of good that's gonna do him in here.
Stone will get him out sooner or later, though. He'll rip open this freaking creature with his bare hands and look in at the Doctor. Stone's face in silhouette, light shining behind him like a halo. Any minute now. All the Doctor has to do is wait.
