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em1i2a3 · 2 months ago

Text

Test Drive

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a late night encounter with The Void

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this and there is The Void in this as well. This fic is kinda dark, this is The Void we are dealing with here, there are dark themes/elements explored in this story (but I will emphasize that everything is consensual in this), The Void talks kinda badly about Bob, Bob and Reader have an established friendship and both of them have feelings for one another that have been left unspoken, there is smut and angst in this as well, and a lot of Emotional Tension, The Void is kind of Obsessed with you too…

Smut Warnings: To be a bit on the safe side I would say this is Dub Con (it could kind of be looked at like that, I didn’t write it with those intentions but just in case I wanted to put it there), Unprotected P in V Sex (please…If you’re going to have sex with entities like this wrap it up lol), The Void is Dominant as shit in this, There is Biting, Scratching, Markings left on the Reader, Dacryphilia (The Void likes tears…), Hair Pulling, Fingering, A little bit of humiliation? A bit of fem! Oral sex too.

Author’s Note: Howdy y’all…Well…This is my first Void Smut lol and jeez lord I really had to sink into it a bit and dig. This is my interpretation of how The Void would do or handle things, I didn’t want to go too extreme, but I liked the request (made by @miss-whiddlesmort ) and hope that it meets expectations! Enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,759

The night you met The Void officially, you thought you were hallucinating or living out a real-life nightmare.

You had woken in your bed at the compound, drenched in sweat and tangled in your dampened sheets. The clock on the wall blinked 3:17 a.m. in red, hazy numbers.

That alone wasn’t new.

You’d had nights like this before–restless, disturbed, aching for something unnamed but constant. But this night was different.

There was a pressure in the room. A wrongness that seeped in through your pores and clamped around your lungs.

The air was too still, too silent. And the temperature–God, the cold–it wasn’t natural. It sank into your bones like frostbite, numbing your limbs before you’d even sat up. You clutched your chest with a trembling hand, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a bird trapped in glass.

Your nightshirt clung to your damp skin, and as you wiped the sweat from your brow, you realized it wasn’t just perspiration. It was fear. Primal. Instinctive. As if your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

The shadows in your room were darker than usual. Not thicker. Not blacker. Just…Deeper. Like they had weight. Like they were watching.

You blinked, trying to let your eyes adjust to the darkness.

And then the corner moved.

Not a trick of light. Not sleep haze. The shadows moved–separating from the darkness like smoke drawn backward through a vent. Tall. Silent. Fluid.

Something seeped forward.

And when it stepped into the faint light slicing through your blinds, your breath caught.

Bob.

No. Not Bob.

The shape was his. The height, the shoulders, the outline of his jaw. The way his mouth curved slightly at the corners like he was seconds away from smiling. You’d seen that shape slouched on the couch during late-night movie marathons. You’d seen it standing barefoot in the kitchen making tea. You’d memorized it without meaning to.

But this…This wasn’t him.

His form was made of shadow, but it held. It wasn’t formless. It wasn’t drifting. It was shaped with purpose–an echo of the man you knew, but built from smoke and malice. His skin, if you could call it that, moved like a storm behind thin glass. Unstable. Eternal. His hair bled into the void around him, lost to darkness.

And his eyes–those weren’t Bob’s eyes. No blue, no softness. Just two white voids of light. Blank and endless. Not glowing with heat, but glowing like distant stars–cold, ancient, unreachable.

His mouth, though–from what you could see– was pale and sharp and curled ever so slightly, like he knew something you didn’t.

Your body was frozen, but not from fear alone. There was something else. Something creeping beneath your skin, worming into the base of your spine.

Then he spoke.

“So this is who he dreams about,” He murmured, voice low and silken–too smooth. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command. A voice that made your blood slow.

It curled around your ears like smoke. Like a whisper just for you.

“I wanted to see for myself.” He took a step forward, and the air folded inward, like the room itself recoiled around his form. He didn’t walk–he glided, impossibly smooth, like the world didn’t apply to him in the same way it did to everything else. He made the shadows stretch with him, bend for him.

You couldn’t breathe, but you could feel yourself cowering slightly, afraid of what his next move might be. Being in a room alone with him was like a ticking time bomb, you had witnessed him only once, and that was with Bob present to defend everyone from him…Now was not the case.

“You think he doesn’t know?” The Void asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was marveling at a secret. “The way you look at him?”

His voice was nearly a whisper now, soft and deliberate. “The way your breath catches when he smiles at someone else. How you light up when he says your name. How your thighs tense when he accidentally brushes your arm in the hallway.”

He was closer now–too close–and every inch of his presence filled your skin with that same biting chill. It sank into your bones, into your lungs, until your shiver wasn’t just fear, but anticipation you didn’t want to name. The scent of ozone, and burnt concrete itched your nose, and there was something earthy beneath it all, like he had been pulled out of the ground.

“I could smell it on you when I woke,” He murmured, lifting one hand. His fingers hovered just beside your cheek, not quite touching, but you could feel it–like static in the air, cold and prickling. “The heat. The ache. You wanted him to come to your door tonight, didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “He’s not–he wouldn’t–”

The Void laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic. It was soft, and deep–it vibrated into your chest. And that was worse.

“Of course not. He’s Bob,” The Void said with a sneer beneath the velvet of his voice. “Sweet. Gentle. Terrified of his own hunger. He’s dying to touch you–but he won’t. Because he’s weak.”

His hand touched your jaw. Cold. Unrelenting.

“You would’ve given yourself to him,” He whispered, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “If he asked. You would’ve spread your thighs like a prayer and begged him to take you. And he’d be too afraid to move.” You whimpered, more from the sting of that truth than from his touch. The Void leaned closer, and you could feel his mouth–just hovering above yours, the barest breath of sensation. Not warmth. Nothing about him was warm. Just the presence of absence itself. He wasn’t breathing–at least not the way humans do–but somehow, you could feel it: cold tendrils of air that weren’t air at all, seeping from his lips to yours like he was pouring frost into your lungs.

His hand slid beneath your chin, fingers long, cold and elegant, as if carved from obsidian smoke. They curved under your jaw with inhuman precision–lifting your face toward him with a gentleness that betrayed none of the power coiled in his touch.

“Look at me,” He said, voice low and silken. It didn’t echo in your ears–it vibrated through you. Beneath your ribs. In your spine. Like something whispered through a cathedral built only for nightmares.

And when you did–when your eyes met those twin, glowing voids of light–you felt your thoughts stutter.

He didn’t just look at you. He reached into you with that stare. Unraveling the parts you kept hidden even from yourself.

“I know everything you want,” He cooed, his lips brushing your cheek now, the chill of him raising goosebumps across your entire body. “Every suppressed breath. Every trembling thought. Every filthy little ache that keeps you awake.”

Your throat tightened. Your lips parted–but not to speak. You couldn’t have spoken if you tried.

He hovered there like a vampire from a storybook dream, all sin and shadows, all impossible temptation wrapped in the shape of the man you secretly loved. But colder. Sharper. And infinitely crueler. Your lips trembled. You tried to speak–tried to summon words, a command, a plea, anything–but all that came out was a faint breath:

“B–Bob…”

The Void stilled. Just for a moment.

And then he smiled.

Not sweetly. Not kindly.

The corners of his mouth curled upward with slow, surgical delight. Like he’d been waiting to hear that name spill out of your mouth and now that it had, he could savor it like blood on his tongue.

“No,” He said, his voice even lower now–darker, closer. His thumb pressed more firmly against your chin. “Don’t say his name like that. Not here. Not while I’m the one who has you.”

You tried to look away, to break eye contact, but his hand shifted, guiding your gaze back to him like a puppeteer tugging on strings.

“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” The Void continued, his breathless voice curling around your spine, holding onto it. “He’d be so afraid to hurt you, he’d never touch you the way you need.”

His other hand moved–ghosting down your shoulder, across your arm–cold, trailing goosebumps in its wake. You shivered beneath the touch, not just from the chill but from the fact that you didn’t pull away.

You should have.

You should be demanding he leave. But you weren’t.

Because your body, traitorous and trembling, was reacting to his every move and hanging on anticipation.

His fingers slid downward with slow, excruciating purpose, skimming over the curve of your chest–your nightshirt thin and damp against your skin. And when the pad of his index finger ghosted across your nipple–already perked beneath the fabric from the cold, you gasped.

You didn’t mean to. But you did.

You felt it–felt how your back arched the tiniest bit, how your hips shifted, how your thighs pressed closer together beneath the sheets. It was instinctual. Automatic.

Mortifying.

Arousal curled through your stomach like steam, hot and confusing.

His voice dropped into something darker. Amused.

“Oh,” The Void breathed, fingertips circling once, lazily, over your breast. “You feel it too.”

“I–” You choked, the sound sticking in your throat.

“You shouldn’t,” He interrupted, drawing his hand downward, trailing over the soft dip of your belly now. “You know that…But you feel it regardless.”

His palm found your thigh–bare where your nightshirt had ridden up–and he let it rest there, cold and heavy. Possessive. The contrast of his icy skin on your overheated flesh made your whole body twitch.

Your heart was slamming in your chest now. Erratic. Desperate. You could hear it in your ears, feel it in your fingertips, in your pulsing core.

His thumb stroked slow, cold circles against the flesh of your thigh–each one burning in reverse. Your skin prickled with goosebumps even as heat started to pool low in your belly. The contact was barely pressure, but it might as well have been chains. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe without taking more of him in.

His mouth hovered above yours, still not kissing. Still denying. Just close enough to own the air between you, to breathe you and all your sensations in.

Every breath you took was through him. And every breath he gave you, he took something with it.

“You’re wet,” He whispered, voice dark and delighted. “You’re shaking and aching–but you’re wet.”

His lips skimmed your cheek again. His nose nuzzled softly beneath your ear, like a lover might, if a lover was made of cold smoke and unspeakable things.

“That’s what scares you most, isn’t it?” He purred, a smile in his voice. “Not me. You. The part of you that wants this.”

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut again. And of course–of course–that was when he said it:

“You’re pretending it’s him right now.”

Your whole body went still.

“You’re closing your eyes and painting his face over mine. Giving his heat to my hands. Imagining him finally breaking. Finally taking what he wants.”

His hand trailed upward, fingers brushing the crease where your thigh met your aching core.

You moaned–quiet and shameful.

“And that’s fine,” He whispered. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

He exhaled again–his breath sliding straight into your mouth, down your throat, curling around your insides like frost. You trembled beneath it.

“I’m here because you want him so badly,” He teased, “You’ll let anyone who looks like him fuck you.”

His words struck hard, and heat flooded your face–burning your ears, your cheeks. You felt exposed. Humiliated. But your hips still shifted beneath his palm.

“You think it’s wrong,” He continued, as his fingers began drawing slow circles through the thin damp cotton of your underwear. “To be turned on by me.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “But it’s not...”

You gasped, trying to speak. But his hand lifted again–just enough to make your body whimper in protest at the loss.

His lips turned up against your jaw.

“Now,” He said, his voice velvet and bone. “Let’s make a deal.”

Your eyes fluttered open–blurry, dizzy, dazed.

His glowing ones were waiting for you.

“I’ll let you pretend that I’m him,” He whispered, voice like the crackle of burning ice, as his hand slipped up towards the waistband of your underwear, trailing his thumb along the elastic before disappearing beneath it–your thighs separating slightly, feeling his fingers find your clit instantly with cold perscision.

And you moaned–a soft, broken sound that escaped before you could stop it, muffled against his mouth as your lips hovered just shy of his. You weren’t even kissing yet, but it felt like you were inside it–like you were already swallowed whole by the gravity between you.

His breath hitched.

His thumb circled slowly, then again–each pass was more deliberate, more devastating. The heat building inside you was unbearable now, your thighs trembling, your core pulsing, your breath nothing but fractured gasps drawn from his air.

“You feel that?” He breathed, his voice like crushed silk, smooth and vicious. “That ache you’ve been living with for months–how easily it folds under my hand.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

His fingers moved with cruel grace–unrelenting, skilled in a way that made your knees curl up slightly and your hips roll without thought. Like your body was begging him to stay there. To keep going.

“You don’t even need me to finish the offer, do you?” He whispered against your lips. “You already know what I’m giving you. And you want it.”

You trembled. “S-Say it anyway,” The words came out broken from your throat, distracted by the feeling of his fingers, and the thoughts of Bob plaguing your mind already.

His smile was carved ice.

“I’ll let you pretend I’m him. All night. I’ll make you sob for it. Shake. Come until you forget your name,” He purred, fingers still working slow, filthy circles that had your legs twitching. “And when morning comes, he won’t remember a thing. But you will. Every inch. Every sound. Every thrust.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, his breath catching on your next inhale. “You get to pretend he was brave enough to take what you gave him.”

The pad of his middle finger pressed down harder, applying the perfect hint pressure, and your head dropped back with a quiet, whimpering cry.

Then–his voice, low and demanding:

“So say…It’s a deal…”

Your answer wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t broken.

It was plain. Certain. Cut from your throat like a spell:

“Yes.”

The Void groaned–dark and low, like he felt that word slide into him like lightning.

Then he kissed you.

It pulled you apart at the seams, stealing every breath and sound and shred of hesitation you had left. His lips were cold, brutal, claiming your mouth like it was already his. His tongue swept into you with a force that left no room for thinking, only reacting–tasting every gasp, every soft whimper, like he wanted to learn you from the inside out.

And all the while, his fingers never stopped.

Circling. Stroking. Pressing into that aching bundle of nerves with precision that felt unholy.

It wasn’t fair–how good it felt. Your thighs were trembling, your hands fisting in the sheets as your hips rolled helplessly beneath the weight of his palm. You weren’t guiding any of it anymore. Your body was answering him like a prayer–instinctive, desperate, worshipful.

The heat inside you was like a storm cracking through your core. Your belly tightened, breath stuttering, back arching as he kept his rhythm–slow enough to tease, hard enough to devastate. Your moans were muffled by his kiss, swallowed like secrets. But he heard them. He fed on them.

When he pulled back, a strand of spit still connected your lips to his, glistening between you in the dark.

“Look at you,” He murmured, voice low and reverent. “Already falling apart. And I’ve barely touched you.”

Your chest heaved, your skin burning with fevered need, your hands gripping the fabric beneath you like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

His fingers withdrew from your underwear–not to stop, but to hook into the waistband and pull them down your legs in a single smooth motion. You flinched, breath catching as the cool air hit your slick heat, now fully exposed.

The Void knelt on the edge of the bed, eyes drinking you in. His glowing stare raked over every inch of you–spread out, trembling, glistening with sweat and arousal, your thighs parted for him like an offering.

“Mine,” He said simply, cold fingers curling around your knees to drag you closer to the edge. “Even if he never dares to take you…You’re already mine.”

You gasped as he leaned in–and licked you.

One, slow stroke of his tongue from your core to your clit. Cold and so precise, you thought you might scream.

You let out soft sob–a broken, high sound that ripped from your throat without your permission.

His tongue pressed harder, licking again, again–unrelenting. Each movement of his mouth was calculated to destroy. To burn. He sucked your clit between his lips, not gently, but with purpose. Claiming. Consuming. You cried out, hands flying to his hair–or where his hair should’ve been. It wasn’t soft. It was smoke. Cold, silk-like shadow that rippled through your fingers, impossibly smooth.

And that was when he looked up.

Eyes like galaxies–white, blinding, ancient–locked onto yours, but all you could picture was Bob’s baby blues instead. You realized your face was wet. You were crying.

From the pleasure. From the ache that was finally being dealt with. From the heat and the way your own body was betraying every moral line you’d ever drawn.

He saw it.

And he moaned.

Low. Dark. A sound of pure, vicious delight.

“Oh…” He whispered, voice cracking like ice underfoot. His shadowed lips glistened with your slick as he rose up again, fingers returning to your clit again to keep the friction, stroking with even more purpose. “That’s what I wanted.”

His free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face so he could see the tears streaming down your skin. His thumb smudged one under your eye, then dragged it to your mouth, pressing it between your parted lips.

“Open,” He commanded, voice honeyed with sin.

You listened to him, and felt the wet pad of his thumb press onto your tongue. You tasted the salt.

He smiled.

“Beautiful,” He breathed. “Fucking beautiful.”

And then he pushed two fingers inside you–slowly, and deliberately so he could watch every reaction come up on your face. His fingers curled just right, and your whole body arched–an electric jolt of pleasure snatching the breath from your lungs. You were spread wide for him now, every nerve ending lit, pulsing, raw. The tears on your cheeks hadn’t even dried, and he was already dragging another cry from your throat.

“You’re picturing him now, aren’t you?” The Void murmured, voice velvet over a blade. His forehead pressed against yours, his body so close you could feel the cold hum of his power licking against your skin. “Every time I move inside you… You pretend it’s him.”

