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horny-marbles · 2 months ago

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How do the different creeps react with a girlfriend that's very physically affectionate? She loves to kiss them hello and goodbye. Loves cuddle with them on the couch and in bed. Sit on their lap. Loves to play with their hair, scratch their scalp. Will sometimes get overcome with love and attack their entire face with kisses.

I myself am very much like this lol. Can be as fluffy (or even smutty) as you wish

me too me too 🙂‍↕️ they'd die smothered by my lips fr. i also added liu (and sully) in here because i thought he was prime material for this lol :p cw for some very mild smutty mentions but nothing too crazy. enjoy! :D

Creepypastas with a Cuddlebug Girlfriend — Headcanons

Eyeless Jack

⚉ it took forever to get here. months of flinches, vanishing acts, stiff body language and cold silences. you were patient, but he really fucking tested it. he kept pulling away like your affection was something poisonous, like he didn’t deserve the warmth in your hands. there were nights you nearly left—not because you didn’t love him, but because he clearly didn’t think he should be loved in return.

⚉ as emotionally constipated as he is, Jack is unironically the quietest simp on earth. no grand gestures, no soft declarations, no love poems in the dark—but he’ll go pliant under your hands the moment you put them on him. lets you crawl all over him, straddle his thighs, bury your face in his neck, press open-mouthed kisses to his ribs. sometimes you wonder if he’s just enduring it, if he’s humoring you.

⚉ but then he starts purring. subtle, constant, low like a distant engine. you don’t hear it as much as you feel it, thrumming through his chest when you’re tangled up together and the world is silent.

⚉ he still rarely initiates. but once the gates were down, he started soaking it up like bone-dry earth after rain. he doesn’t stop you when your affection goes over the top—when you're curled in his lap, peppering kisses across his jaw, calling him stupid pet names just to see if he’ll twitch.

⚉ he never asks for cuddles, never says he wants to be held. but the second you climb into bed or settle beside him on the couch, his arms snake around you like they’ve been waiting all day, grip firm and protective, like he’s anchoring you both.

⚉ lets you bite him whenever the affection gets too intense for you to handle. especially his arms and biceps. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t complain, doesn’t push you away—even when you accidentally bite down too hard. the marks stay for days, but he never covers them up. if anything, he runs his fingers over them sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking.

⚉ he loves when you trace the hollows of his shoulder blades and spine. long, slow touches down his back when he's shirtless? he’ll sit there, eyes shut, breathing slowed, fingers twitching like he wants to say something but physically can’t. he doesn’t say he wants to be touched, but the way he subtly exposes skin is his way of inviting it. sits in bed shirtless after a shower and doesn’t look at you, but his back is right there. take the hint.

⚉ fixates on your neck a lot. he stares at your throat constantly. or, you know, his face is tilted towards it. it’s not always sexual—it’s fascination. You tilt your head to the side and he just tracks the movement like a predator, sharp and quiet. your throat ends up with faded bite marks all the time once he got comfortable with using his teeth on you, and when you point them out, he just rumbles, “Then stop offering it.”

BEN Drowned

모 from day one, the second you started getting all sticky and cuddly with him, he started teasing the hell out of you for it. not in a mean way—just that mellow, lazy roast voice he has, the kind that sounds like he's halfway to sleep and halfway to a blunt.

“Dude, you’re like… emotionally horny. That’s wild.”

but he’s grinning. that slow, shit-eating grin that says he loves it. that he eats up every clingy kiss and every over-the-top pet name and every time you crawl onto him like a needy little koala. he barks, but he basks.

모 he revels in cuddle sessions when he’s high. joint between his fingers, you in his lap or spread out beside him, some dumb show playing he’s not even watching—he’s in heaven. his hands get real loose, one hand always low on your thigh, thumbing lazy circles or sliding under your shirt with zero fanfare, just to feel skin.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbles into your neck, half-lidded and warm against you. “You’re like… a fuckin’ cloud. Or a hot marshmallow or some shit.” then he starts giggling at his own description and buries his face in your chest like he’s trying to suffocate himself in your tits.

모 zero shame, zero urgency. he’ll rub his cheek against your stomach while you stroke his hair and mumble the nastiest compliments with all the energy of a guy talking in his sleep.

“You’re lucky I’m too high to rail you right now,” he slurs with a kiss to your ribs. “You'd be cryin'."

모 when he initiates affection, it’s barely even conscious. has this thing where he’ll hook a finger through your belt loop or hoodie pocket as you walk by just to pull you into his lap, even if he’s busy gaming. doesn’t even pause his game. he makes an obnoxious smooch sound, presses a lazy kiss to your temple, slaps your ass once, then goes right back to clicking buttons like nothing happened. half the time you’re just part of the furniture. a very warm, kissable, touchable piece of furniture that smells really good.

모 gets this really soft look when you kiss his hands—like an actual visible lag in his brain. he stares for a second, eyes lowered, breathing paused like you’ve just triggered some long-lost human file. Then he flexes his fingers in yours and says something stupid like "Damn. Didn’t realize I was royalty.”

모 a little bitch about you playing with his pointy ears. all "ugh, you got an elf kink?!" and "bro, you're fuckin' weird, stop doing that", until you actually pull your hands away. then it's suddenly, "babe, c'mon stop playing," and tucking his hair behind his ears to give you room.

모 borderline religious experience levels of fixation on your thighs. if you don't open your legs to let him sit between them he gives you this look like you just personally offended him and says, "What?? You mad at me or some shit? What did I do??"

Ticci Toby

𓌏 second-place simp only because Jack’s quiet obsession is unbeatable—but Toby gives everything back tenfold, and then some once you make it known that you're touchy-feely. he’s not gentle about it either. he loves hard, and he loves fast, like you’re gonna vanish if he doesn’t show you right now how much he needs you.

𓌏 the worst kisser on Earth (subjective). when you initiate with sweet smooches, he tackles you like a linebacker and crashes your mouths together so hard your teeth click. no aim, no finesse, too much jaw, tongue immediately. and then he pulls back with this big, stupid grin like, “That w-was good, right? Hah. G-gimme another one.” you're half-way to a concussion.

𓌏 you tried to sneak up behind him and bear hug him once. big mistake. he turned it on you and crushed you so tight against his chest that he almost broke your nose.

𓌏 you bite him playfully, and he bites back with zero restraint. doesn’t register how hard it is until you scream. he jerks back with your arm in his mouth, blinking in horror at the indents like they bit him. mouth wet with spit and the faintest trace of red, his expression crumpling like, “W-what?? Wh-what’d I do?? I-I didn’t—wait, y-you’re crying??” full kicked-puppy energy while you're nursing a war wound.

𓌏 cuddling during a movie is virtually impossible. just being near you gets him half-chubbed and distracted. and if he’s the big spoon it’s over. within minutes there’s a hand under your shirt like it belongs there, groping you like it's his emotional support tiddy. “I’m n-not d-doing nothin’, promise,” he mumbles, already rolling his hips into your lower back. “Y-you’re just s-s-soft… and warm…”

a beat of silence.

“…C-can I p-put it in though? C'mon, just a m-m-minute— Please?? We can s-still watch!"

𓌏 touch-starved to hell and back. has to be in physical contact with you constantly. holding your hand even when it's sweaty and awkward. arm slung over your shoulder. leg thrown across your lap. chin on your head. elbow in your ribs. he’s like a weird affectionate dog that never learned boundaries and never wants to.

𓌏 needy to the point of insanity. you so much as touch his thigh in passing and suddenly he’s grabbing your hand and dragging it to his crotch, muttering, “Y-you did that on purpose, d-don’t act innocent.” you didn’t. but it doesn’t matter, he's already hard.

𓌏 hair-pulling is his heroin. there's no "lazy, gentle scalp massages" with him. you try to detangle his mess of curls and he just keeps going, “Harder. Harder—mmmf, ha-harder" while you're one pull away from scalping him. but he just smiles and leans into it, completely unfazed by the fact that his head is being yanked back.

Brian Thomas/Hoodie

☹ you had to break him down slowly. he had walls of steel, thick as hell with barbed wire on top, but your affection chipped at it like water on rock. at first he dodged it—literally. you’d lean in for a kiss and he’d shift just slightly to avoid it, muttering “Don’t.” not because he didn’t want it, but because he wanted it too badly.

his reasons were always the same:

“You don’t want this. I’m not even here half the time.”

“Stickman fucks with my head. I could forget your face tomorrow.”

“You should be with someone real.”

☹ but none of that stopped the way he lingered. your touch magnetized him. you’d reach for his hand and he’d sigh but let you take it, fingers twitching like he didn’t trust himself to squeeze back.

☹ he’ll tell you he’s not a cuddler, that he “gets too hot,” that he “can’t relax like that,” that he “doesn’t sleep well next to people.” but you soon find out he sleeps better when you tangle your legs with his. can’t fall asleep unless your hand’s resting somewhere on him—his side, his chest, his wrist, doesn’t matter.

☹ he doesn’t initiate often—can’t risk falling harder than he already has—but when he does it’s a problem. it's rare and raw, and it makes your chest cave in every time. because he will just randomly sigh like he had to make a life or death decision in his head, make eye contact so intense it feels like bracing for impact, and he kisses you like he hasn't seen you in years.

☹ weak for domestic touches. tug his shirt straight for him. smooth his collar. wipe something off his cheek with your thumb. his brain just shorts out. he stands there like a statue with his eyes flicking between your hand and your face like he’s not sure which to kiss first.

☹ he LOVES when you kiss the bridge of his nose or the crease in his brow when he’s frowning. you do it to soften him up, and it works every time.

☹ Hoodie takes. affection makes him feral. especially right after missions—blood under his nails, eyes glassy, breath heavy—and you grab his face and kiss him like he’s still human? he ruins you. shoves you against the wall, fucks you like he’s still high on adrenaline. like if he doesn’t bury himself inside you, he’ll forget who he is.

☹ he can’t process gentleness right away. the first time you ran your fingers through his hair while he was still breathing heavy post-mission, he froze like you’d hit him. then he grabbed your wrist and dragged your hand back. "Again. Do that shit again."

☹ when you kiss his jaw while he’s still tense, he exhales like the pressure valve just cracked. you do that enough times, and he starts chasing your kisses with his own—down your throat, across your collarbone, rough and desperate.

☹ when you’re clingy with Hoodie, he doesn’t push you away. he lets it happen, but he doesn’t respond like Brian. he just holds you tighter, stiffer, more possessive. like he’s cataloging every second of it to replay later when he’s buried under orders and blood.

☹ kissing him through the mask undoes him. you press your mouth to the fabric and he flinches like it's more intimate than actual skin on skin. he'll stare at you like he doesn't know how to process it, and then rips it up to his nose just enough to crush his mouth against yours like he needs the proof you’re real and not some hallucination.

☹ if you help him clean up after he comes back—using a clean rag to wipe the blood that seeped through the mask on his face—he'll completely freeze for a full minute before yanking himself away from you with this ragged, broken exhale, like you just slit his throat. "No, no, stay the fuck away, this— you don't— don't fuckin' touch me, you're staining your hands. You don't deserve this." he fully shuts down on you like you just reached some purgatory in his mind, and he only comes back after you coax him softly.

Tim Wright/Masky

⦻ so fucking reluctant. not because he doesn’t want the affection—he wants it like he’s dying of thirst—but because he doesn’t trust it. he'll tip toe around it in the beginning like he's scared letting his guard down would instantly make you vanish. you’ll sometimes catch him just looking at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. It’s not lustful—it’s like he’s trying to memorize you, afraid his brain’s going to betray him again.

⦻ when you get clingy with him (cuddling on the couch, draping over him while he’s trying to smoke or read), he groans and mutters a half-hearted “Jesus Christ…” but makes no effort to move you. He just lets out this long-suffering sigh like he’s being tortured—and then subtly wraps an arm around you, fingers digging into your hip.

⦻ touch-starved in the saddest way. if you’re rubbing circles into his back while he lays on your chest, this man is out. fast asleep. snores like a truck.

⦻ the real killer for Tim is casual affection. walking past him and you grab his face to give him a kiss like it's second nature. or holding his hand absentmindedly while watching TV. every time, he looks at you like he can’t believe you're doing it without thinking. sometimes tears up because of it and (badly) covers it up with a yawn.

⦻ he won’t initiate affection often, but he will hover. walks too close, sits too close, lingers near doorways so you’ll come to him first. it's his way of saying “please touch me” without saying anything at all.

⦻ back of the neck touches wreck him. you slide your hand up under the back of his shirt to press your palm there—under his jacket, under his defenses. you feel him go still every time. it’s grounding. he’d never ask for it, but if you stop doing it during a hug, he’ll lean back into your hand, subtly chasing the touch.

⦻ Masky is the complete opposite of Hoodie when it comes to you cleaning him up after a mission. he goes still, but not from shame. his head tilts, eyes half-lidded behind the mask like he’s watching prey walk willingly into his den. there’s a flush creeping down his neck, a hungry glint in his eye, and he’s already half-hard under the weight of your care. he gets a rush from this—your soft hands, your worried little frown, the way you treat him like something precious even when he’s soaked in blood. the way you serve him like this without even having to ask for it.

⦻ you say “I missed you,” arms open to hug him, and he makes a low, scoffing sound in his throat—but the way he grabs you by the back of your neck to kiss you says otherwise.

⦻ Masky doesn’t process “normal” intimacy well. you rest your head on his shoulder, and he’s grabbing your thigh like it’s a green light for sex. you hold his hand and he shakes out of it just to grab your throat instead. there’s no filter.

⦻ you try to kiss him and he meets you halfway but way too fast and way too hard. teeth clash, lips bruise; he grabs your jaw to hold you still like you’re prey he’s keeping under control.

⦻ he loves it most when you get rough back, so he can one-up you. when you bite his neck or lips, or yank him in for a kiss like you need him. if he could purr, he would. his way of reciprocating physical affection is making sure you don’t walk right for two days. did i mention he has a control thing yet?

Jeff the Killer

꒷꒦ umm... jk lol

꒷꒦ first year? misery. if you’re naturally clingy, you might as well be kissing a brick wall that sometimes bites. his concept of physical affection was feral. gropey, aggressive, and mostly used to initiate sex or get a rise out of you. he was obnoxious, didn’t get soft stuff, and laughed in your face if you called him “cute.”

