Mnemosyne

Short stories and other things. Please enjoy, and we welcome constructive criticism. We write for characters we like, so we appreciate any feedback. We hope to post consistently, but you never know, ATP.

[mnemosynetheone]

introduction

Hi, I'm Matty. I’m the baby of the trio, which basically means I’m still figuring out life in real time while screaming into the void. I just graduated high school, and writing is how I survive the day-to-day—whether that’s scribbling short stories, gushing about fictional characters, or venting about how weird it feels to be “an adult” now. I tend to overshare and romanticize everything, so expect messy drafts and original writing. If I ever disappear, it’s probably bc I’m drowning in college apps or hyperfixating on some new fandom. To tell the post parts from each other is the blue bots/flower-looking ones.

Hello, hello, I'm sydney. I’m the “middle child” around here. I work full-time (rip free time), but writing keeps me sane, so I’ll sneak onto Tumblr to post in bursts whenever I can. I like working on longer pieces—fanfics, character studies, or even original works when inspiration hits. I’m in that weird stage of life where I’m technically an adult, but I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to tell me what’s next. If you like overly long posts, rambling tags, or fic updates that appear randomly like rare shiny Pokémon, that’s probably me. And my post looks like this with the header

Hello, I'm Nicki. I’m the oldest, which basically makes me tumblr-parent by default (an unpaid and unqualified position, btw). My vibe is slower, more reflective, and a little nerdy—I love deep dives into stories, long-form writing. I don’t post as often as the other two, but my post heading looks like this.

Also, for anyone who wants to request any stories, please send us a message but it will cost you depending on to you ask for.

[mnemosynetheone]

The Unbreakable Bond

Pairing: Luffy x Sister!Reader (platonic) Warnings: violence, blood, near-death experience, emotional distress, comfort Genre: Adventure / Hurt-Comfort / Family

Smoke curled from the ruin of the Marine outpost in thick, gray wreaths that stung the eyes and clung to the throat. Clashing steel and the echoes of gunfire rattled the air as the Straw Hat crew fought their way through.

In the mayhem, she lost her footing-boots slipping on the splintered dock as a blade sliced into her side.

It wasn't deep enough to kill, but it was deep enough to make the world tilt.

She pressed her palm to the wound, feeling the sticky warmth spread between her fingers. Her breath hitched, sharp and shallow, and she dropped to one knee.

Then, a voice spoke.

“HEY!”

Luffy's shout tore across the battlefield. Heads turned. Marines faltered.

He was a blur of motion, his body stretching through the smoke as he rocketed toward her. His eyes — wide, wild, burning with something between rage and terror — locked on her slumped form.

She tried to wave him off. Tried to say I’m fine, it’s nothing.

But Luffy didn’t listen. Luffy never listened when it came to his crew — or his family.

He landed hard beside her, the earth cracking beneath his feet; in an instant, his arm snapped forward, and a Marine went flying into the water with a single punch.

“Who did that?” he demanded, voice shaking with anger. “Who hurt my sister?”

Nobody was answering, nobody was daring.

She smiled weakly up at him through the haze. “You're shouting again,” she murmured, barely audible over the noise.

Luffy fell to his knees in front of her, hands hovering uselessly in the air as he wondered where exactly he should touch her-shoulder, face, bleeding side of her ribs? Every inch of her looked too fragile.

At last, he grasped her shoulders. “Don’t close your eyes, okay? You’re not allowed to fall asleep.”

She blinked slowly, forced a breath. “You sound scared.”

He froze, jaw clenching. "Of course I'm scared! You almost-" He stopped himself, shaking his head. His voice cracked. "You're not allowed to die. Not you."

Even with the blood trickling down her side, she laughed. "You've said that before."

“That’s because I mean it every time,” he said, and something desperate shimmered behind his grin — a boy who had lost too much and refused to lose again.

With a wince, the world began to sway once more. Luffy pressed the straw hat - his treasure, his dream - onto her head.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice trembling, but firm. “I’ll get Chopper. You don’t move. Promise me.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already gone — a flicker of red vest and straw hat vanishing into the smoke.

The seconds crawled. The battle still raged, and she could hear his voice in the distance, shouting, laughing, fighting, as if nothing could touch him. But she knew behind that laughter lay fear.

Then, in a spasm, the pain lanced, cold and vicious. Her vision blurred. The ground beneath her seemed farther away.

A small, panicked voice broke through the ringing in her ears.

“Hang on! Don’t pass out!

Chopper.

Tiny hooves pressed against her arm as he worked frantically, wrapping bandages, muttering in a rush of trembling words. “You lost too much blood—why didn’t you say something sooner—you could’ve died—”

Luffy reappeared with scratches and bruises all over his body, breathing hard. The moment he had seen her chest rise and fall, a flood of relief softened his face.

“She’s okay, right?” he asked and knelt beside her. “She’s okay?”

Chopper nodded quickly, though his hooves didn’t stop moving. “She’ll live—but she needs to rest.”

Luffy exhaled, the breath shuddering out of him. He reached for her hand and held on tight — too tight — as if she might disappear if he let go.

“You hear that?” he whispered, grinning again. “Told you I’d be right back.”

She managed a faint glare. “You. always worry too much.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m a really good brother.”

She smiled, finally closing her eyes, but this time from exhaustion, not pain.

Luffy sat there for a long time, his thumb brushing the back of her hand in small, restless circles. The noise of battle faded, replaced by the distant roar of the sea.

When he finally stood, he scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing. “We’re going home,” he said simply.

Later that night, under the moonlight, the Thousand Sunny drifted silently. The crew fell silent, the adrenaline of battle giving way to a heavy kind of peace.

Luffy sat beside her bed in the infirmary, and she was pale but breathing even now, the rise and fall of her chest slow and steady.

He placed the straw hat on the pillow beside her, and for a long while, he simply stared at her face-the small frown she always wore when sleeping, a faint scar along her cheek from a fight months ago, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat that told him she was still here.

"You scared me," he whispered. "Don't ever do that again."

She stirred slightly, eyes half-opening. “You’re still here?