You whimpered–because you were. You couldn’t help it.

You weren’t just picturing Bob’s face–you were reaching for his warmth, his shy hands, the softness in his voice, the revenant way he might have touched you if he weren’t so afraid. But The Void moved like he already knew everything Bob wouldn’t do.

And somehow, that hurt.

“You want it to be him,” The Void whispered, curling his fingers again, harder this time, making your eyes roll back. “Sweet, trembling Bob. Who’d kiss your thighs before he ever put his fingers in you. Who’d ask you twice if it’s okay. Who’d thank you when you came.”

He laughed softly, but not unkindly. The sound was dark–yes–but laced with something deeper. Possession. Hunger.

“Poor thing,” He crooned. “You’ve been dreaming of him for so long, you don’t even care who makes it real, do you? You just need it. You need to feel.”

His fingers began to thrust now–slow, deep, deliberate. Every motion wrung a moan from your mouth. Your hips moved helplessly with his rhythm, chasing friction, chasing something that felt dangerously close to breaking again.

“But I can do it for him,” The Void purred, his lips grazing your jaw, your ear, your temple. “I can fuck you like he never will. Let you feel what it’s like to be wanted without the fear of ruining your little friendship. Touched without hesitation.”

Your breath hitched. Your legs trembled. His thumb returned to your clit and circled–one cruel, precise motion that made your whole body lock up in place.

“You want to hear him say it?” The Void asked. “You want to hear what he’d never dare whisper in your ear?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened–but the sound that came out was just a needy little gasp, half-sob, half-beg.

He smiled–so close you could taste it. Then–

“You feel so fucking perfect,” He whispered, but it was Bob’s voice now.

Or at least, it was close. A mimic. A shadow with just enough truth to break you.

“I think about this every night. Your skin under my hands. The sounds you’d make. The way your thighs would tremble when I finally touched you like this–” His fingers thrust harder–deep and brutal and exact “–God, sweetheart. I’d ruin you.”

You moaned–loud and raw, your whole body jolting at the sound of those words in his voice. You weren’t just picturing him now–you were with him. In some twisted way, he was here, folded into the darkness.

“I’d kiss you everywhere,” The Void murmured, still using Bob’s warmth, that breathless awe, as if he knew exactly how Bob would sound if he let go. “Worship you. Fuck you slow until you cried.”

His fingers drove deeper. Your orgasm clawed at your spine–hot, frantic, building fast.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, back in his own voice now. “You’d let him fall apart inside you.”

You nodded–desperate, whimpering, eyes wet again.

“Then do it,” He hissed. “Come for him, and then let me take you...”

That was it.

The wave crashed.

You shattered.

Your mouth dropped open, a silent cry tearing from your chest as you pulsed hard around his fingers–clenching, sobbing, breaking on the pleasure that stole your name and your breath in one brutal, beautiful stroke.

And as you came, The Void held you–his body pressed against yours like a shroud, his cheek to yours, his fingers still pumping slowly and deep to drag every last aftershock from your spent, and shuddering body.

“There you go,” He cooed, voice a low, tender growl. “Cry for me, pretty thing.”

He kissed your temple softly, before trailing his lips along the set of tears that slipped down your cheeks.

Your chest rose and fell in stuttered waves, limbs limp and trembling beneath him. Every inch of you throbbed, overstimulated, but not satiated. Not completely. Because his fingers were still inside you—slow now, gentler, curling with reverence as he coaxed the last pulses of your orgasm from deep within.

Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, slick with sweat and tears. And when your lips parted, your voice came out cracked–rasped from the inside out:

“Fuck…” You breathed, “That was–God, that was good…”

The Void stilled for just a moment.

Then his smile returned–sharp and cold and devastatingly pleased. He leaned back to look at you, eyes glowing with that eerie celestial light, drinking in your wrecked form.

“You liked that,” He said softly. Not a question.

Your hips shifted involuntarily, and your breath hitched. His fingers were still inside you, still nestled where you were slick and twitching around him. He pulled them back slightly–just enough to make you whimper.

“I knew you would,” He murmured. “But that?” His eyes darkened. “That was only the beginning.”

Your eyes fluttered open, still glassy, still wet.

He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your throat–then another, lower, near your collarbone.

“I think I can make you come a few more times,” He whispered against your skin. “Or make you beg louder. Or shake so bad you forget what planet you’re on.”

You whimpered, the sound caught halfway between arousal and disbelief. He was still moving–slow, hypnotic thrusts of his fingers, shallow and wet, punctuated by the brush of his palm against your clit.

“I could do it again,” He offered, voice molten silk. “Right now. Just like this.”

You moaned, legs twitching under him, your nails digging into his back–into smoke and shadow that somehow felt like flesh.

“Or,” He continued, pulling back just enough to let you see the tilt of his grin–wolfish, dark, almost giddy with the hunt. “We could go deeper.”

His free hand slipped between your bodies, trailing down.

You followed his gaze down to where his other hand was reaching–toward the shadow that made up his lower half, that strange blend of form and nothingness, unreal and solid all at once. His fingers curled into it like mist–like he was parting smoke–and then, impossibly, flesh formed. Real. Heavy. Hard.

You gasped, eyes widening, your thighs tightening reflexively.

Because he wasn’t just teasing anymore.

He was becoming, and your breath caught. You felt his fingers slipping out of you.

“I told you,” He purred, watching your face intently, hand now slowly stroking himself to full form. “I’ll let you pretend.”

His hips pressed closer–just enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, thick and cold against the sensitive inside of your thigh.

“But this part?” He whispered, mouth brushing yours. “This is ours…”

He rutted slowly once against you, just to make you feel it–slick from your own release, heavy where it nestled against your folds. Not inside. Not yet.

“I can make you see stars,” He said, and this time there was something almost reverent in his voice. “But only if you want it.”

You looked at him–at those impossible eyes, that cruel mouth now softened by the barest trace of awe. You swallowed hard, still trembling from the last orgasm that hadn’t quite left your body–and yet, your breath was already quickening again.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered, “Let’s try.”

The moment the words left your mouth, the world seemed to shift.

The Void moved faster than thought–one moment he was kneeling over you like a storm, the next he was lifting you effortlessly into the air, your body limp and pliant in his cold hands. He cradled you with ease, his strength vast but controlled, like gravity bent to his will. And then he sat.

Pulling you into his lap.

You landed straddling him, thighs trembling as you folded around him, knees bent on either side of his hips, his chest flush against yours. It was an impossible contrast–intimate, meditative, sacred–and yet soaked in power, in shadow, in lust. Your legs wrapped around him, feet tucked behind his back, body completely enveloped in his. His arms cradled your waist, his hands spanning your lower back and hips like they were made to hold you this way. The cool weight of his cock pulsed against your core–thick and solid now, slick from your arousal and his own precum, perfectly aligned with your entrance. But before he moved–he looked at you.

Really looked.

Glowing eyes drank in your flushed cheeks, your sweat-slicked skin, your trembling lips. Then, one hand reached up–slowly, reverently–and gripped the hem of your nightshirt.

“Off,” He murmured.

You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with one smooth motion dropping it off the side of the bed.

His breath–if it could be called that–hitched. Visibly. Audibly.

He stared like he hadn’t just undressed you–but like he’d uncovered something holy. His palms rose reverently to your chest, cool thumbs brushing softly over your nipples before flattening his hands to feel the curve and weight of you. You gasped, arching slightly, the contrast of his chill against your overheated skin enough to make your breath falter.

Then–he leaned in.

And sank his teeth into the soft underside of your breast.

Not hard. But deliberate. A nip that sent shockwaves down your spine, followed by the cold, wet drag of his tongue as he licked over the mark he left behind. And then he sucked. Deep. Long. Obsessive. His mouth sealed over your skin with a hunger that made your thighs clench tighter around his hips.

Another kiss. Another bite. Another bruise left behind like a brand.

His voice, muffled against your chest, purred, “You’re mine for tonight…But I want you wearing me for days…”

His hands gripped your hips, adjusting the angle of your body until the head of his cock slid against your folds–slow, teasing friction that sent a tremble rolling through you both.

He rutted upward once–just enough to make your breath catch and your slick spread over him in a glossy smear. He groaned softly, dragging the thick head of himself over your clit and down again, never breaching–just letting the sensation throb between you.

“Feel that?” He asked, his lips brushing your nipple before he kissed it again–wet and possessive. “You’re making me this hard… Just by looking like this. Crying like that. And you still haven’t taken me inside.”

You whimpered, shivering against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.

He pulled back–his hands trailing along your sides until one gripped your ass, fingers spreading the flesh like he owned it, while the other slid up your spine and settled flat against your back. Cold. Claiming.

Then, his mouth curved into something wicked at your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice dark silk, low and promising. “Nice and slow. Let you feel every inch sink in while I hold you like this–while I make you forget who you were before I touched you.”Your body responded before your words could. Your hips rolled forward–seeking. Inviting.

He smiled.

And helped you lower yourself.

You gasped–both of you did–as the head of him breached your entrance. You felt him twitch against your fluttering walls as he pushed in, inch by inch, thick and ice-slick and infinite. The stretch was sharp, hot despite his coldness, and your fingernails bit into his shoulders as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” he choked, his voice breaking for the first time. His hand on your back raked downward–fingertips dragging along your spine like he was trying to anchor himself to your heat. “You’re so—tight. So wet. It’s like—fuck, it’s like drowning in fire…”

He sank in deeper, inch by inch, until your thighs trembled and your moan broke open against his skin.

His mouth pressed to your temple, to your jaw, to your shoulder–his lips and teeth grazing every part of you he could reach as he bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside you.

One hand held you at the base of your spine, the other gripping your ass tight, grounding you as you both breathed through it.

“I’ve waited eons to feel this,” He whispered, kissing the tear-tracks on your cheeks as your bodies finally stilled–locked together, shaking, throbbing, full. He just held you there–trembling, locked around him like your body had been sculpted for this exact moment. You could feel every inch of him inside you, feel how he throbbed cold and thick against the fluttering pulse of your inner walls. Your forehead was pressed against his shoulder, your breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as your body adjusted to the invasion, to the way he filled every aching space inside you.

Then his hand slid higher–up your spine, over your shoulder, until it gripped the back of your neck.

“Lift your head,” He commanded, voice dark silk wrapped around barbed wire.

You obeyed without thinking, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“More,” He growled. “I want that pretty throat bared for me.”

You arched your neck–slow, trembling, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat to him. The movement made your body shift around him, made your inner muscles clench, and he groaned like it took effort not to slam into you.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, reverent now–hungry. “So obedient. So fucking beautiful like this…”

Then he leaned in–and dragged his teeth down your exposed neck, going to the little space right where your jugular notch is, the soft dip where the mark would be hidden beneath a shirt.

His bite sent lightning down your spine–sharp, claiming, undeniable. You cried out, arching into it, your hips shifting involuntarily around the thick stretch of him still buried inside you. And then his mouth lifted from your skin, and his voice rasped against your throat—ragged now, edged with something more dangerous than control.

“I’m going to leave a mark there,” he growled. “Where only I will know. Where he will never dare to look.”

And then his hand–still braced at the back of your neck–scraped down your spine.

His nails weren’t blunt. Not human. They dragged like talons, cold and precise, raking over your skin in slow, deliberate lines. You gasped–half in pain, half in stunned, coiling pleasure–as red-hot welts bloomed in their wake. Your back arched, offering more, shivering for more, even as your throat formed a soundless whimper.

“You feel that?” The Void purred, voice low and taunting. “That’s not his touch. Bob could never do this to you.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into the slick cold of his not-skin.

And then, you said it.

“Bob…”

You felt the growl before you heard it. A deep, guttural noise vibrated from his chest and into yours. His hands snapped to your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh as he slammed up into you–one hard, vicious thrust that ripped a sob from your lips.

“Say it again,” He hissed. “Say it while I fuck you like he never will.”

“Bob—” You moaned, desperate, wrecked.

He thrust again. Harder. Sharper. The sound of your bodies colliding echoed off the walls.

“Say it like you mean it,” He snarled, thrusting so deep your breath left your lungs.

“Fuck—Bob, yes—”

His rhythm turned brutal–deliberate and punishing, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory one thrust at a time. His grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising, dragging you down to meet every savage snap of his hips.

But you weren’t passive.

You moved with him.

Clawing at his back. Grinding down. Letting your lips ghost over his neck, whispering, “You’d never touch me like this if you were really him.”

He froze. Just for a second.

And you took it.

You rolled your hips, grinding down, deep and slow—until he moaned.

His grip faltered. Just a touch.

And you smiled—broken, breathless, wild.

“You hate it, don’t you?” You gasped into his ear. “That I’m still thinking of him. That even while you’re inside me, I want his hands.”

The Void snapped.

He flipped you again, this time with no gentleness, slamming you down onto your back and dragging your legs wide around his waist. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and he drove into you with a snarl.

“Say his name again, and I’ll make sure you never stop shaking,” He growled, hips rutting into yours with devastating force.

“Bob—” You cried out, defiant and desperate.

And he fucked you harder.

Flesh and smoke. Fire and ice. The rhythm of him was relentless now–like he wanted to break you open and live inside the pieces.

His hand released your wrists only to grab your throat, tilting your face toward his as he hovered above you, his glowing eyes wild and endless.

“I could make you forget who he even is,” He rasped. “I could fuck you so deep you only remember me.”

You moaned beneath him, arching up, mouth open and shaking.

But your whisper cut sharper than any scream.

“Then why do you still wear his face?”

He froze.

The Void’s eyes flared–bright and blinding, rage and lust and something else fracturing through them.

Then he slammed into you.

And again.

No words. Just motion. Just force.

You cried out–louder now–legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at his back as he fucked you like he wanted to erase you.

And all you could do was sob his name–

“Bob—Bob—Bob—”

Until the only thing left between you was ruin. You couldn’t tell where the line was anymore–between pain and pleasure, between him and Bob, between your own cries and the desperate slap of skin against skin as he drove himself into you, unrelenting, and grinding. The bed rocked beneath you, headboard thudding rhythmically against the wall, and your fingers gripped the sheets like they were your last tether to this world.

His body–cold and massive and utterly inhuman–pinned you to the mattress, his cock grinding against your cervix with merciless precision. You were gasping. Choking. Drowning in the force of him, and still, you begged.

“More—please, more—”

His hand released your throat only to slide up, gripping your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. You couldn’t look away–not from those twin galaxies of void-light, those pale endless pits that saw everything.

And still, you moaned, “Bob—”

Something inside him snapped.

His mouth crashed into yours–devouring. Teeth and tongue and cold, silken fury. He kissed you like he wanted to brand you from the inside. Like he wanted to replace every soft memory of the man you loved with something brutal and monstrous.

And you let him.

You felt his hand slide between your bodies, slick with sweat and your own release, and then his thumb was on your clit again–pressing, circling, wrecking. It was too much. Too much.

“Come again,” He growled, breath ragged now. “Come while I’m inside you. Come while you scream his name.”

You tried to fight it. Tried to last.

But your body betrayed you.

Your back arched, a broken sound clawing out of your throat as your walls seized around him–tight, wet, desperate. The world fractured. Your vision went white. Your soul splintered.

And you screamed.

“BOB—!”

The Void shuddered–his whole body jerking above you like he felt that cry inside him. He snarled against your mouth, hips snapping once, twice—and then he came with a sound like a god falling.

He didn’t moan.

He groaned, deep and guttural, his cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you–cold and endless, filling you with something that didn’t feel like seed, but like starlight and sorrow and shadow. You felt it in your bones, like he was pouring the universe into you, and you were too full to hold it all.

You lay there–limp, splayed, twitching beneath him. Your thighs trembling, your chest heaving, your voice cracked to nothing. His body slumped over yours–heavy despite the fact that he wasn’t entirely real. His mouth pressed against your temple, breathless and cold.

For a moment, there was no sound.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then–

He kissed you.

Soft this time. A brush of lips over sweat-damp skin. Reverent. Almost… mournful.

“I felt it,” He whispered, voice raw, his hand smoothing up your ribs, cradling your side. “When you said his name.”

You swallowed–barely able to lift your head.

“I know you wanted it to be him,” He murmured. “But I made you come like that.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. He shifted–still inside you–grinding just once more, like he wanted to remind you of who had taken you.

“I made you cry. I filled you up. And when you’re lying awake tomorrow, remembering how your body shook around me, how your thighs wouldn’t stop trembling–I want you to remember that it was me. Not him.”

Your eyes fluttered–dazed. But you didn’t fight him.

You didn’t correct him.

His body finally softened, pulling back slightly. His hands cupped your face again–his fingers gentle now, brushing hair from your damp forehead. His glow was dimmer. Quieter. Like a storm that had passed.

