#mortimer tonybee x reader

[featherby]

Through the Sleepless Night (Toad x Reader)

Toad has buried himself in his work and needs someone to make him take care of himself.

Good thing you’re free.

Read on AO3

It had been weeks now, weeks spent hidden away in his workshop, tinkering away for Magneto. Day and night, all hours, trying to get the damned thing to work. But everything Toad tried, every part he replaced, every bolt he tightened—nothing.

He’d made steady progress at first—fix the obvious, the cracked, the missing. Get things into place, put them back together. But the tasks left were smaller, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out which one was making the whole thing fail. He’d gone over every inch of the damned thing, couldn’t tell you the last time he’d eaten, oiled every moving part, hadn’t slept in days, checked computer systems for bugs…

He wasn’t sure which was falling apart worse, the machine or himself. His muscles ached. His head swam whenever he stood, or sat, or looked at something for too long. He just needed to finish. If he could fix it, get it running again—

Just a little longer. It’s so close. I’ll be done soon…

He took a deep breath and picked up a wrench, praying he was right.

You pushed open the workshop door, the hinges groaning. The place was filthy—it usually was—and a cluttered mess—it usually wasn’t. Sure, everything was always covered in a layer of oil and grime, but Toad kept things organized, put away. Or at least he had before. Now tools were scattered over benches, tables, the ground. Screws, nuts, bolts, washers, wires, and a dozen other types of little metal things you couldn’t name littered the floor, sat in piles in the corners. Scrap metal and broken glass lay piled against the walls. Sure, there was a certain amount of chaos in any workshop, but this…

This had gotten out of hand.

Metal crashed on the other side of the chaos. Toad stood up, hand clutched to his head, eyes screwed shut. “Bloody… fuck!” Just what he needed, a damn concussion.

“Hey.”

His eyes shot open, struggling to focus. They tried to close again, heavy as cement, but he forced them open. He dropped his hand from his head, glancing at it to check for blood. None, thank god. “What’re you doing down here?”

You gave a curt laugh. “Good to see you too. Just checking on you. Making sure you hadn’t starved to death or something.”

“I’m fine.” He dropped a misshapen hunk of metal on a cart laden with them. “I just can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with this thing. I’ve replaced every damn part. Gonna turn into Theseus’ ship at this rate. I just don’t know—” He kicked the cart away, a few of the parts tumbling down and clattering against the floor. “I just don’t know.” He pulled the goggles from his eyes and rubbed at the red marks they left, smearing grease down his cheek.

“You need to take a break.”

You always spoke to him so softly, he thought. He could curl up in that voice and go to sleep instantly. Warm, sweet—

He shook his head, thoughts of comfort and sleep vanishing. “No, no. I need to finish this. It should’ve been done days ago. I can’t just—”

You reached out and took his fidgety hand. “Listen. It doesn’t need to get done right now.”

He shook his head. “It does. I need to—to…” He searched for the words, but his mind was blank. All he could feel was the ache in his back and your warm hand on his.

“You’re one person. And you’ve been working as hard as you can. Too hard, if you ask me.”

Toad opened his mouth to argue, but you cut him off.

“If Magneto wants it done so damn bad, he can fix it himself.”

“Ha.” Toad’s eyes were unfocused, distant. He swayed slightly where he stood. “He might have an easier time of it than me.”

“Mm-hmm. You can’t figure out how to fix it because you're exhausted.”

He half-shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You're not. When was the last time you ate?”

Toad thought, picking back through his memories for food. He couldn’t find a single bite, not for the last day or two anyway. “I don’t know.”

You nodded. “I had a feeling that might be the case. I ordered takeout. Want some?”

Yes. Yes, desperately. At the mention of food, his stomach reeled, sharp pains running through him, urging him on toward whatever you had for him. But another part of him dragged him back—the work, the machine, the endless problems. He waited, watching the two halves of his mind fight—eat or work, eat or work.

“Yes, please.” He glanced again at the mess of wires and metal behind him. He was sick of looking at it, hated every inch of it. “I’ll have some food.”

You grinned and grabbed his arm. “Thank god. I was bracing for having to carry you out of here kicking and screaming.”

He shook his head. “I can eat in here. Better if I do, you know? So I can get back to it when I'm done.”

You tugged his arm and he took a few stumbling steps with you toward the door. “Absolutely not. You are taking a break. Whether you like it or not.”

There was no fight left in him, outside of a few stray thoughts. Stay, work, this needs to—They didn’t have much sway, not compared to the combined forces of hunger, fatigue, and you. He put what little energy he had left into staying upright as you led him out of the workshop and through the base to your room.

The bag of takeout containers sat on a rickety little table, a mismatched folding chair on either side. As soon as the door opened, he could smell it. His stomach growled. This would be better than any five-star restaurant.

“Make yourself at home.” You smiled and let go of his arm.

He felt himself sway, stumbled the few steps to his chair and sank down. The grease on his clothes felt like it was burning. The dark smudges on his hands stood out, starker and starker the longer he looked at it. All the filth he was covered in—grease, sweat, general dirt—he shouldn’t be here, he should be in the workshop. He should get up and leave before—

You sat one of the boxes in front of him, and again, his stomach rolled.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” You smiled and sat down.

Fuck, was he hungry.

Toad tried to keep from seeming too desperate. He forced himself to open the box slowly, carefully, not like a rabid coyote that wanted to shove its face into whatever you had given it and scarf it all down in three bites maximum.

He grabbed his fork and shoved a bite into his mouth. Perfect. Divine. The best food he had ever eaten. He relaxed, shoulders going slack, sinking back into his chair as he lost himself in his meal.

You watched him, chewing your own food as you did. He was slumped over, staring down at nothing with unfocused, half-shut eyes. When he lifted the fork to his mouth, his hand shook, threatening to dump the bite back into the box. He was grimy, from his hair to his hands to his clothes, all streaked and smudged with black.

There was no way in hell you were letting him go back to that workshop tonight.

When you finished your food, you shut the box, stuffing it and your napkins into the bag. “Feel any better?”

He shoved the last bite into his mouth and nodded, glazed-over eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Good. I worry about you.” You took the empty box and stacked it with yours.

The corner of his mouth raised a tiny bit, an attempt at a smile. “I’m alright.”

You shook your head. “You're not.”

The first thing to go was always taking care of himself. No food, no water, no sleep. It vanished so quick, so easily.

“I know. ‘S just…” He sighed, weary. “This needs to get done. If I don’t, Magneto will…” He couldn’t stand to finish the thought. Magneto had already screamed, thrown things at him, threatened him with being replaced, cast aside, abandoned. He dropped his head.

You crouched in front of him, taking his hands in yours. “Listen. He can scream and shout all he wants. But you deserve a break. And if he has a problem with that, he’s gonna have to go through me. Got it?”

Toad swallowed the lump in his throat. “Got it.”

You squeezed his hand. “Good.” You stood, pulling his hands and gaze up with you. “I bet you’ll feel better after a shower.”

He frowned and slouched back down. “Yeah. S’pose.” He glared at the bathroom door from the corner of his eye.

“Would you like the idea any better if I joined you?”

He perked up, sitting a little straighter. “Might make it tolerable.”

“I thought it might.” You pulled him up from the chair and led him to the bathroom.

You flipped the lights on and shut the door, then turned to rest your hands on Toad’s shoulders, kneading your fingertips into his muscles. He sighed and slouched into the touch, eyes drifting shut. You smiled—it was so nice to see him like this, calm, at ease.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you whispered, hands drifting down to his shirt’s zipper. You tugged it open, then ran your hands back up his chest, pushing the fabric aside.

“Mmm.” Toad reached out and rested his hands on your hips, tugging you in closer. His shirt fell to the floor. His eyes drifted shut as he leaned in, lips connecting with yours, soft and slow, melting into you with each movement.

You tangled your hand in his hair, the other staying put on his chest, tracing up and down, up and down.

Toad’s mind stilled; his body relaxed. You were so warm against him, warm and soft. He wanted to fall asleep then and there, tangled up in you, nothing to do, no deadlines, no problems, just warmth and comfort. No shouting. Nothing thrown at him. No threats.

Nothing but you.

You pulled back, and his shoulders sagged. “Sorry,” you whispered, giving him one last peck on the cheek. “But I promise there’s more where that came from after we get cleaned up.”

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbled, looking down to undo his belt.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” You smiled. “You know I didn’t want to stop, but one of us has to be the responsible one.”

“Responsible one, no fun one.” He made a face, then smiled. ““I think I was about to fall asleep standing up. Ugh.” He shook his head. “I'm just so damn tired.” He put his hands on the counter and hung his head.

You wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed the back of his shoulder. “We’ll make this quick then, alright?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

You let go of him and tugged your own top off, tossing it to the floor. His eyes followed you in the mirror, wandering over you as you undressed, over your neck, your chest, your legs.

You looked at him the same way, eyes tracing over every inch of him you got to see.

He left the rest of his clothes on the ground and followed you into the shower. You turned the water on, a brief burst of cold followed by soothing warmth.

He flinched back from the water, but you held out your hand and coaxed him over. “Come on. It’s warm. And the sooner we get cleaned up, the sooner you can go to sleep.”

He nodded and shuffled forward. “I know.” He sighed. “I just don’t like ‘em.”

“I know.” You squeezed his hand. “We’ll make it quick.”

You held his hands under the water, washed away the grime from each finger, each palm, your hands tracing over his.

I really am gonna fall asleep standing up… Toad scrunched his eyes shut, then forced them open again, forced them to focus on you, your hands, your face, anything. Just stay awake.

A mist of water splashed onto his face, and he grimaced, recoiled from it however warm and necessary it was. He just couldn’t stand showers. Maybe it was how cold the water always was back at the orphanage. Maybe it was how soap had always left his skin itchy, sore, and raw. Maybe it was how vulnerable they left him feeling, naked, alone, unable to see or hear who was sneaking up on him.

He’d rather be anywhere but here.  Even though the water was warm now, he’d found soap that didn’t burn, there were two locked doors between him and anyone who might attack—not to mention someone on his team to help him if they did—he just couldn’t enjoy it. Too much baggage.

But it was better now than it had been before, no question.

“Lean your head back.” You ran your fingers through his hair, the water washing over. Your fingers worked through his hair, suds carrying away the grease and oil, nails scratching at his scalp. He leaned into your hands, eyes closed.

You leaned his head back and rinsed the suds from his hair, then got a small pump of soap to wash his face, gentle hands running along his cheeks and jaw, erasing the smudges. His hand reached out to rest on your hip as you worked, and you couldn’t help but smile.

He let you scrub the grease from him, helped to wash away the streaks of oil and dirt from his arms, his legs, his back. You tried to be quick and thorough and gentle at once.

“All done,” you said once you were satisfied that all the grime was gone. The last of the suds fell to the tile below, and you turned the tap off. “Was it as awful as you expected?” You grinned, reaching out to grab a towel.

“Not as awful as they are when you're not in them, I’ll say that.” He reached around you and grabbed a towel for himself.

You wiped the water from your arms and legs, then wrapped the towel around you, tucking it into place.

You watched Toad for a moment. Slow, lethargic, he wiped his towel up and down over the same small patch of skin. His eyelids lowered, then fluttered open again, and he shook his head. You reached out and took the towel from him. “Here, let me.”

He didn’t respond, but his hands went slack and let you take the towel from him. You rubbed the towel on his hair, leaving it ruffled and wild. You ran it over his shoulders and chest and around his back, then wrapped it around his waist.

“Almost done.” You ran your fingers through his hair, smoothing it down.

He gave one small, curt nod.

You pulled back the curtain and stepped out into your room, looking through the drawers for your pajamas and his. You carried them back to the bathroom and sat the piles on the counter.

You finished drying off, and pulled your pajamas on.

Toad stood by the counter, towel draped around his hips, staring at the clothes you’d gotten him. Slowly, he turned his eyes to the discarded work clothes on the floor.

“I should really go—”

“No.”

He blinked. “What?”

“No. You shouldn’t. Unless the next words out of your mouth were going to be ‘to bed’, you are wrong.” You crossed your arms. “You said it yourself—you are falling asleep standing up.”

“But I'm so damn close.”

“To what? Dying of exhaustion?” You put your hands on his shoulders and looked him in the eye. “No. You need rest. You can barely stand, let alone weld or use power tools.” You sighed. “Look, normally I wouldn’t do this. But I am not going to let you leave this room. It’s not a suggestion. I’m not asking. You are going to sleep.”

The circles under his eyes seemed to darken.

You took his hand and squeezed it. “Morty, listen to me. You need this. You deserve this. Come to bed.”

He stood still a moment more, the wheels in his mind turning like the wheels on that machine refused to. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

You squeezed his hand. “Good boy.”

He pulled his clothes on and let you guide him to the bed. You laid down and watched him crawl in after, finding his usual spot nestled against you, head on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist.

“Just for an hour or two,” he mumbled against you. “I really need to get this finished. I swear, I'm just being dramatic. I’m really not that ti—.” He cut himself off with a yawn.

“Mm-hmm.” You brushed the hair out of his eyes. “I set an alarm for the morning—don’t worry. But I expect you to be here when it goes off. Got it?”

He huffed, burying his face in your neck. “Got it.”

“Good.” You kissed him on the forehead and closed your eyes. “Good night.”

“Night, love.”

#through the sleepless night #my favorite frog #toad x reader #mortimer tonybee x reader

[featherby]

Be My Valentine? (Toad x Reader)

You are a teacher at the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, and Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. While your students are busy preparing for the dance, you have something else on your mind—the flowers left on your desk with no name attached. Will you figure out who left them before Valentine’s Day, or will you be chaperoning alone?

Read on AO3

You walked down the hallway of the mansion to your classroom, dodging the dangling pink and red paper hearts that hung from the ceiling. Valentine’s Day was coming soon, and the students had planned a party. Decorations were plastered on every wall, surrounding bright pink flyers announcing the time and place: 7 PM, the dining hall. For the night, the tables would be shoved to the side and stacked with snacks and drinks, the rest of the room filled with confetti, streamers, and balloons, lights dimmed and music blaring while they celebrated.

You would probably be chaperoning, camped out by the wall, making sure no one spiked the punch.

It would be nice to have someone to spend the day with, you thought. Spending it alone wasn’t anything new, and therefore wasn’t especially painful, but it would be nice. Different. A little less lonely.

It was…fine. You had time, the whole rest of your life, to find a partner. And even if you didn’t, it wasn’t that big a deal. You functioned just fine on your own. But you had to admit it would be nice.

Valentine’s Day was a reminder of that.

You stepped into your classroom and flipped the lights on. A burst of color that wasn’t usually there caught your eye as the room brightened.

There, on the desk, was a bouquet of flowers. Red carnations, purple asters, tiny white flowers sprinkled in between, all arranged in a vase. You stooped to smell them, their sweet perfume making you smile. Beside them, you noticed a blank red envelope. You picked it up and slid the card out—a simple one, a red heart with Be my Valentine? in gold on the front.

Inside, in small, crooked handwriting, it read:

I wasn’t sure if I should do this or not, but I decided I might as well try. I think you're great. You smile at me whenever you pass me in the hall, and it makes my day every time. (You probably smile at everyone, but I still like it.) I hope you have a happy Valentine’s Day.

You smiled as you read it. Such a sweet note.

With no name on it.

You checked over the rest of the card for a signature, the back the front, the envelope, inside and out. You looked the bouquet over for a card tucked between the flowers. Nothing.

You sighed. That was just your luck, wasn’t it?

The door opened, and you looked up. The janitor, Toad, walked in, a stern look on his face that grew sterner when he saw you at the desk.

You smiled. “Morning.”

He nodded, hovering in the doorway a moment, before grabbing the trash can from beside your desk.

You looked at the flowers again while he emptied it, turning the vase, hoping to find something hidden between the petals, if not a name, then a clue of some kind.

Toad replaced the can and made his way back toward the door, head low.

“Wait,” you said, before he could leave.

He turned around, hand on the doorknob. “Hmm?”

“Did you see anyone come in here this morning?” you asked. “Someone left me these flowers, but they didn’t put their name on the card.”

He frowned, a deep crevice forming between his eyebrows. “I didn’t. Too busy running back and forth cleaning up everyone’s messes to see anything,” he grumbled.

Your heart fell. “Oh. Thanks.” You sat, head propped on your hand, gazing at the bouquet as he let himself out.

Toad shut the door with a huff and put a hand to his forehead. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He knew you got to your classroom early, but he though he still had a little time. As soon as he’d left the room that morning, he’d changed his mind about leaving the flowers and the note. It could only go badly. At best, you’d never find out it was from him. At best, you’d be disappointed. At best, you’d be disgusted.

But it was too late to trash the whole idea now.

No one had seen him leave them. No one knew he was planning to. There was a chance you might not figure it out.

He’d just have to hope you stayed in the dark.