“Of course,” he said, grinning again — that impossible, sunny grin that had carried them through storms and wars. “I said I’d protect you. Remember?”

Her hand reached up weakly and brushed the brim of his hat. “You always do.” He leaned back in the chair, arms crossed, hat tilted over his eyes. “Good. Then go back to sleep. I’ll be right here.” The sea rocked the ship with a soothing rhythm, with stars glittering above. Outside, the world was wild and perilous, but in this tiny room, it was quiet. Safe. With waves carrying the Thousand Sunny towards the horizon, a silent promise was kept by Monkey D. Luffy. He would never let his sister face death alone again.

[mnemosynetheone]

Chicken Soup and Classic Rock

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader Warnings: Illness (fever, flu symptoms), soft caretaking, protective Dean, fluff

The bunker’s stone walls echoed with the sound of your coughs, raspy and stubborn no matter how you tried to hold them back. The air felt too heavy, your blanket cocoon wasn’t enough, and your head ached with every pulse. You hated being sick, but what you hated even more was how obvious it made you.

Boots thudded down the hall. Dean’s boots.

“Thought I heard a dying seal in here,” he said as he strolled into the library, carrying a steaming bowl. His grin was sharp but his eyes softened when they landed on you. “Turns out it’s just you.”

You let out a weak groan and buried your face deeper into the blanket. “Go away, Winchester. Don’t want you catching it.”

“Relax, princess. I’m indestructible.” He set the bowl on the table before crouching down in front of you. “Besides, I brought soup.”

You peeked one tired eye at him. “You… cooked?”

“Campbell’s finest,” he said proudly. “Heated it up myself and everything.”

You managed a smile. “Thanks.”

Dean reached out, his palm warm and steady against your forehead. The teasing dropped instantly. His jaw tightened. “Damn. You’re burning up.”

“I’ll be fine,” you rasped, coughing again.

“Nope,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “Not taking chances. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard lately, and now you’re laid out. So guess what? You’re benched.”

You rolled your eyes, but the worry etched on his face made your chest ache more than the fever did. “Dean…”

“End of story,” he cut you off. He tugged the blanket snug around your shoulders like you were made of glass, then handed you the bowl. “Eat, or I’ll feed you myself. And trust me, that’ll be way more embarrassing for you than for me.”

You snorted softly, though you obediently took a spoonful. The soup wasn’t fancy, but the warmth settled into your stomach like comfort itself. Dean hovered, pretending to flip through a magazine, but you caught him sneaking glances to make sure you ate.

By the time you pushed the half-empty bowl back, your eyelids felt too heavy to keep open. You shifted against the couch cushions with a sigh.

Dean plucked the bowl away and set it aside, then returned to sit on the arm of the couch, brushing a hand gently over your hair. “Get some sleep. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Your lips curved in a faint smile. “You don’t have to…”

“Yeah, I do,” he murmured. “You’re my family. And family doesn’t go through crap alone. Not while I’m around.”

The blanket rustled as he tucked it closer, making sure not a single draft could reach you. You drifted quickly, his presence anchoring you more than any medicine could.

When you woke again, hours later, the room was dim. The sound of soft music drifted from Dean’s phone on the table — a low hum of classic rock that kept the silence from swallowing the room.

You blinked blearily and spotted him in the chair pulled up beside the couch. His head had fallen back against the wall, arms crossed, but his green eyes snapped open the second you shifted.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, as if he didn’t want to break the quiet. “How you feeling?”

“Like crap,” you admitted, throat raw.

Dean leaned forward, pressing the back of his hand against your temple again. He sighed, almost in relief. “Still warm, but better. Fever’s breaking.”

“You didn’t have to stay…”

“Shut up,” he said gently, though his smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You think I was gonna leave you like this? Not a chance.”

For a moment, you just looked at him — the hunter who fought monsters without fear, now watching over you like you were the most important thing in the world.

“Thanks, Dean,” you whispered.

He squeezed your hand, rough thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Always.”

And even as sleep tugged you back under, you felt safe. Because Dean was there, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

[mnemosynetheone]

Steam and Soap

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader Warnings: Injury care, emotional intimacy, slow-burn feelings, fluff with hints of romantic tension

The bunker was quieter than usual after the hunt. Dean had gone out for burgers, muttering something about “needing real food and real beer,” leaving you alone with Sam. Normally, that wouldn’t have been a big deal — Sam was easy to be around — but tonight, your arm throbbed with a dull ache inside the sling, and you hated feeling so… helpless.

Even something simple like taking a shower had turned into an impossible task.

You hovered in the hallway for a good five minutes before working up the courage to step into the library, where Sam sat hunched over his laptop. His hair fell into his face as he scrolled through lore, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Uh… Sam?” you asked softly, voice breaking the silence.

He looked up instantly, that familiar crease of concern forming between his eyebrows. “Hey, you okay? Is it your arm?”

“No, um… well, kind of.” You shifted awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. “It’s just… I can’t exactly shower like this.” You gestured to your sling with your good hand. “I was wondering if… maybe you could help? Just so I don’t fall over or something.”

Sam froze for half a second — not in judgment, but like the thought had surprised him. Then he nodded, face softening in that way that always made you feel safe. “Yeah. Of course. Whatever you need.”

Ten minutes later, the small bathroom was full of warm steam. Sam moved with quiet efficiency, grabbing towels and setting them within reach. He’d found a little wooden stool from the storage room so you wouldn’t have to stand the whole time.

“You sure you’re comfortable with this?” he asked again, voice careful as you sat on the stool with your sling still in place.

“Sam,” you said with a small laugh, “it’s fine. I trust you.”

His expression shifted at that — something soft and unreadable flickering across his face before he nodded.

He helped you out of your shirt with painstaking care, eyes fixed firmly on the task, not lingering anywhere they shouldn’t. It was… sweet, actually, how hard he was trying to make this easy for you.

The water came first, warm and soothing as he tested the temperature before running it down your back with the detachable showerhead. “Okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Perfect,” you murmured, relaxing as the warmth eased the tension in your muscles.