“You’ll wake up in a few hours,” He said softly. “And this will feel like a dream.”

You blinked.

He leaned in–kissed the corner of your mouth.

“But your body will remember.”

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

Vanished into the shadow he’d emerged from, the cold lifting from the room like a ghost fleeing dawn.

And you lay there alone–aching, shaking, legs still parted, chest still rising in broken little gasps.

Your bed was wet with sweat. Your throat burned.

Your lips still tingled.

And between your thighs–you could feel him. The stretch. The soreness. The echo of every thrust, every word, every impossible truth.

And worse–

The only name in your mouth…

Was Bob.

——————————

The room stayed cold even after he was gone. The shadows thinned, but they didn’t leave—not entirely. Not the way you needed them to. Not the way your body needed to pretend they hadn’t coiled around you and taken.

You stayed in the bed for a while–numb, ruined, staring at the ceiling while your breath evened out in small, ragged hiccups. The sheets were tangled around your thighs, soaked with sweat and something colder. Your legs ached. Your throat was raw. Your lips still felt the press of his.

Eventually, you sat up. Slow. Careful. Your body protested with every movement. Your thighs trembled when they parted. The ache between your legs was still sharp. Deep. Your skin pulled tight across your spine where the claw marks lay–raised and hot, stinging in the silence.

You didn’t bother covering yourself. There was no one in the room. No one to hide from. No one but yourself.

So you stood.

Naked.

Shaking.

And walked toward the bathroom.

The ensuite light was harsh when it flickered on. Your eyes burned as they adjusted. You blinked a few times, reached out with a trembling hand, and braced yourself against the edge of the sink.

Then you looked up.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Your neck was littered with marks–some small, like whispers of bruises blooming beneath your skin. Others were deeper. More deliberate. A bite just above your collarbone, swollen and red, already darkening. Scratches raked across your shoulder blades. Finger-shaped bruises on your hips.

And lower…

You pressed your thighs together. A slow throb pulsed between them. Not just soreness. Memory.

You stared at yourself for a long time. Chest rising and falling. Eyes wide and hollow. A stranger’s reflection wrapped in the echo of your own desire.

And then you turned the water on.

You didn’t wash like someone scrubbing sin away. You didn’t cry beneath the stream. There were no cinematic gasps or moments of clarity.

You just showered.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Water warm. Hands gentle. You cleaned yourself like someone who knew there was no washing him out. Not really. His fingerprints were inside you now. Beneath the surface. Carved into your bones like frost.

You stepped out twenty minutes later. Toweled off. Dressed in the softest pair of sweatpants you owned and an oversized sweater that used to belong to Bucky–you wore it on days where you were feeling down. You weren’t sure if today qualified.

Your hair was damp. Your neck stung. Your thighs still trembled when you walked.

But you opened the door anyway.

You stepped out into the hallway.

The early morning compound light was a pale gold, spilling through the windows like it always did. You could hear coffee brewing in the common kitchen. The low murmur of Ava and Walker arguing over cereal. The sound of normal.

You walked forward, bare feet silent against the cool floor, your breath caught in your throat–

And then you saw him.

Bob.

Standing a few feet away. Slouched against the hallway wall in flannel pajama pants and a black hoodie, a mug in one hand, the other rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair was messy, cowlicked from sleep. His expression soft and bleary, like he’d just woken up.

He looked up at you.

And smiled.

Gentle.

Warm.

Untouched.

“Morning,” he said softly, nodding at you.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago. Like he hadn’t made you scream his name until your voice gave out. Like he didn’t still live inside the stretch of your aching body.

Your mouth opened.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just nodded back.

“Morning.”

He walked past you with another sleepy smile, mumbling something about getting more coffee, and disappeared around the corner.

And you stood there, alone in the hallway, wrapped in a sweater two sizes too big, your thighs still sticky from the night before–

Wondering how long it would be before you stopped pretending it had been a dream.

Or if you even wanted to.

3K notes · View notes

prettybugsinbandages · 2 months ago

Text

Blot!reader Ending -> Where the World Forgets

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

You linger before the mirror, just a few steps from home. The air holds its breath, heavy with anticipation, as every eye in the chamber watches—waiting to see if you'll cross the threshold. Hope flickers in some, resignation in others. But instead of stepping forward, you take a single step back. Then another.

It's not fear. It's not indecision.

It's a choice.

Somewhere behind you, someone exhales in surprise. Others sigh in stunned relief, a ripple of soft joy passing through the room like wind through leaves. A few voices murmur, hopeful.

Did you choose them?

But your arms draw inward, hands pressed close in your chest—to your heart, still chilled and aching. And at the center of it all is the Blot's ring, warm against your skin. You clutch it as if it were a lifeline, and then, without quite meaning to, you speak.

"Take me away," you whisper, the words quiet, but certain. Steady. Not a tremor in your voice. "Let's go somewhere safe."

The Blot's breath shudders through the air—relieved, reverent, alive. "As you wish, my dear," it murmurs, its voice like velvet, like dusk falling.

The shadows ripple outward, slow and deliberate, curling around you with a strange kind of grace. They no longer hide. They do not mask themselves in illusions or whispers or glimmers half-seen. For the first time, the entity steps into the light. Everyone sees it—not just the fear it left behind or the traces carved into the world, but it.

What they see is something dark, nebulous, nearly impossible to comprehend. Its shape is fluid, ungraspable, as though looking at it too long might cause the mind to stumble. Yet its presence is unmistakably gentle—toward you. It does not glance to those who've suffered by its hand, does not explain or ask for forgiveness. It doesn't need to. It only sees you.

And without features, it somehow still looks at you with love.

A reverence that bleeds into every movement as it wraps its form around you—protective, possessive, tender. Its shadows cocoon you slowly, like dusk falling over a weary world. Its arms engulf you in warmth you once feared but now leaned into, and all around, the room stirs.

Some scream your name. Hands reach out, desperate to pull you back. Pleading. Others brace themselves, pens drawn, glyphs half-cast, eyes wide with panic. A few spells flash through the air, meant to separate you from the entity.

They don't land.

The Blot doesn't fight back.

It only takes.

And then you're gone. Plucked from the Mirror Chamber in a sweep of darkness and fading light like a dream pulled from under the pillow.

You land elsewhere.

The world around you breathes easy. No longer tight with tension or straining against magic. Light spills gently through the leaves above, dappled and golden. The sound of birdsong echoes faintly in the distance. Grass brushes your ankles, impossibly soft. You hear wind in the trees. The hum of peace. For the first time in a long time, it feels like you've escaped.

This place doesn't press against you. It welcomes you.

The light here doesn't scorch. It embraces. It glows.

Somewhere ahead, you catch sight of the Blot again—its silhouette framed against the gentle slope of a hill. Below it, a sweet little town nestles in the distance like a painted memory. When it turns and sees you awake, something changes. It smiles. That rare, delicate expression you've only seen in echoes and dreams—something you alone seem able to summon from it.

It descends the hill and comes to you, slow and careful, like approaching something fragile and precious. It offers a hand. And you take it.

Its touch is soft, reverent, guiding you as you rise.

"Is this... real?" you ask, your voice quiet, filled with wonder and disbelief as you look around. The trees, the light, the smell of the earth—it's too gentle, too lovely.

The Blot doesn't answer right away. It reaches out instead, brushing a fallen leaf from your hair, then lets its hand linger.

"Of course," it says finally, the words as sure as stone.

With that, it guides you forward, hand in hand, toward a house tucked in the glade. Your house. It stands alone and pristine, shaped perfectly to your soul—the size, the design, the softness of its lines as though waiting to be filled with your laughter, your footsteps, your breath.

But it waits. Lifeless, for now.

It waits for you to step inside and bring it to life.

And as the Blot gently coaxes you toward the door—like someone introducing a beloved pet to a new home—the world quietly sings around you.

Time passed, but it no longer pressed at your spine or curled into your chest like a fist. It moved like honey now—slow, golden, gentle. Here, time was not something to fear. Here, it was okay to rest. To breathe. To take your days like sips of tea, slow and satisfying.

The Blot made good on its quiet promise to care for you. In the kitchen, it moved with uncanny precision, absurdly skilled for a being of shadows and lost divinity. It cooked as if it had once worn the face of royal chefs, carried the soft memory of a grandmother's secret touch, and harbored the tenderness of a father feeding his child for the first time. It insisted you needn't lift a finger. It would never let you go hungry, never allow a craving to go unmet.

You teased it sometimes, smirking behind your hand at the sheer seriousness in its expression as it fussed over the spices and plating. And quietly, you wondered. Had the angel—back when it was still an angel—ever enjoyed the small, mortal joys of lives it wore? Had these details become more than masks—had they become hobbies?

One early morning, as the summer breeze drifted lazily through the open windows and made the drapes glow with golden light, you asked, your voice low and curious:

"Do you like cooking?"

The Blot stilled, halfway through preparing your breakfast. It didn't answer right away. Its shadowed form hesitated like a thought unfinished.

"I like cooking for you," it said finally, quiet and certain. "I like doing a lot for you."

Its voice was soft—calm and unassuming, like it had already accepted the weight of its feelings, quietly nestled into them like a bird in its nest.

In the evenings, when you chose to read—settled in a corner of peace, perhaps beneath the boughs of a tree or on the porch swing—the Blot hovered. No longer bold in its affection, it lingered just out of reach, hesitant in a way it had never been before. Like a pet uncertain if it's still welcome, waiting to be scolded for climbing furniture.

You didn't shoo it. Nor did you invite it. You simply read.

And eventually, when your blinks grew long and your breath evened, when your shoulder found its way to the Blot's side without your noticing, it froze. Rigid. Breathless. Afraid to shift and wake you.

But slowly—so slowly—it melted. Your head on its shoulder, your trust given freely and unconsciously. That small touch, that quiet closeness, was enough. It began to hum. Low and tuneless, an old melody born from somewhere deep in its past. A lullaby, perhaps, from when it had once been a nursemaid. Or a song remembered from its time as a soldier in a war, slower now, gentler.

Outside, the world remained still. The birds repeated their morning songs like clockwork. The clouds moved only when you weren't watching. And the stars? The stars stayed, unwilling to leave you.

They watched. They adored.

It made the Blot ache in a strange, bitter way—to know everything could look at you and love you. Yet still, it understood. Who wouldn't love you?

At night, when the sun dipped beneath the horizon to meet the dancing spirits below the earth, the Blot resumed its quiet ritual. Just as it once had in Ramshackle, it had helped you prepare for bed after studying, every motion careful, gentle, reverent.

But tonight, the cycle was interrupted.

You reached out and tugged it gently down onto the mattress beside you.

An invitation.

A shared moment of warmth and silent understanding. No longer simply tolerated—wanted. A comfort once fought against now pulled close. The Blot was stiff at first, startled. But it watched you roll over, watched your eyes flutter closed—and something shifted.

Acceptance.

Complete. Unreserved.

It slid down beside you, its body slowly curling into the mattress like a wave finally returning to shore. Maybe not tonight, but someday soon, it would be brave enough to wrap you in its arms again like it once had.

Your gaze found the moon beyond the window—huge, round, and unnaturally still in the sky. A thought flickered through your peaceful mind, sharp and intrusive.

"Don't you think the moon's been full for too long?" you murmured, as if afraid the question itself might shatter the illusion.

The Blot turned its head slowly to look too, its voice low and groggy. "...Maybe it just likes you," it said, a note of mischief bleeding through its fatigue. "It's making me jealous, dear."

It no longer slept curled on the floor beside your bed, a faithful shadow denied you. You had made space for it. And it stayed.

In the morning, you awoke to find it curled beside you—not holding, just touching, your bodies barely brushing. But its warmth wrapped around you all the same, like a protective ward.

It never clung. It didn't need to.

But its touch was always there, grounding itself in you, making sure you were still here.

Still real.

Still with it.

The evening was quiet, soft around the edges, like a watercolor painting left out in the sun. You and the Blot had spent the day wandering the sleepy town, gathering groceries and odds and ends you didn't truly need but found comfort in purchasing anyway. The world had slowed to a lull here, and even chores—mundane and small—became soothing.

As the sun began its descent, smearing honeyed light across the hills and rooftops, the Blot shifted beside you. It stepped out of its human guise with a slow ripple, shedding the illusion like a coat too warm. Shadows slipped across its limbs, pooling into the amorphous form you knew best, the one that no longer frightened you but felt like a second presence to your own breath.

You paused, mid-step on the gravel path leading to your cottage. The basket of produce swung gently from your arm. That image, unassuming and quiet, struck something deep inside— a memory unearthed like a flower blooming through snow.

You remembered the look in its eyes once, in another life, a memory threaded through the seams of dreams—when you'd given it a name for the first time. The awe, the joy, the way it clung to that gift like a child with their first treasure.

And without thinking, you spoke.

"You don't need to be Blot anymore." Your voice had changed since arriving here—softer, warmer, as if weathered smooth by time and stillness. You couldn't tell how long it had been. Days, weeks, years? Time didn't matter here. "I gave you a name once, didn't I? Let's try again."

The Blot froze. The basket it carried slipped from its grasp and hit the path with a soft, earthy thump—apples spilling and rolling. Its form rippled, destabilized, as though the words had broken something vital inside. For a heartbeat, it looked like it might melt into the gravel, disappear altogether.

But it steadied. Sharpened. Reformed.

"Really?" it breathed. "Truly?"

Its voice trembled—hopeful, terrified, overwhelmed. Like someone being offered a future they'd long stopped believing they could deserve.

You nodded.

It lifted you in its arms before you could brace, spinning you easily, laughing—a laugh unburdened, unfiltered. You were weightless in its grasp, suspended in golden light, and the look on its face mirrored a soul given back something irreplaceable.

All the way home, your mind spun with names—some whimsical, some sacred—but one name rooted itself in your heart. A name that felt right. Familiar. Yours to give.

You whispered it once, testing the sound. Then again, offering it freely.

The Blot smiled now. A new form emerged, one soft and pleasing, as if they'd sculpted it lovingly from all the details you adored. A patchwork of gentleness and curiosity, carefully stitched together.

"I like it," they murmured, smiling with something shy and proud all at once. "It's mine, right?"

You nodded again. Final. Certain. Hoping, deep down, that this time the ending would be different. That some kind of force out there had finally taken pity. That you'd been allowed this soft life together. A quiet ending. A gentle forever.

That night, you lay beneath an old oak tree, side by side on the hill behind your home. The stars watched silently from above, their patterns frozen as ever. The moon didn't shrink or change—it stayed full, glowing like a promise. Your head rested against their shoulder, your hand gently brushing theirs.

Then, they spoke.

"There's a freedom in falling," they said, their voice low, more to themselves than to you. "Nothing above. Nothing below. Just a pilgrimage into emptiness."

They paused. You didn't interrupt. Only listened.

"Falling would've been perfect," they continued, "if not for the ground."

A silence followed—heavy and thoughtful. You turned your head to study them, the strange reverence in their profile as they stared at the sky.

"I think I kept falling," they said. "Even after I really hit the ground. Through identities, through pain, through revenge and memory and regret. I kept falling until I landed in you."

Their gaze turned to meet yours.

"In your arms. In your laughter. Your eyes. You caught me."

Their voice was steady now—poetic, but naked in its honesty. A confession that trembled between your hearts. This being, stitched together from shadows and sorrows, was still too afraid to say I love you aloud. To say it and hear it echoed back.

But this? This was their version of the phrase. And it was enough.

You smiled, your fingers curling gently through theirs, the stars above unmoving, eternal, bore silent witness to your quiet, sacred peace.

Every morning begins the same way.

A soft breeze flutters through open windows, tugging gently at the linen curtains, and a five-note birdsong floats through the air like the start of a lullaby. Always the same 15 notes. No more, no less. They curl through the quiet of your home, threading through your dreams and tugging you gently awake.

The birds themselves are elusive—never seen, never identified. Their song is too precise, too pristine, as though born not of nature but of a music box left wound and spinning. Eventually, you catch yourself humming along without thinking. You begin to add notes to the melody, little improvisations that suit your moods and morning. Slowly, it becomes yours—your own private lullaby, grown from something strange and distant into something intimate and familiar.

The sky above your little haven is always perfect. Painted in shades of the beautiful seasons, or draped in the deep indigo of night. The moon stays full, never waning, just the way you like it—round and silver and constant. The stars above never shift. They settle into place like puzzle pieces long since solved, and over time, you memorize them: a fixed constellation of comfort. A frozen sky.

That's when the cracks begin to show.

The calendar in the kitchen draws your attention first. It hangs innocently from a corkboard near the pantry. There's no marked year. Just months. Endless, repeating months.

April, May, June, July. Then again, April, May, June, July—

No matter how many times you flip forward, it never changes. There's no end, no beginning. Just a warm cycle of golden days and breezy nights. An infinite peace.