Inside, you looked at the flowers and smiled. Things were looking up, at least. You moved them to the corner of your desk by the wall where they wouldn’t be knocked in the floor and turned on your computer. Right now, you had a class to teach.

The mystery could wait for the afternoon.

***

No one had any idea who left you the flowers. No one had seen anyone in the hall that morning. No one had seen anyone coming or going with them through the front door. No one knew anything.

You carried the vase back to your room on campus, placing it on a table near the door. It had been silly to get your hopes up, hadn't it? Anyone could have left them, and the odds of you figuring out who were slim to none.

It didn’t really matter, you supposed. But the upcoming holiday had swayed you. Valentine’s day was made for this, making people want romance any way they could get it. For a minute, you thought you could be one of those people, happily in a relationship on Valentine’s Day, all those hearts and roses and candies feeling like they were made for you. It was embarrassing to admit, even to yourself, that you had been a little more than excited to see those flowers on your desk. Maybe hopeful, maybe something more.

You picked up the card and reread it for the dozenth time. You smile at me whenever you pass me in the hall. They were right—that could be anyone. You passed by just about everyone each day, on the way to your classroom, the cafeteria, the dorms. It makes my day every time.

Well, maybe if you’d signed your note, I could make your day again. You sighed and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. Alright, let’s narrow this down.

It wasn’t handwriting you recognized, so it wasn’t a coworker you were close to. It was probably a man, but you couldn’t be sure about that based on handwriting alone.

Then it hit you: The bulletin board.

You could check there. Of course. Months’ worth of notes were pinned up there from the faculty, sign-up sheets, questions, requests, announcements, most of them written by hand, and most with names attached.

You picked up the card and set off.

Most of the pages on top were about the dance—sign-up sheets for chaperones, shopping lists, another flyer like the ones in the hallway. None of the writing on top matched your card. All too thin, too neat, too curly, too stiff. You lifted the top pages to search underneath, scanning over the tapestry of old notes.

A few letters caught your eye.

The paper had been covered by others; now only the very end peeked out. You tugged it free from the pin holding it in place and slid it out.

I don’t suppose we could just give them water this time instead of punch? Or anything that isn’t sticky? After the last party, it took me three days to get the floor clean.

—Toad

And that was it. Same crooked letters, same wide e’s, same smudged ink.

You’d found your man.

You let the papers fall back into place on the board and tucked the note you’d pulled from the bulletin into the card. As you turned to head back to your room, a half-smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. Toad. You were a little surprised. He didn’t seem to like… well, anyone. He kept to himself, glared at everyone, including you, and acted like everyone around him was nothing but the source of a mess he’d have to clean up later. You did your best to be nice to him, but it never seemed to make a difference.

Until now, of course.

He’d said his piece. Now it was your turn.

You walked back to your room on autopilot, the familiar halls nothing but a blur hidden behind your thoughts. What to do… The Valentine’s dance was the next night—the students and faculty alike would be preoccupied. Not much time to plan anything, but you weren’t about to let that stop you.

As you got ready for bed, a plan took shape in your mind. It might be a happy Valentine’s Day after all.

***

You picked up the bag from the counter and slung it over your shoulder. A glance at the clock told you the dance was set to start in an hour—plenty of time to spare.

You walked down the hall, scanning for Toad’s whereabouts. Students dashed back and forth, showing off their dresses, looking for their friends. You smiled. They deserved a good time. It’s a hard life being different—any joy is worth savoring.

You rounded the corner and spotted Toad’s janitor’s cart parked outside a classroom door, stacked with buckets and bottles.  Inside, he stood near the back of the class between the empty desks, sweeping tiny specks of confetti into a pile.

You knocked on the door. “Are you busy?”

He grumbled something you couldn’t hear, then crouched to hold the dustpan in place while he swept the little paper hearts into it. “I am actually, so whatever’s been spilled or broken, I’ll get to it when I—” He looked back over his shoulder, the sour frown on his face vanishing to surprise when he saw you. “—get to it. Er. Hello.” He stood and shuffled around you to the trash can, dumping the confetti inside. “I didn’t realize it was…” He loaded the broom back onto his cart. He took a moment to think, fiddling with the bottles on the cart, then looked back at you. “What did you need cleaned up?”

You shook your head. “Oh, I didn’t need anything cleaned up. I just wanted to know if you were busy.”

He stared at you, unblinking. “Nothing that can't wait, I suppose. What do you need?” He clutched the edge of the cart in his hands to keep from fidgeting.

“Well, I really liked the flowers you got me,” you said, noting the slight change in his facial expression at the words—his eyes grew wider, his jaw tensed. “And I thought your note was sweet. So I was wondering if you might like to have a picnic with me on the grounds. While everyone is busy won't bother us, you know.”

He blinked, expression measured and unchanging. “How did you figure they were from me?”

“You have distinctive handwriting.” You smiled. “So. Picnic?”

“I, um, I mean, I would—” He swallowed and started again. “I’d love to. Yes.” He grinned. It was the first time you’d seen him smile.

You couldn’t help but smile back. “Great. I’m ready whenever you are, but I figure you need some time to finish up here.”

He glanced down at the cart and his grimy uniform. “Give me just a few minutes. Please. I promise I won't take long, I just—”

“That’s fine. Take your time. I’ll wait for you by the front door.”

He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe. “Right. I’ll meet you there. I won't be long, promise.”

“I wasn’t worried about it.” You laughed and waved as the two of you parted ways. A few steps down the hall, you glanced back over your shoulder to see him jogging along with the cart, keys jingling on his belt. You smiled and headed for the front door.

You hovered there, watching the students congregate, laughing with each other, twirling their skirts, fixing each other’s makeup. They all looked so happy, so excited—and for the first time in a long time, you felt the same.

***

Across the school, Toad panicked.

He scrubbed the grime from his arms and face in the bathroom sink. He ran his fingers through his hair, willing it to look something like presentable. Dis he have any clothes for this? Could he find some on such short notice? Christ, why did I agree to this? He shook his head to dislodge that particular thought. Because I bloody want to do it, that’s why! He turned off the tap and looked at himself in the mirror. This would be fine. it would be great. At the very least, it wouldn’t be awful. Unless you decided that you hated him, but what were the chances of that?

He decided not to answer that particular question.

Forget it. Just get changed and go find her.

***

You glanced at the clock on the far wall. He would be here any minute. Unless he had decided not to come, of course, but you didn’t let yourself dwell on the possibility. The students had disappeared into the dance, the music faintly thrumming through the doors, the pink and red lights reflecting through the windows.

You swayed to the music, eyes glued to the clock, lost in thought. This would be fun, right? A nice change of pace for both of you? You didn’t know Toad very well, but no one here really did. He seemed antisocial, like he’d be happier if everyone at the school disappeared or dropped dead and left him alone. But no one really wanted to be all alone, did they? They just wanted someone who treated them well, the way they wanted to be treated.

You sighed. You needed this date. And maybe Toad did too.

Beside you, someone cleared their throat.

Your eyes broke away from the clock, and you looked over to see Toad standing beside you. He held his hands, clutched together, in front of him, shuffling where he stood. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You smiled and straightened up. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“It’s fine. Sorry I took so long, I just wasn’t…” He didn’t know how to finish. He’d been trying to make himself look presentable, or at least as presentable as he was capable of looking. Someone you wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen with. But, he thought, failing that, this would do. He wore a light blue button-up shirt with a red bowtie and suspenders. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it—they made him stand out too much, more than he already did.

“Don’t worry about it. You look great.”

His heart skipped a beat. “No, you look great,” he blurted. “You always look great.”

You smiled as his cheeks went red. “Thank you. Ready to go?”

He nodded stiffly. “Yes. I’ll follow you.”

You held the door open, and he kicked himself for not opening it for you. The two of you walked in silence across the grounds, a comfortable silence for you, a madly uncomfortable silence for Toad. Should he say something? What? What would you want him to say? He couldn’t decide, so he made up his mind to wait until you said something—no sense in making a nuisance of himself right away.

Across the yard, the star-speckled sky spread out above you, the moon’s glow shining on the path. You stopped at a spot between two trees, their branches reaching out for each other above you.

“Is here okay?” you asked.

“It’s fine with me,” Toad said a little too quickly, cringing at himself.

You sat your bag against one of the trees and unrolled the blanket, spreading it out over the grass. You sat and pulled containers of food, drinks, and utensils out.

Toad stood, staring down at you, shifting back and forth.

You looked up and saw his uneasy squirming. You felt the same, as much as you hated to admit it—a little nervous, a little unsure. It was nice to know you weren’t alone in it.