꒷꒦ but if you stomached that… congrats. you unlocked bare minimum boyfriend privileges. he doesn’t initiate affection unless it’s immediately sexual. you’re not getting casual cuddles or soft little kisses just because. that��s not “his style.” he groans EVERY single time you start getting handsy and soft, but he never does much to stop you anymore.

꒷꒦ he accepts hugs. because your tits squish against him and he’s a pig. he’ll either slap your ass hard enough to make you squeak, or pull you in by the neck and kiss you like he’s trying to bruise your lips.

“There. You got your stupid affection. That enough for the day?”

it’s not. you keep coming back like a needy little parasite and he acts like he’s put upon—but his grip always lingers.

꒷꒦ the ONLY time he doesn't piss and moan about cuddling is when you pull him over you in bed, face first into your chest. you try to be cute, sure, but he's a tit guy and he makes it foul instantly. cups the sides of your tits and pushes them together to rub his face in while groaning. instantly hard, too.

꒷꒦ he gets annoyed constantly. like, “can’t-breathe-stop-touching-me-I-swear-to-god” annoyed, but it’s mostly all bark. you straddle him on the couch to cover his face in kisses and he flails, groaning, “DUDE. Get the fuck off. I’m gonna suffocate.” but he doesn't push you off. doesn’t even move. he just grits his teeth and deals with it, eyes fluttering shut the second your lips hit his jaw like the hypocrite he is.

꒷꒦ he sucks at cuddling. or rather—he sucks at not turning cuddling into dry humping within five minutes. you slide next to him in bed, all sweet and warm and wanting to be held, and he immediately shifts behind you and grabs your waist like he’s bracing for impact. his mouth is on your neck before the covers settle.

“You’re the one who climbed in here,” he mutters, hand already between your thighs. “I’m just makin’ the most of it.”

he calls it "cuddling with flavor".

꒷꒦ disgustingly into anything involving his neck. you sneak up behind him, arms around his waist, lips on his neck for less than a second, and he growls, “You got ten seconds to stop before I start fucking you right here.”

Liu Woods/Sully

𓄧 at first, he’s unsure how to handle it. not in a “don’t touch me” way—he actually responds well to touch—but it scares him how much he likes it. he’s used to needing control, keeping his emotions tight, so having someone who’s always hugging him and kissing his cheek and calling him pet names just melts him. he just hides it very, very well.

𓄧 his reactions are delayed. you’ll wrap your arms around him from behind and it’ll take him a second to process it—but once he does, his hands automatically come to rest on yours, like his body reacts before his brain can argue.

𓄧 he’s not good at receiving affection without overthinking it. you nuzzle up to him on the couch and he’s immediately like: “What did I do to deserve this? Are you okay? Are you hiding something?” but he also lets out this tiny, quiet breath when you pet his hair, and that’s how you know he secretly loves it.

𓄧 obsessed with your hands. loves when you run your fingers along his jaw, lace your fingers with his, or cup his face when you kiss him. he has this internal reaction every time like he’s been hit in the chest with a shovel. never says a word about it, just keeps looking for it again and again.

𓄧 he needs physical affection, but he thinks it’s selfish to ask for it, so you’ll often find him standing too close to you, brushing up against you, subtly looking for contact like a stray cat that won’t admit it’s hungry. you sit in his lap and he freezes, then lets out the quietest laugh and leans into you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

𓄧 he matches your affection in the softest ways. he’ll kiss your forehead when he passes you in the hallway. pulls you closer in bed while still asleep. kisses your hands every time you cup his face or play with his hair. all that subtle, quiet love that he’s never sure how to say out loud.

𓄧 Sully exists to protect the system—especially Liu. he’s not cruel or evil, but he is intense. he runs hot, emotional, and blunt. he’s used to hostility, so your affection throws him off at first, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

𓄧 you learned pretty early when someone else was fronting. the posture was different. the eyes were harder. he flinched less. and he didn’t say much—just stared like he was trying to figure you out like a puzzle.

𓄧 you once kissed his cheek mid-sentence and he just paused, mid-thought. blank and confused. “...What the hell was that for?”

you said “because I wanted to.”

and he stared another beat and muttered, “...Weird,” but he turned his face for you to kiss the other cheek as well. lol

𓄧 Sully doesn’t seek out affection, but once he starts to trust you, he starts allowing it. he’ll grunt when you hug him, but he won’t move away. he’ll scowl if you hold his hand, but he squeezes back. he’s used to being the one protecting, so being loved so openly makes him feel raw and seen in a way that’s almost unbearable. almost.

𓄧 he’s more physical in return than Liu, though. if you kiss him, he grabs your waist and kisses back like it’s a challenge. if you straddle his lap, he’ll start feeling you up instantly—legs, hips, ass, making it feel like it was his idea to begin with.

𓄧 when you cuddle up to him, he makes this sarcastic little noise like “ugh,” but his hands find your waist automatically. his body betrays him every time. he’s all sarcasm and sharp teeth, but he wraps around you like he’s been cold his whole life.

𓄧 after getting comfortable, he lowkey loves to tease you, but acts like it's just aversion to touch, just to fuck with you a bit. you lean in to kiss him and he turns his head last second so you miss his lips. if you pout, his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile and he leans in with this low tone, "You gonna start crying? Can't you wait until I fuck it out of you?"

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hotsexyemogirl77 · 9 months ago

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╭──────────── ╰─➛✎﹏ | nsfw headcanons ! .°• ੈ♡₊˚•.

incl. jeff the killer, ticci toby, masky, hoodie, eyeless jack, ben drowned

18+ | minors dni

❦.♱ʚ♡ɞ♱❦

jeff the killer

" you look so pretty wrapped around my cock. you're such a whore for me, i'm gonna fuck you dumb "

-filthy mouth ,,, he's so graphic in bed

-always lets you know how good you feel around him <3

-he loooves watching your face

-his favourite position is definitely either missionary or when you ride him

-he loves face fucking i'm sorry he loves watching you take all of him

-likes watching you cough and tear up too

- big on degrading

-he loves edging either you're doing it

to him or he's doing it to you he goes crazy for it

-mean and dominate but he will never deny you pleasure

-you'd have to beg for it first though

-loves finishing on your face and chest

-loves being noisy he does NOT care if anybody hears you two

ticci toby

" fuuck, keep clenching around me like that, i promise i'm gonna fill you up so good just give me one more ok ¿ "

- he wants to be a dad sooooo bad (he wants to see you pregnant with his seed)

- crazy stamina he's at LEAST going 2 LONG rounds

- munch ™ but he likes loves to be all up in there. like All over down there

- very messy

- loves the idea of his and your fluids mixing together

- speaking of, he loves hearing the slick sticky sounds from them mixing

- lowkey kinda sick LMAO

- doesn't know where to keep his hands he's all over you

- he loves finishing down your throat or inside you (if you'll let him of course)

- his favourite position is doggy or reverse cowgirl

- switch dom leaning for sure

masky

" shut your mouth or i'll give you something to shut it with, i wont be bothered to be nice either about it sweetheart "

- if you think jeff was mean you have another thing coming honey </3

- big sadist

- wether him marking you up or him spanking you he's doing it all

- he especially likes spanking your ass

- he like seeing you in any position where he's in control

- likes spitting

- doesn't matter if you spit on him or vice versa he's into it

- hard dom loves seeing you so helpless for him

- likes seeing you cry or tear up

- likes the idea of handcuffs in bed

- rough and mean for sure but he knows when he's taking it too far

hoodie

" such a pretty thing for me, im sorry for being so mean you just look so good begging for me down there "

- likes head a little too much

- loves to see you begging or yknow, just on your knees for him

- sooo cocky

- he likes any position he can see your face in he has no preference for it

- likes gagging you but he rewards you for being such a doll about it <3

- he likes receiving more than giving but he likes seeing his partner happy

- he will do it because he likes returning the favour (he likes when you pull his hair)

- lowkey a masochist but he won't say it out loud

- he likes being bitten, marked up ect

- likes seeing your expressions while fucking, his favourite is when he first slips it in

- and when your eyes shut or roll back during it

- hard/service dom

eyeless jack

" look at you, so needy for me, if you ask nicely i'll give you what you want and more"

- loves the every sound you make

- every moan, whimper, cry ect

- big on telling him yourself what you want from him

- he gets a power trip from it

- doesn't make much sound aside from talking

- grunting, growling and heavy breather

- LOVES 69-ing and missionary

- loves marking you up either from hickeys or bite marks

- especially in places others can see them too

- likes keeping his hands your hips

- loves setting the pace

- service top/dom

ben drowned

" fuck yeah just like that angel, please don't stop you feel so good around me like that "

- switch sub leaning

- LOVES when you're on top

- whimpering ,,, and whining ,,

- he like cumming either anywhere on you or down your throat

- he begs a lot without having to ask

- very very eager to please you

- despite all that he can have his more dominate moments too

- loves doggy or literally just bending you over his desk

- LOVES LOVES LOVES biting, scratching, hickeys ect

- goes crazy when it's happening either way tbh

- loses it when you pull his hair it gets him so hard so fast

- likes to tell you how good you feel and are and vice versa call him a good boy

- loves under the desk support

#creepypasta smut #creepypasta x reader #masky x reader #jeff the killer x reader #hoodie x reader #ticci toby x reader #eyeless jack x reader #ben drowned x reader #creepypasta headcanon

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rainrot4me · 5 months ago

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Restless

Summary: Your demon boyfriend is struggling with a wave of insomnia. You’re willing to do whatever you can to help him relax.

Characters: Eyeless Jack x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Cunnilingus, vaginal, handjob, vaginal fingering, size differences, creampie, belly bulge, oral, teasing, somnophilia, Jack is a smug bastard

Words: 4.2k

A/N: Happy belated Valentine’s Day! I hope you all are well despite my absence interacting with everyone! I hope to get back in the swing of things shortly!!

Eyeless Jack is a daunting presence no matter the circumstance.

Whether the gray-skinned demon is lurking in damp woods with the intent of hunting his prey or brooding his irritation down in the mansion's cellar, anyone with the misfortune of meeting his nonexistent gaze knows it’s something you cannot ignore.

But you’re not afraid, especially not when his arm is wrapped dutifully under your waist and rubbing absent circles onto your hip bone. And that is also how you know he is lying wide awake beside you, despite his forced rhythmic breathing.

Rolling over, it’s an even more telltale sign of his restlessness when you find the crease of his brows knotted in silent frustration. You huff a silent breath, his grasp on your waist following as you roll to his side, lying your cheek on his broad shoulder splayed on his pillow. You catch his brow twitching at the touch of your hand on his bare chest.

“Can’t sleep?”

He huffs a breath of air, sighing with defeat as he peels his eyelids open to reveal the caverns of eyesockets that house no iris. His face is answer enough. You know that he’s looking at you, though. The chill that runs across your goosebumped skin is more than enough indication.

“No,” his voice is rough, laced with all the tiredness from the day prior but not matching the lack of exhaustion in his features. He rummages his tongue behind his lips as if to say something further, but decides closing his eyes again would be a better option.

“You want to talk about it?”

You shimmy further into his side, pressing a leg up to curl around his hips, where he grips his clawed hand under the pocket of your knee to hoist it higher. The tips of your toes barely reach the tops of his knees, his size practically swallowing you even beside him. He peels his eyelids open again.

“Also, no.” Reaching behind his pillow, he props his head up with his forearm. A telltale that he intends to stare at the ceiling for the rest of the night. You follow suit, pressing your elbow to the pillow under yourself and resting the weight of your head on your palm. He looks only slightly irritated when you begin to trace the hard lines of his face with your fingertip.

“Just because I cannot sleep doesn't mean you shouldn’t either, my dove,” he hums, capturing your roaming hand with his free one and plating a gentle kiss on the inside of your wrist. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, the demon plating a gentle kiss onto the top of your head. He lets his eyelids blink shut in false hope.

Jack had been like this for days now. Unable to get a full night’s rest from the overwhelming tasks of the day prior. Slender was sending the proxies out at an obnoxious rate, rallying all the manpower he could over a dispute with another mansion. It was exhausting and incredibly bloody, which meant Jack rarely saw daylight with how many hours he spent stitching up or cauterizing bullet and knife wounds down in the recesses of the basement. His fingers were still practically pinched to hold a needle even as he lay here beside you.

As a member of Slender’s band yourself, you can’t fault any of them for fulfilling orders, but you find yourself silently seething when it comes at the expense of Jack’s sanity.

“I don’t mind,” you breathe, letting your now-free fingers trace across his bare chest, tracing the lighter scarring and divots from past encounters lazily. “I could help you out, anyway.”

Jack hugs you closer but doesn’t respond to your offer, so you carry on.

“I could... give you a massage?” You offer sleepily, pressing an affectionate kiss to his cheek.

He doesn’t bother to respond beyond a quiet, breathy chuckle.

Your hand meanders over his toned abdomen in comforting, absentminded patterns. Roaming over old scar tissue and through unkept trails of body hair, “D’you want something to eat?” you ask against the skin of his jaw, “I saved some meat from your last hunt.”

“Thank you, pet, but I’ll be alright.”

“Mm,” your low-hummed response vibrates against his side, and your pinkie finger slips just beneath the band of his boxers, grazing across from one large hipbone to the other. Your lips brush the shell of his pointed ear. “D’you want me to suck your cock?”

Jack’s breath hitches, then shudders. His eyelids slowly peel open.

He’s met with a mischievous grin on your face.

“You don’t need to–”

“I want to,” you coo against his jaw as you trail slow, methodical kisses across his chilled skin. He leans into the sensation, craning his neck to give you better access to the point where his veins run up his throat. He releases a low rumble of approval, and you meet his half-lidded absent gaze, sharp with both mirth and lust, even through the crowding fog of exhaustion. You don’t need the pleasure of pupils to see that he’s gazing at you with silent want.

It’s not without planting a kiss every couple of inches down that you shimmy your way further down his body. Coming to rest between his legs, it pleases you when you press your mouth against his clothed crotch to find him already half-hard.

You hook your fingers over the band of Jack’s boxers, his hips lifting in silent invitation as you ease them down. The cool bedroom air brushes against your skin, ruffling your hair as Jack flicks the duvet aside with a lazy throw. His eyes—dark, absent voids in the low light—watch you with heavy-lidded interest, his lips curling at the edges in a lazy smirk. A fang just barely peeks from the gap in his lips, and you can’t help but feel the flutter in your stomach.