You try not to think about it too hard. Instead, you're brought to town for a promised festival.

There's dancing in the square, music and lanterns, food that smells like memory and happiness. When you're tired, they promise to carry you home, and you know they will. You'll fall asleep in their arms and wake again in your bed with the birdsong whispering at the window.

But the feeling of something amiss lingers.

At the town's small library, you find a book you can't forget. Ornate, ancient, humming with an energy that unsettles your bones. The cover is gorgeous—etched with gold and quality leather, the edges laced with silver filigree. You'd keep it just to admire, if it would let you. But no matter how hard you try, the book refuses to open. It sings louder each time you touch it—a wordless, humming pitch that rings in your teeth and skull until you have to step away.

You begin to wander more. Through the gardens behind your home, through the glade where flowers grow like they've been painted into place. There, you find a stone. Worn smooth, leaning into the earth like its been trying to vanish.

A gravestone? Or something like one.

The inscription reads:

"Here lies a love too loud to be erased—kept with care, sealed with silence."

Below the words is no name. Only a symbol—a stylized eye, its pupil a keyhole It feels divine. Familiar in a way you can't explain. It reminds you of the Blot, but something tells you it isn't theirs.

The attic becomes the final mystery.

The Blot has always warned you against it. "It's dusty," they said. "The ladder's rickety—you could fall, and what if I'm not home? It's just old junk and spiders, anyway." You remember the way they murmured the words into your hair, arms wrapped around you on the porch swing. You remember the soft kiss to your temple, the way their face bloomed into blush before they jumped up, babbling an excuse about needing firewood for tonight's firepit. They promised s'more. Stew. You let them go without reminding them that you'd bought some firewood only yesterday.

But curiosity always wins, doesn't it?

You hum the birdsong tune as you walk, the melody guiding your steps. past the eternal calendar. Past the stone that mourns in silence. Until you find yourself beneath the attic hatch, staring up at it, your heart slow and heavy in your chest.

You climb.

The attic is not what you expected. It's not dusty or abandoned. it's warm. Lush with unexpected plant life that spoils around beams and pots as if tended by invisible hands. A large, slanted window bathes the room in fading evening light. It is beautiful. Lived in. Almost loved.

But something made someone change their mind.

That's when you see it.

A glint of gold across the room—just for a second, like the sun catching jewelry. A mirror, tall and framed in carved wood, gemstones woven through its edges in delicate spirals. Your feet move without thinking.

An inscription lines the bottom, half buffered away:

"In memory, all things may be made safe." "Sanctum. Unseen. Unwritten."

The symbol is there again. The stylized eye with the keyhole pupil. You can feel something shift in you—like time lurching forward and backward all at once.

You look out the window. The sea is out there, shimmering under the weight of dusk. You can see the town, far below. Somewhere, your companion is laughing—alive. Waiting for you.

And yet... this feels like a final glance.

Your gaze is dragged back to the mirror.

It doesn't reflect your face. You realize you didn't want it to. You're afraid of what expression might be staring back.

Instead, the mirror shows a different world. A chamber stepped in shadow and splendor—velvet draped in deep violets, coffins suspended midair, and a chill of recognition crawling down your spine.

Then movement.

A few boys pass through the reflected chamber. Their clothes are familiar, their faces aching with nostalgia. They don't look at each other. They look toward you—as if they see you. As if they've been seeing you. Waiting.

You don't know whether you want to step closer or turn away.

But your heart knows something of yours still lingers on the other side of the glass. Something you left behind—or perhaps someone who never stopped hoping you'd return.

[ENDING -> Remain With The Blot]

Try again?

Yes please.

#twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfic #twst angst #blot!reader #twst blot #blot x reader #bug writing

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freezerbrldes · 6 months ago

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onanist - s.r.

PAIRING. Vampire!Spencer x Fem!reader

SUMMARY. Overcome with intense loneliness, you seek solace from any spirit that could hear your prayers. A dark century old entity answers those prays, only his obsession with you is more than you can handle…

WARNINGS. lots of mentions of blood, biting, dom!spencer, slight somnophilia, fingering, oral (f receiving), pnv sex, spencer is extremely possessive.

AUTHOR’S NOTE. This is heavily inspired by Nosferatu (2024)! The title is from one of my favorite songs off ethel cain’s newest ep, which I listened to a lot while writing this. I’ve never written dom!spencer or anything this dark so I had some help from @primomover. She helped me get the story started and I left in a section that she wrote.

credit to @cafekitsune for dividers

wc: 2,470

also on ao3

For as long as you can recall, you’ve had this recurring dream where the most captivating and beautiful man you’ve ever seen appears in your room late at night. This man embodies all your deepest, darkest, and perverted desires, and he brings out a side of yourself that you never knew existed.

He revealed to you once that his name is Spencer Reid. You know nothing else about him, yet you’re irresistibly drawn to him.

You shouldn’t even entertain these thoughts. You were married, and you shouldn’t be dreaming about anyone except your husband. However, the enigmatic man from your dreams haunts your every waking moment.

All is quiet in your empty townhouse, save for the soothing sounds of the creaks and groans of the house settling into the night.

Your husband is away on a six-week business trip, and you can’t help but feel a mix of emotions: fear of having to face the intensity of your dreams alone, but also excitement at the possibility of giving yourself up to the darkness you so desperately craved.

As you descend into a deeper sleep, the familiar dream starts. You’re standing by the balcony door as it swings open, and the curtains sway gently in the wind. A large, dark figure enters the room, towering over you as the smell of decaying flesh fills the room.

“Why do you keep visiting me every night? Who are you?” you asked, your eyes memorizing every feature of his gorgeous face, your eyes stopping at his sharp, razor-like teeth.

Spencer chuckles at your words, his loud voice reverberating through the house, causing it to shake slightly.

“Don’t you recall me? Don’t you remember calling out for me?” He spoke, his icy fingers gently caressing your face, sending shivers down your spine.

"I do remember,” you replied. “I prayed to the Lord to end my solitude." I said gently. "To send me an angel."

"Is that what I am? An angel?" He asked. As cold as his lips were, his breath set you on fire.

You looked at him - his eyes seemed to glow as they looked at your supple flesh.

"I fear you are not." You told him. He let out a huff of a laugh.

"What is to say l am not an angel that was cast out by an unforgiving god?" He swept you around in a twirl, one arm keeping your waist pulled tight against his.

“No,” you replied, your voice trembling not out of fear, but with an overwhelming sense of desire. “You are something far more sinister than a fallen angel.”

His laughter turned into a low, menacing chuckle as he spun you back around, pinning you against the wall with his body.

"Darker?" He repeated, his voice dripping with seduction and danger. "Perhaps... but you find yourself drawn to it, don't you?" His hands roamed down your sides, fingers trailing along the curves of your hips and thighs.

"This darkness within me, it stirs something primal inside you," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "A desire to be consumed, to surrender to the shadows."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"And I will devour you whole, my child. Body and soul." His words sent shivers down your spine, both from fear and exhilaration.

You knew you should resist, but the pull towards this dark, mysterious being was too strong to ignore.

Spencer could sense your hesitation, and rage began to grow in his mind as he imagined you in your husband’s arms.

Spencer's grip on your hips tightened ever so slightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as if trying to anchor you in place. He sensed your inner turmoil, the conflict between your loyalty to your husband and the forbidden attraction you felt for him.

"You struggle with the chains of convention," he murmured, his voice a hypnotic whisper. "The societal expectations that bind you. But here, with me, those constraints fall away."

One hand slid up your side, tracing the curve of your waist and coming to rest just below your ribcage. His touch was electric, sending sparks of pleasure through your veins despite the warning bells ringing in your mind.

"You can be free," he breathed, his lips grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Free to indulge in the depths of your own desires, without judgment or repercussions. All you need to do is give in to me."

His touch ignited a wildfire within you, the flames of passion consuming every shred of resistance. You found yourself arching into him, craving more of that intoxicating sensation.

"You make it so easy to abandon all reason," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "To surrender to the temptation..."

Spencer chuckled darkly, the sound sending chills down your spine.

"It's almost... sad, really. So much potential wasted on trivial matters like vows and duty,” He says, his hand reached up to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the vulnerable column of your throat.

“Don't you see, my dear? I'm offering you liberation from the shackles of mortality itself. Eternal life, unbridled pleasure, unending ecstasy." He licked a stripe up your neck, leaving a trail of cool fire in his wake.

Spencer's teeth grazed your pulse point, making you gasp. The threat of pain mingled with the promise of rapture, leaving you dizzy with longing.

"Liberation?" you echoed, your mind reeling with the implications. To be free of the burdens that weighed you down, to embrace everything that brought you deep shame.

"Yes," Spencer purred, his breath hot against your skin. "Freedom from the mundane, the ordinary. A chance to explore the depths of your own depravity, to dance with the darkness within."

His hand slid lower, cupping your sex through the fabric of your nightgown. Even the thin barrier couldn't conceal the heat emanating from your core.

"All you need to do is say yes," he coaxed, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit. "Give yourself to me, and I'll show you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams."

Without a second thought, your lips collided with his in a passionate, messy kiss. The back of your knees hit the bed as he pushes you onto it, quickly moving onto of you.

Spencer's mouth claimed yours with ruthless hunger, his tongue delving deep to stake its claim. The kiss was bruising, demanding, a declaration of ownership. He drank in your moans, relishing the taste of your submission.

As he ravaged your lips, his hands roamed your body with increasing boldness. He palmed your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened nipples through the fabric of your nightgown. Then, with a swift motion, he tore the garment open.

"You're mine now," he growled against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to gaze at you with predatory intensity. "Every inch of you belongs to me."

Without waiting for a response, he dipped his head to capture a pert nipple between his teeth, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. His free hand slipped beneath your panties, fingers finding the damp heat of your arousal.

Spencer's touch ignited a frenzy of desire within you, each stroke of his fingers pushing you closer to the edge. You writhed against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily as he toyed with your clit. "I need- I need you inside me."

Spencer's eyes flashed with triumph, his grip on your thigh tightening.

"Such eagerness," he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "But first, I want to taste you."

With a fluid motion, he sank to his knees, yanking your panties down your legs. Before you could protest, he buried his face between your thighs, his tongue lapping at your slick folds with reckless abandon.

The sensations were overwhelming— the heat of his breath, the firm pressure of his lips, the feeling of his sharp teeth grazing your sensitive skin.

Spencer's ministrations drove you wild, each lap of his tongue sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him close as he feasted on your essence.

"Mmm, you taste divine," he murmured against your flesh, his words vibrating against your clit and making you quiver. "So sweet, I could devour you forever."

He pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them against your g-spot as he suckled your clit with renewed vigor. The coil of tension within you wound tighter and tighter, until finally, you shattered.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, waves of ecstasy washing through you as you cried out his name. Spencer rode out your climax with his mouth, prolonging your pleasure until you collapsed against the bed, panting and spent.

Spencer removes his clothing before returning to his rightful place on top of you.

His naked form pressed against yours, the chill of his skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of your own. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping lightly over the delicate flesh as he whispered in a husky murmur.

"I've waited an eternity for this moment, my love. For the chance to claim you, to make you mine forevermore."

His hands roamed your body, mapping the curves and contours with reverent touch. He cupped your breasts, thumbs flicking over the stiff peaks as he lavished attention on your sensitive skin.

"You're exquisite," he breathed, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline. "A masterpiece crafted just for me, and soon, I'll sink my teeth into your tender flesh and drink in your life force, binding us together for all time."

Spencer's words sent shivers down your spine, the promise of his bite igniting a thrill of fear and excitement. You knew what would happen if he took your blood- the eternal bond, the loss of your mortal self.

And yet, as he positioned himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, you found yourself craving that very fate. Craving the completeness, the utter possession, that only he could offer.

"Take me," you whispered, arching your back to meet his hips. "Make me yours, forever and always."

Spencer's eyes gleamed with triumph as he sheathed himself inside you in one smooth stroke. He paused for a moment, savoring the tight heat enveloping him, before beginning to move.

Spencer set a relentless pace, driving into you with powerful, precise strokes. Each thrust hit that sweet spot deep within, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. Your nails dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, lost in the intoxicating rhythm of his thrusts.

"You feel incredible," he groaned, his breath hot against your ear. "So tight, so wet. As if you were made for me alone."

He angled his hips, reaching even deeper, and you felt your walls flutter around him in response. The sensation was overwhelming, bordering on pain, but you craved it, needed it to consume you whole.

"Yes, harder!" you shouted, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Fuck me like you own me!"

Spencer's grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he complied with your demand. His lips trailed down your neck, biting slightly as he drew blood, licking it off of your delicate skin as he moans at the taste.

Spencer's fangs pierced your skin, sinking deep to draw forth a trickle of crimson lifeblood. He groaned in rapture as the metallic flavor danced on his tongue, the primal urge to feed overwhelming him.

But he held back, content for now to simply savor the taste of you. His tongue swirled around the wound, lapping up every precious drop before sealing the punctures with a gentle kiss.

“You taste divine,” his voice thick with desire. "Let me have a little taste of your essence. It's addictive."

He rocked into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "Soon, I'll take more than just a sip."

Spencer's thrusts grew more erratic, his control slipping as the hunger for your blood intensified. You felt his sharp teeth sink into the skin in between your breasts. He drank deeply from the fresh wound.

The taste of you was sublime, headier than any wine or drug. He couldn't get enough. He swallowed greedily, his eyes rolling back in bliss as he savored each mouthful.

"You're mine now, body and soul," he declared, his voice low and menacing as his mouth returns to your chest, drinking the thick crimson fluid.

You moan out in both pleasure and pain, feeling disoriented from the loss of blood. Your hands tangle into his hair, holding his head in place as he continues to drink.

Spencer kept feeding, each pull at your veins dragging you closer to the edge of consciousness. But still, you held him against your chest, unwilling to break the contact.

He pulled away, a faint line of blood tracing his lips, you felt dizzy, lightheaded. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room spinning around you. But through it all, you clung to him, your body thrumming with a newfound energy, a vitality that bordered on the supernatural.

"More," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Keep feeding."

Spencer's eyes glowed with an unholy light as he smiled, revealing his razor-sharp fangs. "Anything for you, my love," he purred, already descending upon your neck once more.

Spencer's fangs sank deeper, tearing open new pathways for his insatiable thirst. With each swallow, he felt your essence coursing through his veins, amplifying his strength, his speed, his very being.

His hips pistoned forward with renewed vigor, pounding into you with ruthless intensity. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard slamming against the wall with each brutal thrust.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice a guttural snarl. "All mine. Forever and always."

He could feel your climax building, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice. With a final, savage bite, he sent you hurtling over the edge.

Your orgasm triggered Spencer’s, the rhythmic contractions of your pussy pushed him over the edge as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling deeply within you as he drank the last of your blood.

He collapsed atop you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. Spencer lifted his head to gaze down at you. His eyes, once a vivid hazel, had darkened to an almost black hue, his face and chest completely covered in your blood.

You were too weak to move. Lying helplessly on the bed, you watched Spencer stare down at you with a wicked grin on his face.

You tried desperately to wake yourself up from this dream, but as you began losing consciousness you realized this wasn’t a dream anymore.

The last thing you hear is Spencer’s maniacal laughter echoing in your ears…

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid smut #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #ethel cain

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istoleyoursphenoidbone · 6 months ago

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Would You Fall In Love With Me Again?

DPxDC (With a smidgen of Epic the Musical)

Okay, so yall really liked my last one (and thanks to all of you, I'm glad you guys enjoyed). I wanted to try my hand again and see how this goes, idk about you guys, but Epic the Musical has been my soundtrack for weeks now, and the Ithaca Saga has my heart so...Husbands!Danny and Jason torn apart due to bad resurrection? Why not.

Warning for referenced character death and blood mention, nothing too graphic, tho. Pit Rage makes people do questionable things, ya know?

The Justice League's meeting room was cloaked in unnatural shadows, the atmosphere thick with tension, like the heavy silence before a storm. A team from Justice League Dark stood in the center, preparing for a ritual. Zatanna, her voice a whispered incantation, traced glowing glyphs onto the marble floor. Constantine, who had been trying to tell them all this would be a bad idea, leaned against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips despite the no-smoking signs, while Doctor Fate floated nearby, his ethereal presence a calm amid the chaos.

Batman stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed. He hated magic—always had—but these were desperate times. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been spiraling for months. His vendetta against Gotham’s Rogues had left behind a trail of bodies, destruction, and secrets too dangerous to let slip. But it was more than just Jason’s rage. Strange energy readings tied to the Infinite Realms had begun to swirl around his every move. Whatever connection Jason had to that otherworldly dimension had become unstable, and they needed answers—answers only the Ghost King could provide.