Sam worked slowly, his big hands surprisingly gentle as he washed around your sling, making sure not to jostle your arm. Every so often, his fingers brushed your shoulder or your collarbone — innocent touches that still sent butterflies through your stomach because it was Sam.

He didn’t talk much, but you caught him glancing at you a few times, his jaw tight like he was concentrating way too hard.

When he finally turned off the water, he grabbed a towel, wrapping it carefully around your shoulders. His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary, steady and warm.

“Thanks, Sam,” you said softly, meeting his eyes for the first time since you started.

He gave you a small smile, cheeks faintly pink. “Anytime. Seriously. You don’t have to do this kind of stuff alone.”

And maybe it was the heat from the shower, or maybe it was the way his voice dipped when he said it, but you felt something shift between you. Something quiet, unspoken… but definitely there.

[mnemosynetheone]

Deadline Distractions

Clark Kent x nerd! reader

The hum of typewriters and clacking keyboards filled the Daily Planet’s newsroom, but you were lost in your own little galaxy. Your desk was a disaster of open notebooks, sticky notes with half-baked ideas, research clippings, and—most incriminating—a coffee mug decorated with a star map that read “talk nerdy to me.” Your editor had passed by twice already, giving your desk the kind of look that said organized chaos was a very generous term.

across from you, clark kent worked like the human embodiment of calm. his typing was steady, measured, not frantic like everyone else sprinting toward their deadlines. he wore that same slightly-too-big suit jacket, his tie a little crooked, glasses slipping down his nose as always. most people overlooked him in the chaos of the newsroom—quiet clark, polite clark—but you’d been watching him long enough to notice the little things. the way he smiled when he thought nobody was looking. how he always offered to help interns carry stacks of papers. how he somehow made being thoughtful look effortless.

you were halfway through rereading a sentence for the seventh time when his voice broke through.

“you’ve been staring at that page for fifteen minutes.”

you jerked, blinking up at him. “i’m not staring, i’m… thinking. it’s called research.”

his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts kind and teasing. “research doesn’t usually involve doodling constellations in the margins.”

your eyes snapped down, and sure enough, your article draft was sprinkled with little sketches of orion and the big dipper. you groaned. “okay, maybe i got distracted. you caught me.”

clark leaned a little closer across the desk, lowering his voice like he was letting you in on a secret. “for what it’s worth, they’re pretty good. better than my doodles, anyway.”

you tilted your head. “you doodle?”

“sometimes,” he admitted, adjusting his glasses. “mostly little sketches of farmhouses, cornfields… home stuff. when deadlines get too heavy.”

the thought of clark kent, pulitzer-winning journalist, doodling barns in the margins of his notes was so sweet you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “that’s… really sweet.”

he cleared his throat, cheeks tinting pink. “maybe we could trade sometime. farmhouses for constellations.”

you laughed softly. “only if you promise not to tell lois i was drawing galaxies instead of finishing my article.”

clark gave you that boyish grin—the one that made your pulse do backflips. “your secret’s safe with me.”

for a moment, the noise of the newsroom faded. it was just him, his eyes warm behind his glasses, and you.

then perry white’s voice boomed across the floor: “kent! [l/n]! that story’s not gonna write itself!”

you both jumped like guilty teenagers.

you leaned toward clark with a smirk. “guess the universe wants us back on earth.”

he chuckled, already reaching for his notes. “guess so. but, uh—” he hesitated, then glanced at you, almost shy. “if you ever need a break from deadlines, i wouldn’t mind hearing more about those galaxies of yours.”

your stomach fluttered, and suddenly the pile of work didn’t feel quite so heavy. “careful, kent. i’ll talk your ear off about black holes and wormholes if you let me.”

“sounds like a good way to spend an evening,” he said softly, almost to himself.

and for the first time, you realized maybe clark kent wasn’t just your co-worker. maybe he was someone who’d been orbiting your little galaxy all along—quiet, steady, waiting for you to notice.

[mnemosynetheone]

In the Quiet of Graves

Lisa Swallows x Male!Reader Warnings: Gothic romance, possessiveness, obsession, unhealthy attachment, angst, cemetery setting, dark themes.

You’d never meant to follow her.

The graveyard was just supposed to be a shortcut home, a place no one sane wandered after midnight. But then you saw her—Lisa Swallows—sitting on the edge of a cracked tomb, her pale knees pulled to her chest, her dark eyes shining like wet glass in the moonlight.

You’d seen her at school before. The girl people whispered about. The one who dressed like she’d crawled out of a thrift store coffin. But here, surrounded by stone angels and the faint hum of silence, she looked… untouchable. Like she belonged here in a way no one living ever should.

She noticed you before you could turn away. “You’re following me,” she said, her voice calm, accusing, and a little too steady.

You shook your head. “I didn’t even know you’d be here.”

Her lips quirked upward, not quite a smile. “Then maybe you were meant to find me.”

The way she said it made something stir in your chest. Fate. Or doom. You weren’t sure which.

You stepped closer despite yourself. The air felt heavier here, every breath thick with damp soil and roses left too long on graves. She tilted her head, studying you like she wasn’t sure if you were real or some cruel trick conjured up by the night.

“No one comes looking for me,” she said softly. “Not unless they want something.”

“I don’t want anything,” you replied.

Her eyes narrowed, glinting. “Everyone wants something. Even from broken things.”

“I don’t think you’re broken.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, and Lisa stilled. A long silence stretched between you, fragile and brittle. Then, slowly, she slid off the tombstone and walked closer until her boots crunched against the dirt right in front of you.

Her gaze cut into you like a knife, searching, dissecting. “Say that again.”

You swallowed, holding her stare. “You’re not broken. You’re… real. More real than anyone else.”

Her breath hitched, just barely, but enough to tell you you’d struck something deep. For the first time, the sharp edge in her softened, replaced with something raw and aching.

“Don’t lie to me,” she whispered. “I can’t stand it when people lie. I can take anything else—hate, disgust, all of it—but not lies.”

“I’m not lying,” you said.

