back on my spot writing lets go! originally I wasn't sure who to do with this prompt- in fact originally this was going to be "first time but no sex" but thats... too long of a title LMAO... so... we get this instead!
plot: you explore spot's body
notes: this isnt smut but there are some undertones... im not exactly sure what restrictions to put it in. reader is gn. post collider pre ATSV, spot is still not comfortable in his new body, no romantic relationship but you guys are roommates (oh my god they were roommates)
word count: 2.3k
cws: self confidence stuff spot hates his new body
It had only been about half a year since Jonathon’s accident with the collider, the explosion that had left his body… in its current state.
If his voice wasn’t the same you would have shut him out just as everyone else in his life had- turned him away like his own family had. His begging was pitiful enough for him to let you help him get back up on his feet. Something that was easier said than done, no one wanted to hire a man with a hole for a face.
He was lucky to hear back after sending in his resume… but never did employers reach out after a face to face interview. Assuming he was even lucky to still get one after they get a look at him. A hat and glasses can only make someone look so human before it fails.
Today… marked the end of another horrible week. So many applications, and not one had reached back out to him.
“Just give it time,” You’d tell him.
Bullshit.
He had tried to reach out to his parents again in another desperate attempt to make them look at him. They’ve blocked his number.
Jonathon’s hands gripped his phone hard enough to make hand shake. He put it down before the voice in the back of his mind makes him throw it across the room. He can’t afford another expense on top of everything else, not now- not when…
His head leans back in the seat as he raises a hand to his head to comb his fingers through hair that wasn’t there anymore. Every little thing he did forced him to face what happened to him- and for what? To rub it in his face?
His hands flop down to his sides in a last ditch attempt to separate his mind away from what he had become. What did he do to deserve this, exactly? Sure, he was working for an evil man who nearly tore everything apart with his desire to build a machine capable of tearing through universes- but did he really deserve this? The self loathing part of him that’s steadily been growing louder over the weeks insisted he did.
Jonathon was about to rise from his spot on the couch to go rot in bed- at least then he’d be more comfortable- only to stop as you open the door to his apartment.
You’d basically moved in at this point in an attempt to help support him in this time. If it weren’t for you he’d probably be out on the streets.
“Heeeeeeeeeey you,” The spot on his otherwise blank face widened as Jonathon swiveled his head towards you, so obviously trying to hide that there was something weighing him down. You tug your shoes off and toss them to the side out of the way into a corner.
“You’re… home early..?”
“Yeah they let me go for the day, something going on with the boss’s wife,” You muttered under your breath as you shoulder your coat off and hang it up on a nearby hook.
Jonathon only hums in response as he sinks back into the couch… it’s quiet before you clap your hands together.
“No biggie, that just means we can spend some time together- haven’t been able to do that the past couple of weeks,” A lopsided smile as you make your way to him next to the couch. You stare ahead at the powered off TV. “Oh… you’re not… watching,” You trail off as you sink into the softness of the couch.
Another awkward pause before you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
“Have you heard back from anyone yet?”
The spot on his face shrinks into a tiny hole about the size of a coin.
“No one wants to hire me, at this point I might as well join some… freakshow.” The spot warbles slightly before shrinking even smaller.
“Just give it time, I’m sure there’s someone who’s willing to hire you somewhere-”
“You keep saying that-!” He snaps back, before taking a deep breath. The spot returns to its passive size. “I’m sorry. You’re only trying to help.”
You curl your fingers against your pants and pick slightly at the fabric.
“..’is fine, I get it,”
Another moment of silence.
“Have you tried adding in what you can do with your holes to your resumes? There’s got to be some use that someone can find- I mean… you can do things with them, right?”
You shift around to stare at him- letting your eyes drag around his bare form. He’d ditched wearing clothes for the most part… What was the point in wearing them if there was nothing to hide?
Actually…
If you had asked him he would have said everything was worth hiding.
Even with nothing happening the spots covering his body shifted and warped against his stark white skin. Sometimes if you squinted enough you could see faint lines and circles decorating his body- almost like guidelines. It hurt your head to stare at them for too long, like you weren’t supposed to see them in the first place.
The holes looked… flat against his body- as if they led to nowhere and carried no depth.
“I mean… I know the circumstances are bad but it would be extra cruel if that machine messed you up with no… pros…” You reach your hand forward and poke a hole on his arm.
No. In his arm.
With zero resistance the tip of your finger sunk right through the pit and seemingly disappeared.
“Woah-”
Jonathon reels away and his hand instinctively comes up to cover the spot. “Woah- woah woah at least warn before before you go sticking things inside me-”
Your finger curls into a fist and pulls away, and your face flushes in embarrassment.
“Sorry- I didn’t think my finger would… do that, I kind of just…” You trail off and look at the hole again. “Thought they were kind of just flat markings…”
Jonathon rubs his hand over the hole before hooking both of his fingers into it… you see the tips of his fingers poke out of another hole in his body.
“Woah…”
Jonathon pulls his fingers out, before pushing his fist right through. Sure enough his fist shot out somewhere else.
“Oouugh… that feels weird, I don’t think I like that- it’s like… I don’t know-” Jonathon shuddered before pulling his fist out.
“You didn’t know you could do that..?”
He shakes his head… he lifts his hand again momentarily as if contemplating experimenting with himself again before letting it fall again.
“Aren’t you a scientist? Isn’t poking around like… half of your job?” You stick your finger out again but stop about an inch away from the hole in his arm.
“Can… I touch..?”
“Just don’t yank at it- and in my defense I’ve been wallowing this entire time. Not exactly in the mood to poke around.” Jonathon muttered.
Your finger sticks back into the blackness of his hole- once again disappearing out of sight… this time you push it in further… and just as his fist had, the tip of your finger appears elsewhere.
“It’s…”
It felt like your hand was vibrating as you pushed your hand in even deeper.
The closest way you could describe it was when you put your hand against a loudspeaker. The sensation slowly crawled up your arm the further in you pushed. One finger became two then three… and then your entire hand all the way up to your wrist.
Even the rim of the hole felt weird. It was… solid but also… not… wispy, almost.
“Ooooooh this is… weird… this doesn’t hurt, does it?”
Jonathon takes a moment to consider your question. He shifts around…
“No, no it doesn’t but it feels… really weird. I can feel you but I also. Can’t.”
“Weird… can you feel that buzz?”
“Kinda?”
“Weird.” You repeat as you rotate your wrist.
You begin to pull your hand back, but before your fingers are freed you hook them around the edge of the hole to get a better feel at it.
“You could totally do something with this- maybe you can use your holes to move stuff around? Though… I guess a lot of these holes are too small for…”
You tug your finger slightly. Jonathon gasps as the hole is slightly tugged wider.
In an instant you retract your hand completely. “Shit sorry I should have asked first-”
“No it’s fine… it… you know when you lick a battery and it zaps you?”
…
“You licked batteries?”
Quiet for about half a minute before he continues on like nothing.
“It’s kind of like that- it didn’t feel bad, actually.”
“You like licking batteries?”
Jonathon looks at you as hard as a faceless man can for a few seconds.
“For science.”
“Right, for science,” You smirk.
“Stop that.”
You only shake your head. “Well… in any case at least it looks like you can… at least somewhat make the hole wider,”
Jonathon only offers a hum of acknowledgement as he leans back against the couch exposing more of his holes to you. “Maybe…”
“Can I try again?”
Jonathon pauses his own movements as his fingers try to grab at the edge of a spot. He released, and let his hands fall- leaving you open for your own hands and experiments. For a moment before his hand fell you had seen the edge of the hole begin to lift off of his skin… it fell back in an instant and reattached.
You shift closer to him- nearly slipping into his lap… you would’ve if you weren’t sure that it would make things awkward- though… now that you thought about it you were effectively exploring this man’s body shamelessly.
Your teeth catch your lip between them and chew at the skin… tugging, tearing looser pieces of skin off in a nervous gesture as you try to pull your mind away from the realization of the implications of what you were doing.
It was… intimate in its own weird way. Not sexually, you don’t think… but definitely not something a pair of roommates just do with each other…
Not that many people have roommates who have a surplus of holes.
Your finger twitches back to your hand as the sudden shyness begins to consume you.
“You’re not going to hurt me if that’s why you’re hesitating,” Jonathon asked. At least he still didn’t seem to realize the close proximity as anything other than curious exploration.
Or maybe he did and he was putting on a mask of obliviousness…
No, this man was denser than anything there was no way he was connecting the dots as you did.