“Are we ready?” Batman’s voice cut through the room. Zatanna nodded, stepping back as the last glyph flared to life. “The summoning spell is complete. Brace yourselves. This entity isn’t like anything we’ve dealt with before.” Constantine snorted, flicking his cigarette to the ground. “Ain’t that just bloody reassuring.”

The air split with a deafening crack, and green light spiraled upward, forming a vortex. From it stepped a figure draped in black armor, a faint crown glowing above his head, his eyes burning with an eerie green light. Danny Phantom, the Ghost King, stood before them. "Who dares to summon the High King of the Infinite Realms?" His voice carried an unearthly echo, a stark contrast to the mortal men and women in the room.

Constantine muttered something under his breath—likely a curse—but Wonder Woman stepped forward, her voice steady. “We require your assistance, Ghost King. There’s a man, the Red Hood, aka Jason Todd, whose actions have drawn the attention of both our realm and yours.” Danny’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening. “Jason Todd?” Batman stepped forward, his voice rough but resolute. “He’s my son.”

Danny’s gaze snapped to him, the glowing green light flickering with intensity. “Your son,” he repeated, his tone colder now, sharper. Zatanna stepped in to explain, her voice calm but urgent. “Jason is targeting Gotham’s Rogues, several have been killed. But it seems he has a connection to the Infinite Realms. His ectoplasmic energy is spiking. We believe he’s drawing power from your domain, whether he knows it or not.” Danny’s expression darkened, and his voice dropped to a low, almost imperceptible growl. “And you want me to stop him.”

“Not stop,” Wonder Woman corrected gently. “Help. If he’s tied to your realm, we need to understand why—and how to sever that connection, if necessary.” Danny stood motionless, the green light in his eyes flickering with a mix of emotions none of them could decipher. After a long moment, he nodded, sharp and final. “I’ll handle it. Alone.” Batman started to protest, but Danny cut him off with a steady gaze, his voice softening, just a fraction. “You’ve done your part. Let me do mine.” Without waiting for a response, Danny turned and stepped back into the swirling portal, leaving the Justice League in a heavy, uneasy silence.

---

The Infinite Realms churned around Danny as he passed through the portal, an energy that mirrored the restlessness gnawing at his heart. When he had been summoned, he had expected a crisis—another rift in the realms or a rogue spirit threatening the balance, hell even just cultists trying to mess with the order of things again. What he hadn’t expected was to be summoned to deal with him.

Jason...his sweet and loving Jason.

As the portal closed behind him, Danny heard Batman’s grim explanation echo in his mind: Red Hood was spiraling. He’d already killed Joker, Riddler, and Two-Face. And it seemed like Penguin was next. The Pit Rage had taken hold, and no one—least of all Bruce—had been able to pull Jason from the edge. The Justice League had turned to him because the energy Jason radiated had drawn their attention to the Infinite Realms.

It had been twenty years since Jason disappeared from the Realms—twenty long years since Danny had watched his husband, the man he had married in death, pulled from his side and resurrected in the mortal world. For Danny, it felt like an eternity.

As Danny emerged from the portal into Gotham’s shadowed streets, the oppressive energy in the air pulled at him, thick with Jason’s rage. He could feel the ectoplasmic aura that surrounded him, like a storm cloud about to break. But more than that, Danny could feel the familiar tug of Jason’s presence. It was raw, chaotic—lost.

And Danny? He was all too familiar with being lost.

There was no turning back now. Jason was out there, a tempest of pain and blood, and Danny couldn’t stop the wave of dread that surged through him. This was his husband—the man he had fallen in love with, over and over again—and now he was out of control.

Danny’s eyes glowed as he moved deeper into the city, knowing that whatever happened next, he wouldn’t be alone in facing it. Not this time. Jason Todd stood among the wreckage of a smuggling ring’s hideout. The docks were eerily silent except for the gentle lap of water against the pier. Blood slicked his gloved hands, and his breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The Pit Rage roared in his ears, demanding more—more destruction, more vengeance, and more blood.

The ghostly glow appeared behind him, and Jason spun, guns drawn. The figure emerging from the green light made him falter.

Danny.

Jason blinked, the haze of rage momentarily thinning. He couldn’t trust his eyes, not after everything. But the way Danny looked at him—with love, pain, and something infinite in his glowing green eyes—cut through Jason’s defenses. “Jason,” Danny said softly, his voice trembling but steady. Jason lowered his guns, his shoulders slumping. “Danny?”

Danny stepped closer, his glowing cape billowing behind him. “It’s been twenty years.” Jason flinched. “Eight.” His voice cracked. “Only eight here.” Danny’s eyes softened. “It felt like forever.” Jason staggered back, shaking his head. “I’m not—” He gestured at the blood staining his armor. “I’m not who I was. You shouldn’t be here.”

Danny reached out but didn’t touch him, his hands hovering just inches away. “You’re still you, Jason. You’re still my husband.” Jason’s laugh was bitter, almost a sob. “You don’t understand. I’ve killed them. Joker. Riddler. Two-Face. There’s no redemption for me. I’ve left a trail of blood and bodies. I’m not the man you fell in love with. I’m not—”

“Stop,” Danny interrupted, his voice firm. “Stop telling me who you think you are. I know you. I’ve always known you.” Jason clenched his fists. “Would you still love me if you knew all I’ve done? The things I can’t take back? The lives I’ve destroyed?” Danny took a step forward, his expression raw with emotion. “Yes. I would. I do.” Jason’s knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his hands covering his face. “I’ve tried to fight it, Danny. I’ve tried to be better, but the rage... it doesn’t stop. It’s like drowning, and every time I surface, there’s more blood.”

Danny knelt in front of him, his hand finally resting on Jason’s shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “I’ve felt it too—the weight of things you can’t undo. But you’re not alone anymore. I’ve been waiting for you, Jason. Waiting for you to come back to me.” Jason’s breath hitched, and he looked up, his blue eyes rimmed with tears. “How can you still love me after everything? I’m not... I’m not the man you knew.”

Danny smiled, his own eyes glistening. “You’re still the man I fell in love with. You’re still the man who carved our initials into a tree in the Infinite Realms. The man who made me laugh, who promised me forever. And I meant it when I said forever, Jason. No matter where or when or what you’ve done, I’ll love you. Always.”

Jason let out a shuddering breath, and for the first time in years, the weight on his chest lightened. He leaned into Danny’s touch, the Pit Rage ebbing as warmth spread through him. Danny cupped his face, their foreheads touching. “You don’t have to carry this alone anymore. Let me help you. Let me love you.” Jason closed his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.” Danny’s laugh was soft and full of love. “That’s for me to decide. And I’ve decided—over and over again—that I’ll always choose you.”

Jason’s arms wrapped around Danny, holding him tightly as if afraid he might disappear. But Danny held him just as firmly, grounding him, anchoring him. The green glow of the Infinite Realms pulsed around them, a quiet promise of redemption, of love that could weather even the darkest storms.

---

Danny didn’t leave Jason’s side that night, nor would he ever again. Together, they began the long, painful process of healing. The road ahead wasn’t easy, but they faced it together, their love, a beacon in the darkness.

The heroes would just have to get used to the unearthly presence of the Ghost King in their plane of existence. And no matter how much time passed, Danny knew one thing would never change: he would fall in love with Jason Todd, over and over again, for eternity.

#dpxdc #dc x dp #danny fenton #danny phantom #ghost king danny #jason todd #red hood #danny fenton x jason todd #epic the musical reference #Epic has a grip on my brain #The Whole “I love you despite the Blood Shed” Trope #fanfic snippet #constructive critism welcome

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mermaidchansons · 7 months ago

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Divine Indeed: Part Two

Neighbor!Terry Richmond x Divine Wells (black OC)

Story Summary: Divine Wells, a 31-year-old seamstress, deals with waves of change after she picks up her life and moves to San Diego for a new job. She thought she’d finally found peace in her new normal; until Oshun decided to push her path to collide with her fine ass neighbor, Terry Richmond.

Words: 2300+

Warnings: mentions of loss, lust

Author’s Note: Better late than never lmfao. Feedback is always encouraged! Don’t keep your thoughts in that pretty head, share with me, bby <3 - Ashanti

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt.3

Meow!

“I hear you, T. Just give me 5 seconds, man.”

Terry looked down at his watch, watching the seconds hand cross over the 12 and stopping the alarm just as it began to ring out. The music in his ears transitioned to the next song on Death’s ‘…For The Whole World To See’ album. It was 7:30 AM, which meant breakfast time for the one-year-old Maine Coon, and he was intent on making it everyone’s problem. He scampered over to where his human was sitting to tie his sneakers and placed his big front paws on Terry’s knees; claws slightly sinking into the outer layer of his owner's skin. Shaking his head, Terry headed out of his bedroom and over to the kitchen where elevated bowls with the name T’Challa written in black.

Terry tightened the loop of his gym bag at his chest as he briskly walked across the room with his cat in tow; mewling at him in annoyance. He moved to San Diego just over two years prior, intent on putting his past behind him and finding himself again; or whoever he was now that his only living family member was gone. The sense of self that he had felt confident in was shaken and depleted. The Marines instilled Terry with discipline and determination where Michael gave him a sense of adventure and a purpose; a reason to keep going. For years, he had a purpose in two entities. But now that time and circumstance had ripped both out of his grasp, he needed a change of scenery; to get out of the south. Terry was stagnant for once in 10 years and in becoming familiar with the suffocating, muggy feeling of loss, he knew he needed out. Loss would have eaten him whole with no regret or second thoughts.

Terry reached into the tall food container, scooping up dry kibbles and moving to the food bowl. As if on cue, T’Challa stood on his stocky hind legs with his face in the bowl, waiting for the kibbles to drop. Terry attempted to push the cat’s long face away, rolling his eyes at the sound of a very long drawn-out meow. The little man was impatient as hell and acted as if Terry would ever let him miss a meal. T’Challa resisted as always, hellbent on being in the way and Terry poured the food directly onto his head, calling him an ‘asshole’. He would never get over how half of the kibble never made it into the bowl. When he first moved into this apartment, the woman who helped him sign the lease suggested that he’d get a furry companion to help ‘evade the inevitable loneliness’. And yet it was times like this that made him wonder if he should have chosen loneliness instead.

“I better not find any of that food in that damn bed, T,” Terry warned the cat as he walked out the front door, locking it behind him; jiggling the handle for good measure. Bypassing the elevator and heading to the staircase, Terry checked his texts to see that his client would be 15 minutes late. He flexed his jaw incredulously, shoving the phone in his pocket. He’d have to nip that in the bud. Tardiness was something Terry would not tolerate. After being berated by his Creole grandmother in front of her book club for his tardiness, a 7-year-old Terry had decided that he would never be late to anything ever again. And he never was. ‘Cause who would he be if he went against Grandma Thérèse’s orders? A smirk appeared on his face as he landed on the second floor, hearing her voice in his ear saying ‘if you’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re late, you may as well have stayed home, chile’.

Terry waltzed into gym room #7 with his attention to his phone and stopped in his tracks. The music in his ears seemed to also be playing out loud, causing him to blink at the impending confusion. Pausing the music and taking out his AirPods, he finally looked up. A candy pink speaker sat against the farthest wall blasting the tail end of ‘Politicians In My Eyes’ by Death. Across from the speaker was a person high up on the stair master, squeezing her eyes shut as she stepped up each step. Her pink afro bubble braids were half up, half of them hanging down her back; just passed the cup of her thick backside.

Terry hid a growing smile when he took a closer look at the gym set the beautiful stranger was wearing. A light blue with water ripples and bright yellow rubber ducks that warped and jiggled with each hike she made. It was almost comical, but not nearly enough to distract him. His mouth went dry as he observed the stranger, taking in every curve and roll as she climbed the stairs to the beat of a new song. He was staring for far too long and he knew it. But she made it hard to turn away; the swing of her plentiful hips with each step was enough to make him drop to his knees and beg her for an ounce of attention. Just an ounce, he knew he didn’t deserve any more than that. No one on earth was deserving of someone like her. Refocus, be cool.

“My bad, I didn’t know this room was booked up,” Terry yelled over the electronic music.

Her head whipped to look at him before she scrambled, trying to stop the machine and pause the music at the same time. She stood on the side of the machine, frantically ripping out the safety chord and turning down the music with both hands. Her chest bounced up and down wildly, trying to catch her breath. Terry fixed his mouth to ask if she was alright, but she stuck out her index finger, silencing him. He nodded and walked over to the panting goddess, holding out his hand in support. She gingerly placed her small palm in his, letting him guide her back down to safety. He picked up what he assumed to be her pink, sticker ladened hydro flask and handed it to her. Terry watched intently as she mouthed a thank you.

“I didn’t mean to barge in on your time,” Terry apologized, one foot behind him, ready to leave her to her own devices.

“No, no- don’t mind me, we can share for the last 10 minutes.”

Pink bubble braids swayed around her as she made her way over to a pile of weight plates on the floor, left behind by someone in a rush no doubt. Terry watched as she bent down to pick up a plate, but stayed down. She had to have known it was too heavy, but she continued to strain.

How long is she going to keep this up? Terry tried his best to quell the bubbling laughter rising in him. With arms crossed, he observed as she finally lifted the plate off of the ground and practically threw it onto the bench. He watched her face contort in the reflection of the mirror, scrunching her cute little round nose at the sudden clanging of metal. Down again she went, moving into a deep squat to lift the next plate. Terry shut his eyes tight, pulling his lips in as the laugh began trickling out of him, making an audible pffft.

“You could help you know,” the beautiful stranger whined with an incredulous look on her face; which soon melted into a smirk once she saw the smile plastered on Terry.

“Yes, ma’am.” Terry jogged over, trading laughs between them. He didn’t have much experience in the art of flirting, and never really had the urge to engage in it. Leading as many lives as Terry had, one would think romance must have wiggled its way in at some point. Yet, here he stood, unable to remember how long it’s been since he’d been on a date. It couldn’t have been in the last year, he’d been a hermit since he’d moved to San Diego.

“It’s hard to take you seriously with all the ducks and cuteness.”

“Listen, you wouldn’t be saying that if you saw the lack of cute workout clothes in size fat. I had to make these myself.”

Terry took the weight plate out of her hands. “Word? Is that what you do?” He bent down to return the plates, his eyes darting to the rubber duck charms dangling from her blue sneakers.

“Yeah, kinda,” she sighed before taking a long swig of water, “I’m a seamstress so I mostly execute other people’s visions. I don’t get a lot of time to work on my own stuff.”

“By the way you sound saying that you might need to make some time for yourself. Otherwise, you gone sound like a depressed robot.”

Terry nudged her shoulder with his and she dramatically swayed to the side. Her tooth gems gleamed in the light when her chubby cheeks squished up into a smile. Warmth radiated in the tips of Terry’s ears and he swallowed dryly to extinguish the growing desire in his abdomen.

“Marvin? Stop, my mom used to call me that. She loves that movie.” She started to walk towards the door and Terry’s feet moved with hers, no thoughts required.

“That was one of the last movies I saw in theater.”

She scrunched up her face and stopped in her tracks. Terry stopped with her in tandem and waited in curiosity. He looked down at her with his brow lifted in question.

“Wait, that was like a bajillion years ago! You gotta get out more, dude. Listen, there’s a theater two blocks away that does $5 Wednesday showings.”

Terry cheesed hard watching the little deity jump into a myriad of movie titles and where to watch them online. She looked almost offended that he had not had the chance to experience these movies, going into her recommendations for the month. Sure, he hadn’t dated in what felt like a century, but maybe a movie date would be nice.

“My bad, I’m running my mouth about a special interest and I don’t even know your name yet.”

Terry blinked away the date ideas swirling in his head and brought himself back to the present, rewinding and replaying the last sentence sent into the air. “You’re good. Nice to meet you, I’m Terry. Terry Richmond. I’m on level 5.”

She slid a small, gold-adorned hand into his larger one and pulled her shoulders back. “Pleasure to meet you, Terry of Level 5. My name’s Divine Wells, first of her name, keeper, and dweller of level 2.”

He watched her bow into an assisted curtsey, giggling; clearly tickled by her joke. She was an absolute nut and he grew entranced with every word that fell from her pouty pink lips. Her name echoed in his head in a voice other than his own and rushing water sounded in his ears. The voice repeated her name until it melted into the familiar pitter-patter of raindrops against a window. What was she doing to him? Her brown sugar eyes broke away from his to look out the window at the sudden rain. He immediately missed their connection, desperate to be beneath her gaze once more. Looking down at their still connected hands, he felt almost magnetized to her.

When Divine returned her attention to his face, her eyes grew large with shock and she took her hand out of his. “My bad,” she said in hushed tones.