Her lips trembled before curling into something between a laugh and a sob. Then, suddenly, her hand shot out, fisting into the front of your shirt, dragging you closer until her face was inches from yours.

“If you mean that…” she whispered, her breath hot against your skin, “…then you’re mine. Do you get that? Once you say it, once you see me, you don’t get to take it back. I’ll keep you. Forever.”

Her eyes shone with something dangerous, desperate, holy. The kind of need that could drown you if you weren’t careful.

But you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

“I don’t want to take it back,” you said.

And that was all it took.

Lisa kissed you like a curse—messy, fierce, trembling—as though her whole existence balanced on whether or not you’d kiss her back. You did. Without hesitation. Her nails dug into your chest, clutching at you like she was terrified you’d dissolve into smoke.

“You don’t get it,” she gasped against your lips, voice breaking. “You saved me just by being here. And now I’ll never let you go. I’ll cut anyone who tries. I’ll burn everything down before I lose you.”

The words should’ve chilled you. Instead, they set you alight.

Her mouth found your throat, her teeth scraping skin, marking you in the only language she trusted. You let her. You wanted her to. Because you understood something now—

Lisa Swallows didn’t love gently. She loved like fire. Like ruin. Like the kind of forever people feared.

And God help you, you wanted to burn with her.

[mnemosynetheone]

We Could Be Eternal

Lisa Swallows x Fem!Reader Warnings: Gothic romance, obsession, possessiveness, unhealthy attachment, angst, cemetery setting, dark sapphic themes.

It started in the cemetery.

You weren’t looking for her. Who wanders into a graveyard at midnight expecting company? But there she was, sitting cross-legged atop a cracked headstone, her thrift-store dress crumpled, black eyeliner smudged like bruises under her eyes. A bouquet of half-dead flowers dangled from her hand.

Lisa Swallows.

You’d seen her in the halls at school—quiet, strange, beautiful in the kind of way that scared people. She never really fit, and you never really tried to either, so maybe that’s why it didn’t feel so wrong when her gaze landed on you in the dark.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice soft but sharp, like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

You shrugged. “Could ask you the same.”

She smirked faintly, twisting a wilted daisy between her fingers until the petals fell. “I like it here. It’s… honest. People are quieter when they’re dead.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest ache.

You didn’t say anything, just walked closer until the distance between you and her felt fragile, like a thread that might snap if you got too close. But she didn’t move away. If anything, her eyes lingered on you in that heavy, searching way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

“Everyone thinks I’m weird,” she said suddenly, looking back down at the flowers. “Like I’m too much or not enough. Like I’m broken.”

You sat beside her, ignoring the damp chill of the stone. “Maybe they’re just scared of things they don’t understand.”

She turned her head toward you then, her dark hair falling across her cheek. “Do you understand?”

Your pulse quickened. “I think so.”

Her lips parted, just slightly, and for a moment the air between you was heavy with things unsaid. You wanted to reach out, to brush her hair back, to hold the pieces of her she thought were unlovable.

Instead, you whispered, “I like broken things.”

The words hung there, trembling, and Lisa laughed under her breath—not cruelly, but like she couldn’t believe anyone would say that to her.

“Careful,” she said, her eyes bright with something that looked a lot like hope. “If you keep talking like that, I might start to believe you.”

You smiled, leaning just a little closer. “Then believe me.”

Her breath caught, and in that moment—with moonlight on her face and shadows swallowing the rest—you knew you’d follow her into the dark if she asked.

Because Lisa Swallows wasn’t broken. She was electric.

And you wanted to burn with her.

The cemetery became your secret meeting place. Among cracked headstones and the faint smell of damp soil, Lisa Swallows seemed more alive than anywhere else. Strange, isn’t it? That a girl who once felt invisible only seemed to glow under the shadow of death.

Tonight the air was heavy, the moon swollen and white above you. You found her leaning against an angel statue, her hair tangled like black ink, eyes rimmed in kohl. She looked both fragile and feral, and when she spotted you, that flicker of wildness sharpened.

“You came,” she whispered, as if she’d doubted it until the moment you stood before her.

“Of course,” you said softly. “Where else would I want to be?”

The words hit her like a knife and a kiss all at once. She closed the distance too quickly, her fingers curling around your wrist. Not just holding—claiming.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” Lisa hissed, voice cracking. “You don’t understand—I’ll… I’ll keep you. I’ll ruin anyone who tries to take you from me.” Her grip trembled, her eyes searching yours, wet and desperate. “I’ll ruin you, if I have to. I can’t— I can’t let you go.”

Your heart thundered, but fear never came. Instead, there was a dizzying pull, a strange warmth that pooled in your chest. You could see her for what she was: broken, jagged, desperate to be loved. And God help you, you wanted her all the more.

“Lisa,” you murmured, cupping her cheek with your free hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping as though the words had stitched her back together. But obsession was never sated so easily.

“Promise me,” she whispered hoarsely, forehead pressing to yours. “Promise me you’ll be mine. Only mine. Even if people laugh, even if they hate us. Even if it kills us.”

The intensity should’ve scared you. Instead, it felt intoxicating—like standing on the edge of a cliff and leaning forward just to see if the ground would catch you.

“I promise,” you said, voice steady despite the storm in your chest. “I’m yours.”

Her smile was fragile, unsteady, almost terrifying in its relief. “Then you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

The word forever lingered between you, heavy and sharp. Forever could mean anything with Lisa. Forever could mean love. Or obsession. Or a kind of ruin you might never come back from.

But when she kissed you, none of that mattered.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry, messy, trembling—her lips desperate like she was terrified you’d vanish if she didn’t hold you close enough. Her hands tangled in your hair, nails scraping your scalp as if she could anchor herself inside you.

You gasped against her mouth, the graveyard spinning, your back pressing into the cold stone angel. Lisa pressed closer, devouring the sound, devouring you.

“You don’t get it,” she breathed between kisses, her voice ragged. “You saved me. And now… now you’re mine. I won’t let anyone take you. I’ll burn the whole world if I have to.”