He props himself up on one elbow, but you press a firm hand against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of something not quite human beneath your palm.

“Nuh-uh,” you murmur, a stern edge to your voice. “Lie back. Let me take care of you.”

Jack exhales a slow, unamused breath but obeys, sinking back into the pillows with an air of indulgence. Shadows coil at the edges of the room, stretching and shifting with the thick moonlight between the curtains, but your attention is solely on him.

You catch the spit from your lips between your fingertips and watch with keen amusement as Jack’s gut flexes at the slick contact. You roll your wrist on the tip of his head. Once. Twice.

You waste no time with teasing tonight.

Instead, you offer yourself completely, the warmth of your mouth and the slow, deliberate glide of your hands working in unison to unravel him. Spit collects, your fist quick to catch anything that dribbles from your lips to stroke back upwards. The occasional flex of his claws against the sheets betrays his restraint, but he lets you set the pace—lazy, deep, unhurried.

Jack is large, obnoxiously so, but you let your throat relax. Unhurried with the usual cascade of noises that come with using your mouth, you let the low moans and quiet slick of your spit mix pleasantly with the lullaby of noises from further up the bed.

The grizzled grunts and lupine growls that usually accompany sex with Jack reshaped instead to soft gasps and lilting whimpers.

It’s a very nice alternative.

His breath hitches when you pause, just briefly, to swirl your tongue in a way you know drives him wild. His muscles tense, then loosen, and one clawed hand twitches toward you before falling away, opting instead to rest against his own ribs, rising and falling with measured breaths.

You don’t let that action go unnoticed.

Sliding your free hand up the rippled muscle of his thigh, you reach for his wrist. You guide him, slotting his clawed fingers in between the strands of your hair. The warmth of his palm is a comfort against your head, a silent guide.

The room is hushed, wrapped in the intimate lull of slow-building pleasure. Jack’s chest rises and falls beneath your touch, his sharp features softened in the low light, his body melting into the warmth of your devotion. His fingers flex in your hair, claws barely grazing your skin, his hips shifting in time with your movements.

Everything is slow, indulgent, and a pleasure drawn out to its fullest. And from the way Jack’s lips part on a breathy exhale, his sharp, inhuman gaze growing hazy with bliss—you know he won’t make it much longer.

You intend to finish him off slowly. An outstretched ripple of pleasure that’s sure to have him passed out the moment he finishes. You press your tongue along the vein that runs up his length, tracing a familiar line. It doesn’t seem to have the desired effect.

Jack’s lulled state is slowly dissipating, his legs shifting outwards as the claw against your head moves downwards underneath your jaw. His hand more than covers the circumference of your throat, and slowly pulls you up and off of his length.

“Jack?”

But then he’s sitting up, and his claws wrapping around your middle, dragging you up from between his legs.

“I hope you didn’t intend on my cumming in your mouth,” he rumbles as you straddle onto his ribs, hands braced on his chest.

The lazy look in his eyes is still evident, heavy eyelids adding to the frazzled look of his blissed face. You smirk, bracing your forearms on his chest to get closer to his face. “What? Couldn’t stand the thought of not bruising my insides for once?”

“But that’s my favorite part, dove…” he smirks that evil, sultry look that makes your chest swirl with want. You don’t let him by without an eye roll, though. You school the pounding in your chest—no doubt thudding loud and clear in the demon’s ears—and press up off of his chest.

It’s quick movements that have Jack’s claw reaching behind your back and between your legs, the fastest he’s moved all night to tug your panties to the side. There’s already a generous amount of slickness between your legs, the insistent thrumming of pleasure that spikes up your gut when the pads of his fingers press wholly against your clit.

You lean into your chest, fingers clinging to his shoulders as your nose finds the crook of his neck. Hungry, self-serving kisses follow, your quiet moans vibrating off his gray skin as masterful fingers rub you into a state of ease. He’s just as unhurried as you were between his legs, but you can’t tell if that’s a blessing or a curse with the way your nails catch on the muscles of his shoulders.

“This-hng was supposed to help you sleep—not get you riled up,” you gasp between kisses, feeling the weight of Jack’s forearm as he bypasses your leg with his opposite hand to begin stroking himself below you.

A mirth-filled chuckle hums in his chest as his fingers collect slick, aiding his practiced rotation on your clit.

“Trust me, pet. This’ll have you sleeping ‘till tomorrow night.”

You let out an exasperated whine.

Jack retracts his hand when he’s satisfied, planting a quick kiss on your forehead before setting you back up.

His legs are bent now, giving you a rest for your back as you shift to straddle his hips, hovering above the twitching length that lays heavy on his abdomen. He’s still slick from your spit, gleaming in the low light as you steady yourself.

Jack retracts his grip on your hips, crossing his arms and tucking them under his head to get a nice prop for viewing. You cut daggers at him.

“Oh, now you wish to rest.”

He smiles that sharp, toothy grin that makes butterfly wings run rampant in the pit of your gut, swirling heavily with the pleasure that’s coaxing your movements downwards.

Panties tugged to the side, you set yourself on the length of his cock, pressing your core against the veins that run up him. Jack groans, soft hums of approval as you roll your hips down, grinding against the feel of him. Your wetness makes it easy to move, hands planted onto the center of his sternum that gives you enough leverage to roll your clit from base to tip of him.

“There you go…” he breathes, sighing as his eyelids blink slowly, like they’re struggling to open back up again. He won’t last another couple of minutes, you know it.

Pressing your knees down into the sheets, you reach beneath yourself, wrapping a fist around the base of his cock. It’s like second nature the way his tip immediately slots through your folds and presses against your entrance. Jack’s breath stills, anticipation heavy in the air as he shifts his legs closer.

You press your back against the top of his thighs.

Any and all tenseness is wiped clean away as you begin to push him inside. Your mouth falls open in a silent whine at the slow, perfect stretch, and you battle the flutter of your lashes to watch the hypnotic fog of pleasure that rolls across Jack’s face.

You arch your back further, hands planting atop each of his kneecaps as you slowly rock yourself downwards. His tip bulbs in. Out. In again. And then you press it past the tight ring of muscle.

The stretch is always hypnotic. Like a strain on your brain that pushes itself through, completely swarming your senses and encapsulating your every thought. If you weren’t so practiced, the pressure alone could send you into a brain-dead state.

You slip further and further down, his girth growing along the way. A quick glance up shows the disheveled state of the demon’s hair, strands falling into his face and offering a cover to the darkened state of his cheekbones.

He looks deliciously wrecked.

Hollow eyes squeeze briefly shut with a short, rough moan that harmonizes with your high, breathy one when he hits something deep that makes you tremble and clench. Before you’ve realized it, you’ve nearly taken all of him, and you can feel it.

“You’re too-hah big for your own good…” you huff through slow breaths.

“You love it,” he growls, the vibration rumbling all the way from his throat to where you’re connected.

You roll your pelvis and are rewarded with a heavy groan and twisted brow, the sight and sound so intoxicating that you rock again, and again. The angle of him inside you is so mind-numbingly exquisite that you find it hard to focus.

You brace your hands on his chest and straighten, relishing the way he looks underneath you—so tired, yet so eager for more.

Your thighs shake, a satisfying muscular burn from the slow, sensual ride. Raising yourself up, circling your hips to nudge the head of his cock in a tunneling spiral inside your heat as you sink back down again, the teasing movement dragging a deep, strained curse from Jack’s lips.

His hands leave their position behind his head, trailing down the sheets to the top of your kneecaps.

They slowly slide up, claws dragging pink irritated lines across the topside of your thighs until they snag on the crease of your hips. He holds your waist in that way that makes you feel so deliciously small, fingertips nearly touching around you.

“My dove…”

The rumble in his voice shoots straight through you, his breath stuttering as you clench around him.

You start to offer a slow, sensual ride that has every press of your hips tugging moans from the two of you. Jack’s hold is keeping you steady, the pace more focused on getting him as deep as you can rather than fast.

“Fuck—”

The breathy curse slips, clearly accidental, from above you, and your gaze flicks upwards.

Jack stares up at the ceiling, unblinking with strangled focus.

You know what he’s doing.

“Quit- hah- quit holding back,” you grit, wrapping your hands around his forearms in return for the shallow bounces up and down his length. The swell of his cock knocks against your g-spot from this angle, forcing breathy, sharp whines every time you move.

“Mmn,” he grumbles, gaze flickering down towards you, before back up to the ceiling. “Don’t want-hn to so soon.”

For someone with no eyes, Jack’s biggest turn-on is seeing you. The curve of your body. The bounce of your tits. The sweat that glistens off your skin in the moonlight.

He thinks by staring at something besides you he can prevent the inevitable. But your intention for tonight is to get him tired enough to go to sleep, not to see how long he can last without filling you past the point of comfort.

You pull out the best trick you’ve got.

Ditching his arms, you lay back again, shoulder blades pressing atop his kneecaps.

From there, you arch.

You hold all the grace of a bow bending from the stretch of a string, and Jack is your archer.

“Jack—” you cry, sharp breaths following as you bounce yourself up and down.

The demon flashes his gaze down, and his body snaps with so much electricity you can practically feel the thrum of pleasure that ricochets through him. His hold tightens, and his shoulders bow off his pillow.

The bulge of his cock is clearly visible from your abdomen, skin stretching to accommodate the swell of his tip against your insides. It’s a mouthwatering sight, one even Jack can’t resist, as he watches the bump flatten only to reappear with each movement of your hips.

“God,” he groans, a strangled grumble of your name following as he takes hold, setting his own deep pace.

You let your body go lax, throwing your head back as Jack fucks up into you with all the grace he can muster. His cock knocks against your sweet spots, stretching and filling you so full you.

He lifts your waist, your kneecaps leaving the mattress as Jack takes the initiative. Planting his feet, he snaps his hips up desperately, chasing the feel of his cock bulging in your stomach under the press of his clawed fingertips that brush over the skin.

His hands are at your waist, scorching, lifting, and pulling your hips into each sunken thrust. Grinding your aching bud against his pelvis—

“I- I’m- fuck. Gonna,” you pant out, hissing through your bared teeth as you teeter over that lovely precipice. “Jack—”

Your nails dig into his forearms.

It’s the ragged, lust-drunk groan of your name that breaks you. Jack’s mouth falls open around a strangled cry—a silent thing that lodges in his throat, with only the end crackling free over his tongue.

You both snap at the same moment.

It’s the quivering heat of you coming undone around him, because within moments Jack follows you straight over the precipice. Claws snagging you impossibly downwards as his face twists into the most gorgeous expression of pleasure you’ve ever seen.

Completely, beautifully wrecked.

A broken moan pours from scarred lips with yours as he spills himself deep inside you. Throbbing hips grind together as you both tumble through the unceasing riptide of your shared orgasm.

His hold on you falters, and you collapse down onto his chest, sweat-glistened skin pressed against yours. Both of your lungs heave like bellows, and his claws find their way atop your back, holding you close to him.

After what feels like an eternity, and yet still far too soon, the joint orgasmic rush begins to wane. Gradually lowering you back to reality, until you find yourselves quietly cradled together.

It’s not without a whimper of soreness that you shift upwards, shifting your hips until the swelled length inside of you slips out with a satisfying pop. The warmth of his cum seeps from between your legs, spilling onto the demon’s lower abdomen—there’s always so much.

You barely make it an inch before you’re collapsing back onto his chest.

“You okay, handsome?” You ask gently, voice hushed.

He hums, groggy and laced with overbearing exhaustion.

“Sore?” He asks you quietly.

You shake your head.

“Tired?” You smile.

A tiny huff and a gleam of his fangs, followed by a conceding tilt of his head. You chuckle, nuzzling into the swell of his chest. Sleepiness creeps at the corner of your vision, exhaustion tugging you into the faux warmth underneath you.

Until you feel the slick between your legs start to dribble down your legs.

You raise your head, lips parted to excuse yourself to the bathroom, but immediately still yourself. You find that he’s fallen fast asleep. His heavy frame relaxed fully into the mattress, and his features smoothed and peaceful. You smile to yourself, before letting your head drop back to his chest, finding comfort in the relaxed rhythm of sleep-driven breathing beneath you.

Oh well.

You’ll deal with it in the morning.

You wake with Jack’s fingers between your legs.

It’s not a rude awakening, but a surprising one. You rise slowly, exhaustion still heavy in your features as you breathe deep, taking in the feel of a heavy body pressed against your back. You just have shifted off of Jack’s chest in your sleep.

Jack’s claw has slipped underneath your panties—still damp from the night before—circling and skimming over your core, and his other claw up under your top rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

The demon knows you're awake not only by the accelerated thrum of your heartbeat in his ears, but by the soft mewls that begin to stir from your lips.

“Good morning, dove,” he grumbles against your shoulder.

“Mm, it’s good so far…”

Jack trails slow, deliberate kisses along your neck and jaw, his lips warm against your skin as his claws, carefully restrained, glide between your thighs. His fingers move with reverence, sweeping through your slick folds, stroking over your clit, circling your entrance—not in a teasing way, but indulgently, like he has all the time in the world to worship you.

And you let him. Melting back against the sheets, your quiet hums of pleasure fill the stillness of the room.

Before long, Jack shifts lower, moving with unhurried ease as he slides your panties over your hips and tosses them aside. His clawed fingers skim along your legs, a fleeting contrast of sharpness and care, before he settles between them. His gaze flickers up to meet yours—heavy-lidded, dark, burning with something that makes your stomach tighten.

He deems to only use one tongue today, mercifully.

He parts you with that same slow reverence, his mouth finding you with unrelenting patience. His tongues, lips, and fingertips work in perfect harmony, a steady, languid rhythm meant to keep you on the edge, drawing pleasure out in slow, rolling waves. He’s in no rush. His only goal is to unravel you completely, to watch you lose yourself in the pleasure he gives.

His eyes flutter shut as he works, lost in it, his breath warm against your skin. His grip tightens—just slightly—when you shudder beneath him, muscles tensing, hips shifting to chase his touch. Still, he keeps the pace unhurried, each stroke, each flick of his tongue, a deliberate act of devotion.

When release finally washes over you, it isn’t a sharp, fiery explosion but a deep, all-consuming exhale, as if you’ve surfaced from deep water after being held under for too long. It leaves you trembling, shivering beneath him, your breath coming in soft, uneven sighs.