“You’re good, Divine.” Terry’s eyes racked up and down her body once more before offering her a small, genial smile. She bit her lip and drew her eyes away. Was she blushing? Terry slyly dug into his pocket for a business card, getting one ready to hand to her.

“You know I-”

“Hermano, my bad bro, my alarm didn’t go off and I had this honey over last night. I lost track of time, bro.” An olive-skinned man projected his voice as he tip-toed in, vacuuming away the swells of lust in the air. Terry crossed his arms and pointed his eyes like daggers at the man. Divine’s shot between them and let out a small ‘oop’.

“Stretch.”

One word from Terry and the man damn near sprinted to the other side of the gym room, his overly large gym bag rustling loudly with each step. Terry looked over to see Divine gathering her things to prepare to leave.

A waterfall of pink puffs covered her face as she bent down to her belongings into a bag. Rubber ducks jiggled with her behind as she stepped, drawing Terry’s attention again. He had to stop looking at her like this. If he didn’t, he’d have to step away from his client session to take care of the growing pain below his abdomen.

Divine walked towards the door waving with one hand, and put on her headphones with the other. “Nice meeting you, Terry.”

“You too. Hold up.” Terry took three steps forward, his heart jumping a beat as he watched Divine bite her lip once more; those eyes flooding him with heat. “I know we don’t know each other like that but here’s my number. Let me know if you ever need anything, I take this community shit seriously.”

Her eyes lit up as she took the card from his hand and Terry flexed his jaw. He was in agony just looking at her.

“Whatever you say, Terry.” He watched Divine and her rubber duck-lined outfit walk away as the rain picked up outside. He was in trouble.

Tags:

@babybluepeaches @muse-of-mbaku @melaninmarvel @naturallyqueenie @howtoshuckatlife @goldieccentric @archivistofwakanda @alexundefined @minyara-kun @destinio1 @raysunshine78 @madamslayyy @notdsg @ghostfacekill-monger @soufcakmistress @greennightspider @bitchacho25 @jordanhelah @puremolasses @ajspencer1892 @monochrome-pineapple @psuedo4 @bubblyqueen @chaneajoyyy @blowmymbackout @tchallasbabymama @megamindsecretlair @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @jvzmine19 @ashanti-notthesinger

Thanks For Reading!

#Divine Indeed #MermaidChansons Writes #Terry Richmond #Terry Richmond x black reader #terry richmond fanfiction #Terry Richmond x black fem #rebel ridge #rebel ridge fanfiction #Terry Richmond fluff #Terry Richmond slow burn #slow burn #neighbors to lovers

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saphiccarma · 5 months ago

Text

- The Things You do to me are Deadly (TTYDTMAD)

Relationships - Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - You are the brother of Thor and Loki, and after killing a rather powerful entity, you are sent on the run. Lucky for you, the other divine being of death is ready to help - in more ways that one.

Warnings: 18+ Men and Minors DNI, smut, fingering (reader receiving), nipple play (r receiving), broomstick sex (? idk guys you'll see), like one use of good girl, semi-public sex (ish), neck biting

A/N: sorry for the crappy warnings 😭 but I wanted to cover it all but also wasn't sure. Anywayssssss this was a request and I tried a slightly different writing style so lemme know if y'all like it :)

Exhaustion weighed heavily on you, for the first time in forever - you, a divine being, was tired. Seeking some form of energy, you closed your eyes, inhaling and reaching out with your senses. Invisible strings tugged on your conscience and guided you towards the dead. You drew power from the dead, their souls fueling you like drugs did to humans.

You caught onto a surge of dead bodies, the mass amount strange, but you didn't question it as you let your senses guide you there. The faint trace of magic tickles your skin, making you stand on edge, but as you glance around the grassy clearing, you see no one. The magic feels foreign, not quite what you were used to, but certainly not the magic of those who chased after you.

Kneeling down to examine the body you tilt your head, humming lightly in curiosity and confusion as you study it. Their faces are shriveled, wrinkles that are far older than their souls are cracking what was once delicate skin. It's an odd way to die and you wonder who did it, who possessed such a power. But the details are irrelevant to you, all you care about is taking their souls for your own gain.

You almost didn't notice when she appeared, her presence mixing with the ever-present death, but she stood out. An odd mix of life and death, swirling together and clashing in an invisible battle. You glance up from your crouched position, hands settled on your knees and eyes squinting against the harsh light.

A woman stands before you, dressed in an elegant black dress that flows past her ankles and brushes against the grass. Her face reminds you of those who died valiantly in battle, skin stripped from their face. Her jaw lacks any skin, only the bones and the patches under her eyes are hollow. Dark makeup traces her skin delicately around those dark brown eyes and she looks divine.

There's a hood that casts a shadow over her skin, which looks so soft and smooth in comparison to the harsh sight of her jawline. The hood conceals chocolate brown hair that falls down her shoulders in soft waves.

At the sight of her, your nerves perk up and you rise to your feet so that she's not looking down at you. Despite your wariness, she does not seem like a threat...instead she appears to be almost familiar, her presence comforting even as your eyes narrow suspiciously.

Her lips, pale and thin, curl into a small smirk, "I wasn't expecting to see such a pretty thing on the job today," she purrs her voice low and smooth. It hits your ears like a melody, a gentle tune that pulls you in, "What are you doing here? I'm Rio."

"Rio," you test the name on your tongue, brows furrowing as you try and recall the name. It rolls off your tongue like you'd said it dozens of times. You haven't heard it before, but her magic swirls around her softly, crackling in a way that makes her seem like home, "Who are you?"

"Death." Her eyes narrow as her head tilts. The blunt answer hits you like a hammer, crashing into your stomach at full force and knocking the air from you. Not that you needed it to survive. Pursing your lips you study her, and it makes sense. Why she would be here, at this moment of time. Just like you she was drawn the bodies, ready to take their life force. You had a feeling that she handled death differently to you, she didn't absorb the souls - she guided them.

The souls of these bodies linger in the air, impatient to be dealt with, paying them no heed you take a step forward. Rio stays in place, meeting your gaze head on with sparkling eyes, shimmering with something you can't decipher. It borders on joy that seeps through years of pain.

"That's..." you trail off, voice wavering. It was indeed possible, you had heard the tales, the stories that there were other divine beings. "That's-"

"Not possible," she offers, raising an eyebrow, "A lie? Not supposed to happen?" You glare at her for speaking for you, but she captured your thoughts perfectly. Lips pursing you puff out a breath of frustrated air through your nose and fold your arms over your chest. "Well sweetheart, I hate to break it to you, but you're staring Death in the face."

She takes a step closer, her cloak ruffling the grass at her feet, "And yet, you aren't dead. Isn't that peculiar?"

Her eyes pierce your soul in a way that sends a fresh wave of shivers down your spine, a first for an immortal like you. Your fingers dig into the soft skin of your arms as if that will ground you, but it does nothing except make you wish you could feel pain sometimes.

"That means," she continues slowly when you don't say anything, throat oddly dry, "That you're like me."

Rio's grin is teasing, the corners of her lips tilted in a way that speaks to childish innocence - she is anything but. Danger exudes from every inch of her and it wraps around you like a comfort. It eased your sore bones, and the sensation only amplified when the woman took another step forward. Her very presence was enough to soothe in a way that no other had.

You can feel the souls drawn to her as she slowly approaches, their spirits reaching out and begging to be taken, pleading for rest. It was different then how they called to you. You took them for your own pleasure, yet Rio she...she drew them in with an oddly soothing presence.

From your view, Death was not meant to be comforting. It was something that took and took and raged with a violence that could never be tamed. But Rio was different. Was she dangerous? Yes, very much so, you could feel the power radiating off her.

Unlike you, however, her smile was softening and her eyes sparkled with a childlike joy that most didn't have. You saw past that twinkle of carefreeness and there was a sadness lurking behind it, hiding in the depths of her expression.

Tilting your head, you offer her a tight purse of your lips that some would see as a smile, "Maybe I am."

^______________^

Rio became a steady, albeit chaotic, presence in your life. She was a whirlwind of emotions and actions; more expressive than any divine entity you had seen before. Death was meant to be something that was feared and revered, but Rio was different, and you found yourself drawn to her.

Thor was still after you, along with Loki, for varying reasons. You were lucky that Rio's magic masked your presence as well, the brothers unable to find you. Honestly it was pathetic how hard they were trying, scouring the edges of the seven worlds.

They never found you. Rio took you home, well what she called her home. It wasn't really a home. Somewhere in the cosmos, a dark place, is where Rio resided, and you soon started staying there more and more often. The place, wherever and whatever it was, smelled of fresh flowers and the heady aroma of just pure dirt. At first you had to admit you were a bit disgusted, but you got used to it.

The walls were lined with intricate patterns, vines that's twisted around each other in loops and swirls. Sometimes you had a hard time deciphering if they were real or merely just a pattern. Dirt, smooth and often getting in your shoes and clothes, was the material Rio had chosen for the floor.

You pestered her about it often, begging her to change it to something more modern, but she merely shrugged you off with a grin and a whistle, spinning off to do who knows what. Rio had her odd mannerisms, but you had grown to love every one of them.

Her latest obsession was dropping down into your lap, no matter what you were doing. If you were working on a project, an assortment of plants and body parts surrounding you, then it was very likely for Rio to be draped sideways across your lap, arms looped around your neck or trailing up your arm. When you were reading a book, Rio would drop down and straddle your lap, burying her face in your neck and peppering the skin there with light kisses.

You could never go long without Rio initiating some form of physical touch with you.

The book in your hands was light, nothing more than a feather, as you laid across the couch. It was soft, colored pale green which matched Rio's eternal color scheme. That was another of the things you'd noticed about Rio. As spontaneous as she was, there were some things that never changed, that stayed the same always. Flipping another one of the fragile pages, you saw movement in the corner of your eye.

Rio's form slinked through the shadows, moving with a familiar grace, and you had seconds before she landed on your stomach. A small 'oomph' leaves your mouth, and you lower the book to glare at her. All Death does is give you a cheeky smile and coyly twirl a strand of her hair between her long fingers. You sigh, exasperated by her shenanigans before opening your arms. Rio takes the invitation eagerly, laying down on your chest like a cat.

"Hi, my love," she coos, her lips finding the sensitive spot on your neck, "Watcha reading?" Nibbling on your skin, one of Rio's hands find your side, tracing patterns onto your shirt absently. You don't respond to her question, breath hitching as her tongue flattens to smooth over the red spot on your neck.

With shaky hands you bring the book back up, hovering above Rio as you read, trying in vain to focus on the words. They started to swirl in your vision as Rio's hands traced up and down your side, slender fingers dipping beneath the hem of your shirt to drag her nails along your skin.

"I missed you," she continues when you don't respond, "Collecting souls all day is soooo boring, you should join me sometime."

Her request is punctuated with a sharp nip the juncture of your shoulder and neck, sucking on the skin there with her soft lips after she bites. You shudder and exhale shakily, trying to keep your composure. The book in your hands felt impossibly heavy now, heavier than Rio's weight on your chest.

"Are you really going to ignore me? Come on, sweetheart, I have a surprise for you." Her head moves and now her chin is pressing into your skin, brown eyes staring up at you through long lashes as she bats them coyly. Rio wastes no time in plucking the book out of your hand, despite your protests, and flinging it away. Her slender fingers wrap around yours and she tugs you off the couch.

All you see is a bright grin before you feel a sudden pressure pushing down on you, forcing you out of the comfort of the dark cavern. Death envelops you comfortingly and you are transported to the outside world. The two of you are dropped off in the mortal realm, the rush of it hitting you full force.

"Why are we here?" you sigh, slapping her arm lightly as you recover from the transport. Rio cackles and doesn't answer the question verbally, instead she spins around and picks up a stick from the ground, it's large enough to sit on - both of you.

Raising an eyebrow you give Rio an odd look, "What that's for?"

Her grin widens and she waves her fingers, green magic dancing around them. Then she holds the branch between her hands and mutters some words, spinning in a circle. You scoff a little, an amused sound, as you watch her.

"Alright," she turns to you with a bright smile, "Hop on."

"What are we doing Rio?" you give her an unamused look, "Riding a broomstick?"

That only serves to make her eyes sparkle further and she grabs your hand. Rio swings a leg over the stick and tugs you to sit in front of her, letting Rio guide you as she starts running forward. It only takes a few seconds for your feet to lift off the ground.

You let out a surprised shriek, arms flying to frantically grab at the wood. Tilting the stick upwards the two of you shot into the air, wind blowing in your face. A cackle bursts from Rio's throat, and she throws her head back.

The two of you soar up and up and up, and you wonder if you could reach the moon like this. Slender arms snake their way around your waist and your breath hitches as Rio's hands find your thighs. For a moment you think she's going to try something, but she merely rests them there, fingers splayed out.

The moonlight shines on your face softly and you tilt your head upwards, eyes fluttering shut as you inhaled slowly. The night sky smelled of fresh rain and sweet flowers. Although the latter might just be Rio, her chin placed on your shoulder and arms wrapped around your waist makes her scent all the more prominent.

"Nice isn't it?" her breath fans against your ear, a stark contrast to the cool of the night air. It feels amazing to be up here, you feel free. While Rio's cavernous home was nice, there was something so special about being exposed to the night sky as wind whipped in your face and tainted your cheeks pink from the chill. Rio's fingers dipped lower, further down your thigh, "The view is the best part."

A light blush that isn't from the air coats your cheeks and you lean back into Rio, "You think so?"

"Oh, I know so," she hums, and one hand slides up, beneath the hem of your shirt. A shaky breath escapes you when Rio's nails drag up your skin until she cups your breast, "Want me to prove it to you?"

Rio's thumb slides over your nipple, the tip pebbling under her touch, and her warm breath ghosts the shell of your ear. Her lips find your pulse point, attaching onto the skin there and bringing it between her lips.

"Please," you subconsciously grind down onto the broom, feeling a wet patch start to blossom on your panties. A desperate, hot, need pools in your core and you press down harder on the flying contraption, searching for friction you have yet to be given.

The vibrations from a laugh echo along your neck and Rio's fingers slide to dip below your waistband teasingly. Lips trailing along your neck, Rio pushes your panties aside and parts your folds to gather the increasing wetness on your fingers.

She doesn't say a word, but you can feel her smirk on your neck, smugness radiating off her in waves. You whimper as your nipple is taken between her forefinger and thumb, rolled and pinched in spontaneous bursts. Then she applies the slightest bit of pressure to your clit in a way that has you whining and angling yourself to give her better access.

Rio's fingers swipe through your sex slowly, in a rhythmic pattern that drove you insane. It was tauntingly slow, just enough to make you want more, to leave you aching and desperate, but not enough to give you what you want. Your hips jerk as seek more of that delicious fiction you so badly desire. And thankfully, Rio gives it to you. Two of her fingers ease their way into your cunt, the entrance already slick with arousal and easy to penetrate.

"Look at you," she purrs, pulling away from your neck for a moment, "Your cunt just sucks up my fingers so nicely, doesn't it?"

You can't formulate a verbal response, just a ragged moan tearing from your throat as you throw your head back to rest it on Rio's bony shoulder. Her fingers set a torturous pace, leisurely pumping in and out of you as her other hand toys with your nipples, swapping between the two when the other becomes red and raw.

"Rio," you whine, tugging on her wrist, trying to force her to go faster.

She merely laughs, the sound low and throaty as her lips continue their blazing exploration of your neck.

"Focus on the view sweetheart," she murmurs, "Tell me what you see."

Opening your eyes slowly you look around, trying to focus on your surroundings, "I- trees and uhm-" your words are cut off by a choked cry as Rio curls her fingers just right, hitting your most sensitive spot.

"Ahaha," she clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth, "Don't stop, keep going. I'll tell you when to stop."

"Mountains," you exhale shakily, trying to control the tremble in your voice despite knowing it's useless. Rio's digits pick up pace, her wrist bent at an odd angle that surely wasn't comfortable, "There's- there's clouds above us-" once again you stutter off at the end, Rio thrusting into you and silencing your words.

You can feel the heat rushing through your body and boiling beneath your skin, just begging to be released. Twisting your nipple particularly harsh, Rio bites down on your neck with the command to keep talking.

"L-" another gasp leaves you and your hips jerk frantically, chasing the release you craved, "Lake. There's a- uhh fuck- there's a waterfall."

You are rewarded with a firm press of her thumb to your clit and the new pressure has you fumbling for purchase, fingers digging into the bark of the broomstick. She works her fingers in and out of you, curling at just the right time.

"Good girl," she praises, voice low and approving. The words send you tumbling over the edge, the heat from your body exploding in a rapid flash as you climax, thighs shaking as you scream into the night sky. Pleasure rips through you, making all your nerves hyper sensitive but you hardly care as Rio works you through your orgasm, skilled fingers slowing down.