“Sit,” you said, smiling and patting a spot on the blanket beside you.

Your voice startled him out of his stupor. “Right. Sorry.” He sat, careful to leave a gap between your leg and his.

You finished pulling the boxes out of your bag and sat it aside. “I didn’t make anything very fancy,” you said, popping the lid off a box of small triangle-cut sandwiches. “But I wanted to make it nice, you know?”

He nodded. “I wish I’d known about this sooner. I’d have—” He frowned. “I don’t know what I’d have done, but I would’ve done something.”

You laughed. “You could have known about it earlier, if you’d put your name on your card.” You nudged him, and he flinched away. Not the reaction you wanted. “And you did do something. You got me flowers.”

He tilted his head. “I dunno if that counts quite the same. Flowers versus making a whole meal for two.”

“It’s not a competition, first off. And I happen to love those flowers, and that note, so don’t talk bad about them.” You gave a fake scowl, then laughed. “And if you really need to even the score or whatever, I’m sure you can think of something.”

“Suppose so.” Toad fell quiet and stared down at his lap.

You nudged him again. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He sat up and looked you in the eye, but in a split second, he broke your gaze and looked back down. “I’m just…”

“What?” you said softly.

“I’m sorry it was me and not… somebody better.” He shrank into himself. “You're probably disappointed. I can't blame you if you are.”

You frowned and turned so you were seated facing him. “I am not disappointed. And I'm not sorry it was you. If I had been, I would have just acted like I never figured out who that note was from.” You put your hand on his shoulder. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

He glanced up through the hair hanging in front of his face, wide dark eyes reflecting back the moonlight. “You don’t have to say that, you know. It’s fine.”

You huffed. “I am not just saying it, I mean it. Whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth.” You looked him up and down. “And I don’t care what I have to do to prove it.”

He gave a short laugh, still looking down, not meeting your eye. “You know, I almost believed that. Easier to believe it when it comes from you, I suppose. Probably nicer to me than the rest of this school combined, if I'm honest.”

“That’s their loss.” You shuffled a little closer to him and rested your hand under his chin. He flinched, locking his wide eyes with yours. You smiled. “I didn’t mean for this to make you upset. Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?”

He blushed and sputtered out a few syllables, none of which managed to form words.

You traced your thumb along his jaw. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

The words came fast and clear, and Toad cringed at the desperation in his voice. But before he could apologize or even linger too long on the thought, he found your lips pressed to his, soft and warm and sweet, everything he had hoped for, but a hundred times better. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he felt nothing but you against him.

You pulled back, hand still resting on Toad’s face, to look at him. Relaxed, eyes closed, lips parted, a trace of a smile on them.

His eyes snapped open and his mouth shut. “Um. Was that…? Did you…?” He couldn’t find the words to finish his questions.

“It was, and I did.” You pressed another quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Did you?”

“Yes. Very much.”

You smiled. “Good. Because there’s plenty more where that came from. Hungry?”

You opened the rest of the boxes and the two of you ate, little sandwiches, fruit, crackers and cheese, and chocolate-covered strawberries. You told him about your life, about your hobbies, about the multitude of awful and hilarious things your students had done since you started work at the institute. He told you horror stories from his time as the janitor, things he’d seen in the Brotherhood, his interests and ideas for the future.

Eventually the food ran out and your glasses went empty, but you didn’t feel like leaving just yet. You leaned in beside him and rested your head on his shoulder, fingers intertwined with his. He leaned his head on top of yours and squeezed your hand.

“So, when can we do this again?” you asked, closing your eyes and sighing happily.

“Whenever you want.”

You laughed. “No, not whenever I want. You're busy. And you said you wanted some advance warning next time. So I’m leaving it up to you.”

“You might not want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“If it’s up to me, it’ll be tomorrow.”

You let go of his hand and wrapped your arm around his waist. “Works for me.”

He looked surprised. “Does it?”

“Mm-hmm.” You snuggled into his side. “When and where?”

He paused, hand resting on your back. “…Can I be absolutely absurd here?”

“Of course.”

“What time do you eat breakfast?”

You smiled and laughed. “Around seven.”

“Meet me in the kitchen then. I’ll have something ready.”

“Don’t overextend yourself, okay?” You squeezed him and looked up to meet his eye. “I know tomorrow’s going to be busy for you, cleaning up after the dance and all.”

“Don’t worry, that can wait until after breakfast.”

You frowned and nudged him. “I’m being serious.”

He nodded. “Alright, I won't lose sleep over it or anything. But I am gonna do something.”

“I’ll allow it.” You nestled back into his side and closed your eyes, then felt his arm creep around you, his hand finding a place to rest on your hip.

The chill of the February air crept over you, and you knew you shouldn’t stay out here much longer. But for a few more moments, you could enjoy this.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you whispered, holding Toad a little closer.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

#my favorite frog #Be My Valentine? #toad x reader #mortimer tonybee x reader

[featherby]

Wildest Dreams (Toad x Reader) (NSFW)

The Dreamkeeper runs a legitimate, respectable business, thank you very much. And you just happen to work there. With a variety of mutants on his payroll, he makes the deepest desires of his patrons a reality.

When Toad arrives, looking for an escape from the turmoil of his life, you become the lead actress in his wildest dreams.

Read on AO3

For as mysterious and fantastical as people made it out to be, this part of Elysium was fairly plain—like a normal office building or hotel lobby. Nice, clean, and comfortable enough, but nothing that would spark the imagination or leave people craving their next visit before the first had ended.

But Toad knew better.

He had waited weeks for the date his appointment was booked for, counting down the days until he could sneak away and take a break—forget the real world, forget Magneto, forget the Brotherhood. Even if only for a few hours.

A few glorious hours of whatever he wanted. No, that wasn’t quite true—Elysium gave you whatever you wanted most, whatever dream sat strongest in your mind. It wasn’t always one you were conscious of, or so he had heard. Whatever it was, he wanted it. Bad.

Toad walked in, hood up and head down, hoping the few people mulling around the lobby would leave him be. His was one of the last appointments of the day. The setting sun through the tall windows cast an orange glow over the street outside.

The woman behind the front desk looked up from her computer screen to smile at him. “Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment. Eight-o’-clock.”

She clicked a few times, then looked back up. “What was the name?”

“Uh, Mortimer Tonybee.”

She scrolled through, skimming over notes and files. “Alright, Mr. Tonybee. Everything seems to be in order. Just wait over there for a few minutes, and we’ll call you when they're ready for you upstairs.” She gestured to the assortment of chairs spread throughout the lobby, a handful of other people seated around, waiting for their turns as well.

“Right, thanks.”

He wandered over to a chair as far from the other people in the room as he could find. As he looked up at the clock above the door, he caught one of the other people waiting staring at him. They glanced away once he turned toward them, but not fast enough for him to miss it.

Twenty minutes ‘til. He hoped they passed quickly.

***

Upstairs, you read over the file again, making sure you understood what you needed to do. It was simple enough, but… odd, nonetheless.

Usually in scenes like this, there was some part you were playing—girlfriend, wife, friend, coworker. Not here. You’re just yourself, the Dreamkeeper had written. Genuineness is part of what this one is looking for. Don’t lie if you don’t have to.

The Dreamkeeper painted such pictures in his briefings—beautiful, complex, almost tangible, rising from the paper and becoming reality before your eyes as you read. The rest of it was such, but those lines tripped you up. Everything else? Simple. Straightforward. You could do it in your sleep. But making it feel real while acknowledging it was fake? Not as much.

You were a small, yet invaluable, piece of the Dreamkeeper’s puzzle. You eased physical pain. When you were around, the aches and miseries that came with having a body melted away. There were plenty of people who wanted that. Even if they wanted something else, power or fame or affection or adventure, you were there on the sidelines of their appointment, working your magic. But you were doing this one solo.

Your alarm buzzed—it was time to go. With one final glance at the paper, you sat it aside and walked toward room F4.

***

Toad had been left alone in the room, and he stood wringing his hands, looking around, waiting, waiting, waiting. Why was he so nervous? There was nothing to be nervous about. Right?

The room was smaller than most in Elysium, done up like the inside of a cozy little house. A kitchen with plants growing on the windowsill, a living room with a plush couch and armchair in front of a fireplace, a small bedroom off to the side. If it weren’t for the view from the window, one from the fourth floor of a building overlooking a bustling city, he could almost believe it was a real house somewhere in the suburbs.

He couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was in store for him—he had a rough idea, of course, but this had already veered away from his best guesses. Although, he liked this better than what he had imagined, a room from the Brotherhood’s base, or at best, a hotel room. This felt like…well, like a home.