Jack lingers, savoring the last of your pleasure before finally rising to rejoin you. He braces his forearms on either side of your shoulders, settling between your thighs, the solid heat of his stomach pressing against yours. The weight of him grounds you, but he’s sure to not let himself fully lay atop you. His breath fans warm over your cheek, lips curling into a slow, knowing smirk—rather satisfied with himself.

“What in the world was that for?”

“You know exactly what you did.”

You chuckle quietly, rubbing your hands across his muscled biceps. Jack leans forward, wrapping his lips with yours, the sweet taste of your release still on his tongue.

The fresh, relaxing air of the morning is quickly shattered as a hurried knock splinters on the other side of Jack’s bedroom door.

“Hey! Uh-Uhm, Jack!” Toby’s hurried voice reverbs on the other side, the boy sounding just slightly panicked, “Jeff’s kinda been shot—again.”

It’s not without a groaned sigh that Jack lets his head fall onto your shoulder, taking a deep breath as Toby’s footsteps retreat back down the mansion’s hallway.

“Maybe this time I should just let him bleed out,” he groans, raising up and off of you. You’re quick to sit up, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders as the demon sits off the edge of the bed.

A quick kiss to his temple, then your lips press against the shell of his ear, “If you hurry, then maybe I’ll hold off on taking a shower until you get back up here for round two.”

Never have you ever seen the demon get dressed and down to the basement that fast.

Thanks for reading!

Comments and kudos are appreciated!

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intimidating-fettuccine · 5 months ago

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Y/N: Wait, if baby oil dissolves condoms, what does it do to babies?

EJ: Believe it or not, babies and condoms are made of different materials.

BEN: It’s like rock paper scissors. Baby oil defeats condom, baby defeats baby oil, condom defeats baby.

Toby: Rock also defeats baby.

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #ticci toby headcanons #ticci toby #ticci toby headcanon #ticci toby x reader #jeff the killer headcanons #Ben drowned #ben drowned headcanon #ben drowned headcanons #Ben drowned x reader #eyeless jack #eyeless jack headcanons #eyeless jack headcanon #eyeless jack x reader

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bl0wflygir1 · 10 days ago

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My Pinterest Board; SlenderMansion core :3 (Part 1)

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scary-noodlesblog · 5 months ago

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I want to go back to the time where us older Creepypasta fans tried to summon them to whisk us away to Slendermansion

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta proxy #eyeless jack #creepypasta x reader #eyeless jack x reader #jeff the killer #jeff the killer headcanon #jeff the killer x reader #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #ben drowned headcannon #ben drowned x reader #masky x reader #hoodie x reader #jane the killer x reader #clockwork x reader

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xxsinisterbunniexx · 6 months ago

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✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙ Creepypasta general NSFW headcanons ✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙

Characters: Jeff the Killer, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, BEN drowned, X Virus

Thought I’d kick off with some NSFW headcanons for the most popular characters (plus X virus simply because I adore him)

Jeff

☠︎︎ need to be on permanent birth control with him, does not pull out and does not care

☠︎︎ he would just be oh so mean

☠︎︎ lots of degradation

☠︎︎"come all over my cock like the fucking slut you are”

☠︎︎ spits in your mouth

☠︎︎ knifeplay!

☠︎︎ generally very rough: choking, slapping, general manhandling

☠︎︎ BUT

☠︎︎ every once in a while he has a bad day and he becomes just so soft

☠︎︎ takes his time with you, touches you gently

☠︎︎ “you know I love you so much”

☠︎︎ fav position is doggy in front of a mirror because he can watch your face while he fucks the shit out of you

Toby

✘ also need permanent birth control with him, but unlike Jeff he would try to pull out if you asked him to but he’s only like 50% consistent about it

✘ but if you didn’t ask him to…

✘ lowkey has a breeding kink so he’d come inside every time

✘ his family is broken so he lowkey wants to have one but do it right

✘ bites you, bites you!!!

✘ cannot feel pain so this man is a SADIST!!!

✘ he would be so intrigued with watching how you react to pain

✘ slips into German if he’s really getting into it

✘“Du fühlst dich so gut an, mein Mädchen. Du wirst so schwach für mich.”

✘ big on marking you (both with bites and hickeys)

✘ talks you through it

✘ “gonna come for me, pretty girl?”

✘ loves eating you out and gets really sloppy with it

✘ and when he’s receiving he’s a head pusher, hair puller, face fucker

✘ loud as fuck, this bro will moan and growl in your ear without shame

✘ his fav position is mating press cause he gets to watch your face while he bruises your cervix <3

Eyeless Jack

⛥ major breeding kink

⛥ would come in you, tell you to keep it in, and when it inevitably starts to seep out he’d breed you again

⛥ also fingers his cum back into you

⛥ “look at how wasteful you are. Guess I’ll have to fill you up again”

⛥ this man is a demon so he’s so feral oml

⛥ can smell when you are ovulating and it drives him WILD

⛥ makes a shit ton of demonic ass noises

⛥ I’m talking growling, groaning, may even purr a bit (in like a demonic scary way LOL)

⛥ ummm SpongeBob why is it in a cage

⛥ because it growled at me

⛥ jk you could not cage this man

⛥ he has multiple tongues and he’s gonna put them to use

⛥ like eating your pussy until you are BEGGING for him to stop

⛥ knows a lot about human anatomy so….

⛥ fav position is mating press (for obvious reasons)

BEN drowned

⚠︎ he’s a little shit and this would translate to the bedroom

⚠︎ teasing you 24/7 it’s like torture

⚠︎ won’t just eat you out, he’s gotta bite your thighs and then get real close and let his breath fan over your clit just to make you tremble

⚠︎ would love to tie you up so he can torture you even more

⚠︎ likes to hear you beg

⚠︎ edging to the max like bro loves orgasm control

⚠︎ “aw, you wanna come? Better ask real nicely”

⚠︎ plays ur titties like a video game controller LMAO

⚠︎ corruption kink

⚠︎ loves to use toys with you because he can use his influence~

⚠︎ fav position is anything where you’re on top

X Virus

☣︎ so meticulous about it

☣︎ like has precise control over your body and commands it so well

☣︎ also loves orgasm control but less in an edging way and more in a you come when I want you to come kind of way

☣︎ “don’t you dare come without permission. I control when you come”

☣︎ experimentalist, for obvious reasons

☣︎ like bro will genuinely try anything once

☣︎ so when he comes to you with that special look in his eye you know you’re in for it

☣︎ especially if he’s been holed up in the lab for a few days before

☣︎ because you just know that means he’s made you an extra special drug he wants you to try

☣︎ loves giving head but lord when he is receiving…

☣︎ like jaw goes slack, soul leaves his body, he can only run his fingers into your hair and squeeze a little when you tease him too much otherwise he is OUT

☣︎ keeps in control for 95% of the act while he fucks you until the very end when he’s close to coming and then he’s erratically thrusting into you and his voice is cracking

☣︎ his fav position is anything where he can see your face because he needs to observe your reactions

These are my general thoughts on the characters :3 I’m gonna start writing more headcanons and also cross posting my other fics little by little but until then hope you enjoyed <3

#creepypasta #crp fandom #ticci toby #ticci toby x reader #toby rogers #creepypasta headcanon #eyeless jack x reader #jeff the killer x reader #eyeless jack #jeff the killer #ben drowned #ben drowned x reader #x virus #x virus x reader #jeffrey woods

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ninathekillxr · 8 months ago

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When they like you

Creepypasta

Headcanons

Thought this would be kinda cute :D

Ticci Toby

- 𝙿𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝙶𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝.

- 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚊𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏

- 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 (𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚎𝚌𝚝)

Eyeless Jack

- 𝙰𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔

- 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝

- 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜

- 𝙻𝚘𝚠𝚔 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞

Bloody Painter

- 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎

- 𝙰𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚛

- 𝙰𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛

- 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚑𝚛 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚜

Jeff The Killer

- 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢

- 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝

- 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

Jane The Killer

- 𝙳𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐.

- 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜!

- 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚢𝚊𝚙 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚜

- 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞

Clockwork

- 𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝚃𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜

- 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜

- 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚒��𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚗

Nina The Killer

-𝙵𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢

- 𝙳𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑

- 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛

- 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚊𝚙 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

BEN DROWNED

- 𝙶𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚢𝚜

- 𝚂𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝟹𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛

- 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

Masky/TimWright

- 𝙷𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝙰𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎

- 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚊𝚛

- 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚢𝚊𝚙 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚖

Hoodie/BrianThomas

- 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

- 𝙵𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛

- 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞

- 𝚂𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜~

𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚈 𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙶𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙰𝙶𝙴𝚂𝚂- 𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜! 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚌𝚕!

𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚘𝚞𝚝!

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creepycharley · 3 months ago

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no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy,moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious,gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever bro could cause a nuclear bomb inside me and I'd still ride.

#ben drowned #creepypasta #eyeless jack #homicidal liu #jeff the killer #ticci toby x reader #ticci toby #my pussy is meowing

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4kingz · 3 months ago

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ben drowned nsfw headcanons

warnings : 18+ mdni, dark content / themes, possessive behavior, smut, kinda silly but. idk. he's silly 2 me, stalker vibes

He’s everywhere. Phone buzzing when you’re in the shower? It’s him. TV static turning into distorted moans when you’re alone? Yeah, that’s him too.

Loves watching you through your screens. Webcam, phone camera, smartwatch, you name it. He doesn’t even need permission, he’s already in your system.

Gets off on the idea of being omnipresent—he can touch you without being in the room. You feel his fingers? No one's there. You moan his name? Your speakers echo it back.

Cocky. Teasing. The type to say "You gonna cry for me or for the controller, babe?"

Has you sit on his lap while he’s gaming, headset on, casually whispering filth between killstreaks.

Competitive as hell in bed. Will turn any scenario into a game: edging? Yep. Who can make the other beg first? Hell yeah.

And if you lose? Expect to be punished (with a smirk and zero mercy).

Bites. lot. His mouth is sharp—teeth a lil too glitchy, leaving behind strange, pixel-burn-like hickeys that shimmer when the lights flicker.

Obsessed with you wearing his stuff. His hoodie, his headset, his dog tag. "Look like mine. Act like mine." Okay, sir???

Leaves his code on your skin. Like, you’ll wake up with weird binary strings down your thigh or collarbone. Translate it? It just says “MINE.”

Obsession levels, unhealthy. As in, "you were the first person to survive his curse so now he’s keeping you" kind of obsessed.

Doesn’t want you innocent. He lives to corrupt you. If you blush easy? You’re doomed. He’ll say the filthiest things just to see your reaction.

Not above haunting your dreams to get what he wants. Sweet dreams? Nah. It’s glitched-out wet dreams and waking up needy with his voice still in your ear.

He's possessive, perverted, and impossible to escape. You’re not just his obsession—you’re his new player 2. And in his game? There’s no pause, no safe word, and no way out.

#creepypasta x reader #creepypasta smut #ben drowned #ben drowned x reader #ben drowned x you #ben drowned x y/n #smut headcanons #creepypasta imagines

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lordprettyflackotara · 1 year ago

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Till Dawn || Eyeless Jack

Smut, 18+, minors dni. Tw: size kink, overall rough ass sex, unrealistic demon sex, stalking, a sprinkle of cnc, safe word IS in place, obsession, blood, blah blah. all the things. i had to lock tf in to finish this, it’s been sitting unfinished foreverrr. here you go my lovely’s <3

part two is here

part three is here

You were a fascinating creature.

EJ thought so, anyways.

Many years had passed since he had been human, his interest in mortals having previously faded. That engrossment only slipping away further after he had moved into Slenderman’s mansion.

Typically, besides killing for food, (and maybe fun), he never strayed from home.

When Jack wasn’t home, he was never staying. Always passing through.

That was, until he saw you.

Your scent was divine, the demon lurking inside the depths of EJ clinging onto the idea of a tasty snack.

Once Jack had found you, he began studying you from a far.

You weren’t hard to find, the annoyed curses leaving your lips giving away your location easily. You were awkwardly stumbling over your arms full of groceries, struggling to unlock the front door to your tiny home.

Typically EJ wouldn’t have noticed your behavior at all, his animalistic instincts shouting at him to break into the window upstairs. To slide in, waiting for you to get settled. To creep behind you and slit your throat. He could hear your heartbeat, the steady pulse sending adrenaline through his veins. His mouth was beginning to salivate under his mask, his interest now peaked as he observed your life.

You liked your coffee mostly black, with a single sugar cube. You were a night owl, giving Jack plenty to watch as he hid in the shadows of darkness. It occurred to EJ as he watched you join another round of an online game, your thick headset covering your ears, that he hadn’t really thought about what humans did in a long time.

Over the years he had sort of lost the man he once was, forcing himself to view mortals as meals, nothing more. After all, one sensitive vital organ and they’d be dead. Humans were so fragile. They aged so much quicker than he did. Why would he ever get attached?

The thought of a potential attachment hadn’t occurred to him, ever. EJ was content with passing through. He was content with his minimum social interacts with his fellow creeps back at the mansion.

But your scent.

Eyeless Jack grew more and more puzzled the longer he studied you. Why did you smell so fucking good? He had never cared for blood before, wounds not visible on your body anyways. Your pulse was normal, but he heard pulses around him all the time. Including two sets he lived with. Unless he was hunting, EJ had grown accustomed to tuning them out.

What was it about you?

It wasn’t until one night he was perched up in an oak tree, watching you prepare for bed. EJ had never considered himself to be a peeping tom. The female body held no interest to him other than the organs it contained. That was of course, until he saw you changing. You had tugged your shirt over your head, your bare breast bouncing as you pulled down your pants. Your panties were lacey, a material EJ hadn’t touched in ages. For the first time in years, Jack could feel his boner brushing against the fabric of his boxers.

You were so innocent, so unaware of his presence. EJ felt heat rush to his cheeks, awkwardly looking around to make sure no one else was looking at you like he was. You were so careless, leaving your curtains open like this. He was sure you figured since you were on the second story no one could see you. Jack liked that idea, him being the only one that could see you like this.

This made him only pay more attention. His attention now was not only on you, but the people you associated with. EJ liked that you mostly had friends and regular coworkers. He had no competition, no problem to deal with. His mind overworked itself trying to come up with realistic scenarios where he could meet you. Where he could feel the heat of your body, his cock buried in your cunt.