The fire in her eyes was terrifying. It was beautiful.

And you believed her.

When her lips found your throat, sucking, biting, branding you in the only way she knew how, you knew there was no undoing this. No untangling yourself from the web of her need.

And maybe you didn’t want to.

Because Lisa Swallows didn’t just love you. She worshipped you. Possessed you. And standing in that graveyard with her trembling hands gripping you like salvation, you realized—

You were just as lost in her as she was in you.

[mnemosynetheone]

writing prompt

Are there any characters you want us to write about? If so, let us know

[mnemosynetheone]

Beloved in the Graveyard

Pairing: Creature (Lisa Frankenstein) x Reader Warnings: Gothic horror romance, obsession, possessiveness, unsettling tone

The graveyard called to you.

It wasn’t just the whisper of wind through crooked headstones or the way the moon spilled silver across moss and marble. It was something deeper—an ache, a pulse under the soil, thrumming in rhythm with your own.

You told yourself you came because you couldn’t sleep. Because you needed air. But the truth hung heavy in your chest. You were here because of him.

And he was waiting.

He stood beneath the gnarled willow at the heart of the cemetery, a dark silhouette against pale moonlight. Broad-shouldered. Tall. Wrongly beautiful in a way that stole your breath—stitched skin and mismatched eyes that glowed faintly in the gloom. The air itself seemed to shift around him, colder and heavier, like the world bent to his presence.

When you stepped into view, his head tilted, slow and deliberate, and that thin, unsettling smile spread across his face.

“You came,” he said, his voice rough and low, like stone scraping against stone.

Your throat tightened. “I… I had to.”

His laugh was soft but empty of joy. “Had to,” he repeated, tasting the words. “I like that.”

He moved toward you—each step slow, measured, predatory. You wanted to step back but couldn’t. Not because you were frozen in fear, but because you wanted to be caught.

When he reached you, he didn’t touch you. Not yet. He simply loomed there, close enough that the air between you felt charged, like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

“They call me a monster,” he murmured, gaze raking over you as if memorizing every line of your face. “A mistake. An abomination. Something that should have stayed buried.”

Your breath came uneven. “They’re wrong.”

Something flickered in his expression—something dangerous, hungry.

“You believe that?” he asked softly, circling you like a wolf. “Even now, standing here with me? Even seeing what I am?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

The word seemed to ignite him.

Suddenly, his gloved hand was at your cheek, tilting your face up toward him. His touch was rough, unyielding, but it wasn’t cruel. It was… claiming.

“Then you’re mine,” he said, his voice a low growl that reverberated in your bones. “Do you understand? You don’t wander into the dark and leave untouched. You came to me. You stay with me.”

Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

He leaned closer, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Tell me you want to stay.”

“I…” You hesitated, trembling—not from fear, but from something hotter, more dangerous. “I want to stay.”

A satisfied sound rumbled from his chest.

“Good,” he said simply, like a verdict. “Then I’ll never let you go.”

His other hand came up, fingers trailing down your arm, over your wrist, before twining through your fingers—his grip firm, possessive. He brought your joined hands up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, soft and reverent despite the sharp edge of his presence.

“You’re warm,” he murmured against your skin. “So alive. They buried me in cold earth, but you… you feel like fire.”

Finally, his eyes met yours again, glowing faintly in the moonlight.

“Stay in my world,” he said, softer this time, almost pleading beneath the dominance. “Let them call me a monster. I’ll show you what a monster does for what it loves.”

And when he drew you into the shadows beneath the willow tree, his coat enveloping you like a second night, you didn’t resist. You couldn’t.

Somewhere deep inside, you didn’t want to.

[mnemosynetheone]

Like, Totally Undead

Pairing: Rory Keaner x Bimbo!Reader Warnings: Humor, fluff, light vampire themes

“OMG, this school is, like, so creepy at night,” you said, clicking down the empty Whitechapel High hallway in pink platform shoes.

Rory, trailing a few steps behind, tried to act cool, but mostly looked like a nervous puppy. “Uh, yeah, creepy… totally. Not like there are, you know, actual monsters lurking around here or anything.”

You spun on your heel, blonde curls bouncing as you blinked at him. “Wait, are there really monsters here? Because that’s, like, soooo scary, but also kinda hot.”

Rory’s brain short-circuited. “H-hot?”

“Yeah!” you giggled. “Like, imagine if some big, scary vampire tried to bite me or something… and then, like, my super cute friend saved me!”

You poked his chest playfully.

Rory’s undead heart might’ve stopped all over again. “I mean, hypothetically… I could totally save you. I’m, you know… pretty strong.”

You tilted your head, lips glossed and shiny. “Are you, like, really strong? Or, like, video-game strong?”

Rory hesitated, then grabbed a nearby metal locker door and yanked it right off the hinges with a screech of metal. “Like, really strong.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh. My. Gosh. That’s sooooo cool!”

Nobody had ever called Rory cool before. Not once. He could’ve floated off the ground.

You clapped your hands, bouncing in place. “So wait—are you, like… a vampire?”

“…Maybe?” he said, suddenly bashful.

“That’s so hot,” you squealed, grabbing his arm and pressing close. “Does that mean you can, like, fly? Or turn into a bat? Or do that thing where your eyes go all spooky?”

He swallowed hard, fangs pricking his lip as he muttered, “I can show you… if you want.”

Your eyes sparkled. “Show me everything.”

For once, Rory didn’t feel like the awkward sidekick. For once, he felt like the hero.

[mnemosynetheone]

Echoes of a Broken Heart

warning: NSFW / Explicit Sexual Content, MDI, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

minors do not interact whatsoever!!!!!!!! Ageless blogs will get blocked

The motel room was dimly lit, the flicker of the neon sign outside casting an eerie glow through the dusty curtains. The air was thick with tension as you both sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders. Sam's eyes searched yours, looking for the strength he always seemed to find in the quiet resolve that you carried with you. You were the calm to his storm, the balm to his weary soul.