He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Maybe this was a bad idea—maybe he shouldn’t fool himself, shouldn’t let himself get invested in whatever scene he was about to experience. It was weird, right? Paying people to do this, make whatever stupid fantasies you had real? He should go. Save whoever was coming the time and effort, he wouldn’t even ask for his money back, just—

The door opened and he froze, whatever plan he had of leaving and pretending this had never happened gone in an instant. He stepped away from the door, hands clasped together, nails digging into the backs of his hands.

You stepped inside, peeking around the door to scope out the situation. There he was, standing by the far wall looking terrified in a way you hadn’t expected but also weren’t surprised by.

“Hi,” you said, shutting the door behind you. “It was Mortimer, right?”

He cringed and looked down. “…Yeah, that’s it.”

“You not a fan of the name?”

“Is anyone a fan of the name Mortimer?”

“I can think of worse.” You smiled.

He met your eye, then glanced away just as fast, wringing his hands in front of him.

Where to go from here…

You sized up the situation. Saying he was nervous would be an understatement—he could barely look up from the floor. Normally you’d have something to go on in a situation like this, the ability to fall back onto a role they’d chosen for you, wife, lover, old friend, but here, you had to be exactly what you were—a stranger.

A stranger, it occurred to you, who had been paid to do a set task.

You were overthinking this.

“So, do you want to get started?” you asked with more confidence than you felt.

He nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the floor. “S’pose I do.” He gave a curt laugh. “Is it strange to say I don’t know exactly what I’m in for?”

You laughed and shook your head. “No, not at all. A lot of people don’t, actually. They might have a rough idea, but it can be hard to pin down.”

“Well, at least I'm not the only one.” He took a deep breath and looked up at you, eyes meeting yours. His were wide and shiny, a warm brown. “Do you wanna tell me what we’re doing, or just… get to it?”

“Which would you prefer?”

He rubbed his palms together, face scrunched up in thought. “I think I’d rather just get to it. Might talk myself out of this if we don’t. Heh.” He swallowed hard and set to fidgeting his hands again.

“It’s okay to be nervous, you know,” you said. “I won't do anything you don’t want to do. And not in a ‘We know what you want better than you do’ kind of way either.” You put on a fake sinister voice for that bit, hoping to break the tension. His shoulders relaxed some, and he smiled. You nudged him in the side. “You’ll be alright. Come on.”

You gestured for him to follow you, then sat on the edge of the bed and kicked your shoes off. He hesitated a few feet back, eyeing you and shifting his weight back and forth. You smiled and patted the spot beside you.

Toad walked to the bed, each step measured and deliberate. He paused to kick his own shoes off, then sat beside you, a careful gap left between his hip and yours.

People’s pain was apparent to you from the moment you saw them—it wasn’t tangible exactly, just a haze, a sort of warping, around the parts of them in pain, like the ripples in the air on a hot day. His legs and back were rife with them. Years of poorly-healed injuries had added up, and all the bending and crouching and jumping he had done had caught up with him. Everything ached. You reached out and laid a hand on his knee, gently kneading your fingers into the soft flesh around it. His leg twitched under your hand, and you stilled for a moment, looking up for any sign in his face of whether to stop or continue. His eyes were trained on your hand, wide with an expression you couldn’t quite read. You decided to continue.

The little ripples of pain dissipated, first around the knee your hand rested on, then along his legs, and finally from his back. As they vanished, he relaxed, falling slack into the pillows.

“Feel better?” you asked.

“Yeah. You doing that, or…?”

You laughed. “I am. That’s my mutation.”

“That’s a good one. Better than whatever the hell I’ve got.”

“It has its perks.” You ran your hand back and forth along his leg while he rested there, watching. “What do you know about how this place works?”

“Not a whole damn lot, if I’m being honest.”

“Well, the Dreamkeeper’s thing—um, you met him when you made your appointment.”

Mortimer nodded. “I remember.”

“Right. His mutation is to see people’s deepest desire, whatever it is they want most. Then he makes it real for them, for a while anyway. He has other mutants working here who help him with that, who can do the things he can't.”

He nodded. “Makes enough sense.” He frowned. “And, er, this was mine? Pretty girl touching me? That feels more pathetic that I’d like it to.”

You scoffed. “First of all, it’s not pathetic. Second, that’s not exactly how I’d describe it.”

“How would you describe it?”

You searched for the words. “…Companionship. Affection. Comfort.” You shrugged. “Take your pick.”

He frowned. “Seems like that amounts to the same.”

“It’s different enough.”

Is it, though? It felt the same. Call it what you want—a pretty girl touching him, companionship, someone being goddamn nice to him for once—it was all the same thing, just different words.

All of them pathetic.

Of all the places to go, things to do, accomplishments to achieve, this was his deepest desire. It made sense, as much as he hated to admit it. We want what we don’t have. Still, he hated that this was it. Not money, not power, not fame.

Just a pretty girl in a nice house, smiling down at him like he wasn’t—well. A toad.

“So what would you like to do?” you asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“I, um…” He tried to think, but his mind was a jumbled mess, happiness and anger and exhaustion and bliss all muddled together. He couldn’t pick one coherent idea out of the mess. “I don’t know. Aren't you supposed to know? Isn't that the point, that guy can see what people want? Does he pass that on to you, or are you just supposed to figure it out for yourself?” His voice was sharper that he would have liked—he winced at himself.

“I do know, but I thought it would be better to ask. You don’t exactly seem comfortable with all this.”

He slumped a bit, feeling even worse. “Oh.” He nodded, picking at a loose thread on the sheets. “You’re not wrong.”

You looked him over, considering what to do. He wasn’t going to ask for anything himself, was he? If that was the case, you’d be better off offering something, anything. Just to keep this moving in the right direction.

“Do you want me to rub your back?”

Toad froze dead, keeping his head down so you couldn’t see his face. He nodded, the slightest movement, and said, “Yes,” nearly too quiet to hear.

You smiled. “Okay. Lay down.”

As he turned to lay on his stomach, Toad couldn’t help but glance back over his shoulder at you, waiting for a blow, a stab, a shove, anything. His mind screamed at him, it’s fake. Staged. But that was how he knew you wouldn’t hurt him, wasn’t it? It was designed to be what he wanted. She won't hit you. That’d kill the illusion.

What illusion? You hadn't avoided the fact this was staged. But then again—

Fuck it.

He took a deep breath and laid down, crossing his arms under his head. He shuffled around some, trying to get comfortable, until he realized his discomfort wasn’t physical—and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. “Alright. I’m, um—go ahead.”

You scooted closer to him and rested your hands on his shoulders. Your thumbs pressed into the flesh of his back, and he flinched. Your hands slid down, the heels of your palms rubbing and kneading his back. Within moments, the pain melted away. He softened a bit, relaxing, and sighed.

You smiled. He wasn’t so bad. A bit of a grouch, but you figured there was good reason for that. You moved back up to his shoulders, and he tensed again. You pretended not to notice, letting your hands work their way over him, careful to avoid snagging any of the bumps his skin was covered in, even through his shirt.

“Does that feel alright?” you asked.

“Mm-hmm.”

You leaned to see his face, but he turned before you could.

Toad’s eyes were pinned open, staring dead ahead. He wanted to close them, to relax, to just enjoy how your hands felt on him, so soft and strong and gentle. But some other part of him screamed, “Don’t! Run! Get out of here while you still can!” But…he really didn’t want to. This bed was so soft, and your hands felt so nice, and he was so comfortable for the first time since…since… Well, he wasn’t sure when, but it must have been a damn long time. If ever. Besides, if you were going to do something to him, you would have done it by now, right?

Right?

God, he just wanted to enjoy this. Why couldn’t his brain just shut up?

You had finished massaging the worst of the tension from Morty’s back and had taken to simply rubbing it, the flat of your hand moving back and forth along it in slow, steady strokes. He twitched under your hands, squirmed a little when they strayed a bit further up or down than they had been, flinched when you paused to adjust your position.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said softly. “You're okay. I promise.”

He twisted to glower over his shoulder at you. “I know. You don’t have to”—his voice faltered— “do whatever you're trying to do. You don’t bloody scare me.”

“I didn’t say I did. That’s fine.” You thought for a moment, then took your hands off his back and moved aside.

The glare fell from his face, replaced with wide eyes and a slack jaw. “Wait, I didn’t—”

You sat beside him with your back to the headboard, propped against the pillows. “Come here.” You patted your thigh.

He pushed himself upright, staring at you. “What?”