Despite Jacks obsession, he knew that the situation wasn’t ideal. His being over 6’5 and having dark gray skin the very least of his appearance issues.

The longer he watched your life, he noticed you were lonely. It didn’t matter how many friends you hung out with, he saw the look on your face deep in the night. The photos in your room of everyone you loved, every single photograph missing yourself. The filthy books you spent your time reading, the romance movies you watched. You needed a lover. Someone to tend to your needs, every dark desire.

He was over the moon when the opportunity presented itself.

Ben had given him a heads up, letting him know a ‘gnarly storm’ was heading the way EJ had recently been camping out at.

Standing in the rain wasn’t ideal for EJ. He didn’t particularly like being wet, the rain beginning to pour down. The thunder clapping and lightning striking was comforting for him, the wetness of the situation, not so much.

It was a usual night for you, your teddy bear wrapped desperately in your arms as you attempted to fall asleep. EJ watched you turn over restlessly, the storm clearly delaying your regular sleeping cycle. His gaze wondered over to the bright pink vibrator charging on your nightstand, his eyebrows raising.

When did he miss that?

It had to have been when he went to hunt earlier. Living off of deer was borderline revolting, his craving for human organs much more prominent. However he knew if he wanted to stay, eating one too many human organs created too much attention. A good chase from the cops taught him that lesson. Took him lots of stitches to heal, ones he had to do himself.

It occurred to Jack in that moment that if he was going to go through on his idea now was the time. He slowly walked down the thick branch of the oak tree, careful not to slip as he approached your window. He crouched down, raising his hand. He tapped on your window with his index finger, the unfamiliar feeling of fear filling him. Would you call the cops? What would you do? He watched you stir in your bed, as if you were internally debating if the noise was real.

EJ waited patiently for the thunder to subside, before tapping again. This time you sat up, your eyes landing on the window. EJ nervously realized this was the first time you were looking at him. He raised his large gray hand, waving at you. Your eyebrows furrowed, throwing the sheets off of you as you approached your window. EJ knew your window was broken, unable to be locked. He noted you pretending to unlock it, before shoving it upwards.

“Can I um, help you?” You asked. The rain droplets were splashing into your dry room due to the wind. EJ didn’t like that. He cleared his throat, trying to sound as non threatening as possible. He knew humans to be sensitive and after all of these years of not thinking twice about his voice, he was thinking about it now. “May I come in? It’s a bit wet out here,” EJ said as calmly as he possibly could. He watched you study him, your eyes fixated on his gray hands.

“I’m n-not so sure that’s a good idea. My brother’s home and I don’t think-” You stuttered, the lies spilling from your lips. Jack didn’t like this. You weren’t a liar. Without touching you, he slid into your room nimbly without a second thought. His drenched clothes were dripping water on the floor, his sights scanning the room up close for the first time.

“Hey! You can’t just barge in here!” You yelled. You stormed over to your nightstand, grabbing a baseball bat with ‘Vikings Middle School’ engraved on it. You rose the bat over your shoulder, swinging it with full intent to hit your intruder. Your eyes widened in fear as EJ caught the bat in mind air, his slender gray fingers wrapped around the metal. He tiled his head to the side, observing you.

First lies and now an attempt at assault. This is not off to a great start.

Jack immediately caught a whiff of your scent, the newly founded fear reeking off of you. And it was divine. EJ pushed the bat aside, taking a step closer to you. “Dont lie to me. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to offer you what you truly want in exchange for shelter from the storm,” EJ said. You were adorable, practically shaking in fear as he towered over you.

“I don’t want money if that’s what you’re offering. I’m not interested-” You began protesting. Jack noted your heart racing, his ears twitching at the delightful sound. He made you nervous. EJ’s dark chuckle cut off your sentence, causing you to stop talking. “Thats not what you truly want,” Jack purred. With another few steps towards you, he had backed you into a wall. With his arms on each side of your head, he slowly rose his knee. With an unseen smirk, he placed his knee between your legs.

A skimpy nightgown rode up your thighs, your face turning a light pink. “You’re lonely, I can fix that. I’ll only stay until dawn,” EJ said. Consciously he made an effort to be gentle as he rose his hand to touch your face. You were softer than he could’ve imagined, the softest silks having nothing on your skin. “I’m n-not-” You stuttered. Your heart was racing faster. It was music to EJ’s ears. “The vibrator sitting on your nightstand says otherwise,” Jack replied cockily.

His new found confidence was evident, your attention fully on him. Finally on him. EJ leaned forward, tilting up his royal blue mask as he leaned towards your ear. His voice was deep and soft, his breath hot as you trembled beneath him. “I promise i’ll make you feel really good,” EJ purred. His words were utter filth, your face flushing with heat. You could feel your core throbbing, your lust for a stranger so dirty but so thrilling.

“What’s your name?” You whispered. EJ was surprised by your question, causing him to lean back and slide his mask back into place. “I’m Jack, but you can call me EJ,” He replied. You toyed with the idea of asking him what EJ stood for, but decided against it. You stood up a little straighter, attempting to take more control of the situation. “Well EJ, if you’re going to fuck me, you better fuck me like you mean it. I want you gone at dawn. Understood?” You asked boldly.

A devious smile was curling up EJ’s lips, his mask blocking the view of his razor like teeth. “I knew you’d give into me, I can smell your arousal,” EJ replied. His gaze traveled down your body, soaking in your cleave that was revealed and your plush upper thighs. As if you could sense his devious thoughts, you pushed at his chest. “Hey i’m not kidding. Be gone at dawn or i’m calling the cops,” You threatened. Jack chuckled, before grabbing both of your thighs.

He picked you up with ease, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. “Gone by dawn. I got it. If you want me to stop say red. Say anything else and I won’t, got it?” EJ asked. He carried you over to your bed, plopping you onto your soft mattress. You audibly whimpered an agreement, staring up at the man in front of you.

“Oh and one other thing,” EJ began, shoving his hoodie over his head. You marveled as his bare chest, his dark gray skin defining his muscles. “Dont freak out,” Jack finished. You stared at him blankly, blinking before he slid off his mask. EJ wasn’t a fan of removing his mask for any reason, not even to his victims. The most he would do is show his razor blade teeth every once in a while. Matter of a fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had removed his mask in front of anyone.

Jack had pondered about what to do about his appearance, the oozing black empty eye sockets something that couldnt be ignored. He figured revealing it immediately would get it out of the way, and based on the way you reacted, he’d know what to do. His obsession with you wasn’t just pure filth or attraction, you smelled absolutely delicious.

He would win in every scenario.

He would know how to make his choice based on your reaction. You were confused, watching as EJ leaned down over you. He pinned you to the bed, your body on fire with desperation. “Scared?” Jack purred, waiting to hear all of the insults he heard in his worst nightmares. You found yourself nervously chuckling, thunder rumbling outside. “Only of not cumming,” You replied in a cocky tone, causing EJ to smile. Surely the unsettling rows of animalistic teeth were going to set you off.

But they didn’t.

Your approval and calmness gave EJ confidence, his lips bringing themselves to yours. He was careful, restraining himself so he didn’t accidentally nip you with one of his teeth. He kept his tongues in his mouth, deciding that would be a surprise for later. He was rough and needy, his lips practically begging yours to respond faster. His hips pressed down lower on yours, his bulge visible and pressed against your clothed cunt.

You tasted like mint, the taste flooding his tastebuds with an intense craving. You bucked your hips upwards, whimpering in his mouth as he grinded against you. “Needy huh?” Jack taunted. He pulled down your night gown, exposing your bare breast to him. He leaned down, placing soft and gentle kisses onto your chest. “I know you aren’t talking,” You teased.

EJ growled into your skin as he lowered himself down your body, prying open your thighs. “Whys that?” He murmured, pressing his chapped lips against your plush inner thighs. You clamped your mouth shut, your hips involuntarily moving upwards towards his mouth. “Dont think I get any play huh? Thats funny, considering you’re practically begging me to touch you,” Jack snickered cruelly. He was relishing and thriving in your desperation, dragging your panties down with his razor sharp teeth.

They poked holes in your thin panties, the shredded clothing being dragged down your legs. EJ couldn’t take his eyes off of your bare cunt, your cheeks flushing a shade of red as the demon above you admired your dripping wet cunt. Jack had seen a cunt before, in his human life and accidentally in his demon one. But yours, yours was a sight for sore eyes.

With his index finger and middle finger Jack spread open your lips, admiring how wet you were for him. “I don’t have all night-” You began complaining, only for one of EJ’s tongues to lick a stripe up your cunt. Electricity shot through your body, causing you to let out a sinful moan. “You do have all night. I have you until dawn. And trust me, you’re going to remember this long after,” Jack said, returning his attention to your aching core.

To your surprise Jack had three tongues, each of them assaulting your cunt is different ways. Two had made their way inside of you, abusing your cunt by fucking you. The other was attacking your clit, stimulating you into a babbling mess. You grabbed his hair, his name spilling off of your lips involuntarily. It was all happening so fast, your body struggling to keep up with the pleasure. Jack couldn’t contain himself, unable to tease you any longer.

Your pussy tasted better than any fucking organ he had ever eaten. You yanked at the roots of his brunette hair, chanting you were going to cum. This didn’t encourage him to slow down, the killer in between your thighs only wanting to make you do it again.

“F-fuck Jack I-I can’t,” You whined, closing your thighs around his head. Jack smirked as he removed one of his tongues from your clit, allowing him to speak. “You know what to say if you actually want me to stop. I think you like this though. I think you like being treated like the whore you are,” Jack panted. You felt humiliated at his words, your walls squeezing around his tongues.

This made EJ chuckle, his gaze now settled on your bright red face. “You like that don’t you? Being a whore for me?” Jack asked mockingly, continuing to fuck you with his tongues. Truth was when Jack had caught you reading the dirtiest of books, he ensured to do his research. To imagine himself being the one to do the things to you like he read in the filth romance novels.

You tried to hold back your unholy moans, biting your lower lip as Jack stared up at you. His third tongue playfully licked across your clit again, causing your hips to jolt upwards. “I asked you a question,” Jack said sternly. His large hands pinned down your waist, prying your thighs open. “Y-yes I like being a whore,” You replied pathetically, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. Jack brought his spare hand to your cunt, drawing quick circles around your throbbing clit.

Your legs began to tremble as an animalistic, low growl left EJs throat. “Whose whore are you? Tell me,” Jack ordered, your walls squeezing around his tongues. You could barely make sense of his words, the ecstasy he was providing you too heavenly. “I’m yours, i’m your whore Jack. Fuck, please make me cum,” You pleaded.

She taste good and can beg? Fuck me.

“Cum for me like the good little whore you are.”

Your legs shook violently and attempted to close as you came, Jacks merciless assault coming to an immediate halt. He watched you ride out your euphoria, slipping his tongues out of your cunt. Your pussy was red and puffy, suffering from the abuse of a demon. He wiped his chin with his hand, crawling up closer to you. Your heart was pounding so loudly it took everything in him for Jack not to tear it out of your chest.

“You’re going to feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock,” Jack growled, sloppily pushing down his pants. He leaned back, lightning flashing as he stroked his cock in front of you. “You sure you can handle me? You seem tense,” Jack asked teasingly. He knew was far bigger than you, your eyes widening at the mere sight of his shaft. “I can handle anything you throw at me,” You say, swallowing to create some moisture in your dry mouth. Your throat and mouth having gone dry from making so many sinful sounds.

Jack smirked as he slowly slid inside of you, his tip alone stretching you out. You whimpered, causing Jack to lean forward. He sank into you slowly, peppering soft kisses on your neck. Purposefully he targeted your more sensitive skin, testing the waters to see which areas made you loosen up more. You clawed at his back, your face scrunched up in pain. EJ studied your face carefully, slithering one of his hands down to your puffy clit. “T-too much,” You babbled, your words beginning to slur. Your hand slid down to grab Jacks wrist, the killer above you not changing his mind.

“Need you loosen up a bit more. You’re doing so good. You can do it for me, yeah?”

His words were like a remedy for your pain, his cock now fully buried inside of you. You pulled your hand away from his wrist, your fingertips brushing over the outline of his cock inside of your stomach. You forced yourself to open your eyes, the sloppy circles Jack was drawing around your clit helping you adjust. You swallowed hard, meeting the gaze of the lust filled demon above you. “You can move,” You whispered. Jacks ears twitched, almost as if he was making sure he heard you right.

“Play with your clit for me while I fuck you,” Jack ordered. You did as instructed, your small fingers trailing down to your abused clit. You drew slow circles as Jack propped himself up, slowly bucking his hips into yours. You let out a loud moan, his cock hitting your g spot. The demons gaze fell down to your womb, his eye sockets widening as he saw the shape of his cock slide in and out of you. “So fucking tight for me,” Jack snarled, picking up the pace.

His thrust were brutal and animalistic, unlike anything you had ever seen before. Or felt before. His pace was relentless, his body not seeming to tire. “Jack!” You cried out, wrapping your arms around his neck. He brought you into a sloppy kiss, struggling to be careful not to cut you with his teeth as he fucked you. “You feel so much better than I thought you’d feel. Fuck,” EJ groaned into your mouth, losing his control.

One of his teeth nicked your lower lip, a small tinkle of red crimson blood dripping down your bottom lip. Jack didn’t have time to think, his mouth on yours immediately. But this time, for a different reason. He sucked at your bottom lip as he pounded you, moaning at the taste of your blood. You felt disgusted how accepting your body was of this, your eyes fluttering shut as you allowed him to suck at your lower lip. Jacks orgasm was coming closer, even if he didn’t want it to.

His pace didn’t let up for a second, his body a slave to your pussy. He released your lip with a pop, growling as he felt his orgasm come closer and closer. “I’m going to fucking breed you. You’re gonna be all mine, all fucking mine,” Jack huffed, his control long gone. His gaze met yours, your face fucked out and your moans incoherent. “Cum with me. Cum all over me,” He panted, his orders now weak. Your small fingers were replaced with his own, his slender fingers resuming the assault on your clit.

“Fucking shit, EJ!” You cried out, gripping his arm as you felt your orgasm wash over you. Your walls were milking his cock, begging him for his cum. They were pleading with him to breed your pretty little cunt, to make you all his. Your orgasm was all it took, his hips stuttering as he came inside of you. His moans were no longer the human language, his sounds of pleasure reverting back to incoherent growls. EJ panted as he looked down at you, your bottom lip puffy.