“I’m not I just don’t know what hole to go for first,”
As if.
“Why not this one?” Jonathon lifts a hand up and taps his index finger on the border of a hole on the lower left side of his chest- the border of it stretching down to his upper abdomen. The spot was roughly the size of a grapefruit.
… Perhaps next time you could mess with throwing things through his holes… your hands would have to suffice for now.
You force your nervousness aside and push your hand forward. You hook your fingers along the rim once more… the vibration in this hole felt… less concentrated.. Was it because of its larger size or because of the position?
As your fingers curl around on the inside your thumb presses against the outside… and you tug- just as Jonathon had been attempting before. The hole does not peel off of him like when he had done it… instead the border of it is tugged and warped to go along with the force of your hold…
You… put your other hand into the hole on the opposite side and tug in the other direction. The hole widens a few inches before growing taught… not an insane stretch but there was some definite give. As the tension mounts, the vibration inside begins to increase.
Jonathon grunts as it reaches its tightest, and you slacken it in an instant… and it snaps back into its original shape and size as soon as your fingers are pulled out.
“It's kind of like a rubber band,”
“Yeah…” Jonathon dipped his own fingers into the whole- and tugged it just as you did… except there was a lot less resistance when he did it… in fact he had been able to pull it wider than you could.
“Looks like you’ve got more power over it than I do,”
“Yeah…” Jonathon commented mindlessly as he let the hold shrink back again.
“Maybe you could do something with that- work on that, you could do some cool things with that if you could understand it a little better… hell that seems pretty handy… maybe…” You shuffle away from him, and offer him a hopeful smile.
“Yeah… yeah…!” Jonathon nodded- the motion growing steadily faster as a new wave of energy that he hadn’t experienced in months washed over him. “Yeah!”
“Yeah,” You repeat as your smile warmed… you rise to your feet.
“Well, I’m going to pick up some lunch- thinking of just picking up a pizza… I’ll leave you alone to play with your holes in the meantime, I’m sure you don’t want any distractions from any breakthroughs,”
“Uh-huh,” Jonathon said absentmindedly as he rose to his own feet, trailing his fingers along his body to count up how many spots covered his body.
“You have fun with that, I’ll be back soon,”
You walk back to the door, and slip your shoes back on… you give Jonathon one last glance over your shoulder before you walk off… you can hear him walk around on the other side of the door- practically hearing his uplifted mood in each step he took.
I just know Spot uses his powers to watch Reader from afar, but not in a creepy way at all, just in a lovesick puppy crush way. Reader doesn’t mind at all, and when they acknowledge his presence by saying “hello” to him, Spot just squeaks and quickly disappears into one of his spots. I just love dorky shy guys. 🤍🖤
TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Semi-Public Sex, Tentacle-Adjacent Sex, Prolonged Stalking, Psychological Abuse, Themes of Grief, and Kidnapping.
You were starting to think that your apartment might’ve been haunted.
The science-focused part of your brain was forced to look at the evidence, to acknowledge how many well-accounted-for articles of clothing and minor keepsakes had gone missing over the past few weeks, to count how many times you’d caught shadowy figures flickering in the corner of your eye, to take stock of all possible causes and admit that, tragically, a temperamental spirit was the only remotely plausible explanation, even if you had to use the term ‘plausible’ more loosely than you’d like to. It made sense – or, it made as much sense as invoking supernatural entities could, anyway.
On the other hand, the part of your mind that paid rent every month and vacuumed twice a week really, really didn’t want your apartment to be haunted and vehemently denied that ghosts – unseen, untouchable, unsolvable ghosts – were something you’d have to deal with a down payment like yours.
Both parts of your brain could agree that leaving a fully in-tact, as-of-yet unopened bank vault would be a weird thing for a ghost to do, though.
Teeth grit, still dressed in the clothes you’d worn to the memorial, you stood with one foot planted on its overturned side and another lodged in your carpeting, the end of a crowbar you’d borrowed from your loudest downstairs neighbor lodged between the door and the wall where a badly beaten mechanism bound them together. You’d already called the cops, as little as you wanted to do with them or the quote-on-quote ‘heroes’ who’d failed to save him, but the operator had laughed you off of the line and despite the hours you’d spent buried in the deepest trenches of any search engine that would have you, the only report you could find of a bank robbery had taken place in London, on the other side of the world. You’d considered, briefly, that grief had driven you to hallucinations and this was just the first sign of an upcoming downward spiral, but that idea had been swiftly vetoed when you’d tripped over the damn thing and decided it was very much, very unfortunately real. The idea to pry it open had come a few minutes later, after deciding that you probably had a legal right to anything to investigate anything that spontaneously appeared in your living room – ghosts or no ghosts.
You heard something snap, felt the reverberation of a fracture underneath your palms, but the vault didn’t budge. The only thing that changed was your crowbar – the bent claw replaced with a jagged, broken-off tip when you managed to dislodge it from the vault. You winced, swallowing back in an agitated grown. Trial One: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. So far, the vault reigned victorious.
You tried to take a deep breath, to count to ten and tell yourself that this was no different than a failed experiment, a half-baked test that just hadn’t gone your way, but you could still hear church bells ringing in the back of your mind, still picture two empty seats at the front of the chapel – one for Dr. Octavius and the other meant for the CEO of the Alchamax, neither brave enough to show their face. You weren’t even sure why you were so angry. It could’ve been the clipped speech delivered by a company representative who’d barely known him, the closed casket, the way your coworkers could barely bring themselves to meet your eyes despite your stunted attempts at making conversation through the knot lodged in your throat. It could’ve been everything. It could’ve been something else entirely. You didn’t know. You didn’t care. There were already tears streaming down your cheeks, dripping down your chin as you pulled the crowbar back and swung it into the vault’s door. The force of the collision rattled through your body, but you steeled yourself and did it again, then again, then again, until the smooth, black metal was dented beyond any hope of repair and your crowbar was warped and misshapen. Finally, when you were panting and breathless, when your hands threatened to cramp and your shoulders ached in their sockets, you drove the blunted crowbar into the vault’s door with what was left of your quickly draining strength. In the end, your aggression was rewarded with a metallic clang, the sound of something cracking open, and then, what was left of the vault door fell open – nearly taking out one of your feet before you stumbled out of the way.
You clenched your eyes shut, forcing out a ragged exhale and re-tallying your score. Trail II: Crowbar vs. Spontaneously Generated Vault complete. Although the vault put up a good fight, the crowbar’s endurance ultimately persevered. Interference from external factors and researcher’s bias will be considered later on with the assistance of a glass of wine and a mediocre romcom you’ll cry your eyes out to.
Once you’d managed to dampen the lingering heat of your grief-fueled anger, you turned your attention to the bank vault’s contents – the fruits of your labor, the results of your little experiment. You weren’t sure what you expected. Jewelry, maybe, artifacts or century-old paintings some underground dealer had to ditch in a stranger’s apartment for reasons you couldn’t begin to comprehend. Part of you, the part of you that remembered the number written across your last paycheck, couldn’t help but hope for something simple; a disorderly pile of unmarked bills that you’d count and stow away and pretend you weren’t dying to waste. That part of you wasn’t entirely wrong, either.
Neatly stacked in the overturned bank vault, only slightly disrupted by your attempts to pry it open, were stacks upon stacks of neatly organized dollar bills. Or, that wasn’t quite right, actually. They were bills, but they weren’t dollars.
You took one of the bundles in your hand. English pounds – sorted by color and bound together by paper bands toting a logo you didn’t recognize. Huh.
Maybe your next call should be an international one.
~
By the next month, you’d escalated from a vaguely haunted apartment to a full-blown spectral presence that you just couldn’t seem to shake.
Spectral presence. You still weren’t convinced it was a real term, but you’d picked it up after a conversation with one of your coworkers (former coworker, now, you had to remind yourself, one of your former coworkers) when you both stepped out of a quickly lulling group session and you’d off-handedly mentioned your little ghost problem. In the moment, you’d laughed and shrugged and promised to let them know if you ever called an exorcist, but the phrase had stuck, resurfaced the next time you couldn’t find the threadbare t-shirt you’d been wearing for the better part of a decade and cemented itself in the forefront of your consciousness when the aforementioned shirt reappeared on your balcony, a jagged tear running from the collar to the midriff and the hems eaten away to nothing. If that didn’t count as a presence, you weren’t sure what would.