You patted your thigh again. “Come here. Put your head in my lap.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

You smiled. Why not take a chance here? “Because you want to.”

He slouched back, dropping his head. “Oh.” He swallowed hard, eyes darting around, to the door, the windows, anywhere but at you. “Yeah. Alright then.”

You stretched out your legs, and he crawled over to settle himself, head resting on your thigh. His hands fidgeted over his stomach, wringing them, clutching them together then letting go just as fast. You sat back, gazing down at him. He still wouldn’t look at you. His eyes pointed to the side, to the empty part of the room, carefully held open and away.

You placed one hand on your thigh beside his head and sent the other combing its fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face and to the side. He flinched away each time your hand neared his face, but the more you repeated the slow sweep, the smaller it was. As you watched him, his eyes began to close, but before they could, they snapped open again, their focus again pinned to the empty room. You combed your fingers through his hair once more, this time stopping to scratch at his scalp. He swallowed hard and wriggled, clenching his hands to the hem of his shirt.

“Do you want me to stop?”

For the first time since you’d started, Morty’s eyes met yours—wide and frantic. “No, no.” His voice quivered.

“Okay,” you said scratching again. “You just don’t seem like you're enjoying yourself very much.”

“I am.” You have no idea…

“Hmm. If you say so.”

“I do say so.” His eyes shot back to that same spot in the distance. You untangled your hand from his hair and ran your fingertips down his cheek. You trailed them across his jaw, his chin, his lips, movements soft and gentle as you could make them. Around his eyes, down the slope of his nose.

In spite of himself, Morty’s eyes fluttered shut. His heart raced. Your fingers left a tingling sensation wherever they wandered. It felt so… nice. Hands that wanted him to feel good, that wanted him happy, relaxed. No comments about how disgusting he was. No complaints about having to touch him. You hadn't even hesitated. A dopey smile spread across his face. He couldn’t even bring himself to care that you might see.  

And you did see. It was hard to miss, of course, with all your attention focused on his face. You felt yourself smiling, too. He was just so damn cute. That big smile, his hair all mussed up from you playing with it, the way he nestled into your lap, so content.

If someone’s dream included sex, the Dreamkeeper would tell you outright. He had to be sure you knew what you were getting into, after all. And Morty’s… hadn't. You were a little disappointed by that, if you were being honest with yourself. There was something fun about this one: no pretenses, no complications. Chipping away at the armor, watching cracks form, seeing him go from standing tense across the room from you to laying snuggled up in your lap.

Or maybe you just liked this guy.

Regardless of the reason, you wouldn’t push. This was meant to be what he wanted most, not you. But if it happened to come up…

Well. You weren’t going to say no, either.

You brushed a few strands of hair back from his face and laughed to yourself. “See, now you look like you're enjoying yourself.”

“Heh. I am.” Morty’s eyes opened a crack, looking at you to see if that was wrong, if you were upset with him. But you were smiling, the pad of your thumb rubbing gentle circles into his forehead. He felt a pang of… something in his stomach. He couldn’t quite place it. Anxiety, fear, happiness, all blended together in a way he hadn't known before.

“I’m glad.” You scratched the top of his head again and settled your hand in his hair. “Seems like you needed it.”

Morty’s eyes drifted down, lost in thought. “I suppose I did, yeah.” He readjusted himself in your lap. “Don’t get a lot affection in the Brotherhood. Magneto isn’t much of a hugger.”

“I’m sorry.” You sighed. “You could always find other people, though. Outside the Brotherhood.”

He gave a curt laugh. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

His eyes met yours. “Look at me. The Brotherhood only barely tolerates me. Anywhere else, they'd break out the pitchforks and torches.”

“That can't be true. Not everyone, anyway.”

“Most. Enough to make me stay put.”

“You could always try working here,” you said. “I promise they'd treat you better than that.”

“No, they wouldn’t want me here either. Not unless a few things changed pretty drastically.”

“Everyone has things they want to change about themselves. That doesn’t mean they deserve to be miserable.”

“Maybe not.” He frowned. “Not sure I agree with that first bit though.”

“What? That everyone has something they'd change about themselves?”

“Yeah. What the hell do most people have that they'd change?”

You laughed. “I mean, I’m sure a lot of it is superficial or silly, but they still have it.”

“Hmm.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Yeah, alright, I’ll give you that. I feel like it’s obvious what I’d change. What about you?”

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. What would you change?” He paused. “Bonus points if it’s superficial and silly.”

You thought about it a moment, then chuckled. “Oh, it’s superficial and silly alright. I absolutely hate my boobs.”

He couldn’t stop himself—he giggled, raising a hand to cover his mouth. “What?”

“I do. I’m dead serious—I hate them. They're just weird. They're completely different sizes. They're always in the way. I just hate them.”

“Well, from down here, they look great,” he said, laughing. “But that’s coming from someone who’s only ever seen tits on accident, so I suppose that doesn’t mean much.”

You laughed, head back, cackling.

Morty stopped laughing, staring up from your lap as you giggled, as it dawned on him what he had said. I shouldn’t have said that. He’d gotten too comfortable, too relaxed, and told on himself twice because of it—both that he’d been looking at your chest less-than-respectfully, and that he was…inexperienced was the nicest way to say it.

No wonder you were laughing.

He receded back into himself, eyes trying to find anything else in the room to settle on. They found none. He sat up, sliding away from his warm spot in your lap.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“You don’t have to laugh like that. Bit rude.” He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt. “Sorry I said what I said, but…”

You pieced together what he meant and shook your head. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. I wasn’t laughing at you. The way you said it was funny, not what you said.”

He didn’t move, just stared a hole in the sheets. Do I believe that? “…Alright.”

“And,” you said, considering your words before you spoke, “for the record, I’d show you mine on purpose.”

He glanced up, a clear question written across his face.

“And if you said please, I’d even let you touch them.”

He stayed silent, but even through the green, you could tell he was blushing. You smiled.

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. After another long moment of thinking and staring, he spoke. “Please.”

“Alright then.” You pulled your shirt up over your head and tossed it aside. Morty’s eyes were pinned to your chest, his blush darkening, and you hadn't even taken your bra off yet.

He stared with wide, dark eyes, his mouth slightly agape. “Like I said, they look great from where I’m sitting.” He forced himself to look away before you got annoyed, left, called him a pervert.

“You're allowed to look,” you said, edging closer to him. “Allowed to touch, too. You did say please after all.” You smiled.

Morty looked at you again, first at your face, then down at your chest, the thin straps over your shoulders, the lacy fabric that covered you. He lifted his hand, then hesitated, drawing back. “What, um, what do I—What do you want me to…?”

You reached out and took his hand, guiding it to your chest. “Whatever you want to do.”

He swallowed. “Right.”

You let go of his wrist, and his hand stayed pressed against your chest. He moved his hand slowly, painfully conscious of what he was doing and how little separated your skin from his. His thumb traced along the top of your bra, the line that separated skin from cloth.

“You can take it off if you want to,” you said, noting his wide-eyed gaze on you.

“Sorry, I just—”

“It’s okay. Here.” You reached behind yourself and undid the clasp.

He blushed. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

He slid his hand up, the fabric now loose beneath it, to your shoulder and slipped the strap down. You shrugged it off and cast it aside with your shirt.

Morty’s hands were cool, not cold, against your skin. He grabbed your breast and squeezed gently, the rough surface of his palm rubbing against your nipple. He brought his other hand up and did the same to your other breast. You leaned back and settled in.

“Is this okay?”

“It is. Better than okay, actually.” You smiled and shut your eyes.

That did it. He relaxed again, returning his focus to your chest. He squeezed again, letting the feeling of your soft flesh in his hands ingrain itself in his memory. He dragged his fingertips over you, your nipples hardening under them, sending electric tingles down your spine.

“Mmm.”

Morty glanced up at your face at the sound—still smiling and relaxed. He repositioned his hands and took your nipples between his fingers, rolling them back and forth.

You groaned again and opened your eyes. His face was full of longing, eyes wide, lip bitten. You loved that look.

Morty’s lips parted slightly, the tip of his tongue creeping out. When he felt himself do it, he slammed his mouth shut, clenching his jaw and biting the inside of his cheek. No. She said “touch,” not “get your disgusting tongue all over.” Keep your filth to yourself.

He carried on with his hands, trying to force the thought of getting his mouth on you aside.

You noticed, noticed how he bit his lip, how his tongue had reached out, how he was biting the inside of his cheek.

You reached out and touched his face, running your thumb along his bottom lip. His eyes darted up to meet yours.