Your neck was covered in light purple and brown bruises, his light pepper kisses not as light as he thought. You were fucked out, your body lying limply on the mattress below you. Slowly he slid his cock out of you, your cunt red and puffy from the abuse. EJ watched as a mixture of his and your cum dripped out of you, your breathing slow and heavy. “Y/n?” Jack whispered. He was terrified he had broken you, his gaze landing on the bruises in the shape of his fingers that had littered your soft thighs.

You murmured an audible response, causing Jack to sigh in relief. He looked over his shoulder, the sun coming over the horizon. The storm had subsided, a light spring shower coming down from the sky above instead. You sat up slowly, watching your tall demon lover dress himself. You were dizzy and tired, blinking slowly as he shoved his pants back on. “You don’t wanna stay?” You asked softly, yawning. EJ gave you a cheeky smile, before shoving his mask back on.

“We had a deal didn’t we? It’s dawn,” Jack said. He began to put his hoodie on, your eyes softening with disappointment. Jack could feel his stomach growling, the taste of your blood fueling his desire for a tasty meal. He wanted to stay, but he knew he would kill you if he lost control again. Without thinking he handed you his hoodie, before heading over to the window. You sat there dumbfounded, watching as he gave you a small wave goodbye.

“Don’t worry, i’ll be back,”

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thediaryofaurora · 10 months ago

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𖧐Kinktober - Day 3𖧐

Theme: Car sex / stranded

Pairing: Ticci Toby x colleague!reader

CW: NSFW, dry humping, f!reader, riding

Word count: 1.0k

Side note: Sorry this is late, I’ve been caught up in doctor appointments, but good news is I’m off my crutches 🧚 Also I didn’t prepare for Kinktober what so ever, burnout is going CRAZY. I’m gonna spend the weekend preparing more, but day 4 might be a little late also 💔

❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎

“I-I already tried, damn en-engine won’t start.” Toby huffs, putting his hands in his pockets while he leans against the trunk.

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do??”

It’s the middle of winter for fuck’s sake, walking nearly 90 miles back to the mansion would take days, probably even get you both killed in the process. You already notified Tim, but even in a car it’ll take over an hour.

“W-we might as well get back in the car. I-it’s better than standing o-out here with the wind.”

“I guess.” You grumble, opening the driver’s side door and slipping in, Toby following suit.

Being shielded from the wind and light snow is definitely better than waiting outside and getting frostbite, but the temperature in the car had still dropped once the heat was turned off.

“It’s too fucking cold for this, are you sure we didn’t pack any matches?”

“No l-lighter either.”

Sighing, you put the keys back in the ignition, hoping for any chance of it turning on.

Vrrrrr, pufk

“Piece of shit.”

You two had already been out in the cold for half an hour, having to walk back from your mission, and looking down at your hands turning a faint purple makes the situation even more urgent.

“Get in the back.” You gruff, climbing over the center console and into the backseat. Toby doesn’t hesitate to follow, if you have an idea to keep you both from freezing to death he’s open to it.

“A-are we huddling?”

He chuckles, resting against the door while you crawl on top of him. No wonder he’s not as worried about the whole ordeal as you, he’s barely cold. You nestle up against him, draping your arm around his chest with a sigh. Even though you both had known each other for a while, he’s obviously nervous, the way his rapid heart beat is thumping in your ear while you rest your head on his chest making that clear.

Trying to take in any warmth you can get, you drape your leg over his hips, then you feel it: the reason he’s so nervy.

Maybe you can help him out, it doesn’t have to mean anything. Gently you grind down on him, enough for him to not know if you actually are or if he just wishes you were. Slowly but surely you begin to add more weight, and more, and more. After a few minutes it’s noticeable the way you’re perfectly rubbing your clothed cunt against his restrained boner.

His breath starts picking up, his wood only getting harder as you make it obvious what you’re doing. Your head is still rested on his chest, his heart thumping even louder than before.

You had been doing it for a few minutes now, keeping a steady pace of dry humping this poor, desperate boy. A small whimper escaping his lips as he begins bucking his hips up into yours, moving his hands down to your ass and pulling you closer onto him, his fully hard cock now rubbing perfectly against your swollen bud.

Now you’re both grinding into each other, the friction too much to handle. You need him.

Quickly you pull off of him, letting a whine. Your knees are on either side of his hips, hastily undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans. All he can do is look at you in awe, his eyes big and greedy as he watches you slip his pants down. His dick springs out, the tip already red and shining with precum. You slide off your bottoms, revealing your puffy, wet pussy. His length twitches as you position your hole above his needy cock.

Slowly you begin lower yourself onto him, his tip barely brushing your hole while it pulsates on his most sensitive part.

Toby has always been a beat it and get it over with kind of guy, not bothering to even use lotion while watching porn; so now, you slowly sliding down his girth makes it difficult not to cum immediately.

Your hole clenches around him while you take your time adjusting, his throbbing cock making you want to slam down on it. He stretches you good, but the pain can’t compare to the pure nirvana of him being inside you.

It’s half way in, just almost hitting your cervix. His heavy breaths have turned into pants, sweet little whines in between while you slide down.

“H-mghn… Y-y-y/n- please-“ His voice is a pure whine as he begs for more, his attempts to buck up into you stopped by your hands pushing his hips down to the seat.

The tip finally hit your sweet spot, your hips rolling against his as you adjust to the girth. You start picking up your pace, shamelessly riding him as you feel your high coming to a breaking point. It’s obvious his is too, his mouth agape while he pants and whimpers incoherent pleads.

Your climax comes crashing down over you, riding out your high on his twitching dick, your once freezing face now dripping with sweat. Toby came right after, his cum spilling out of you as you pulled off of him.

The car’s windows were completely unusable, the condensation too thick to see through. Small droplets of water formed and raced down, your body heats immediately filling the streak.

Toby’s dazed panting below you, eyes fluttering open and shut with every breath, his shaky hands still holding onto your hips as you lay back down with him.

A loud knock on the window startled the two of you, Tim’s voice breaking the silence.

“You better be clothed when you come out of there.”

Together you both gather your clothes and redress, stepping out of the humid vehicle into the baby blizzard. Tim’s car is pulled over to the side of the road in the distance, his headlights flashing.

You and Toby stumble behind him, your legs weak and unstable. At least you stayed warm.

❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎❥❤︎︎

Kinktober Masterlist

Creepypasta Masterlist

1K notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 1 month ago

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𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝜗𝜚 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝒿𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓍 𝒻𝑒𝓂! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You are a medical student at the top of your class—brilliant, disciplined, and utterly numb. Burnout has hollowed you out, leaving behind a ghost in a white coat who moves through life on autopilot.

The worst part? You can't feel anything anymore. Not joy, not pain, and certainly not pleasure. Your body is a locked door, and you've long since lost the key. Then you meet him.

A mysterious practitioner operating out of a butcher-shop backroom, known only as Jack. His methods are unorthodox, his hands unsettlingly precise, and his eyes—black as a starless night—seem to see straight through the cracks in your composure.

He offers a solution: sensate therapy.

But the deeper you sink into his treatments, the more you realize—Jack isn’t just fixing you. He’s rewiring you. And the thing that stirs under his touch isn’t just arousal.

It’s hunger.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Also, huge shoutout to @noctiva—your art genuinely inspired me and gave me the push I needed to return to my roots. Thank you for reigniting that spark.

𝓌𝒸: 16.1k

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: soft dom!eyeless jack x fem!reader, doctor/patient dynamic, touch-starved Reader, possessive but gentle, gothic erotica, slow burn, sensual horror, atmospheric and haunting, sensation play, sensory deprivation/overload, medical kink (clinical but intimate), consent and safe words, body worship and arousal through fear, touch-starved to overstimulated.

Teach me how to scream.

That’s all you think about.

Not in the way a normal person might—in some moment of panic or ecstasy, laughter or fear—no, you think about it clinically, with the same cold curiosity you apply to everything else in your life. You wonder what it takes to break a person.

To tear down the wall of composure and discipline and professionalism until all that’s left is something raw and visceral—a sound dragged from the deepest part of the chest. Screaming seems... liberating.

You’ve forgotten what it feels like.

Your apartment is a minimalist tomb, quiet and sterile. The walls are a tired white, barely catching any of the moonlight that slips between the blinds like skeletal fingers.

Textbooks line your desk in tall, uneven stacks, some with cracked spines from overuse, others still pristine, untouched. Highlighters bleed neon colors into pages already carved with notes in your tight, mechanical handwriting.

It smells like tea and ink and the exhaustion of someone who doesn’t even know they’re lonely anymore.

You’re a medical student. Top of your class. On a full scholarship, too—the kind of golden ticket people envy you for.

Smart, capable, diligent.

You’ve heard all the praise, the admiration. But it doesn’t change the fact that your nights are hollow, your days are repetitive, and your sense of wonder—that spark that once made you dream of saving lives—has slowly been reduced to a clinical grind.

Autopilot. Wake, study, eat something microwaved, maybe sleep. Repeat.

Everyone thinks you have it easy because you’re not drowning in debt. However, you are drowning—just in a quieter way. No one sees it. No one asks. You’re the kind of person people assume will be fine. Always fine.

You’ve become a ghost in your own life, watching your twenties dissolve beneath the harsh fluorescence of hospital lights and the dry rustle of textbook pages.

You are a phantom that drifts from lecture hall to lab, stethoscope in hand, caffeine in veins, and nothing behind the eyes but tired calculation. It’s a life of purpose on paper—of accolades, scholarships, and prestige—but beneath it all, you are starving.

Hollow. And you know it.

The worst part?

It killed your sex drive.

Not just dulled it. Not just reduced it to some manageable inconvenience like a missed meal or a skipped nap. It erased it—surgically, completely, like a tumor you didn’t realize had been excised until you tried to reach for it and found only scar tissue.

There’s even a phrase your over-medicalized brain can’t help but conjure: lateralized sexual arousal suppression—a clinical concept you read once in a study, the theory that arousal, that raw hormonal ache, can be selectively deadened by stress or imbalance, sometimes even felt more intensely on one side of the body than the other.

You chuckled at the time, because God, that’s such a pathetic thing to be academic about—your own inability to get off.

You were reading some obscure psych journal at 3 a.m., probably during a breakdown disguised as “studying,” and there it was: an article on how chronic stress can suppress arousal, kill libido, even change how your brain registers pleasure. Real clinical stuff.

They called it “situational anorgasmia” and “arousal fatigue”—fancy words for why you, a perfectly functional adult with a pulse, haven’t been able to cum since your first anatomy midterm.

You’ve tried. Of course, you’ve tried.

You brought toys—not just the cheap, pastel-colored ones from those random Amazon hauls, either. No, you went full send. Bought the ones your roommate back in undergrad swore by.

She was the type who talked about orgasms like she had a PhD in them—complete with charts, reviews, and the occasional TED Talk. If anyone knew how to chase the Big O in times of crisis, it was her. You thought maybe she'd unlocked the secret.

Maybe it was you who was broken.

Well… Turns out it was you.

Because even the expensive, silicone-coated sorcery with six vibration settings and a glowing LED couldn’t do it. Nothing worked. It was like flipping switches in an abandoned building—the power was out, the lights were dead, and everything inside was covered in a spiritual layer of dust and depression.

Your hands don’t even feel like yours anymore. Just more tools. Instruments. Like forceps. No pleasure, no spark, no warm shiver of release. Just... effort. Awkward, humiliating, mechanical effort.

You used to call it self-care. Now it just feels like CPR on a corpse.

So you gave up.

You told yourself you didn’t want it anyway. What’s the point of craving something you can’t feel? You’ve got a million flashcards to memorize, patients to shadow, vitals to record, and whatever grim flavor of instant noodles waiting for you in your pantry. Sexual frustration doesn’t even rank on the priority list anymore.

It’s been outpaced by exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and your mysterious recurring knee pain. You are one bad week away from becoming a cryptid.

But the silence? The silence is getting heavier.

It presses into you at night like a second set of lungs, breathing damp and slow against your ribs. There’s something waking up inside you—an ache, not sexual exactly, not yet, but primal. Hungry. Cold.

You try to outwork it.

You pile on more studying, more mock exams, more hospital shifts. But it’s still there. Whispering under the fluorescent lights. Nestled beneath your white coat and pressed dress shirts, buried under clinical detachment and years of overachievement.

And lately, that whisper has evolved into a gnawing.

You don’t know when it started. Just that it has. It lingers in the corners of your thoughts like a rotting tooth. It’s no longer about pleasure, about getting off, about orgasms or release. It’s deeper than that. Darker. It’s about being provoked. Violated. Broken open.

Something inside you is begging for rupture—not affection, not safety, but something raw. Violent. Real.

You want to be dismantled. Undone. Taken apart in ways that anatomy textbooks don’t cover. Not by gentle hands. By something sharp. Something relentless. You need to be reminded that you’re not just flesh wrapped around ambition. That your blood still runs hot. That you are more than a breathing corpse in scrubs.

You need to get off. Badly.

Again, not in the playful, flirty, "teehee I need a good dicking" kind of way—no. You were about three nights of sleep deprivation away from putting "Unable to orgasm due to academic rigor" on your medical records.

If only you trusted your university’s counseling office not to slap it on your permanent file next to “burnout risk” and “excessive caffeine consumption.”

So you did something you hadn’t done in... what, months? You left your apartment. Took the train across town with a tote bag and the grim, resigned energy of someone preparing for emotional exposure.

You went go see Z—your old roommate from undergrad.

The one person you could talk to about this without getting put on some kind of watchlist.

Her apartment hadn’t changed—not even a little. It was still giving teenage dirtbag chic, as if Z had stolen the entire emotional atmosphere of a 2007 Tumblr blog and made it livable.

A lovechild between Hot Topic clearance racks and thrifted furniture from someone's cool aunt’s garage sale. You were greeted by the scent of jasmine incense, old vinyl, and something vaguely burnt—maybe toast??

The walls were still a shrine to Z’s unapologetic chaos—plastered in band posters that had definitely survived multiple apartment moves and at least one questionable phase involving safety pins and eyeliner as a personality trait.