That was the first time your little ghost problem had followed you out of the house, but it wouldn’t be the last. You could practically feel it, now; constantly looming over your shoulder, constantly watching, constantly leaving little trinkets in places it knew you would be. If you could even call them that. They were more like… oddities – rings made of a kind of metal you couldn’t recognize, puzzle boxes you couldn’t seem to figure out, things that should make sense but just didn’t when you looked into them. The only one you’d been able to make sense of so far was a pair of glasses, one of the lenses sporting a hair-line fracture. You’d spent the rest of that day huddled in your closet, the door shut and the lights off. You considered that you could have a stalker, someone or something who loved you enough or hated you enough to follow you around, leaving things you didn’t want to see in places it knows you’d find them, but you didn’t know how a stalker would even start to get their hands on something like that. You didn’t know how anything of his could’ve survived that explosion, but you weren’t in a place to ask those kinds of questions, anymore.
Currently, you weren’t in a place to do much of anything. You’d spent most of the night before sleepless and huddled into yourself, and now, you were glassy-eyes and exhausted, staring down an aisle’s worth of produce blankly as you tried to ignore the chill fanning over the nape of your neck. You kept your tongue caught in your teeth, counting out the micro-seconds between one breath and another with a precision refined by years of measuring the time between stimulus and reaction, holding yourself stiff enough to drown out the unsteadiness. It’d pass, soon enough. It had to pass, eventually. You just had to—
Something brushed against the small of your back and you straightened, snapping over your shoulder and finding, predictably, nothing. You tried to write it off as just another figment of your stress-induced paranoia, a symptom of so many late nights and so little external stimulation, but any hope of calming your racing heart was torn away with you by the feeling of something settling against the curve of your shoulder-blade, then dipping lower, following the curve of your spine before sliding to your hip. It was a phantom sensation – cold and weightless, hollow and so close to intangible – but you could feel it clearly enough to recognize that it was pressing against you directly, frozen tendrils sapping the warmth from your skin without clothes to buffer its awful touch. There was something else to it, too, a sort of buzzing that you couldn’t seem to compare to anything but static. It burnt. It didn’t feel like anything at all.
If you’d been braver, you might’ve glanced down, tried to see if the fabric of reality had opened to reveal some terrible, eldritch thing, but you weren’t and it was all you could do to clench your eyes shut, to cross your arms over your chest and pray that would be enough to protect you from the thin trail of frigid, searing static slowly creeping up your side, drifting to your navel, following the curve of your chest until it was resting just underneath the base of your throat. You weren’t sure what you were afraid of. That it would hurt you, maybe, that the thing that was haunting you for months would realize it could touch you and take the next logical step. You didn’t want to die in a grocery store. You didn’t want to die at all. You didn’t want to—
“Do you mind, dude?”
The static disappeared, dissolving into the open air, and your eyes shot open, immediately finding a strung-out teenager standing next to you, awkwardly attempting to reach for something you must’ve been standing in front of. More out of reflex than anything else, you stepped back, muttering an apology under your breath before retreating out of the store entirely. You decided, when you were a block away and just starting to catch your breath, that you’d never be going back. You decided you were never going to think about what’d just happened to you again.
And, later on, when you realized that you wouldn’t be any safer at home, you decided not to think about your little haunting at all.
~
It was creeping up your spine, again.
“You’ve got more than enough experience for the position we’re offering.”
Lingering at the nape of your neck, pausing, then circling to your chest to trace over your collarbones.
“And I saw your resume, too – very impressive stuff. We’d love to have someone with your qualifications on our staff.”
It usually waited until you were alone, locked in your apartment or curled up under your sheets. It hadn’t touched you again in public since your first physical encounter – something you were thankful for and horrified by in equal measures. You didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was a conscious entity. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean if it knew what it was doing to you.
“There’s just one question. You mentioned that you were formerly employed at,” A pause, a polite smile that meant ‘depending on your answer, you might not be in my office for much longer’, “Alchemax?”
You forced yourself to smile, too, shifting slightly in your uncomfortable leather seat and hoping that would be enough to dispel the trail of frost now gliding down your chest. “Unfortunately,” you started, and your specter dipped lower, past your stomach and into the space between your thighs. You clenched your legs shut, then thought better of it and crossed them, but that did little to stop the chill now washing over your lap, fanning over the inside of your thigh. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it groping. “I wasn’t in that department, if that’s what you’re wondering. Our work was supposed to be completely theoretical. None of us knew what was really going on until – well, until everything knew.”
Your total rejection of autonomy appeased the interviewer, who rewarded your sacrifice by nodding his head and shuffling the papers on his desk before launching into some lengthy monologue about benefits and turn-over rates that you couldn’t bring yourself to concentrate on. Your crossed legs offered little protection. The entity’s touch expanded, infecting everything it contacted with that awful static and turning your skin warm, hyper-sensitive. A strange, alien weight fell onto your clit, pressing down harshly enough to earn a sudden gasp, to make you jerk forward and wrap your arms around your stomach. The interview went silent, his expression turning to one of sympathy-tinged confusion. “Oh, are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m just—” You tried to straighten your back, to brace yourself on the arm of your chair, but the entity dipped lower, two finger-like projections tracing down the length of your slit and you forced yourself to stand in spite of your unsteady legs. “It’s just been so humid, lately. I think I might need to step out and get something to drink—”
“Please, let me.” No, no, no. You needed to be somewhere else, to find a broom closet to hide in until this was over, but you couldn’t say that, couldn’t explain that all you wanted to do was get away from here and run farther than this entity would be able to follow you. You couldn’t say much of anything as you fell back into your seat, as your interview offered a curt apology and fled his own office before you could do the same. You might’ve thanked him, but you couldn’t be sure. It was impossible to hear anything over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.
As you feared, the entity seemed to know that you were alone. Its formerly ginger touch turned aggressive, dull fingertips (because they were fingers, you couldn’t deny it any longer, couldn’t claim this thing was as far from human as you hoped it would be) burrowing into the inside of your thigh harshly enough to bruise before pulling back and turning their attention back to your cunt, your clit. It was more than just the ghost of sensation, now – the pad of a thumb pressing into the sensitive bundle of nerves and drawing loose, quick circles into your clit. Your body, senses dialed up by paranoia and defenses thinned by exhaustion, reacted instantly, an unfamiliar warmth pooling in your core as you dug your nails into the leather seat and tried to hold yourself still, tried to stop your stupid, stupid body from doing anything that’d suggest you wanted to be molested by a ghost.
You grit your teeth, to clench your thighs together, but your resistance only seemed to make it more aggressive. You felt a hand curl around your ankle and jerk your leg to the side, forcing your legs apart. It was quick to fill the empty space, three fingers pressing into your entrance as the heel of a palm continued to torture your clit. Whatever chill it carried, you were burning hot enough to balance it out, now, to leave you struggling to ignore the slick starting to dampen the inside of your thighs, the wet sounds that echoed off the blank office walls as two fingers slid into your pussy – only vaguely muffled by fabric still between you and it. Suddenly, the material of your dress-pants felt thin, transparent, and against your better judgement, you forced yourself to look toward the door. The interviewer had closed it on his way out, but it wasn’t locked. You doubted it was soundproof, either. If you were lucky, they’d be short-staffed, and no one would have a reason to pass this specific office though this specific hallway. And, if you weren’t…
You choked back a ragged groan as the fingers inside of you started to move, started to do more than just grope and tease and haunt. Rather than numb, rather than paralyze, the static seemed to tote a much, much worse side-effect. There was a sort of… buzzing vibration, a resonating tremor that made you want to lean back, go slack, and let the sensation wash over you. You couldn’t, though. Even if you forfeited the job, gave up on the idea of ever working in this industry, you knew you’d never be able to show your face in public again if someone walked in and you had to explain what was happening to you right now. That was, if you even could explain what was happening to you right now.
You caught the inside of your cheek in your teeth, biting down until you tasted blood. The digits quirked upward, rubbing against your pulsing walls before scissoring apart, stretching you open. There was no pattern to it, no method you could track and prepare yourself for. If you didn’t know better, you’d call it experimental. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve called it clumsy.