Sam, with his chiseled jaw, disheveled hair and those piercing green eyes that seemed to see right through you, was dressed in his usual attire: a worn flannel shirt and jeans that had seen better days. You, the reader, had your brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail, and the simple tee and leather jacket you wore were a testament to the life you'd been thrown into.

You leaned into him, your hand finding its way to his cheek, the stubble rough against your palm. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness of the metal weapons that littered the nightstand beside you.

"Sam," you whispered, "we're going to get through this."

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours as he nodded. "Together," he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

And with those simple words, the dam burst. Sam's arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a fierce embrace. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a rhythm that mirrored your own. You melted into him, your body fitting against his as if you'd been made for this moment. His scent, a mix of leather, engine oil, and something uniquely Sam, filled your nostrils and calmed the chaos in your mind.

As he leaned in to kiss you, his lips were gentle, almost tentative, as if asking for permission. But when you responded with a fiery passion that surprised even you, he deepened the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours in a silent declaration of need. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and line with a reverence that sent shivers down your spine.

You pulled back, panting, and began to unbutton his shirt, revealing the taut muscles of his chest. He watched you with a hunger that made your stomach flip, his eyes dark with desire. As your shirt joined his on the floor, his hands traced the line of your collarbone before cupping your breasts, his thumbs teasing your sensitive nipples.

The rest of the world fell away as you two became lost in each other. Your skin was on fire, every touch sending sparks of electricity through your body. Sam's mouth trailed kisses down your neck, across your collarbone, and over the swell of your breasts. His tongue flicked against your nipple, eliciting a gasp from your lips.

You pushed him back, taking control for a moment, and straddled his lap, your legs on either side of his. His hands found your hips, holding you in place as you rocked against him. You could feel his arousal growing, straining against the fabric of his jeans.

With trembling hands, you undid the button and zipper, sliding them down to reveal the boxers beneath. His eyes never left yours as you reached inside and wrapped your hand around him. He was hot and hard, and the feeling of him in your grip made your own desire spike.

Sam's hands moved to the button of your own jeans, and in one swift motion, he had them open. He slid them down your hips, leaving you in only your underwear. He took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, his eyes raking over your body with a hunger that made you squirm.

He leaned in to kiss you again, his tongue delving into your mouth as he lifted you up and laid you on the bed. Your legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer as he ground against you, the fabric of your underwear the only barrier between you.

With a growl, he tore them off, and in one swift movement, he was inside you, filling you completely. You arched your back, crying out in pleasure, as he began to move, his rhythm setting a pace that you eagerly matched. His hands held your hips, guiding you to meet him thrust for thrust.

The room was filled with the sound of your mingled gasps and moans, the headboard banging against the wall in a steady rhythm. Each stroke brought you closer to the edge, and you could feel your climax building like a crescendo in your core.

"Sam," you breathed his name, your voice barely a whisper.

He responded by picking up the pace, his eyes never leaving yours as you both hurtled towards the precipice. With one final, powerful thrust, you shattered, your body convulsing around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Sam followed suit, his own release a hot rush that filled you completely.

You lay there, panting, your bodies entwined as the aftershocks of your shared ecstasy subsided. He kissed your forehead, his arms tight around you, as if he never wanted to let go.

In the quiet that followed, you knew that no matter what darkness the world threw at you, together, you could face it all. The echoes of your love were stronger than any demon, any curse, any prophecy.

[mnemosynetheone]

Dark Whispers

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Reader

warnings: nsfw (explicit), predator/prey dynamics, dubious consent vibes, dark themes (murder, violence, blood), psychological manipulation, power imbalance, toxic romance

minors do not interact whatsoever!!!!!!!! Ageless blogs will get blocked

Dexter Morgan was meticulous in his craft, a master of his trade. His hands, so adept at dissecting the layers of deceit that coated the criminals he stalked, found themselves tracing the contours of your body with an equally precise intensity. The moon cast a silver glow through the blinds, painting your skin with a ghostly luminescence. Your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, your heart beating a symphony of anticipation against his ear as he listened intently.

You were the one who had caught his eye, not because you were a killer, but because you had a scent that was intoxicatingly familiar. The scent of fear, the sweet aroma of a soul on the brink of discovery. He had to have you.

The air was thick with desire, the room a cocoon of shadows and whispers. Your eyes searched his, looking for answers, for a hint of the monster that lurked beneath the veneer of normalcy. But all you found was an abyss of hunger that mirrored your own.

"You know what I am," Dexter murmured, his voice a dark caress against the sensitive skin of your neck. "What I crave."

"And I crave the darkness," you whispered back, your voice a siren's call, beckoning him closer.

He took your hand, leading you to the bed, the soft fabric of your dress sliding away with a whisper. You were laid bare before him, a canvas of soft curves and shivering need. He took in the sight of you, the curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts, the way your thighs parted invitingly. His Dark Passenger was riding high, urging him to take, to claim what was his.

But Dexter had learned to play by his own rules, to bide his time, to savor the thrill of the hunt. He kissed you, a gentle brush of his lips that grew into a fervent dance. His hands roamed your body, learning the dips and valleys, memorizing the way you gasped and arched into his touch.

You responded in kind, your own hands exploring the planes of his muscular back, the ridge of his spine, the tautness of his ass. His body was a sculpture of sinew and power, a weapon honed for the taking of lives, now wielded for the giving of pleasure.

Dexter's mouth traveled lower, his tongue tracing the path from your neck to your collarbone, then down to your breasts. He took a nipple between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make you whimper. His hands found your hips, holding you steady as his mouth moved lower still, his tongue dipping into your belly button before continuing its descent.

When his mouth found the apex of your thighs, you thought you would die from the sheer ecstasy of it. His tongue flicked over your clit, teasing and taunting, while his fingers slid into the slick heat of your core. You bucked against him, your legs wrapping around his neck as he feasted on you.

The world outside the room fell away, the only sounds the wetness of his mouth and the desperate cries that tore from your throat. He knew just how to make you come apart, to make you beg for more.

And when you did, when you shattered beneath his ministrations, he looked up at you with eyes that gleamed with a predatory satisfaction. "Now, it's my turn," he growled, his voice thick with lust.