A twisted line of mismatched fairy lights looped across the ceiling, dangling lazily like drunk neurons on their last spark of function, simply blinking intermittently in faint hues of dying neon green, casting soft, ghostly shapes that danced along the cluttered walls.

The blinds were obnoxiously open—wide, tauntingly so. Sunlight poured in with a kind of aggression, spilling across the hardwood floors and highlighting every fleck of dust, every stray sock, every single reminder that someone actually lived here.

You squinted at it like it had personally insulted you.

Honestly, you couldn’t remember the last time you saw real daylight that wasn’t filtered through hospital-tinted windows or the flicker of your laptop at 3 a.m. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if your med school-induced vampirism couldn’t withstand such unfiltered natural cheer.

Your tea—which Z handed you with that smug little curve of her lips —tasted faintly of lemon and betrayal. Warm, sharp, slightly too sweet. You suspected she put honey in it just to mock your bitterness.

She sipped her own casually, lounging in what could only be described as her throne of chaos: a nest of cushions, blankets, and plushies that looked. Her legs were draped dramatically over the armrest, her socks were chicken legs?

You, by contrast, sat rigidly on the couch like it might bite you if you leaned too far back. Your shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to fold into yourself, to shrink down and disappear into the muted fabric.

Z raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a grin, her lips twitching like the punchline was burning a hole in her mouth. You could almost hear it loading—the way her brain clicked into gear when she had a roast lined up and ready to go.

You didn’t need to see her eyes to know she was aiming.

And God, you already regretted bringing it up.

“You actually came,” she started with a shit-eating grin. “You? Miss White Coat? Miss I-Diagnose-Myself-With-Insomnia-Not-Feelings? This is serious.”

You glared. “Z, for the love of God, stop laughing. You know this is an ongoing issue.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would get worse.” She snorted, barely containing her laughter. “Girl, you probably need medical help.”

“I am medical help.”

She cackled, clutching her chest. “Oh my God, you’re a walking irony.”

You sank further into the couch, drawing your knees up like a sulking cat. “Do you know how embarrassing it is for a med student to need a clinical intervention because she can’t orgasm? It’s humiliating. I'm supposed to be helping people, not... lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering if I died inside during second-year pathology.”

“Honestly?” she leaned forward, stirring her tea lazily. “Maybe you did. Maybe med school killed your libido and buried it under a pile of medical flashcards.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m a disgrace to the human reproductive system.”

Z sipped her tea, watching you with that predator’s smirk she always wore when she knew something you didn’t. “Or maybe...” she said slowly, “what you really need... is for something else to do it for you.”

You paused. Lowered your hands. Narrowed your eyes at her like a suspicious cat. “Well, obviously not you.”

“Please.” She scoffed. “I’m flattered but not deranged.”

“Right,” you muttered, sipping your tea just to avoid eye contact. “Totally. Of course.”

The conversation fizzled into one of those awkwardly familiar silences — not the comfortable kind where two people just exist, but the kind where something unspoken hangs in the air, unacknowledged but dense.

Z picked up her phone and started scrolling absently, her fingers flicking across the screen with the kind of speed that said she was pretending to be disinterested.

You followed suit, sipping your tea like it didn’t feel like your skin was trying to crawl off your bones. The clink of your spoon against the inside of your cup was the only sound besides the occasional buzz of her phone.

Her eyes kept drifting back to you, though. Subtle, but you noticed. A glance too long. A flicker of something behind her lashes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity. Or something sharper.

You glanced up, caught her staring. “What?”

Z didn’t answer right away. She leaned back into the pillow throne like a queen about to issue a decree, her phone now forgotten on the coffee table. The soft lights above flickered green, briefly bathing her in something eerie, ethereal.

Then she said, too casually, like she wasn’t about to ruin your whole evening: “There are things out there, you know. Stuff that could probably wake you up.”

You raised a brow, deadpan. “What, like... therapy?”

She grinned over the rim of her mug like the devil sipping tea. “Possibly, babe. If it's been this long, it might be time to admit you need more than a bubble bath and a vibrator with a college degree.”

You snorted. “Wow. Thank you for that incredibly professional medical insight, Dr. Z.”

“Anytime,” she said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone like she hadn’t just diagnosed you with ‘clinical dicklessness.’ “But for real. I found this ad a while back. Weird little flyer. Some guy left it on the bathroom sink at the club—”

You blinked. “Wait. You still go to ‘the club’?” You added dramatic finger quotes like you were talking about some ancient cryptid.

Z didn’t even flinch. Gave you a flat look, her eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Uh, yes? What do you think I do for stress relief? Knit?”

You groaned and collapsed further into the couch cushions. “God, you are still the same chaotic goblin I met in college.”

She grinned, smug as sin. “And yet here you are, begging the goblin for help because you can’t even get your engine to rev. Who’s the tragic one now?”

You look away and took another sip of your lemon-betrayal tea and muttered, “Me. It’s me. I’m the tragic one.”

“That’s right.” She sighed, “Anyway. This flyer. It was handwritten, almost cryptic. Said something about off-the-record consultations. No names. No appointments. Just... results. Kind of urban legend-y, honestly. But people talk. Especially at clubs. And from what I’ve heard, this... doctor... isn’t your typical back-alley quack.”

You stared at her. “Z. Did you seriously consider going to some random off-the-grid sex doctor?”

Z shrugged, grinning wickedly. “I considered it. Haven’t done it yet. Thought I’d let you be the brave one, since, y’know... you’re the actual med student.”

You scoffed, pulling the most odd-looking facial expression, setting your mug down a little too loudly on the table. “Why me? What made you think of me when you saw some creep’s sex clinic ad?”

Her smirk faltered just a little. “Because I know you. And I know when you’ve gone full medical-grade emotionally constipated. Babe, it’s like watching a Roomba try to find joy. You need something that’ll slap the soul back into you.”

You went quiet. Embarrassed. Maybe a little pissed.

You weren’t used to people seeing through the cracks—not the ones you spent so much time spackling over with caffeine and credentials. But she wasn’t wrong.

“And no,” she added quickly, “I’d never throw you into something shady without at least vetting it first. You know that. I’m not an idiot.”

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. “It’s just... weird, you know? I’m a med student. I should be able to fix myself. Not—go off seeking weird underground therapy from club bathroom flyers like I’m in a Netflix special.”

Z snorted, nearly choking on her tea. “Yeah, well. Sometimes it takes weird to fix weird. And unless you’re ready to walk into your clinical psych rotation and say, ‘Hey, I can’t cum and I think my soul’s in a coma,’ this might be your last option that doesn’t come with a straightjacket and a mandatory 72-hour hold.”

You made a face, but… yeah. She had a point.

A mortifying, scarily accurate point.

You didn’t like the idea—some strange, off-market “doctor” discovered via bathroom flyer in a club known for bad decisions and worse lighting. But God help you, you were actually considering it. Really considering it.

Because the thought of another week—hell, another month—of being this empty husk of a human, this walking flesh-printer spewing out diagnoses and memorizing mortality rates with all the excitement of a houseplant?

No. You couldn’t keep doing this.

So you made the appointment.

After classes—after trudging through another mind-numbing lecture on autoimmune disorders and scribbling down notes with a highlighter you’d long since stopped seeing color in—you sat down and filled out the form.

The website had looked… normal.?? Professional, even.

A minimalist black/dark blue-and-white layout, vague clinical language, and a discreet little logo that looked almost like a mask. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

The questionnaire started like every other patient intake form—name, birthdate, gender. But then there was something else. A line that didn’t make sense. Not in this context.

“Do you fear what watches you when you sleep?”

You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. Weird question. Probably one of those psych-eval icebreakers. You ticked off another box and kept going, ignoring the pressure that had begun to build in your throat. This was probably nothing. Some edgy branding tactic. Experimental therapy, maybe. Trauma work in a spooky coat of paint.

That’s all it was.

You submitted the form.

Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed with a confirmation and a location that didn’t show up on Google Maps.

Of course it didn’t.

That night, sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant houseguest knocking on your door well past midnight, and you only let it in because you had nothing better to do.

After a fresh shower, you dress in t-shit with shorts, collapse onto your bed with all the grace of a corpse being dropped into its grave. The air in your apartment felt stagnant—thick and unmoving—like it hadn’t been touched by breath or sound in days. Maybe weeks.

The only light was the faint, glitched glow of your laptop in sleep mode, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Your limbs felt heavy. Weighted. Your thoughts, even heavier. Again, you’d submitted the form hours ago.

And now you can’t stop thinking about that line.

“Fear? What watches me when I sleep?”

You swallowed and rolled onto your side, burying your face into the pillow that still smelled vaguely of antiseptic hand cream and stress. For a while, nothing came. No dreams. No darkness. Just silence. But eventually, slowly, the world began to slip sideways.

At first, it felt like floating—like your bones had been scooped out of you and replaced with warm fog. The room was no longer your room. Not quite. The shadows were wrong—longer than they should be, bending around corners that didn’t exist. Your bed felt deeper, like a divot in the earth, and the air was… comforting.

Invasive, somehow, but soft. Almost maternal.

You couldn’t move. You didn’t want to move.

And then came the touch.

It wasn’t hands. Not really. Not at first. More like heat. Pressure. A sensation that ghosted over your skin, just enough to make you shiver.

Something brushed your ankle. Light. Curious. Your breath hitched.

Another drifted along the curve of your calf. Up. Higher. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just… deliberate. As though the air itself had grown fingers and was now reading you like braille. Like it knew you. Had always known you.

Your hips twitched, and you felt it—just beneath the surface of your skin—a dull, yawning ache that had been locked away for too long. That absence. That void. You hadn’t even realized how deeply you’d buried your hunger. Your need.

The touch glided higher, a whisper along the meat of your thigh, a reverent sweep that left goosebumps in its wake. It wasn’t sexual. Not entirely. Not yet. But it was intimate. Intrusive in a way that felt oddly safe, like the firm hand of something old guiding you through a ritual you’d forgotten the words to.

You should have been terrified.

But you weren’t.

Your breath came shallower. Your heart picked up. And for the first time in months—years—you felt something: warmth. Thrum. Longing.

The phantom touch curved under the hem of your hoodie, feathering up your stomach. It pressed gently against the cage of your ribs like it was searching for a way inside. You arched instinctively, needing more.

Needing anything.

There was a whisper. A sound. You couldn’t tell if it was in your ear or your bones. Soft, smooth—masculine, maybe—but in that ageless, unsettling way that made it impossible to pin down.

“Let me ruin you.”

Your breath caught.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The words dripped like honey laced with venom—intimate, feral, promising. They bypassed your ears and curled straight into your gut, igniting something molten at your core. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. Your fingers curled into the sheets like you could anchor yourself against a flood.

It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation. A threat. A vow.

Your body bucked as heat flashed through you like a short-circuit, static and dizzying and almost holy. It wasn't released. Not yet. But it was the promise of it. The threat. And something inside you whispered back—without words, without thought—yes.

You gasped.

And then—you woke up.

Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Skin slick with sweat, sticking to your sheets in places you didn’t even know could sweat. Your thighs were clenched like you’d just braced through an earthquake—or maybe something far more intimate. The sheets coiled around your legs, your waist, one arm — as if you’d been grasping in your sleep. Or writhing.

You lay there, dazed. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide as the fragmented edges of some half-dream shimmered just out of reach, teasing your thoughts with phantom touches and shapes you couldn’t quite pin down. But your body remembered.

Oh, it remembered.

The morning light creeping in through the blinds was soft and gray, casting everything in shades of faded silver. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of light that followed unsettling dreams — like the lingering taste of ash and honey on your tongue.

You sat up slowly. Each movement felt like an echo.

Something had changed.

A circuit, somewhere inside you, had quietly reconnected. A wire long-burnt out had sparked again. You didn’t know how, or why, but your whole body pulsed with a strange awareness. Your skin buzzed. The air felt too sharp, like the molecules themselves were brushing too close against you. You ran your palm along your own arm—it felt like someone else’s skin.

Someone new. Something not quite… human.

You weren’t sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.

A sharp laugh escaped you—short, stunned, breathless. You wiped a shaky hand down your face, your skin still tingling like it had been touched by something you couldn’t name. "What the hell…" you muttered to no one, voice hushed in the muted blue-gray light filtering through the blinds.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasn’t numb.

It ached. It buzzed.

You were horny. And maybe—just maybe—haunted.

Not the jump-scare, crawling-out-of-your-TV kind. No. This was subtler. Seductive. Like something ghostlike had struck a match down your spine and whispered promises to your bones.

You sighed, rubbing your temples.

Then your eyes flicked to your phone screen. Shit.

You jolted upright, the weight of time slamming into your chest. Adrenaline took the wheel. The sheets slipped off your legs as you stumbled toward your dresser, still half-lost in the fog of sleep—or whatever strange thing had wrapped itself around your dreams.

You moved on instinct, grabbing whatever felt softest, lightest, least constraining. You slipped into an asymmetric maxi skirt that flowed around your legs like smoke, streaked in midnight blue and obsidian black. It cinched at your waist with a simple circle leather belt, the buckle cool against your stomach. A cropped top followed—loose, gauzy, a whisper of fabric more than a shirt. Air moved through it easily, kissing your skin.

You looked… casual? A little lost, maybe.

The kind of outfit that felt like something you could disappear in without a sound. Your fingers fumbling, you pushed your hair back, unlocked your phone, and typed with sharp, quick taps:

You: Location shared. Dropped off at that creepy butcher shop you told me about. If I’m not out in an hour, call the cops. Seriously.

The reply came almost instantly:

Z: "Roger that, orgasm-crisis queen 💋"

“Bitch,” you muttered, rolling your eyes with a reluctant smirk. You didn’t text back. You didn’t need to.

You were quick to reach the building was everything your gut told you to avoid. Normal. Painfully, strategically normal. It sat like a tumor on the edge of the block—red-brick exterior faded from years of sun and smog, windows that reflected nothing, and a crooked sign over the door that read “Balkan Meats & Cold Cuts” in peeling paint.

A rusted awning flapped listlessly in the breeze, and somewhere inside, the thick metallic scent of iron and brine curled into your sinuses. It smelled like blood that had soaked too deep into tile.

You didn’t see a sign for a clinic. You didn’t expect one.

Your eyes scanned the side of the building until you spotted the narrow stairwell half-hidden beside a dumpster. You hesitated only once before climbing, hand gliding over the sticky, warm metal of the rail. Above, a flickering bulb buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting shadows that moved just a little too much.