You dragged your thumb down, parting his lips slightly. “You're allowed.”

He blushed and looked down at his lap. “Sorry, sorry. I just wasn’t sure if…” He trailed off.

“Well, you can. For sure.”

You tangled your hand in his hair and guided his head down until his parted lips met your breast. He didn’t move for a moment, until you scratched his head and felt him relax.

He gave a tentative movement, almost a kiss, where you had let his mouth rest. He did it again, surer of himself this time. He kissed along the curve of your breast, lingering when his mouth landed on your nipple. You used your grip on his hair to drag him closer. His lips moved back and forth over the spot, parting slightly to let the tip of his tongue flick across it.

“Mm. I like how that feels.”

He pulled his head away. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“…Even the tongue?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugged half-heartedly. “I dunno. Most people think my tongue is a bit gross.” Then it dawned on him. “You… You haven’t seen the whole thing.”

You blinked. “No, I guess I haven’t. But now I’m intrigued.”

“Er… Well…” He looked around the room and spotted a pen on top of a table by the door. He shot his tongue out and grabbed it, then held it out for you to take.

You plucked it from his grasp, eyes wide, and he reeled in the rest of his tongue. He waited for the repulsion, the horror, the “that’s disgusting,” the “get away from me.”

“You have that,” you said flatly, “and you haven’t been using it.”

“No.” He hunched down. “It’s disgusting, I know. I’m—”

“Use it.”

“What?”

“Please.”

He stared at you a moment, waiting for the catch. “You're serious?”

“Yes. Very serious.” You sighed. “I mean, I know this is supposed to be about you and what you want, but if you have any inclination at all to use that, please, please do.”

“Huh.” He nodded slowly. “So this is heaven.”

He went back down, lips pressed to one nipple, working it back and forth between them, with his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth, licking and prodding the other. Your head leaned back, eyes shut, as he worked. You rubbed your thighs together, hoping, praying he’d be willing to go further. You could feel the slick between your legs growing as he went.

He moved to the side for a better angle, and you felt something brush against your leg that told you he would probably be willing to go further.

“So when do I get a turn?” you asked, hand clutched to his shoulder.

He stopped and looked up, hesitant. “A… turn?”

“Yeah. Like with you on your back and your shirt off.” You brushed the hair back from his eyes.

He sat back, eyes down, hand raised to scratch at the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I mean, why would you wanna do that? More fun this way around, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I think it could be fun.” You tugged at the hem of his shirt. “If you wanted to.”

“…I want to.”

You grinned, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He slid off of you and let you up, sitting back on his knees. “So. Um.” He looked down at himself, then up at you, a nervous tic of fidgeting his hands. “What do you want me to do?”

“Sit here.” You patted a spot on the bed.

He crawled over and sat, knees bent up like he was ready to get up and run if he needed to. He tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Er, do you want me to…?”

“We’ll get there.” You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then the jaw, then down his neck. A trail of kisses that left Morty squirming, hands gripping the sheets as tight as he could. Your hands slipped under his shirt and along his sides, still pressing kisses to his neck. His skin felt cool and soft under your fingers, scattered with bumps you were careful not to snag. The fabric rode up as you ran your hands up his stomach and chest.

He shuddered, and you lifted your head.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Keep going please.” His voice cracked, and he kept his eyes shut.

You hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you—”

“I’m sure.” He spoke quickly, his words blurring together. “I know I’m being weird. There’s not a version of what's happening right now where I'm not being weird. That’s just how it’s got to be. Just… Please.”

“Okay.” You pressed another kiss to his jaw. “Just checking.”

You pulled his shirt up, and he raised his arms to help you get it off. You tossed it to the floor with your own clothes and turned back to him. He sat with his arms crossed in front of him, head down, like if he scrunched himself down small enough, you wouldn’t see everything he hated about himself.

You ran your thumb along his jaw, and he glanced up at you. His heart fluttered when he saw you, smiling down at him, hands tracing over him like he deserved it. You pushed him back into the pillows, and he let his weight rest on them, soft against his bare back.

You straddled his lap, his thick thighs beneath you, and looked him over. Nervous, for sure—his eyes were trained on you, barely blinking, never moving. But also excited. A slight smile, the way his hands hovered by your hips, not touching, but ready to.

You dipped your head down and picked up where you left off—trailing kisses down his neck to his chest and stomach, then back up the other side to his neck. You ran your hands down his chest, stopping to play with his nipples, rolling them between your fingertips. His hands gripped your waist, ending their nervous hovering. You pressed your mouth to one and gave a small lick, then moved to the other, repeating, back and forth, as he gripped your hips like his life depended on it.

Because of where you were sitting, straddled over Morty’s thighs, you felt his erection pressing into your stomach as you leaned over him. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants over his hips. “Want to lose these too?”

He swallowed hard, half-lidded eyes meeting yours. “If you want to.”

“Not what I asked.”

“…Yes.”

You gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Good boy.”

You slid back off his lap, and he pushed himself up to help you get them off. You slid them down, with his boxers, over his hips and down his legs. His cock sprang free, not very long, but thick, the kind that would fill you up, rub against your clit so deliciously. You tossed his pants to the floor with his shirt, then set to unbuttoning and discarding your own.

Morty watched you, eyes scanning over each new inch of skin he saw, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch, to run his hands, his lips, his tongue over every inch of you. But he only watched, watched as your hands pulled the fabric from your legs, soft and pretty and perfect.

So incredibly unlike himself.

He kept his eyes trained on you because he loved what he saw, of course he did, but also so he could ignore himself. All warts and lumps, a hunched back and stubby limbs. How you had kept a straight face while looking at him, while holding him, while kissing him, he couldn’t imagine. He’d been told enough times what he looked like to know that looking at him was a hard thing to do.

You resettled yourself on his thighs, hands on his hips. “Are you okay? You look sad.”

He blinked, coming back to the present. “Fine, yeah, I’m fine. Just got lost in my head there for a second.” He laughed nervously, silently begging for you not to press further.

“Do you still want to do this?”

Your voice wasn’t harsh or accusatory. It didn’t make him feel like he was wasting your time by hesitating. It just sounded… concerned. Like you wanted to make sure he was alright.

Like you cared.

He swallowed the lump of nerves that had formed in his throat. “Yes. I do.”

You smiled down at him, running your hands up and down his sides. “Alright then.”

“I haven’t done this before.” The words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“No?”

“No.” He frowned. “So, um, I’m sorry, I guess, if I'm no good at it. I probably won't be. I don’t…” He trailed off, no idea what to say to end that thought. You're going to have a terrible time. Sorry about that. Stupid, he scolded himself.

“That’s okay.” You reached out and touched his cheek, drawing his attention back from wherever it had drifted to. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird the first time two people make love, no matter how experienced they are. Or aren’t. You’ll do fine.” You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and soft. “Besides, I’m on top. All you have to do is lay there and look pretty. No trouble there.”

Toad felt a pang in his chest and frowned. “There’s no need to make fun. I get more than enough of that elsewhere.”

“What?”

He scowled. “You know what I mean. Laying here looking… I could do without the insult is all.”

You frowned. “It wasn’t an insult.”

“It sure felt like one.”

“Well, it wasn’t meant as one. And for the record,” you said, leaning forward to meet his eye, “what you think of yourself is not the same as what I think of you. So whatever your opinion on the subject is, when I say you're pretty, I mean it.”

Morty tried to keep the scowl etched into his face, but he couldn’t. It melted away and he relaxed. “I’ll drop it. I just…”

You brushed the hair back out of his face. “I know. Do you still want to do this?”

“Still yes.”

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, hand tangled in his hair. “Good.”

You slipped your hand between your legs, fingers probing up and into yourself, stretching and slicking to make way for him. Your other hand wrapped around his cock, thumb running over the tip, back and forth. You steadied yourself over him, holding him steady between your legs, and sank down, feeling him fill you up.

He groaned and sank down into the pillows, eyes closing. You smiled, running your hand down his chest. His hands were balled into fists, gripping the sheets beneath them for dear life. 

“Ready?”

Morty nodded, his eyes focused on yours. He unclenched his hands from the sheets and rested them on your hips. You raised up slowly, then sank down again, the sweet, electric feeling rushing through you. Morty’s hands tightened on your waist.

Again and again, you rose and sank down on him, a steady rock, one hand tangled in his hair, the other steadying you as you bounced.

Beneath you, Morty writhed. “Mmm… Mmmm…” He clenched his jaw, cutting off the sound. His eyes left yours.

“It’s okay,” you said, cradling his face in your palm. “Make all the noise you want to. You make such pretty sounds.”