You could feel your face heating up, a knot of tension growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, but rather than sped up, push forward, force you further towards that inevitable ledge, the entity’s hand pulled back, rubbing one more careless pattern into your clit before falling away completely. You let out a sigh that was equal parts relief and disappointment, letting one last disgusted shudder run through you before straightening your back and—
And forcing a palm over your mouth just in time for a tongue, wet and thick and cold, to run over your cunt, hauling you back to the edge just as quickly as you’d pulled away from it. It was rough, the texture too savage to be human, and so wet, the slick you’d been trying to ignore was immediately replaced with thick, freezing saliva. Even the length seemed designed to torture you – long enough to lap over your entrance and your clit in the same slow, aching stroke; to thrust into you and fill the space its fingers had left empty. Memories of a course on specialized biology resurfaced in the fog of forced pleasure and helpless confusion, something about the evolution of a giraffe’s tongue and then, in another lecture, of the practice of masturbation among dolphins as a marker of their intelligence. You’d hated that fucking class. You hated that you were thinking about it now, instead of doing anything useful.
Its tongue was wider, more flexible than its fingers had been. It didn’t have to stretch you open, no, not when it was big enough to keep you full as its tapered end curled and probed against the walls of your cunt. Two fingers pressed into your clit, drawing loose patterns while its tongue split you open so gracelessly, so brutally, it almost circled back around to feeling good. You didn’t try to stop yourself from grinding into it, anymore, letting your legs twitch and your hips buck freely as it worked, as it tore you apart with all the care of a predator gnawing at slabs of raw meat. Every scrap of your limited energy was devoted to keeping yourself quiet, to stifling the needy whimpers and little whines that managed to escape despite your best efforts to silence them. That terrible buzzing seemed to grow stronger, now intense enough to send pulsing jolts of pure electricity from your pussy to your core, and you doubled over, blunt nails biting into your own skin as that thing finally shoved you over the side and brought your body to a trembling, blinding orgasm.
It nursed you through your climax, and as the euphoria faded and the aftershocks dulled into sharp, searing pangs, you managed to speak, your voice hushed and shaking for reasons that were entirely beyond your control. “Go away,” you forced out, praying that your interviewer had left the building, that there had never been a research center here at all and you were just sitting in a condemned building crying about nothing because grief had driven you insane weeks ago and you were just too lost in your own delusions to notice. “Please, go away.”
There was a second of hesitation, a lingering chill against the inside of your thigh, and the entity chose to show its first sign of mercy and finally, finally leave – its cold tongue lapping over your cunt one more time before disappearing completely. You had a second to pull yourself into a more dignified position, another to make sure you didn’t look like someone who’s just gotten finger-fucked by a ghost in the empty office of a higher-up who had to already think you were some mad-scientist reject before the door swung open, your interviewer stepping back in and smiling at you as if nothing in the world could’ve possibly been wrong.
His eyes flickered over your hollowed expression, your wide eyes, your unsteady posture as he handed you a lukewarm bottle of water. You could only wonder why it’d taken him so long to get. “Are you…” A pause, a slight wince. You tried to pretend you didn’t notice. “…feeling alright?”
“Just fine,” you said, your voice hoarse, barely audible. You managed to brace yourself on the arms of your chair, pulling yourself upward and leaving the bottle forgotten in your lap. You didn’t want to drink anything. Not until your hands stopped shaking, at least.
“I think we were talking about my qualifications?”
~
You got the job, despite everything. They asked you to start as soon as you could, but you’d made your excuses, cited a half-remembered clause that’d come with your suspension package and got whoever was in-change of that kind of thing to hold the position for another month. You couldn’t imagine willingly stepping back into that building again, not yet. You couldn’t imagine doing much of anything, not when he still hung over your life like the smoke of a funeral pyre.
It'd been a bad idea, looking back on it. You should’ve worked harder to get yourself out of your stifling apartment. You should’ve done more to keep up with the friends you’d pushed away after the incident, to make sure you didn’t leave yourself socially isolated and alone. You should’ve left town. You should’ve fled the country.
You should’ve done everything in your power to make sure you didn’t end up where you were now, facing down the thing that was currently standing in your bathroom doorway.
Your ghost, you figured – even if it’d been weeks since you genuinely thought you were only dealing with a run-of-the-mill haunting. It looked… blurry, for lack of a more creative descriptor; the white, chalky outline of a humanoid figure standing sharply out against the entirely black background. If it had a body, it was lost in the shadows of the hallway beyond, the shadows it’d created when it appeared out of nowhere and took every light bulb in your apartment out with a single pulse of extra-dimensional energy. Right now, the only source of light was the phone you were clutching in your right hand, your left similarly preoccupied, busy keeping your suddenly very, very thin towel wrapped around your torso. It probably didn’t matter. As far as you could tell, this thing didn’t have eyes, let alone genitalia.
That was what the rational, scientific part of your brain said, at least. The rest was replaying the memory of the way its hand had felt as groped at your thighs and couldn’t seem to comprehend much else.
You half-expected it to lunge at you, or rather, to creep at you, to disappear and reappear just outside of your peripheral, too far to see but close enough to sense. In the end, it only had to take a step forward, its movements slow and jerky, as if it wasn’t used to carrying its own weight just yet. Did it even weigh anything? Could you weigh something that clearly wasn’t supposed to exist? It didn’t really matter. You already knew it could touch you. You already knew it could kill you, if it wanted to.
Another step, then another. It closed the distance between you easily, coming to a stop less than arm’s length in front of you. You could see it more clearly, make out a smear of color in the void, like light catching on an oil spill. The white lines that bordered its form were moving in a way you hadn’t been able to make out from across the room, too; trembling and shaking, constantly shifting as if it was only ever a second away from falling apart entirely. If you weren’t so scared, you’d be tempted to reach out, see what happened when you made contact with it, rather than the other way around. If you weren’t so afraid, you might’ve been able to do anything.
It lifted a hand, reaching towards you with those same unnatural movements. Its fingertips brushed over your skin, painting a strip of frost across your cheek, and you felt your blood turn to ice. You couldn’t hear the buzzing, but then again, it might’ve just been a sign that you’d already gone deaf with fear.
You opened your mouth, but speech was hindered, your internal monologue limited to a never-ending mantra of ‘go away go away go away go away go away’. Eventually, you managed to spit something out, even if your voice was barely above a whisper by the time it reached your lips. “I don’t want you here.”
There was a second of stillness, of silence. You started to wonder if you’d made it angry, if it could be angry. You started to wonder if it could understand you at all.
Your makeshift flashlight wavered, sputtering a few times before giving out completely. You scrambled to turn it back on, to not be left alone in the dark with a monster, but your apartment flickered back to life and you found yourself standing alone, the entity having blinked out of reality in the time it took your eyes to adjust to the light. The only proof that it’d been there at all was your dead phone and how violently your hands were still shaking.
You considered leaving your apartment. You considered leaving the city – renting a car and driving as far as you were able to. You’d sleep in whatever shady, cheap motels would have you, start a new life across the country with only your meager savings and multiple PhDs to keep you afloat. You’d change your name. You’d get away from here, away from it. It wasn’t like you had much of a choice, now that the infestation had spread to your sanctuary, too.
You took a shuddering breath, then set your phone down and let your towel fall away. You didn’t bother getting dressed before climbing into bed and curling up underneath your sheets, hoping in-vain that your comforter would be enough to hide you from any unseen voyeurs.
Some part of you must’ve already known that it wouldn’t.
~
You couldn’t remember waking up.
You must’ve, at some point. But, if you had, you would’ve remembered being brought here, would’ve been able to recognize the feeling of countless hands wrapping around your wrists, your ankles; countless mangled tendrils tangling around your fingers and dripping down your arms, snaking up your legs until you were entirely at its mercy. The numbers didn’t add up. There were too many hands, too many moving parts, too many things for your confusion-addled mind to keep track of. You couldn’t seem to figure out if you were suspended mid-air or if the gravity was different, if you were genuinely as weightless as you felt. That, more than anything, fueled the growing nausea twisting in the pit of your stomach, the growing sense of wrongness that threatened to tear away what little stability you had left. What little sanity you had left.
You tried to look past the awful things wrapped around you, to ground yourself with something beyond shifting colors and distorted limbs, but whatever pocket dimension you’d been dragged into didn’t offer much comfort. An expanse of white stretched on as far as you could see, only interrupted by free-floating pools of pure darkness; drops of ink spilled across an otherwise blank canvas. Occasionally, the landscape would waver, leaving you in a pure void broken up by streaks of colorless flesh that’d burn themselves into your sight and linger as phantom visions for seconds after the false reality corrected itself. Even the feeling of its skin against yours was off-putting, unsettling, lacking the warmth that would’ve accompanied the touch of anything human. Where there should’ve been comfort, there was nothing, a total absence of life and familiarity to a degree you’d never experienced before. Where there should’ve been intimacy, there was strangeness, and you’d never taken well to strangeness.