As you come down from your high, Rio removes her fingers and presses them to your lips wordlessly. You take the slick coated digits into your mouth, tongue swirling around them as you groan and clean her up.

"God sweetheart," she kisses the sensitive spot behind your ear, "The things you do to me are deadly."

#rio x you #rio x reader #rio vidal x reader #rio vidal smut #x you #x y/n #x y/n smut #reader insert #female reader #death x reader

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emo-crowgirl · 3 months ago

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I guess this could count as a continuation my whole “Miko being a glitch and somehow reverting into a root form” post. Because I did a lot more thinking on Glitch!Miko-focused scenarios and just: What happens if Miko were to encounter something that also originated from her game. Ranging from an npc to an item to an enemy.

Because ignoring any kind of “Miko Encounters Herself” scenario, just imagine.

Like for an item, sure Miko would probably be drawn to it immediately, especially if it’s something that her game equivalent uses. Glitches act on their code and even if Miko is Sentient/Sapient, consciously or not her game code will definitely at least influence her.

But what if it’s an item that Miko CANT use. Like say that Miko’s game has some kind of class system and Miko’s class isn’t meant to use a specific weapon, or Miko herself originates from an enemy or NPC and therefore simply can’t use any weapons that the player would pick up, because entities that aren’t the player can’t pick up and use the player’s stuff. They just aren’t programmed to be able to do it.

For a real world equivalent or items from any other glitch, Miko’s fine. Her programming doesn’t care because there’s nothing in her code telling her that she can’t pick this thing up, plus Miko is obviously not a regular glitch. She’s Sapient and clearly capable of at least somewhat defying her programming. Or maybe her code literally does not recognize this glitch item because it’s not explicitly from her game of origin. Glitches are good at effectively ad-libbing or ignoring stuff like that.

But then Miko sees some item from her own game, and her code can TELL. Miko may or may not recognize it, maybe some deja vu, but her code knows exactly what it is and exactly how Miko is and isn’t supposed to interact with it. It could range from a complete mental block where Miko can’t get herself interact with it because her code is subconsciously preventing it, to Miko managing to pick it up, only for her code to freak out and start breaking down because it has no idea how to handle this scenario that according to it, should be impossible. Maybe the item can also tell, it’s also a glitch with its own programming, and just doesn’t let Miko touch it. Sliding away from her, doing it’s best to get the fuck out of Miko’s hands if she manages to pick it up, and also proceeding to freak out and break down if Miko holding it is such an crash-causing event.

And then there’s stuff like how characters from Miko’s game would interact with her. If Miko’s a player controlled character, enemies would probably zero in on her immediately, because even if there’s other techs around, they are literally MADE to fight Miko specifically. If she’s an enemy or boss the same goes for glitches of the player character(s). Or if she’s an NPC, who knows? Characters may not be able to interact with her at all. Enemies ignoring her because they were never programmed to attack NPCs, player characters unable to harm her because they were only programmed to speak to her, etc.

(Then again, Glitches DO seem to be able to ad-lib and operate just barely outside the normal restraints of their code if they need to, for example dialogue like Count Nogrog altering his single player dialogue to use plurals when dealing with two players or Team-Enter-Name creating dialogue on the fly when interacting with what they think is a regular map, so the glitch could just reclassify Miko as an enemy/player if they need to, but still).

But that also applies to Miko. She could see an enemy from her old game and go ballistic. Don’t even know if she’d even be aware of what she’s doing or if the sentient part of her just blacks out and whatever old programming she has buried beneath the parts of code that make her Miko takes over for a bit. Or she could see an enemy/player character/NPC and just. Not be able to harm them. She can harm other glitches, but her programming actively prevents her from harming something that according to it, should be impossible for her to harm in her original game.

#glitch techs #idea #miko kubota

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entities-of-posts · 4 months ago

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Do you know what an optimist is, Archivist?

It’s a small, sprit-rigged sailing dinghy. Fits one person and is designed for children and young teens, but, in a pinch, a short and skinny adult could also make use of one. And my friend was certainly in a pinch when they left Chioggia with the Fog rolling in. (They do not seem to have access to the many doors and walkways of It Is Lies, which is interesting.)

Anyway, an optimist is really not suited for high seas (it can barely handle the open Mediterranean) and it’s not very fast, either; but it is agile, small, and easily hidden. If it can outrun a motorised vessel, that is.

As the mist smothered Chioggia, I commandeered a dinghy of my own and gave chase.

The winds were high, for the weather was shifting, and my friend is an adept sailor. The engine roared in tune with the blood in my ears and the salt wind whistled past as we raced across the Adriatic. Fractals and Fog trailed behind our respective vessels.

They maneuvered in zig zags and corners and angles and turns sharper than physics would usually allow. I was less agile, and bound to the resistance of water and air, but my boat was faster, and so the dance was drawn out. And every so often, we would narrowly pass each other, and I could see the fear in their eyes.

Archivist, I do not mind feeding other Entities from time to time. And the Hunt is, next to the Beholding, certainly one of my favourites. It thrills and excites me to know I can make others fear for their lives, fear the Chase, and even more so the consequences should it end and I catch up with them.

I ultimately belong to the Isolation, but…you know. I have other ties as well.

I chased my old friend in this manner until the sun had risen twice, never growing hungry, thirsty, or tired. The wind whipped my hair and clothes about me, and I merged with the rythm of waves against the hull and saltwater spray across the boat. But even with the Pursuit fuelling it, my engine eventually spluttered and faltered, and the sprit sail disappeared into the night.

I took a moment then, drifting on the wine-dark sea, to properly indulge in the Forsaken. There was no-one around, no ships, nor lights even in the far distance, and neither planes nor satellites to obscure the cold emptiness of the Milky Way. I was perfectly Alone for the first time in years; it was terrifying and comforting.

I shan’t bore you with the details of how I reached the shore. Suffice to say, I arrived in Dubrovnik looking -and smelling- like an exhausted sea creature.

And I’ve completely lost the trail. I’ll have to start from scratch, which is very annoying. Do you know what an optimist is? It’s a boat so small and inconsequential that it doesn’t make the news if it’s stolen and shows up somewhere else.

Maybe you could help me out here? Either way, until next time!

-William

An Optimist for a naval chase is an absolutely deranged choice of vessel, which fits one of the Madness, I suppose. Optimist indeed. They’re very lucky the laws of reality don’t apply to them. But at least you got a moment truly to yourself out of it.

I’m afraid the Spiral makes keeping my eyes on someone very finicky at the best of times, and in this case, where I have never caught Sight of them in the first place, rather impossible. Perhaps if you told me details about them I could give it another try, but I can make no promises.

#do they think they are Violette Dorange?#statements #William of the Fog

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angelickks · 3 months ago

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mad max's hunting kit

synopsis. Not out here with pristine weapons and fancy gadgets. Her kit's a reflection of who she is: practical, hard-edged, and built to deal with anything Hell (or Heaven) throws at her.

#NAV.ᐟ supernatural mlist ⋆.˚ oc! max winchester

1. The Crowbar Wrapped in Rosary Wire

Purpose: Max’s go-to weapon for close quarters. Looks unassuming—until you see the sharpened ends wrapped in iron-wrought rosary beads. The crowbar itself is like an old friend: battered, rusted in places, but deadly in the right hands. The rosary wire? Holy iron. It burns. And when she swings it, a demon’s head doesn’t stand a chance.

Backstory: A gift from Castiel, of all people, after an angelic ambush left Max with nothing but rubble and a blood-soaked shirt. She’s been swinging it ever since.

2. Holy Water Sprinkler System (Custom-Tuned)

Purpose: Designed by Max after a disastrous demon raid in Wichita, this contraption is a holy water minefield waiting to explode. Built into a modified fire extinguisher, it’s been rigged with an air-powered nozzle that can spray holy water across an entire room in seconds—perfect for clearing nests.

Backstory: Sam laughed at the idea when she first presented it, but Dean? Dean just said, "Hell yeah, let’s do this." Max doesn’t waste time explaining. She’s the weapon; this is just her backup.

3. Angel Blade (Modified)

Purpose: Standard issue for dealing with celestial threats. But Max’s isn’t just any angel blade. She’s made it her own—etched it with runes and Enochian symbols she pulled out of ancient texts. When she strikes, the blade doesn’t just kill angels. It rips through their grace.

Backstory: She picked it up in a fight against a rogue archangel, and after that, she couldn't let it go. There's something about the weight of it, the sting of power it gives her. Something she’ll never admit.

4. Fire-Blackened Journal (Self-Made)

Purpose: Her field journal, packed with pages of hastily scrawled sigils, notes on creatures, and half-burned drawings that are probably best left unread. It holds everything she’s learned—and everything she still doesn’t know. The binding’s charred, some pages are missing, others are stained with more than ink.

Backstory: It’s a record of everything Max has hunted, survived, and almost died from. If you get your hands on it, you’re not looking at a journal. You’re looking at a map of scars. She guards it like it’s her own skin.

5. Blood-Sigil Kit (Portable)

Purpose: A collection of vials filled with enchanted blood (angel, demon, human) and ink made from demon ash. These sigils are quick to make, lethal if drawn correctly. Max uses them to ward doors, trap spirits, or create instant barriers that even the strongest entities have trouble getting through.

Backstory: Sam’s always been uncomfortable with how easily Max draws blood for her work. But the thing is? It works. Every time.

6. Salt-Wood Cross (Custom Engraved)

Purpose: It’s a simple cross, but not one you’d find in a church. It’s carved from ancient wood that Max salvaged after a hunt in a forgotten cemetery. The cross is drenched in salt, blessed, and set to burn any demon or spirit that gets too close.

Backstory: A reminder of the sacrifices her family made. A reminder of the things she lost. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a piece of her soul.

7. Molotovs (Custom-Made)

Purpose: Max isn’t afraid to go old-school. When the situation calls for it, she throws firebombs, drenching the area in gasoline and holy oil before lighting the fuse. These little bombs are perfect for demons who can’t handle fire—or angels, for that matter.

Backstory: If you ask, she’ll tell you she learned it from Dean. In reality, she’s perfected them over years of trial and error, and no one else dares light the fuse except her.

────

[CONFIDENTIAL ADDENDUM – AUTHORIZED BY BOBBY SINGER| EYES ONLY]

Pulling this from the bottom drawer, where we keep the files that bite.

Addendum: Observations on Subject "Mad Max" – Compiled from Cross-Hunter Accounts and Angelic Watch Reports

CROSSROADS INCIDENT – Lubbock, TX, 2013

Witness: Eli Sanderson (Hunter, now deceased)

"She walked up to the demon like it was a damn stray dog. Didn't even flinch when it offered the deal. Just looked at it, said, 'I already burned.' The crossroad lit up. Demon dropped dead. Never seen that before. Hell didn't take kindly to that one—Eli was found three days later. Tongue carved out. We think Max warned him not to talk."

CLASSIFIED NOTES – CASTIEL (Personal Record, Unshared)

Transcribed from a damaged piece of parchment recovered in the Bunker.

"She’s not empty. She’s not null. She’s too full—so full that nothing else can take root. Her soul isn’t a void. It’s a mirror made of grief and rage and choice. I tried to see it once. Only once. What I saw unmade a part of me I didn’t know was still angelic. I love her. Not as humans do. But as light loves shadow—because it proves it exists."

EXCERPT FROM DEAN WINCHESTER’S AUDIO LOGS (Encrypted Bunker Archives)

"Max? She’s like... if you took everything that ever tried to kill us and shoved it into a person who just won’t quit. I don't know how she's still standing. Maybe she isn't. Maybe she’s been falling this whole time, and she just figured out how to fight on the way down. Either way, I'd follow her into hell. Again."

CLOSING ENTRY – HUNTER NETWORK INTEL

CODENAME: Mad Max

STATUS: UNKNOWN

Last Seen: Cold Rock, NV – abandoned mining town. Surveillance caught flashes of light, seismic activity. No entity signatures remain. No bodies either. Just scorched symbols etched into the earth. One word in Latin: “Rediviva” – “She lives again.”

UPDATED CLASSIFICATION:

Not to be approached without high-level sigil protection

If encountered, do not engage

Considered a cosmic variable—Heaven’s blind spot, Hell’s unanswered question

BOBBY'S FINAL NOTE (UNWRITTEN)

“She ain’t the end of the world. But if the end shows up, she’ll be the last one swinging.”

#˚₊‧꒰ა angelickk blog ໒꒱ ‧₊˚#drabble #headcanon #dean winchester #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #sam winchester #spn cast #spn headcanon #supernatural #supernatural female oc #supernatural oc #castiel x oc #castiel #misha collins #bobby singer

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wereh0gz · 2 months ago

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Alright now that I'm off from work here's a post to give more context to these drawings

These were based on an idea for a fanfic I had called Sonic and the Kingdom's Curse. It was heavily inspired by In Stars and Time because I had played it recently and some of the concepts and themes in it got stuck in my head for a while. Basically I wanted to put Sonic in a similar situation to Siffrin (getting stuck in a timeloop) and see how he would deal (spoiler- not well AT ALL)

It wasn't a straight up ISAT Sonic AU though. It's got a whole original plot and setting, and it actually involved the Boos and a powered up version of King Boom Boo, of all things

The basic plot goes as follows- The Chaos Emeralds are drawn to a strange kingdom seemingly forgotten in the sands of time, and Sonic and Tails head off to investigate it. There they explore a giant haunted castle in search of the Emeralds, finding the first one in the overgrown courtyard

The moment they get close, they're ambushed by a bunch of Boos. Sonic manages to grab it, but something within the Emerald gets absorbed by Sonic the moment he touches it. A sort of darkness that, for a moment, consumes his very being with a feeling like death

That's when ghostly claws pierce his chest, and he dies

He wakes up in a void with something watching him from the corner of his vision. Something wearing his face

And then he wakes up for real the morning they set off for the castle. As if nothing ever happened

That's when the first loop starts, and the story settles into a formula from there. Sonic avoids dying to the thing that killed him the previous loop, he and Tails explore more of the castle and find another corrupted Emerald, Sonic dies somehow, void time, new loop, rinse and repeat

Sonic kinda has to figure out he's in a timeloop on his own. He doesn't tell Tails because he doesn't wanna worry him and he thinks he can handle this without any help. He can't, and as it turns out, he couldn't handle a lot of things from his past on his own, either

Let's go back to that "void time" I mentioned. That's where "Malaise" (Dark Sonic) comes in. It's an entity formed from that darkness he's been absorbing and shaped by all of the negative emotions and trauma Sonic has repressed over the years. Occasionally, it would try to "kill" Sonic (metaphorically speaking- Sonic is already dead). Every time, Sonic would have a flashback to a particularly traumatizing moment in one of his adventures, ie; his imprisonment in Forces, the Metal Virus, the cyber corruption from Frontiers, etc. Life flashing before your eyes kind of thing

None of those truly break him, though. He doesn't really break down until he's quite a few loops in, and has a flashback to the moment he lost Shadow at the end of SA2. That's the moment he realized he can't save everyone. No matter how hard he tries, some people are going to slip away from him

And it will be his fault

For not being fast enough. Not being strong enough

There he has the realization that it could happen again. With anyone. At any moment

It could happen to Tails

And that terrifies him

So, in short, the whole ordeal causes a lot of things to resurface. He has a panic attack about it. Maybe multiple. Tails is scared and concerned because one day he's his usual self and the next he's waking up in a cold sweat, disheveled and crying

Oh also King Boom Boo has something to do with all of this too. He found an Emerald by chance and it gave him a power boost and helped him remember who he once was, so now he's gathering all of them to restore his kingdom (and maybe take over the whole world too). I didn't get far enough into the story to even introduce him though

Eventually Sonic realizes he mayyyybe shouldn't be burying all of his trauma and negative emotions in the deepest recesses of his mind because it WILL come back to bite him in the ass somehow. Also he should trust his friends to be able to help him. After that he kicks a dead monarch's ass and then goes home and passes out for a week

So yeah that's basically it. I only got to about loop 3 (each loop being a chapter, with an extra beginning chapter to set everything up) when writing and doubt I'll finish it. I got to a point where I was criticizing every little thing about it and kinda lost steam. Maybe one day I'll pick it back up again, but who knows

#isa barks #look at the length of this post #the yapping yapper #anyways i love putting sonic in the torment nexus inside my brain i love seeing him at his absolute lowest

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g0blintears · 1 year ago

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Dark Devotion [Yandere! Dead By Daylight x Reader]

Summary: You are a mystery to both the survivors and killers within the fog. A servant of darkness, a creature created by the entity itself, you are the shadow behind the scenes that provides the survivors with the necessities they need to survive, while also assisting killers with the weapons they need to sacrifice. You are a servant void of humanity, but not one that seeks out despair. An empty slate that perhaps just needs to be taught a little bit of hope and empathy to help the survivors escape once and for all.