He blushed, still unable to meet your eye, but he didn’t try to stifle the noise either. As you moved, he groaned, whimpered, hummed, hands clutched to you.

Morty’s eyes opened a little wider, and his hands clenched tighter on your hips. “I’m—I’m—” Before he could articulate any further, his hips bucked into you, and his hands pulled you down against it. He twitched, tensing under you, and gasped. You caught your breath as he finished, big dark eyes fluttering shut.

You sat in silence, watching him soak up the feeling, his hand drifting up and down over your leg.

He opened his eyes and looked up at you, smiling. “That was fantastic. Thank you so much. “I’m, well… I’m sorry I, er, it didn’t last long.” He frowned, looking away.

You felt his attention leaving, wandering away, away from whatever good he’d felt before to something worse—shame, embarrassment. You hated that, that he couldn’t just enjoy a good moment, a good feeling, that he had to find a flaw in it, something he did wrong, something wrong with him.

You ran your fingers through his hair, combing it back from his face and forcing his attention back to the present, back to you, back to the feeling. “I’m honestly impressed you lasted as long as you did. Since it’s your first time and all. You did great.”

He scoffed, head falling back into the pillow. “Thanks, but—”

“Nope. No buts. You were amazing.” You intwined your hand with his and pressed your lips to the back. “Absolutely perfect.”

“…But you didn’t finish.” He whispered the words quickly. If they were too loud, too present, he couldn’t escape them.

You thought for a moment. “Well, no, but—”

“Wait.” He furrowed his brow, the gears of his mind turning, then spoke again. “Let me eat you out.” Again spoken quickly, before he could convince himself to leave well enough alone, to not say them at all. “If you want, I mean.”

“This is supposed to be what you want, remember?”

“And what if what I want is to eat you out? I’m not gonna leave here feeling good about myself if I don’t at least even the score.”

You smiled, then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. “If you insist.”

“Oh, I insist.”

You slid off him, and he sat up, stretching.

You couldn’t help yourself—you grabbed him and kissed him again. He grunted at the sudden contact, then relaxed, melted into it, hands finding their way to you. He lifted you into his lap, and, lips still pressed to yours, shuffled the two of you around so you’d swapped spots on the bed. You felt yourself lean back until your head found a pillow beneath it. Morty pulled back, away from your mouth, and left a trail of kisses across your jaw, your throat, your chest, down your stomach to your thighs.

You spread your legs as Morty kissed them, his hands pulling them apart, groping at the soft flesh there. He glanced up at your face, his eyes meeting yours, and you hoped that whatever confidence he had gained wouldn’t vanish upon making eye contact. He gave a small smile and went back to kissing the inside of your thighs, inching closer to the slit between them.

You leaned back, eyes closed, and left him to it. The tantalizing feeling of his lips against you, tongue flicking out against the sensitive skin, made you groan. You reached out and felt for his head, grabbing him by the hair when you found it.

His tongue slithered out, wrapping around your thigh before the tip of it found its way to your pussy, slipping inside.

“Mmm.” Your grip on his hair tightened, dragging him closer. His tongue writhed inside you, rubbing against your clit, sliding along your thigh as he ate. He was buried between your legs, a man starved. The coil in your stomach tightened as he worked, pressure building, each touch feeling more pronounced than the last.

Your thighs clenched around his head, holding him in place. His hands grabbed ahold of them, fingertips digging in.

With a gasp and moan, the coil snapped. Your hips bucked up, your hand gripped even tighter in his hair, and you shook, waves of pleasure running through you. When you couldn’t take any more, you dragged his head up and away from its spot between your legs. It took his tongue a moment to follow suit, dragging itself out and back into his mouth, making you shudder once more.

He stayed there, face resting against your thigh, while you caught your breath. When you had, you looked down at him where he watched you, waiting.

“My god, you're good at that.” You sat up and wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him just a bit. You felt him smile against your neck.

You laid back down, and he settled in next to you.

“That was fun.” You looked over at him. “We should do this again sometime.”

He swallowed. “Heh, sure thing.” He tried to hide how nervous he was as he spoke. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” You rolled over on your side to face him, head propped up on your hand.

“Was that—Did I—” He paused, choosing his words. “Did I actually do a good job? Not in a wish-fulfilment, you’ll say whatever it takes to make me happy way. Actually. Did I do okay?”

“You did.”

“Okay, but—”

“Morty. You did amazing.” You leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “For real. I promise.”

He blushed and settled back into the pillows, eyes closing.

You glanced at the clock to see the time—or rather how much time was left. It wasn’t up yet, barely half in fact. You weren’t keen on ending this particular session.

“Hey, tell me what you think of this,” you said, rolling back over to face Morty. “You’re my last session of the day. I don’t have anywhere to be. How would you feel about us just spending the night here? Together?”

“…You can do that?”

“I can. If you want.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Yes. I’d love to.”

You grinned. “Perfect.” You grabbed your phone from the nightstand and shot a text to the Dreamkeeper—you were spending the night in room F4, tell the cleaning crew to hold off until morning. Then you put it back on the nightstand, not bothering to wait for a reply.

You nestled in next to him, head on his shoulder and arm stretched over his stomach, Morty sighed and rested his cheek against your head.

“Get some rest,” you said softly, giving him another gentle squeeze.

“No trouble there.”

You laid in the darkness of the room, the dim light of a false moon outside the window, and fell asleep. The morning would come far too soon, but for now, you could rest.

***

The alarm on your phone rang, and you wriggled your arm free of Morty’s grasp to turn it off. You’d swapped places during the night, you now on your back and Morty wrapped around you. It wasn’t time for your work day yet, but you would need some time to get cleaned up, maybe run home and change clothes. But the bed was warm, and Morty’s skin was cool against yours. He had a comforting weight to him, and a steady rhythm to his breathing. It would be so easy to fall asleep again, wrapped up in his arms.

With a sigh, you nudged Morty, jostling him a bit. “Hey.”

He stirred, his eyes cracking open. He tensed for a moment, a confused frown on his face, then relaxed as memories of the night before came back to him. “Hey,” he purred into your shoulder, smiling.

You brushed the hair back from his face with your free hand. “I have to get ready for work.”

The words cracked the pleasant quiet between the two of you like glass against pavement.

“Oh. Right.” He shuffled off of you, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You nudged him in the back, but he didn’t look at you, just picked up his clothes from the floor and pulled them on.

You did the same. Morty hovered by the door, fidgeting and glancing back and forth between the ground and you.

You hated to say goodbye.

You saw the pen from the night before sitting on the nightstand and opened the drawer, hoping to find some paper. There was a small notepad in the drawer, and you tore a sheet from it.

“Do you have a phone?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

You scribbled something down on the paper and held it out to him. “This is my number. Use it.”

He reached out to take it, but pulled back. “I don’t have much money.”

“I’m not asking for any.” You nudged the paper toward him. “Take it.”

He took it with the very tips of his fingers, like it might burn him if he wasn’t careful. “You're serious?” He squinted. “Look, I know this isn’t real, it’s a setup or whatever you call it. Don’t… Just don’t.”

“For business, we keep appointments to about three hours. Yours ran out—” another glance at the clock “—about six hours ago.” You nodded to the paper. “That’s as real as it gets. Call me.”

“…Why?”

You scoffed. “Because I have very good taste in people. Call me.”

He nodded, slow at first, then fast, frantic. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. Of course.”

Morty tucked the paper into his pocket. You walked him downstairs and to the front door. He glanced back to wave goodbye, then set off down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Before you left, you swung by the office for a minute to put the assignment’s papers away.

“So, how did it go?” You turned to see the Dreamkeeper standing by the office door.

“It went really well. I think he enjoyed himself.”

“Good. And did you enjoy yourself?”

“I did.”

He smiled. “I had a feeling you might.”

You laughed. “What do you mean?”

“His dream was for genuine connection. That takes two.”

You realized what he meant—it hadn't been random that you and Morty had gotten along so well. The Dreamkeeper had planned it.

“I should’ve known, shouldn’t I?”

He shrugged. “Would that have changed anything?”

“No. I guess not.” You finished filing the papers away. “Thank you.”

You left, the sun on your face feeling all the warmer today. In your pocket, your phone buzzed.

Hi. It’s Mortimer. Here’s hoping this number isn’t fake.

You smiled, fingers hovering over the keys.

Your hope has paid off. Want to meet somewhere for dinner tonight?

Where and when? I’ll be there.

#Wildest Dreams #my favorite frog #Toad x reader #mortimer tonybee x reader