A pang of pure ache ran from your cunt to your core, a sort of numbing electricity that made your legs twitch and your body seize. Right, you’d managed to forget. It was touching you, beyond just the hands shackled around your wrists and ankles and the amorphous tendrils laving over any part of you they could reach. Two fingers kept your pussy spread open and vulnerable while a thick, tapered tendril thrust into you at the kind of idle, languid pace that was simultaneously infinitely merciful and too agonizing to put words to. That was one of the only things you could feel – the agonizing stretch, the tight knot of tension sitting in the pit of your stomach. If you’d been able to move anything beyond your eyes, you might’ve gagged. If your body had been something tangible, something real, you might’ve felt sick.
The tendril curled inside of you, and every fiber of your being seemed to wither. Struggling was pointless, but you still had to try, thrashing against your restraints, digging your nails into that obsidian flesh and praying to whichever deity would listen that it wouldn’t think to fight back. Fortunately, your blunt nails and weak thrashing didn’t seem to faze it. You weren’t sure if it knew you were there beyond some unconscious tactile sense, like a freshly triggered venus flytrap closing around its victim. You weren’t sure which was more horrific – the idea that there was some sentient, self-aware being knowingly and decisively doing this to you, or the passing thought that you’d just been caught in the mouth of some mindless creature that happened to like the way you tasted.
You decided not to think about it. You decided not to think about anything. You decided that, if you kept your mind totally blank, if you refused to count how many times you’d caught a lingering shadow in the corner of your eye or felt a stray hand brush against the small of your back, if you refused to feel its disembodied tendril filling your cunt, then none of this was happening, then you weren’t trapped in an plane of endless nothingness and you weren’t being fucked by the monster that’d been haunting you for months, now. You clenched your eyes shut and promised yourself that you couldn’t feel its dulled tip rubbing against that sensitive, softened spot inside of you, that your hips didn’t buck as another hand appeared from a puddle of kaleidoscopic ink and pressed three fingers into your abused clit, that it didn’t matter if warmth was starting to pool in your core because it couldn’t matter.
Ignoring it wasn’t an option, though. It wouldn’t let you ignore it – its pace changing, speeding up, getting rougher as you failed to stifle your reactions, failed to swallow down the little gasps and moans that slipped past your parted lips. It was almost brutal in its unyieldingness, fucking into you with enough force to bruise as you writhed and scratched and screamed. There was no remorse, no care, just its forceful affection and your body’s response. Another tendril wrapped around your midriff, another hand falling to your chest, and you let out a long, wordless cry. The entity reacted immediately, the blunt head of a tendril forcing its way past your lips and lodging itself in your throat, forcing you to gag around its bulk. It smelled like ozone – fresh and thrilling and terrible all at once. It tasted organic.
This one, mercifully, didn’t seem to want to hurt you. It seemed content to explore you, to twist around your tongue and prod at every corner of your mouth. Still, tears formed in the corners of your eyes, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chest as you attempted not to choke, as you tried not to let the deformed mass fucking into your cunt tear you apart. Your vision was distorted, blurred and darkened around the edges, but you forced yourself to open your eyes, to stare blankly at the new well of ink forming some indescribable distance above you. It was bigger than the others, soon interrupted by a border of white appearing in the darkness, the shape wavering, sketchy, like chalk line drawn with an unsteady hand. Eventually, you made out a shape not unlike the one you’d seen in your apartment all those weeks ago, the ghostly entity that’d barely had to lift a finger to terrify you. This one was different, though – harsher, flitting and flashing in and out of existence faster than you could comprehend. If it’d been a breath away from falling apart the last time you saw it, reality was struggling to hold itself together around it, now.
A head emerged from the darkness, then a neck, then the entity’s broad shoulders. A hand materialized, extending from the pull of darkness and reaching towards you, towards the mess of dark matter and appendages that now all-but entirely encompassed your form. Its fingertips brushed against your jaw, then cupped your cheek, it’s touch careful, ginger, cautious. As if it was trying to be gentle with you. As if it was trying to be loving.
You’re not sure what part of your exhausted mind made the connection, which piece slid into place first. You let your head lull to the side, your jaw fall limp around the tendril in your mouth. You grunted, a premature attempt to speak that it could separate from all the other meaningless, ragged sounds that’d been forced out of you by its invasive touch, and the tendril pulled back, wrapping loosely around your neck. It still took you a moment to find your voice, but you managed to spit out something nearly coherent.
“…Jonathan?”
For a moment, the hands wrapped around your limbs loosened, the tendril attempting to split you in two faltering and before going still.
Then, there was a resounding, resonating purr that seemed to emanate from every corner of the micro-dimension. When the tendril started to move again, it thrusted into you with twice the force, twice the mania. This time, you didn’t have to pretend. You were floating on air, your thoughts blank and your mind empty – your body numb and unfeeling. This time, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get away.
Something cute about The Spot or something, but like before he became The Spot. Maybe I'll do something about him and his holes later
Word Count: 5K
A/N: I need him, like carnally. There’s like nothing about him and I need to get this off my chest before I like combust so¯\_(ツ)_/¯
-
You stand near a water cooler, watching the bubbles float to the top. Your cup has been empty for the past minute, and you consider taking the rest of your break outside. The fluorescent lights are making it difficult to stay awake, and the sterile air at Alchemax is burning your eyes.
With a sigh, you reason to yourself that the short trip to the parking lot would waste the remainder of your break, and you’d have to walk back to your desk by the time you even stepped near the doors. You turn your head, and watch as a scientist turns the corner, taking slow and careful steps to make sure the obnoxious amount of files that he’s holding doesn’t tip over.
He slows down enough, taking a pause next to the water cooler, and with a peek around the files he spots you looking at the files with wide eyes. There’s a certain look in his eyes that has your neck burning.
“Um-” you clear your throat, placing the empty cup of water in the trash- “do you need any help?”
His eyes scan you, giving you a quick run down, suspicion twisted into his features. “It’s fine- I'm fine,” he snaps, holding the file just a bit tighter, almost defensively. And as if the world were against him, the top half of the stack nearly spills over, before you hold onto it, steadying the stack once more. The tips of his ears flush into a deep hue of red, and you smile at him nervously.
“I’m on my break,” you tell him. “It wouldn’t be a bother. Plus, I’m sure you would much prefer for the files to be in order rather than all er- out of order,” you reason.
His eyes dart around the room, before finally letting out a sigh. “If you wouldn’t mind, then yes. I’d appreciate the help,” he says slowly, as if still can’t believe that he’s allowing someone else to hold such important paperwork. “Please and thank you,” he mumbles.
You smile, nodding your head, quickly grabbing halfway through the stack and holding it firmly in your hands. Having the files fall after offering assistance is the last thing that you need- especially after the scientist had such a tone in his voice.
Words stay stuck in your throat as you follow behind him without a sound. You’re sure you should be talking to him, but he isn't making conversation either. Plus, you aren’t entirely sure what you would talk to him about. The weather? You only felt it when you clocked in in the morning. Lunch? No, you’ve heard around that most scientists don’t even take their lunch these days- too busy with whatever has been going on these days. Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Truth be told, you want to ask about the files- you’re positive that it has something to do with whatever has ad the building in such a buzz. But you doubt he’d even tell you.
“I apologize for making you waste your break on this,” he mumbles, giving you a quick glance over his shoulder. He makes eye contact with you briefly before he looks forward once again.
“Huh? Oh! That’s fine. It’s no worries, really. I was the one who offered after all,” you say hurriedly. He huffs and silence befalls the both of you once more, but you’re much too eager now after his words. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but where are we delivering them to?”
“Dr. Octavius’s office. She said that she needs to review the recent ana-” he stops short and he straightens his back, clearing his throat- “experiment.”
“Oh,” you say. You don’t have the luxury of knowing the inner workings, and a part of you wishes that you did. You always were a bit of the nosey type. “Are you part of those experiments as well, um- I’m sorry I don’t believe that I asked for your name.”
“Johnathan. Ohnn. Dr. Ohnn,” he says, stumbling over his words.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Dr. Ohnn,” you say with a smile, stopping just behind him when he turns his head.
“And you are?” There’s a tense layer laced into his words, but when you answer, he smiles slowly and nods to himself. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he mumbles.