He rose over you, his erection pressing against your thigh. You watched as he sheathed himself, the latex a stark contrast to the passion etched on his face. You knew what he was about to do, knew that it was wrong, but you didn't care. You craved the darkness too.

With a single, powerful thrust, he entered you, filling you completely. Your nails dug into his back as he began to move, his hips a blur as he claimed you over and over again. The rhythm was brutal, punishing, a reflection of the monsters that dwelt within you both.

You met him stroke for stroke, your hips rising to meet his, your body a living, breathing testament to the power of desire. Your breaths mingled, hot and ragged, as you approached the edge together.

And when you fell, it was like nothing you'd ever felt before. A maelstrom of pleasure that left you trembling and gasping for air. Dexter followed you over, his release a hot pulse that sent shockwaves through your body.

He collapsed beside you, his breathing as erratic as yours. For a moment, there was silence, the only sound the distant wail of a siren, a haunting reminder of the world outside.

But then, he spoke, his voice a rough whisper in the darkness. "I've never felt this way before."

You rolled to face him, your hand coming to rest on his chest. "Neither have I."

And in that moment, you knew that you were bound to each other, two lost souls entwined in a dance of death and passion.

[mnemosynetheone]

Smudged Eyeliner and Stolen Notebooks

Pairing: Rodrick Heffley x Emo!Reader Warnings: Fluff, light angst, banter, teen vibes

You were halfway through scribbling lyrics in your notebook when the door to your room slammed open without warning.

“Nice cave you got here,” Rodrick announced, stepping inside like he owned the place. His smudged eyeliner was crooked—like he’d put it on in the dark—but somehow, it fit him. His ripped jeans were stained from band practice, and his spiked bracelets clinked as he flopped down on your bed uninvited.

You glared. “Don’t you knock?”

He smirked, folding his arms behind his head. “Knocking is for people who aren’t in bands. Besides, I figured you’d appreciate the dramatic entrance. Matches the whole…” He waved his hands at you. “Dark and brooding vibe.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging your hoodie tighter. “Wow. Thanks. Truly, your words are poetry.”

Rodrick grinned wider, clearly feeding off your sarcasm. “Speaking of poetry, whatcha writing?” He tried to snatch your notebook, but you yanked it out of reach.

“Private.”

“C’mon,” he whined, leaning closer. “Bet it’s like… ‘roses are dead, violets are too, the world is a void and so are you.’”

Despite yourself, you snorted. “That’s… actually not bad.”

His eyes lit up like he’d won the lottery. “See? Told you I could do emo. I could join your club or whatever.”

You shook your head. “It’s not a club. It’s just… me. And it’s not an act.” Your voice dipped softer, heavier. “It’s who I am.”

For a rare moment, Rodrick’s grin faltered. He sat up straighter, studying you with an expression that was less mocking and more… thoughtful. “Yeah. I know,” he said finally. “I mess around, but… I like it. The whole… you thing.”

Your heart stuttered at the sincerity laced in his tone.

And then, because he couldn’t stay serious too long, he added, “Besides, you’re way cooler than Greg’s lame friends. If I’m gonna hang out with someone, might as well be the girl who looks like she’d kill me and write a song about it.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

Rodrick leaned closer, voice dropping into something halfway between teasing and genuine. “Yeah, but admit it—you’d miss me if I stopped barging in.”

You rolled your eyes again, but the heat rising in your cheeks gave you away. “Maybe a little.”

His grin returned, satisfied. “Knew it.”

He grabbed your notebook before you could stop him, flipped it open, and started reading aloud in a dramatic voice. You launched yourself at him, trying to grab it back, both of you dissolving into laughter as his terrible eyeliner smudged even more across his cheek.

For once, the heaviness in your chest didn’t feel so heavy.

[mnemosynetheone]

The Weight of Wings

Pairing: Castiel x Reader Warnings: Fluff, a touch of angst, descriptions of wings

@midnightsyc, this is based on a post you made. Hope you like it!!

The first time you saw them, you forgot how to breathe.

They weren’t shadows, not some vague whisper of power that clung to the walls when he stepped into a room. They were real—solid, feathered, magnificent. Black, yes, but threaded with subtle strokes of deep blue that caught the light like midnight water.

The tips brushed the floor as if they were too heavy for him to hold aloft all the time. Maybe they were. Maybe they weren’t meant for Earth’s air.

You reached without thinking, hand hovering inches away.

“Don’t,” Cas said softly. His voice carried a tremor you didn’t often hear from him. He looked tired. “They aren’t for touching.”

But he didn’t move them away, either.

You swallowed, torn between awe and heartbreak. Not for touching? Then what are they for? They looked so heavy, so impossibly burdened, like all the wars and centuries he’d fought had settled inside every feather.

“Cas…” Your voice cracked. “They’re beautiful.”

He flinched like it hurt. “They’re not.”

“Yes, they are,” you insisted, stepping closer until the warmth of him—and them—wrapped around you. Your chest tightened with a strange ache, something between longing and grief. “You hide them because you think they’ll scare me. But they don’t.”

He turned his head, blue eyes catching yours. There was so much loneliness there it nearly undid you.

Tentatively, you let your fingers ghost along the air near his feathers, close but not quite brushing. “May I?” you whispered.

The silence stretched. Then, at last, he nodded.

The moment your hand sank into the down, you nearly wept. They were softer than you imagined, but every quill beneath was sharp, unyielding, like steel disguised in velvet. The dark blue gleamed in the lamplight, a secret galaxy hidden in plain sight.

Cas shuddered at the touch, eyes closing, wings twitching instinctively like he didn’t know whether to shield you or flee.

“You carry so much,” you murmured. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

One wing curled, tentative, hesitant… until it curved around your shoulders like a cloak.

He didn’t say anything, but the way his chest finally eased against yours told you everything.

[mnemosynetheone]

Shadows and Sunlight

Pairing: Rory Keaner x Reader Warnings: Fluff, awkwardness, vampire themes, light danger, protective Rory

You weren’t supposed to stay late at Whitechapel High, but between a stack of homework and the never-ending group project from hell, you found yourself sitting in the library long after most people had gone home.