Six. Botany Knowledge

Once the sound of even breathing filled the silence of the room, you quietly stood up from your chair. The pierced scraping of wood scratching across the floor and itched at your ears. Your eyes briefly looked over the sleeping brunet, watching as his chest slowly rose and fell with every breath he took.

You could understand why he didn’t want to rest. For someone like you, sleep wasn’t necessary. You could stay awake for as many millennia as the realm remained without ever needing to rest.

It wasn’t as if you couldn’t sleep though. You’ve just never tried. After all, if it wasn’t necessary, why bother?

It’s different for humans though. Since your creator had a very peculiar diet, you did everything you could to learn more about how to harvest the food source to its most beneficial potential. The more you learned about humanity, and the more you learned on how they functioned, the better you could do to ensure that the entity got to feast well. That’s why making sure the survivors were taken care of properly was one of your top priorities.

Giving one last look to the sleeping survivor, you turned around and opened up the screen door; making your way over to the next row of cabins.

One by one you continued with your routine. You walked into each cabin, dropping off some bed sheets, and left just as quick as you had entered. It wasn’t long until you were finally down to the last cabin.

Entering through the screen door, you were mindful to give the wooden door a gentle knock as you made your way inside. You looked around the room, your eyes searching for the brunette botanist, only for you to be met with another empty cabin.

Walking across the creaking wooden floors, your ears instantly picked up the sound of water droplets falling into a bigger body of water. You briefly gazed over to the woman’s desk where the source of the sound was coming from. Placing the neatly folded bedsheets on her bed, your focus went over to the table, intrigued by the contents that were scattered on the surface.

Dozens upon dozens of notes littered the desk. Papers scribbled with messages that started with ‘to me: from past me’ were written over in messy ink. Following the trail of papers, your eyes looked over the various plants spread over the window sill. Many of the herbs and flowers from the realm were planted into small tin cans with little noted descriptions of each flora written on a piece of paper taped to the wall. Each one of those notes had drawn diagrams of the plants, along with detailed paragraphs about the biology of each greenery and theories of what they did.

All of the notes were so intricate and riveting that you found yourself immersed with all of the contents on the desk. Especially once your eyes caught sight of the very corner of the table where a bowl of water with a tubed outlet was placed. The tube allowed water to dribble out of the small hole and fall into another bowl of water that was placed underneath the desk.

Lifting a hand to the desk, your fingers lightly traced over the notes. Reading over the contents of scribbled passages with curious [eye color] eyes. You took in all of the information like a sponge. Not once did you take your attention away from the papers, not even when the cabin door swung open.

Claudette looked down at her hands with a tender smile.

Her fingers gently held onto the handle of her basket. Various flowers and herbs of unknown origin were bundled into the mahogany hamper. Her hands were scratched up with cuts and bandages, a few lumps and itchy rashes covered her dark skin, but she didn’t mind as she gazed down in awe at the mysterious bundle of flora.

Claudette had just gotten back from foraging around the camp. After the nice blonde woman named Kate had shown her around, Claudette had to excuse herself from the others. The wave of information of the realm had flooded her mind like a typhoon, and she needed an outlet to rethink everything she had just learned.

She had gone back to the cabin Kate had said belonged to her. Upon entering, she had found herself staring at a desk with hundreds of notes written in her handwriting. All of the papers helped explain the situation to her in more detail. Not only that, but they also brought back some of her memories.

She had died.

She could still feel the pierced knives break through her skin. The many hooks that impaled into her shoulder, over and over again as she let out a horrid scream that scratched at the back of her throat. It sent shivers down her spine. Her breathing became disheveled and she began rocking back and forth while holding onto herself. Those memories were becoming overbearing. She couldn’t handle it. She needed to leave.

Once she had shakily grabbed her basket off the floor of her bed, Claudette ran out the door and sprinted into the forest. She ran and ran until the lights from the torches around the cabins began to fade, and she had found herself in the middle of the woods surrounded by towering trees and unfamiliar plants. After her heart settled back into an even pace, she began to recoup by throwing herself into the bundle of flowers.

With shaky hands, she studied the plants surrounding her, her once fearful brown eyes stared down at the flowers in awe. She was shocked to see how many of the flora looked like plants she had known back in her world. However, the plants in this realm were nothing like the ones she had studied. The flowers here were vastly different, glowing neon colors throughout the stems.

Memories of her life in the realm had slowly come back to her, but unlike the ones back in the cabin, these memories weren’t bad. They were fuzzy cut up images of her studying the flora of the realm. The recollection of broken memories were both comforting and familiar pieces of a puzzle that rose with each plant she encountered. She remembered how much she loved studying the flowers in the realm and how her knowledge in botany had helped not only her, but the others in this world.

She also remembered that all of the plants in this realm were scientific anomalies that had her mind buzzing with questions. These flowers had different purposes, each purpose confusing her more and more as she dug through the dirt and pulled the roots of the plants from the ground to place in her basket.

She had explored the light fog until her basket was full to the brim with unknown greenery. Once satisfied, she went back to her cabin. She was no longer upset, but rather excited to study and learn about the nature of this new place once she was in the safe haven of her room.

All of that led to where she was now. As soon as she walked through the screen door, she paused. Claudette’s eyes widened a bit as she gazed upon the person standing by her desk.

“Oh, hello.” She called out, placing the basket of plants by the door of the cabin. “Are you another survivor?” She asked with a small tilt of her head.

You didn’t respond at first. Your eyes just intensely stared at one of her notes, as though you were contemplating on saying something.

“I see your memories still haven’t returned.” You chose to respond before you finally brought your full attention to the botanist. “No. I’m not a survivor. I am the servant to the entity.”

“Servant?” She repeated, a frown formed on her face. She couldn’t quite remember you. Her memories were still a collection of broken fragments, but she did remember reading through her notes on things about you.

You were the entity’s servant. The only being allowed to wander anywhere around the realm without being blocked off by an invisible wall. She didn’t know how old you were. What your name was. Or how you were even created. No one knew any of those questions. You were a complete mystery, much like your creator.

All she knew about you was what she observed from the sidelines. And according to her notes, you were really nice and helpful. A little bit hard to talk to, but that could be blamed on herself since she was never the kind of person to easily talk to people. Other than that, she never thought one bad thing about you. If anything, her notes often wondered if you were anything like her.

Claudette let a smile curve on her lips. “Oh, it’s you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

You shook your head, your eyes subtly trailing back to her desk. “Not at all. I was just dropping off some bed sheets.”

Claudette nodded. “Okay then. Well, thank you.”

The room was silent once more with Claudette looking at you and her eyes trailing over to her desk, anticipating for you to leave so she could continue to study her notes and bring back other memories to further study the plants within the fog. Although you said you were just there to drop off some bedsheets, you didn’t make any moves to leave after completing said task. You merely stood there, eyes glued to her notes.

“You’re wrong.”

You finally spoke, your words catching Claudette off guard.

“Huh?”

You pointed to one of her notes.

“The golden flowers. They don’t provide any aid to healing. However, they do grant one hundred percent bonuses to your currency.” You picked up one of the fragrant primrose flowers that was cut and strayed on the desk. You then twirled the stem of the flower in your hand, your eyes gazing down at the glowing golden petals.

Claudette’s eyes widened. Taking quick strides across the floor, she hastily picked up her notes, her eyes moving from her notes to the flowers between your fingers before her gaze met yours.

“Really? Because whenever I’d burn these offerings I would often feel like they had medicinal properties that would soothe injuries. I actually remember that feeling. I often felt like I was making a difference when it came to healing whenever I would offer the primrose to the campfire.”

You nodded, “Yes, I am certain that the primrose flora do not have any healing effects. What might make you think this could be a variety of factors such as your knowledge on botany or your ability to track injured survivors, however, I don't think that is exactly what you’re referring to.”

Claudette was quick to shake her head in protest, “No! I know the difference! When I would burn any of the plants in this realm, I can tell that it was doing something different, I just didn’t know what.”

“It’s the offering itself telling you what your main objective for that trial is.” You calmly explained. “For example, if you happen to burn a bog laurel flower, then you would feel the need to focus on generator repairs. If you burn a crispleaf amaranth, you would want to focus on escaping. Each offering motivates you to focus on an objective within the trials.”

Claudette gasped, “That makes so much sense!”

She then fumbled through her papers, her fingers excitedly flipping through all of her notes until she pulled out a brand new sheet of paper. Grabbing a pen, the woman scribbled down the things you had just taught her. She could feel her head thump in pain. Memories of the things she learned from the realm were resurfacing. Thousands upon thousands of questions filled her mind, all in which crowded her thoughts as she turned her attention back to you.

Regardless of how her head screamed at her, Claudette ignored the pain and grabbed some of her notes. The botanist then proceeded to push the papers into your hands.

“What about these notes? I’ve noticed that the leaves on the crispleaf are highlighted with crimson veins; that's not unusual since they’re amaranth flowers. But! What is unusual is that amaranth are short-lived perennials, or commonly known as annuals.” Claudette grabbed one of the amaranth flowers from the window sill. She brought the potted plant over to you, and carefully lifted it up to your eye level.

“If that were the case, then how come this one hasn’t died?” She then handed you the potted plant. You had to attentively tuck her notes into your arm as you held onto the shining tin of the planted amaranth.

Claudette didn’t seem to notice you juggling between her things as she scurried back over to her desk and continued to pull out more papers.

“The Amaranthaceae are a family of annual or perennial herbs. Depending on how the amaranth are stored and what species of amaranth they are, its lifespan can vary, but typically in a stored environment they can live up to a month or two. While in the wild they can live up to maybe a few weeks or months. The point is, the flowers themselves don’t live that long!”

Taking out the sheets of paper she was looking for, Claudette walked up to you and brought you a few charts. On the pages were tally marks scribbled across each line on the paper. Another page had squares with numbers and letters labeled ‘MTWTFSS’ along with a question mark on the top of each chart.

“What is this?” You asked, your eyes scanning over the paper, surprised and intrigued by the details of the notes.

“It’s my homemade calendar!” She exclaimed enthusiastically as she leaned over your shoulder. Her hand brushed against yours as she pointed at the different tally marks on the pages.

“At first I started tracking time by using tally marks to show how many hours have passed in this realm, but since that got overwhelming, I’ve decided to keep track of time by making a calendar.” She then pointed at the corner of the paper, “Since I have no idea which month I’m in, I’ve decided to just label them all as question marks for the time being, but each one of my months have seventy three days and each day has thirty hours. It just makes things easier since there’s no leap year…or at least not that I know of.”

Scratching her head, Claudette continued, “My memories are still fuzzy, but from what I’ve read in my notes, I’ve learned about ancient civilizations and how some old customs used to use water as a means to tell time.”

Claudette then left your side to pull out the journal that documented that day she had talked to the two scholars. Her eyes briefly read over the notes once more before she moved her attention back to you. “I had known this realm didn’t have a way to tell time. There are no clocks, there is no sun, and there aren’t any stars to track, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t at least try to record how much time had passed.”

Claudette then excitedly grabbed your wrist and brought you over to her desk. She went on to point at the large claymatic bowl you had previously been studying.

“See this here? This is a water clock, also called a clepsydras. I made it with the clay I molded from the dirt,” She spoke with a proud grin before continuing, “You see, I learned that many cultures used this method to track time,” She explained, her eyes looking through her notes. Claudette then crouched down, her hand still clamped around your wrist, bringing you down to level with her in front of the bowl of water placed on the floor. “There are two types of clepsydra. Inflow and outflow, both methods needing two large containers full of water. This right here just so happens to be an inflow type. You can tell because right here are marks for each hour.” She explained, her fingers pointing to the inside of the bowl where you can see numbers and lines marked across the clay.

Claudette turned her head towards you. You could see how bright her brown eyes shined as she gazed at you with excitement. “With this method, I can track how many hours have passed in the realm!” She exclaimed, then paused. Her smile wavered a bit as she looked back at the water with her teeth lightly chewing on her lower lip, “Well, it’s not always accurate since I sometimes don’t make it out alive in trials and I come back to find my clock has overflowed, but it works enough for me to get a guess-stimate of how much time has passed.”

Her eyes then went to you and then the potted plant that was still resting in your hand.

“This is what brings me to my question. I know in some customs these flowers are said to be everlasting, immortal- they never die! But flower meanings aren’t facts. These are annual flowers and they aren’t supposed to last more than a few weeks, but they’ve surpassed that number! These annuals haven’t wilted since being planted! Why is that? Same question goes for all the other flowers that are supposed to be annuals!”

She scooted herself closer to you. You could see her cheeks flush with enthusiasm as she excitedly spoke in rapid words.

“Does this have something to do with the biology of the flowers themselves? They aren’t exactly normal flowers, right? Or is it because the motion of time doesn’t exist here? I realized that like these plants, we don’t grow old. We don’t age no matter how much time has gone by! So far I’ve tracked that a few months have passed since I’ve created this clock, so it’s not a lot of time, but I can’t help but feel like it’s been maybe a few years…”

She then frowned, her mind began to stray for a moment, but before she could go back to any old memories of her previous life, Claudette shook her head. She didn’t want to think too hard on how long she’s been in the realm. What mattered was the present. So with her hands slapping her cheeks, she turned back to you.

“Well, that aside, I believe that we are like these plants,” Claudette brought her hand to her chin, her mind buzzing with questions that she let slip off her tongue.

”I don't know how it is possible, but it seems as if we are somehow frozen in space and time. Everything I know about the science of how the universe works, it just doesn’t seem to apply to this place. It’s- it’s impossible. And yet, here I am experiencing it first hand…” Claudette pursed her lips, a deep frown settling on her face, “Does this mean that this place defies all laws of physics? I know time is technically just an illusion generated by the limitations of the way we perceive this universe, but still. Time is constant, and yet…”

Rubbing the space between her eyes, Claudette let out a tired sighed, “Oh wow, I shouldn’t be getting so worked up on this. After all, I’m no quantum physicist. I just have a love for the science field, so I don’t know why I started rambling. I doubt you’re even allowed to talk about this stuff, huh? ” She chuckled, moving her gaze to meet your stare.

As for you, you were honestly not expecting her to be so vocal after you had merely just corrected one of her notes. But here you were, sitting with her on the floor with your arms full of papers and a plant in your hand, having a one sided discussion over the nature of this realm.

For a moment, you had no idea how to reply. There were certain rules that you couldn’t break. Ever since an incident with an old survivor, you couldn’t afford to make another mistake. Not if you wanted to disappoint your creator once more.

However, this survivor wasn’t like him. She was very intelligent, yes, but also carried herself in a way that was transparent. Much like you when you first emerged from the fog. So given what you’ve seen out of this survivor, you know that she is no threat to you. If anything, she could prove to be beneficial if you were to motivate her.

“This realm is much different from your own. Think of everything you know about the properties that make up your universe, and disregard everything about it. This place isn’t your world. It is the entity’s.” You finally explained, voice stern as you faced the botanist, “Understand this, there are some things in this realm that I am forbidden to discuss, and there are some things that are just too vast for the human mind to comprehend. So know that I will do my best to answer any inquiries you have on this realm, and I’ll let you know if I am unable to answer.”

Claudette’s eyes widened and she took a deep breath. She was half expecting you to shut her down right away since that’s what you’re known to do when asked questions on the entity. Yet, here you were. You listened to her, you conversed with her, and you were ready to answer any questions she had (with some exceptions) but that's besides the point.

It was unexpected, but it thrilled her. Her fingers fidgeted with the papers in her hand, but she wasn’t nervous. Instead, a fuzzy warm feeling bloomed in her chest, causing her lips to curve up into a bright, excited smile.

#claudette morel #Claudette morel x reader #yandere dbd #dbd x reader #yandere dead by daylight x reader #yandere dead by daylight #dead by daylight x reader #yandere dbd x reader

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freezerbrldes · 6 months ago

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onanist - s.r. (teaser)

PAIRING. Vampire!Spencer x Fem!reader

SUMMARY. Overcome with intense loneliness, you seek solace from any spirit that could hear your prayers. An ancient dark entity answers those prays, only his obsession with you is more than you can handle…

WARNINGS. lots of mentions of blood, biting, dom!spencer, slight somnophilia, fingering, oral (f receiving), pnv sex, spencer is extremely possessive (none of these warnings are in this teaser)

AUTHOR’S NOTE. This is a teaser for my newest fic which is heavily inspired by Nosferatu (2024)! The title is from one of my favorite songs off ethel cain’s newest ep, which I listened to a lot while writing this. I’ve never written dom!spencer or anything this dark so I had some help from @primomover. She helped me get this started and I left in a section that she wrote. The full fic will be out this friday as an early bday present from me to you.

credit to @cafekitsune for dividers