-
It's only been a few days since your encounter with the scientist and maybe it's because you've finally noticed him, that you notice him more and more.
You see him in the cafeteria, surrounded by other scientists.
In the hallway, carrying a much more manageable stack of files that asking if he needs assistance would probably be offensive.
You see him peering into the different break rooms located on each floor, locking eyes with you for a moment, before pouring himself a cup of coffee.
He lingers in doorways, looking around and lifting his chin to peer over the crowd, trying to find someone. Sometimes, you’ll catch his eye and when you do, he looks away quickly and walks away.
A part of you thinks that maybe he’s waiting for you to approach him, but you can’t be too sure on that assumption. It is a nice thought to have though.
It isn’t until your coworkers grab your bicep and whisper in your ear at how convenient it is that Dr. Ohnn appears where you are. There’s a smile that stretches across their face, and for a moment, you play along that the doctor might be interested in you.
“Oh yeah, the cute and stalkerish scientist,” you say with a smile, placing a hand over your chest. “What a catch,” you sigh, rolling your eyes at the fits of giggles.
Truth be told, you wouldn’t mind having said cute and stalkerish scientist be fond of you, but it probably isn’t that. It’s a nice thought to have, but you don’t fester on it for too long. He’s a scientist- one of the important ones around here, and you’re simply here for your paycheck and the benefits.
-
You sit at your desk, typing and retyping emails, answering calls, and sneakily going on your phone when you can. For a moment, you think to yourself that maybe you should quit- live in the middle of nowhere, tough it out, but then your coworker drops off a pastry at the edge of your desk with a hasty “you’re welcome” and when taking a bite, the idea of living without the sweet baked good.
A shadow crosses over your desk, and there’s a soft ‘click’ sound and you look up to see a cup of coffee placed on your desk, and over it stands the scientist who’s been not-so-secretly searching for you.
“Hello,” he greets you, his tongue tripping over your name. “I was wondering if you wanted a cup of coffee.” There’s a fiddly tone laced into his words, and it makes you smile.
He certainly is cute.
“Hello Dr. Ohnn,” you greet. “Thanks for the coffee.” You grab the cup, and peer inside the cup. It’s half full. You glance up at him. “I don’t suppose you brought creamer or anything like that with you?”
You see the apple in his throat bob as he gulps. “No,” he says, almost ashamed. “I uh- I didn’t know how you liked it and thought to play it safe with black. I apologize.”
“Would you like to walk with me to the breakroom?” You offer, standing up and grabbing at the cup. You grab at a napkin and cover the pastry, before taking a step away from your desk.
Instantaneously, he perks up. He smiles at you, taking a step back to allow you to walk with him. His forefinger and thumb pinch at the leg of his glasses, adjusting them so they sit properly on his face.
The walk is short, only light conversation about the weather and how the day has been going so far fills the air.
Thankfully, the break room is empty. You don’t think that Dr. Ohnn would like an audience when he’s with you.
You walk to the counter, and grab a pack of creamer and sugar. The dark coffee turns to a lighter version of itself.
“So-” Dr. Ohnn rushes to your side when you start to speak- “what made you bring me a cup of coffee?” You stir in the contents and bring the rim of the cup to your lips, giving him the chance to speak.
“I wanted-” he trails off, and turns his head- “I just thought it would be nice to repay you. After you helped me with the files the other day.”
A smile graces your lips and he returns it, before looking away and clearing his throat. “Well thank you for the coffee, Dr. Ohnn. It was much appreciated.”
“Johnathan,” he corrects. You tilt your head, confusion scrunching your brows. “You can call me Johnathan.”
“Oh,” you chirp. And realization dawns on you, as you smile. “Okay then. Thank you for the coffee, Johnathan.”
He nods curtly. “I just apologize that it wasn’t anything better than the break room coffee. I made sure to brew a fresh batch.” He shifts his weight nervously on each foot. “I’d have brought you some fancy coffee, or taken you somewhere but-” his face turns into a deep hue, and he pulls along the collar of his shirt. “I uh- didn’t know your schedule or if you’d even want to go.” He lets the end of the sentence trail off into a rushed slur of words.
You dig your nails into the cup as the realization of what he wanted to do dawns on you.
The cup is placed down, and suddenly the room feels hot. “Oh! Really?” You unconsciously lean towards him, and he nods, looking away from you. "I’m flattered.” You can feel the tips of your ears burn. “I mean, if you’re not too busy after the end of the day, I’d love to get a cup of coffee with you.” You bite the inside of your cheeks before taking a risk. “Or we can get a bite to eat? Whatever you prefer of course.”
“Really?” He asks, a smile stretching across his face. “I’d love to do that. Either. We can definitely get something to eat.”
“That’s great!” You exclaim, clapping your hands together. But you immediately retract. “Ah. I usually take the train to work, so if we can get something maybe close by? Like walking distance or-”
“I have a car,” he rushes. Your eyes widen and he straightens himself. “I can take us wherever you want to go. I don’t mind. I can drop you off at the station or at your home. Wherever you’d like.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” You ask, nerves making your stomach twist and turn.
“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t mind. Honest.”
Nodding your head, you smile. “Okay,” you tell him. “If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind, then we can go to whatever restaurant- so long as you pick it.”
“Okay,” he says, smiling widely at you. “I’ll meet you at your desk, after I clock out,” he says confidently, before smiling a bit more softly. “Is that alright with you?”
“It’s alright with me,” you confirm.
“Great. It’s a date.” There’s worry laced into his words at his sentence, and you can't help the grin that grows.
“It’s a date.” He smiles when you agree with him. You reach your hand over, pausing and about to retract. With his eyes on you, you decide to commit. You reach over and grab his hand, giving it a soft squeeze. “I’ll see you later, Johnathan.” You give him another smile, before you wave goodbye, walking back to your desk with the coffee in your hand.
-
He sits down in front of you. After the rush of Spider-man- Spider-men, he reminds you- the building is in a panicked state. You’ve found some place to rest where the alarmed employees won’t peek through.
Your thumb ghosts over the red spot where the bagel had hit Johnthan. You click your tongue, frowning, and run your hand through his hair.
“Sorry about messing up your hair,” you mumble, running your fingers through the strands.
He shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He looks up, and your hands follow, curving down from the top of his head, down to cup his face. “Bagel had already messed it up.” He looks away from you, face growing warm under your palms.
“You took a hard hit.” He looks back down and you return to the top of his head, pinching away at any crumbs. “I forgot how strong Spider-man is.”
“Was,” he corrects.
You frown. “Is he not Spider-man?”
He murmurs something under his breath that you are unable to hear. “Not ours. It’s what I’m so busy with.” You choose not to respond, and he takes it as an invitation to continue further. “You saw me get hit with a bagel,” he groans. You smile softly even if he can’t see it.
You want to press further about whatever it is that he’s working on and why there are two Spider-men, but you know that it isn’t the time for that. You gulp and try to fix his hair, the once red spot, growing faint. Your mouth pulls into a thin line, and you take in a breath.
With his head still down, you return to cup his face, lifting him up slightly. He turns his head, his nose and mouth pressing against your palm. You smile at him, and lower yourself, pressing a chaste kiss against the spot. His face flames up once more.
“I’m just happy it was a bagel and not an apple,” you tell him. “Come on,” you tell him, reaching down to grab at his hand, “I’m sure one of us is being looked for.” He squeezes your hand, and follows you quietly.
-
You sit beside him, the car playing a song from your playlist, and the air conditioner blowing a nice cool breeze to combat the warm air that is outside. Your legs are tucked underneath you, the drinks dotted in condensation as the two of you eat inside the car.
Rain starts to pitter patter against the windshield and you turn your head to watch the drops collect.
You turn back to Johnathan, watching as he eats his fries. He raises his brows at you. “Sorry to make you waste your gas,” you say, feeling just a bit bad about it, but not enough to lose your appetite.
He shakes his head, quickly grabbing at your drink and taking a sip. You smile when he realizes that he grabbed the wrong drink. “No, no,” he comforts. “I like being with you. This is fine. Plus as a scientist, the pay is fine. As long as I have access to my bank account, I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about that type of stuff.” He reaches for your drink again, stopping short and sending you an apologetic smile, before grabbing at his own. He bites the tip of his straw, and takes a small sip before letting go. “If anything, I’m sorry that I took a drink from your soda.”