The overhead lights flickered. A shiver crawled up your spine.

“Geez, could you pick a creepier time to hang out alone?” a voice suddenly said.

You jumped, spinning around—only to see Rory leaning lazily against the shelves, a goofy smile plastered across his face.

“Rory! You scared me!”

He winced. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. Kinda comes with the whole… sneaky vampire thing.” He mimed fangs with his fingers, then dropped them sheepishly.

You tilted your head. “You mean… you’re actually a vampire?”

He looked like he wanted to laugh, but instead his voice went oddly serious. “Yeah. I mean, not the scary Dracula type. More like the awkward teen version. With extra SPF 500 sunscreen.”

You blinked, waiting for him to crack a joke. He didn’t.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t the reaction he was expecting. Most people would’ve run. Screamed. Something. But you just sat there, looking at him with wide, curious eyes.

Rory shifted on his feet, tugging at his hoodie. “So, uh… you’re not gonna, like, throw holy water on me or anything?”

You smiled softly. “Do I look like the type to carry holy water around?”

He stared at you. Your sweetness, the way you always seemed so unshaken by things that terrified everyone else—it made something flutter in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt since before he was turned.

“You should be careful,” he said suddenly, his voice lower than usual. “There are things in Whitechapel scarier than me. Things that would love to…” He trailed off, glancing at your neck before forcing his eyes away. “Never mind.”

For a moment, the silence was heavy. You reached out, gently touching his sleeve.

“But you wouldn’t hurt me, right?”

His throat bobbed. Every instinct in him screamed to step back, to make a joke, to run. But instead, he met your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically sincere.

“Never. I’d… protect you. Always.”

Your cheeks warmed at the way he said it—like a vow.

The lights above flickered again, and this time Rory moved in front of you without hesitation, scanning the shadows like the dorky, loyal vampire he was.

Maybe Whitechapel was dangerous. Maybe Rory was dangerous.

But in that moment, you felt safer than ever.

[mnemosynetheone]

Faster Than Fear, Slower Than Love

pairing: Barry Allen x Reader

Warnings: Obsessive thoughts, toxic romantic idealization, emotional manipulation, psychological tension, hero fixation, dark themes

Central City glowed like a pulse in the dark, neon lights beating against the wet pavement. You walked home with your hood up, ignoring the sirens and the distant boom of metahuman chaos. You should have been afraid. You weren’t. Not really.

Because he was out there.

Barry Allen. The Flash. Your personal guardian angel—or something far less holy.

He’d saved you once. Just once. A mugger in an alley, a flash of red lightning, a gloved hand gripping yours as he whispered, “You’re safe now.” The city never went back to normal after that night. Neither did your mind.

Sometimes, you felt him before you saw him. A breeze on your neck. The hum of speed in the air. Tonight was no different.

“(Y/N),” he said, and you jumped. He was just there now—leaning against the lamppost like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to find you. His cowl was off, his hair damp with mist. His smile was soft, but there was something desperate beneath it.

“You shouldn’t be out this late.”

“I can handle myself,” you said, but your voice trembled just slightly.

Barry tilted his head, studying you with that intensity that made your lungs tighten. It was too much—like he was memorizing the pulse in your throat.

“I know you can,” he said. “But I can handle you better.”

A shiver ran through you. He stepped closer, close enough that the air felt charged. Like every molecule wanted to move at his command.

“I keep thinking about that night,” Barry said, voice low. “How small your hand felt in mine. How fast your heart was beating. I can still hear it. I hear it every time I run past your street.”

He was too close now, eyes shining with something beyond heroism—something ravenous.

“I save people all the time,” he murmured. “But you… you make me want to keep you. To never let anyone else even see you.”

Your breath hitched, torn between fear and something else—something magnetic.

“Barry…” you whispered.

He smiled like a man on the edge of worship or ruin. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m the fastest man alive. No one can take you from me.”

And in the flicker of city lights, you realized it wasn’t a promise. It was a warning.

[mnemosynetheone]

No more secrets

Pairing: Dean & Sam Winchester x Younger Sibling!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of old self-harm scars, emotional hurt/comfort, protective brothers, safe conversation about mental health

The hunt had been long and exhausting, leaving all three of you stumbling back into the bunker well past midnight. You just wanted a shower and your bed.

Dean tossed his jacket on the table, muttering about beer. Sam was already headed to his laptop to start the post-hunt research. You slipped away to the laundry room to throw your blood-stained shirt in the wash, forgetting for a moment that you’d be walking back through the war room in just your tank top.

When you stepped back into the main room, Dean looked up from his beer—and froze. His gaze landed on your forearm, where the faded, thin lines were visible in the harsh bunker lighting.

“Y/N… what’s that?” His voice wasn’t sharp. It was… quiet. Careful.

You instinctively pulled your arm against your body. “It’s nothing. Old. Doesn’t matter.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “It matters to me.”

Sam, hearing the change in his tone, turned in his chair. His eyes softened the moment he saw. “How long?”

Your throat tightened. “Years. I don’t… do that anymore.”

Dean set his beer down like it suddenly didn’t matter. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “You guys already have so much on your plates. Monsters, the world ending every other week… I didn’t want to be another problem.”

Dean stood, crossing the room in two strides. “You’re not a problem. You’re my family. You think I care more about hunting than I do about you? No way in hell.”

Sam’s voice was low but firm as he stepped closer. “You don’t have to deal with anything like that alone. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

You looked between them, guilt and relief twisting together in your chest. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be sorry. Just promise us—if it ever gets bad again, you come to us. Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 a.m., doesn’t matter where we are. We’ll be there.”

Sam nodded, his hand brushing your arm gently, no judgment in his touch. “We mean it, Y/N. We’d rather sit with you through the worst nights than lose you.”

For a moment, the bunker was silent except for the quiet hum of the lights. And in that stillness, you realized—they weren’t just your brothers. They were your lifeline.