The rain collects, a storm furthering on, and you think you hear thunder somewhere. You two have flirted enough, been on enough dates to classify yourselves as “seeing each other” - whatever that means- when people ask, that it seems fine to take drinks from each other's straws. You know that what he did is an indirect kiss and you wonder if he knows that.
You reach over, cupping your hands over his and tilting the drink towards you. You look at him, before returning your gaze to the drink and place your lips over the straw, taking a small sip. The taste of his drink rests heavy on your tongue, and you want more of it.
“Now we’re even,” you say softly, letting go of his drink and returning to your side of the car.
His face flushes into a dark color, and his lips are parted open.
There’s a realization far off into your mind that he did realize what just transpired between the two of you and a soda.
Johnathan sets the drink down and adjusts his glasses, peering out the windshield where the rain washes down in waves. He turns back to you and reaches past the boundary that are the cupholders. His hands are warm as they cup your face, one reaches around, fingers curved over the back of your head, and the other holds you gently, letting you pull away if you were unsure about this, but you lean towards him.
Your heart beats against your chest, and you think that it’s going to bruise you, leave you battered and spill out, a bloody mess over his car.
You’d really have to apologize then.
The beating doesn’t stop- not when he’s pressing closer to you. It goes on, drumming inside of you, erratic and following the heaviness of the raindrops. It goes on as he kisses you, hands fumbling to keep the drinks steady when he pushes himself too close to you. He kisses fiercely, and desperately. His glasses press against your face, and you grab onto his shirt, twisting the fabric
The kiss deepens, and he pulls away for a breath of air, gasping for it as he presses pecks against the corner of your mouth. The cups be damned. You press yourself against him, your hands flat against his chest as you push him back, clambering across to sit on his lap.
His hands find themselves at your hips, and yours rest over his neck. He leans into your touch, and there’s a loud honk. You both startle, but he keeps kissing you, a hand leaving you to fumble with the seat.
Thunder booms in the sky, and he bunches your shirt in his hand.
The seat shoves back with full force, and you break away. You stare at each other with wide eyes, and you’re the first one laughing, wrapping your arms around him and giggling into his neck. Your heart still beats with a heavy pitter-patter. His laugh echoes in the car, and he holds you tightly.
“I like your laugh,” you mumble into his neck. You press a kiss against him, and when you nuzzle into him, you can feel his pulse quicken.
“I like you,” he says tenderly. “A lot.”
You pull away, and his hands slip underneath your shirt, his hands burn against your skin as he holds your waist. “I like you a lot too.” You press a kiss against him. “Do you want to come back to my place?” Your hands move to cup his chest. “I’ll make it worth your while,” you tease, kissing along his jaw. Underneath you, he stiffens and you smile. “How ‘bout it Dr. Ohnn?” You press yourself against him, giving a soft roll of your hips. “Wanna continue this back at my place?” You fix his glasses, and smile as he stares at you with heavy-lidded eyes with pupils blown-out.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “I’d-” and as if the universe were against the idea itself, his phone begins to ring. Quickly, you and him search for the phone, and just as abundantly as the tension had started, it ends. He grabs at his phone and clears his throat, giving you a smile before answering it. You can catch only snippets of the conversation, and you watch as his face falls, and he gives you a sad look.
Disappointment makes your shoulders fall. Whatever was going to happen, isn’t. At least not tonight. Clumsily, and something a lot worse than the “walk of shame”, you move awkwardly off of him, careful to not touch the drinks, and to not hurt him.
He finishes the conversation, just as you sit down. You turn to him, and wait for him to start.
“I have to go. It’s about work,” he says pitifully. “I- I don’t know when- Maybe we can-” he stops himself short. “I’m sorry.”
You smile, and close the gap between the two of you with another kiss. “‘T’s not your fault. Maybe we can pick this up again sometime.”
“Yeah?” He asks hopefully.
You nod. “Definitely.” You press another kiss against him. “I really do like you Johnathan.”
“And I really like you,” he mumbles, and your name sounds honeyed on his tongue.
“Mind dropping me off at least?” You ask, not really looking forward to having to call for some taxi service of the sort.
“Of course,” he says. “Anything for you.”
-
There’s a tapping at your window. It’s soft at first, and you only noticed it due to the pattern behind it. You groan and turn over, grabbing at your phone and hiding under the covers. The screen is bright and blinds you for a moment before you read the time.
The tapping at the window hurries and it’s far too late- or early depending how you look at it- to deal with whatever or whoever is behind the glass. You close your eyes, your stomach twisting into itself and hoping that after a few more knocks, whoever or whatever will just move on.
Then it starts to bang, and you jump with a start, almost going to turn on your bedside lamp, but stopping yourself. Maybe you could trick whoever is behind the glass that you’re asleep or not home.
You’re tempted to grab at the pocketknife that you have hidden somewhere in your bedside table. The knocking on your window grows relentless. Whoever is there is banging, and then it just stops. You hold your breath, slowly reaching your hand to grab at the knob to the drawer to blindly look for the knife while your gaze stays focused on the window.
On the other side, the words are muffled, and soft, but you hear them. Your name is whispered again in a hushed tone, the knocking returning, begging for you to answer. Slowly, your hand returns to your side, and the bed creaks as you shift your weight.
You recognize the voice. It’s him.
“Johnathan?” You ask in a shaky voice, hoping that you’re right.
“Yes,” he says hurriedly.
The blankets have twisted themselves around you, and you kick them off. As you shift and turn, the bed creaks. Light fills the room, a warm glow that has you wincing and moving towards the window.
“Give me a minute. Let me open the window.” Your hands fist at the curtain when he replies.
“No!” He shouts, and in a softer voice, he speaks again. “Don’t.”
Your hand returns to you, and you remember the rumor that was going on around Alchemax.
How Dr. Ohnn wasn’t- right. How he wasn’t human, or how he should have died. It was a joke around the office, as if whatever happened was humorous, but when someone asked, the joke died.
He couldn’t be whatever it is that the others were describing him as.
“Johnathan?” You call out. He knocks against the window. “Are- You can come in. It’s okay,” you reassure him.
“No,” he says again.
You frown, and fist your hands together, your nails digging into your palms. “Then I’m going to open the window.”
“Don’t.” He sounds scared.
“Johnathan.” Your voice is stern, at least that’s what you’re hoping for.
“This was a mistake,” he says. You’re sure that he’s talking to himself, but even so, you reply.
“You came here,” you hiss out, face burning with some type of emotion.
It’s silent, and you fear that he’s left. “I wasn’t thinking,” he says. “I just- I wanted to see you,” he mumbles.
Your shoulders slump. “I wanted to see you too.” It’s silent and you take a deep breath. “Please come in.”
“Okay,” he finally concedes. Before you can make your way to open the window, his voice starts again. “But you don’t have to open the window. I can get in.”
A nervous laughter escapes your mouth before you can stop it. “Whatever you say.”
You look around, wondering what he’s going to do. Maybe he’ll walk through the door. Or appear in a vent. But then a black spot forms on the ceiling, and you watch as something white, and black spotted exits through the hole. And then all at once, a lump of whatever it was falls to your floor.
It groans out in discomfort, and you watch as legs and arms straighten themselves out. Once upright, a man-shaped person- you aren’t entirely sure- is faced towards you. A black spot where a face should be stares at you.
The rumor was true. There’s a twisting in your stomach, and you yelp, pressing yourself against your headboard, and you immediately regret it, when he stiffens and moves closer to your bedroom door.
It’s Johnathan.
He’s all skin and spots, standing far too tall in your bedroom.
“I’m sorry. I just- I wasn’t expecting-” you bite at your bottom lip- “spots. Do you-” You pause. Does he eat? Does he drink? He stands so awkwardly, shifting his weight, and it reminds you of him. It’s still him. “Do you want to sit down with me?” You pat the space next to you, the one on the bed that’s close to the wall.
He must be feeling some type of way because he nods and walks over. He’s a mess of limbs, legs long and hands cup and twist at the bed sheets as he sits next to you. He still looks away from you.
You missed him. You open your mouth to tell him just that, that you wanted to see him and were worried for him.
“How have you been?” You bite the inside of your cheeks at the wrong words.
“What do you think?”
“I’ve missed you.” He looks at you, and you stare into the hole that place where his face once was. You wonder what expression he would make. You think he’d look surprised. “I quit Alchemax. There were cops and stuff and well thankfully I wasn’t a scientist so I was able to just leave. Cops still asked me some questions.”
“Where are you working now?”
“There’s this little library a few streets over-” you wave your hand in a vague direction- “pay’s all right, but I had some money saved up. I uh- might move. Get a smaller place, you know.”
“I think I’m not gonna have a place to live.”
“You can stay with me,” you say. “I’d like the company. You know, as long as you help pack and stuff. We- I can get your stuff from your place. You know, if the police haven’t taken anything as evidence.”
“Most of it has been taken.” He doesn’t explain further.
“I can get you some new clothes.” You peer at him, and you can’t help but just stare at him. “I’d uh- I’d have to measure you. Get you a scarf, or a hat. Maybe both,” you add.
“I can’t believe I’m in your bedroom and I look like this.”
You frown. “Yeah, well,” you trail off. You rest your head on a white part of him, your hand over his chest, fingertips just below a black spot. “I’m glad that you’re here. I was worried. I thought that- that something else had happened to you.”
“I’m sorry for making you worried.” You know that he means it.
“It’s okay.” You aren’t sure if you mean it. You worried yourself to tears. He grunts out a response, and you kiss at a white area on his shoulder. “Are you hungry?” You furrow your brows. “Can you eat?”
“You wanna ask about the holes, right?” He says, and you nod. “Might as well get it out of the way,” he mutters.
“What are they?”
“Spots. I’m thinking about calling myself The Spot.” He turns to you, and you grab at a hand, rimming the edge of it with the pad of your forefinger. “What do you think?” He says your name, but stops short, when he realizes what you’re doing. “Oh.”
You pull away, and he grabs at your hand and brings it back. “I’m sorry, I just-”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Can you feel it?” You ask, returning to another spot.
He nods swiftly. “You can put your hand in it.” You look up at him and tilt your head curiously. “In my hole. You can put your hand in my hole.” You snort at the phrase, but take him up on his offer.
Your hand disappears, and you watch as it comes up on another spot of his body. You flex your hand, and it’s surreal, seeing it appear from somewhere else.
“Woah,” you breathe out. “You’re so cool,” you mutter.
“You think so?” He asks incredulously.
“Mhm.” You nod slowly, pulling your hand partly out, watching as your fingers still peek out. “Super cool,” you mumble. You pull your hand out and you smile up at him. You turn your hand, seeing it fully intact, and you try to fight back a yawn, only to fail. “Are you tired?”
“I woke you up,” he says in a small voice.
“I’m glad that you did,” you say earnestly. “I’m happy that I got to see you.” You hold his hand in yours, and your fingertip goes along the white area of his body. “Do you want to spend the night?” You tighten your hand around his. “I want you to. I’d like you to get some rest.”
“You would?”
“Of course.”
“In your bed?”
You snort. “Of course, in my bed. It’d be fucked up if I gave you the couch or something.” You let go of his leg and slap his knee. “Come on, Johnathan. Get under the covers.” You grab at the furled up mess of blankets, straightening them over your body and his. He watches your every move, and keeps his face turned in your direction until the light clicks off and you can’t see him. You lay beside him, turning on your side, and resting your hand over his chest, careful to not let your hand dip into one of his holes.
“Goodnight,” he says your name in a quiet voice, one of his hands clutching onto your forearm.
“Night Johnathan,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against him.
Y’all people laughing about spot in the trailers and then after the movie they gonna be like ‘omg spots so hot omg omg’ I want y’all to know I was here from the beginning.
Requested: Day 4 of Writing Inktober prompts instead of drawing!
Warnings: insinuating exhibition briefly
POV: Second Person (You/your)
W.C. 498
As always, my requests are OPEN
MASTERLIST // HITLIST
Writing Inktober 2024 Materlist
~~(^Pinterest)
“Is that mine?” A voice from behind you scared you from your spot on the Brooklyn Bridge. After selling all of your papes for the day, you decided to hide out away from the bustling city. You always loved sitting at the pier, but there were a bunch of new guys, and your normal spot at the docks was filled to the brim. You just wanted a minute of peace, but clearly, the boy behind you didn’t catch the hint.
“So what if it is?” You teased with a smirk as you looked back at him, already knowing exactly who it was. Spot Conlon. He always knew where everyone was. You chuckled as you spun around on the railing to have your back to the water. You leaned forward, showcasing the button-down checkered shirt you had snagged from your boyfriend's trunk that morning. “What’re ya gonna do about it?”
Spot shrugged with a smirk as he walked closer to you, wrapping an arm around your back as he leaned into you. You leaned further back, relying solely on Spot’s arm to keep you from falling into the river below. He moved his other hand, which was resting beside you, up to rest against your chin, lifting your head to have your lips meet briefly. “I could take it off ya.”
“And let the whole of Brooklyn and Manhattan see?” You questioned before hesitating and pretending to think. Then, you stood up and gently tapped your hand against his chest twice. “Nah, you’re too possessive for that.”
“What’s that mean?” Spot asked, a little offended. You saw right through it, though. He was playing up the joke.
“You don’t like to share, Spot,” You pointed out as you planted a short kiss on his jaw before walking back into Brooklyn. You reached around your back and grabbed hold of his wrist as you pulled him towards the city. “C’mon, Spot. If you’re gonna take it off, do it at the docks or in the lodging. Your pick on what you wanna do after.”
“What if I just throw you over the ledge?” Spot teased as he pulled you back and caged you tightly between his arms. “Your pick.”
“I was already planning to go swimming sometime today, but if I’m going down, I’m taking you with me,” You chucked as you held tightly onto his shoulders. “Maybe don’t throw us off the tallest spot of the bridge. That’ll hurt.”
“Then I’ll throw you off the docks,” Spot chuckled as he picked you up, threw you over his shoulder, and ran to the docks. None of the newsies stood in his way, knowing this happened quite often. He set you down right at the ledge before adjusting the collar of your (his) shirt briefly. “Y’know, you should wear my stuff more often.”
Without a second thought, he shoved you backward. You expected this as you grabbed his wrist tightly and pulled him off the ledge with you into the river.
the spot/jonathan ohnn x spider-man!reader (ft. your baby & miles morales)
cw: sfw, gn!reader, implied amab!reader, implied transmasc!spot, reader doesn’t actually appear, dimension travel, spot being wifey, miles having a breakdown, your daughter’s obsession with applesauce, etc.
word count: 420
After disappearing for two whole years, Miles finds the Spot in a corner store in Brooklyn with a curly haired toddler strapped to his chest, buying applesauce of all things. Miles awkwardly stands there, confused, until the baby notices him and starts giggling and making grabby hands at him. Spot turns to see what’s caught her attention and jumps, startled, when he sees Miles standing there in shocked silence.
“Oh, hi, Miles.” Spot greets awkwardly, pocketing his wallet into a hole. The cashier’s left already— probably to call someone, because it’s not every day you get a former villain and Spider-Man in your store.
Miles blinks at the casual use of his name and points at the smiling child, “Whose baby is that?” His voice breaks halfway through, but spare him, this guy was once the biggest threat to the multiverse and now he’s buying applesauce with a baby.
One of Spot’s hands comes up to smooth over her curls, and she tips her head back against his chest to give him a dimpled smile. It’s actually super adorable. The dot on Spot’s face squints in what Miles thinks might be a smile. “This is Zoe. Say hi, honey.”
Zoe coos at Miles, waving her fists excitedly, “Dada!”
“No, honey, that’s Miles. Dada’s—”
“You stole a baby?!” Miles’ hands come up to massage his temples to fend off an incoming headache. “You can’t just do that! Is that your thing now, stealing babies? What happened with the Collider? It’s been two years, where have you been—”
Zoe finds his distress funny, apparently, because she squeals and giggles as he tries to keep his shit together. “No, no, no. Zoe’s mine.” Spot cuts in before Miles can have an aneurysm, “I don’t do that stuff anymore. I got married, see?” He shows off the wedding band on his finger, “I’m just here for these.” Spot points at the box of applesauce. “They were out of stock where I live and it’s the only brand Zoe likes, so we hopped over to get some.”
Miles stares at him, and then he stares some more. “Applesauce.”
Spot nods, obviously not seeing the issue, “Yeah, applesauce.”
“Ampleshaush.” Zoe confirms, clapping her hands. “Dada, ampleshaush.”
“No, pumpkin, Dada’s at work.” Spot repeats, and that’s when Miles sees the shirt that Zoe’s wearing. It’s red and blue, with the iconic Spider-Man pattern and logo.
Miles’ mouth goes dry, “Who did you say that was, again?”