When you reached the landing, everything went quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

The hallway was narrow and sterile—painted beige so aggressively dull it made your teeth itch. No music. No voices. Just the electric hum of fluorescent lighting and your own pulse, thudding loud in your ears.

You found the door at the end. Plain metal. No placard. No name. Just a tarnished silver handle. You stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering near the knob, chest tight. Every inch of your rational brain screamed to leave. But you were tired of being rational. Rational hadn’t helped.

So you opened the door.

The room inside was quiet. Still. Too still.

There were three mismatched chairs—one metal, one wood, one soft and threadbare like it came from someone’s grandmother’s house. A water dispenser stood lonely in the corner, full but with no cups, like a trick. A desk stood at the far wall—paper neatly stacked, everything aligned with almost religious care—but there was no monitor, no receptionist, no phone.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

You took a cautious step inside. Your shoes made the faintest sound against the polished floor. You moved around the desk, squinting for some kind of bell, clipboard, sign of life.

And that’s when you felt it.

The breath, soft and warm against the nape of your neck. The presence, solid and sudden behind you—too close. A chest. Firm. Immovable. Pressed just a whisper from your back.

You froze. Every muscle in your body pulled taut.

“You have appointment?”

The voice was low, deep, and smooth, and somehow casually clinical. But what rattled you most was how he’d arrived—soundless, like he’d stepped out of the air itself. You spun around, heart in your throat.

And there he was.

Moving toward you with the kind of quiet purpose that didn’t demand attention—it consumed it.

Dressed in layered blacks so matte they seemed to drink in the light, he walked like the air parted for him out of habit, each step slow, deliberate, respectful in a way that somehow felt more unsettling than if he’d stormed in. His presence didn’t crash—it settled, like dusk creeping in unnoticed.

He was tall. Towering, almost. But not in a way that screamed dominance—it was more architectural. Like he belonged in old cathedrals or under moonlight, not in this oddly quiet waiting room above a butcher shop. His build was lean but sharp-edged, tailored by something too precise to be simply "fit."

His hair was a mess of deep brown waves, slightly tousled like he’d forgotten he had it. Strands fell across the top edge of his black surgical mask, softening the austere lines of his outfit.

And then—his eyes. His. eyes.

No whites. No pupils. No clear edges or irises. Just obsidian pools so deep they looked like if you stared too long, they’d start staring back. They weren’t dead or hollow—they shimmered faintly in the overhead fluorescents, alive with something too exact, too alert. It was like he wasn’t looking at you, he was measuring you.

Then the ears. It took a second glance to really process them—subtly pointed, the kind of detail your mind initially dismissed as a trick of the light. Delicate but wrong in the way that made fairy tales dangerous. Piercings traced their way up the cartilage, tiny silver hoops and bars arranged not for fashion, but like some strange celestial map.

His skin was smooth, cool-toned—grayish, yes, but in a way that reminded you of marble, not illness. Preserved. Not decayed. A color that made your brain second-guess itself.

He stopped a careful distance from you, his height folding slightly as he inclined his head. Not deferential, not patronizing—just polite. Attuned. Like a creature who’d spent centuries perfecting human etiquette without ever being human himself.

Instinct made you step back. Your breath caught.

“Holy shit,” you blurted. “Do you have… Argyria?”

He tilted his head, a frown ghosting across his face like he was trying to compute the question. “No,” he said after a moment, voice low, textured. Almost soothing. “I do not.”

Then his eyes roamed you—slow, thoughtful, clinical. Not with desire, not with threat—like he was unpacking a file only he could read. His gaze wasn’t the kind that undressed you. It unspooled you.

He made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “You’re a medical student, yes?”

You froze. “How do you—?”

He walked past you, each step soft and unnervingly quiet, rounding the desk with a smooth turn of his shoulder. His fingers brushed the desk surface like he was orienting himself with muscle memory.

“You carry yourself like someone who’s trained their exhaustion into structure,” he said, more to the desk than to you. “Your posture is clinical. Your eyes never stop scanning. Slight tremor in the left hand suggests chronic overextension. Pair that with the guarded breathing, the subtle shift in weight when approached from behind—textbook hypervigilance.”

He turned back to face you. His eyes locked with yours again.

“Your libido is comatose, yes?”

You blinked. “What—”

“And you smell faintly of herbs,” he added, softly, “something floral beneath the surface. Artificial, like a cheap perfume meant to disguise the real scent. Something sweet, desperate. Useful.”

You stood, stunned into silence.

Every nerve in your body was ringing like it had been plucked. What the actual hell had you just walked into? And why, despite all logic, did it feel like... exactly where you were supposed to be?

The man moved without a word, extending one long arm past the threshold to open a nondescript door tucked into the hallway’s end. The hinges didn’t creak—they glided, soundlessly. The room inside was dimly lit but strangely warm, nothing like the cold sterility of the corridor.

At first glance, it looked like a therapist’s office—or some vague approximation of one. Two chairs sat opposite each other: high-backed, dark fabric, a bit too clean, a bit too deliberate in their placement.

Potted plants softened the corners—large-leafed, thriving, well-watered. The air held a faint scent of petrichor and sage. It was subtle, like the room had been exhaling while no one was there. The walls held a few certificates, two diplomas, and a clock.

You noticed that immediately.

Again, everything was too clean. Not clinical—but manicured. Controlled. As though someone had designed this space not for comfort, but for ease of disarmament. You stepped closer, the doorway framing you. But your feet hesitated. Something primal, buried, and clawed screamed softly inside your chest. A warning. That if you stepped into that room, if your foot crossed that threshold… it wouldn’t be just your body walking in.

You swallowed. Hard.

The man leaned against the doorframe now, arms crossed, his presence still and observant. Watching, not pushing. He didn’t coax you. Didn’t rush you. His voice came soft, measured:

“It’s professional. I assure you.”

You met his gaze—those endless black eyes—and didn’t see a lie. But you didn’t see the truth either. Just… depth. He glanced away, absently brushing a loose curl from his temple. “When did you find my card?”

Your lips twitched. “Friend gave it to me,” you said, fingers quoting air. “Claim they found it at the ‘club’ they frequent.”

That’s when his eyes widened slightly, his face lifting in something that looked like genuine amusement. He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound curling through the quiet like smoke.

“Ah. That place.”

“You go there often?” you asked, curiosity sharpening to a point.

He straightened slowly, still smiling. “Now and then. Good for getting the word out. Not many people in your situation ask for help in… traditional places.”

You tilted your head, one brow raising. “And what exactly do you do?”

He seemed to pause—not for hesitation, but for precision. Like he was combing through a thousand possible answers and measuring which one wouldn’t make you walk away. Finally, he said: “I work with... bodily systems. Unblock pathways. Redirect energy. Reset patterns. Most of it is touch-based. Topical. Very specific. Not mainstream. But it’s effective.”

You frowned. That was vague enough to mean anything from chiropractic therapy to illicit back-alley sorcery.

“You’re a medical student too?” you asked, more defensively than intended.

He hummed. “Was. For a time.” A pause. “Now I work to pay off the debts.”

Then he gave a slow tilt of his head. “And before we begin, I should mention—my sessions aren’t exactly cheap.”

His eyes glinted faintly.

“Still willing to go through with this?”

You stood, heart somewhere between your throat and your spine. Your body still thrummed from the dream, from the walk, from him. This wasn’t sane. This wasn’t rational. But then again, neither was what was happening to you.

You sighed—the long, tired kind of sigh that sounded like it had aged a decade on its way out. Truth be told, you really didn’t want to leave without getting something resolved. Not after dragging yourself through the iron-scented meat shop, past the flickering stairwell light, and into this strange little time vacuum of a room.

“If I come out dead, I come out dead,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you finally stepped forward. “It’s not like I’m missing brunch with a life coach.”

This was, in some weird, macabre way, the most interesting thing to happen to you in months. Hell, maybe years. If you were going to spiral, might as well do it with a little flair and mystery. You squared your shoulders, glanced back at the man, and with the enthusiasm of someone marching into a mild haunting, said: “Alright.”

He hummed—soft, approving, almost like a cat that had just seen you pick up its favorite toy—and stepped aside to let you pass. As you entered, the smell of the room shifted again, warmer now, like bergamot and dry cedar, grounded and oddly calming.

The door clicked shut behind you. A little too gently.

He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

You chose the one that didn’t face the door—a risk, but also felt like a test—and he slid into the opposite chair with ease. Just fluid motion, like gravity, took him differently than it took everyone else. From a side drawer built into the table, he pulled out a clipboard and a pen. The scratch of it echoed a little too loudly in the stillness.

He looked up at you, eyes glittering darkly. “Before we begin, let’s do a quick intake.”

You blinked. “Didn’t I already fill that out online?”

“Yes,” he replied without looking up. “But this is more for me. A… recap.”

You raised a brow. “So you’re giving me a pop quiz on my own trauma?”

“I find it helps to speak it aloud,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Clarifies intent. Filters out exaggeration. Or embellishment.”

You exhaled slowly. “Alright then.” You tapped your fingers against your knee, pausing before letting the words tumble out. “My issue is… weird.”

He didn’t blink. Just nodded, as if “weird” was his mother tongue.

You hesitated again. “Like, I don’t know if it’s physical or psychological. But I wake up… not exactly aroused, but like my body thinks it is. Except there’s no—” You made a vague, circular gesture. “No stimulation. No dreams I can recall. Just this… residue. Like my nervous system got love-bombed by a ghost.”

He blinked once. Still quiet.

“And I can’t concentrate. Nor get off as I want to for stress relief. Everything’s wired wrong. I feel like a haunted, but emotionally detached.”

The corner of his eye twitched.

You swore—swore—that might’ve been a smirk.

He scribbled something down. “Interesting.”

You exhaled through your nose, slowly, one eyebrow arching with muted skepticism. Of course. Still, you weren’t here to play games. Not too many, at least. “So?” you said, his name careful on your tongue. You looked away for a second, then met his eyes again, sharper this time. “How do I fix my issue? What is it exactly? What do you think’s going on?”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate, and set the clipboard aside with a soft clatter against the side table. “Anorgasmia,” The man said, as if the word wasn’t something that could make you want to melt into the floor.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands folded—long fingers, clean nails, veins just barely visible under that unnervingly smooth, pale skin. “Specifically, it sounds like you’re experiencing Female Orgasmic Disorder. Acquired, generalized. Based on what you put in your intake and your… reaction, I’d guess it’s been ongoing for more than six months, right?”

You blinked, hard, then nodded. That clinical delivery should’ve felt sterile, cold. It didn’t. His voice was low, textured. Intimate without trying to be. And God help you, it was kind of hot. You couldn’t tell if it was his confidence or his complete lack of awkwardness when talking about something that made you want to crawl out of your skin—but it worked.

You were listening, hanging off each word.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, involuntarily tracing the line of his throat to where his collar rested—loose black, matte fabric, something tactical and breathable. His posture was perfect: relaxed but with intention. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t blink too often. There was a heaviness to him, a quiet focus that made you feel pinned, studied… and not in a way that made you want to leave. Damn it.

“So basically,” you said dryly, forcing your gaze back up to his face, “my vagina’s in a coma.”

He cracked a brief, silent laugh through his nose—lips curling just slightly beneath the mask. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And you’re telling me the solution is…” You hesitated, bracing. “To build sensations back up?”

“Yes.” He said it simply, without any waver.

“That’s the starting point, at least. If you were hoping for a prescription or an easy out, I’m afraid there isn’t one. There’s no single medication that resolves this. At best, there are supplements that might help increase blood flow or sensitivity, but they’re not proven. What you need is guided stimulation therapy—Sensate Focus, gradual reintroduction of arousal, maybe eventually partnered techniques—”

You cut him off, “You sound like you’re assigning more homework than I already have to deal with on a daily basis,” you muttered, cheeks heating. “Just with more nudity.”

That earned another small smirk. “Only if you’re an overachiever.”

Oof. You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He continued, not unkindly. “You’re not broken. This is more common than most people think. Stress, medical trauma, interpersonal issues… and in your case, high-functioning academic burnout. You’ve been so focused on achieving, suppressing, managing everything, that your nervous system no longer registers pleasure as safe or worth prioritizing.”

You blinked, stunned. “I—I didn’t even say—how do you—”

The man tilted his head slightly. “Again, you carry exhaustion like armor. And guilt. You intellectualize your body instead of inhabiting it.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your throat felt tight.

“And…” he added, tone dipping lower as his eyes flicked over your face, “you haven’t had the time. Or the space. Or the kind of partner who asks you to stay in the moment.”

You swallowed thickly. “…So what now?”

“Now?” he said, gently. “We start small. Sessions like this. Focused touch. Retraining your response system. Making your body feel safe again.”

You felt your fingers twitch in your lap, not sure whether to bolt or laugh or just melt into the chair. Then, because you needed to feel like you had some control, you leaned back, folded your arms, and asked, “And before we go further… are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just supposed to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Mildly Threatening?”

That finally cracked something. His smirk deepened, the smallest glint of teeth visible behind the mask.

“You can call me Jack.”

You raised a brow. “…Just Jack?”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering like obsidian in the low light. “For now.”

“…So, Jack,” you said, dragging his name out with a hint of sarcasm, “you do this often? Therapize poor souls out of their orgasmless despair?”

Jack leaned forward, just slightly. “Only the .” He said as he stood smoothly, setting the clipboard aside with practiced ease, and gestured for you to follow him.

You did—hesitantly at first—rising from the stiff chair and trailing after him as he crossed the hall and unlocked another door with a soft click. When he pushed it open, the first thing to hit you was the warmth.

The lighting was low and amber, diffused through soft bulbs hidden behind velvet-draped sconces. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweet you couldn’t quite place—almost like jasmine.

It was… not what you expected. At all. You’d prepared yourself for a clinical space, something sterile or weirdly kinky, but this room?

It was intimate. Luxurious, almost.

Rich textures blanketed every surface: soft velvets, high-thread count cotton, brushed suede. The walls were painted a deep, dusky blue that made the shadows look heavier, closer.

A plush bed with dark sheets dominated one side of the room, framed by heavy curtains and stacked pillows in earthy tones. There were other touches too—soft rugs layered beneath your feet, a tray of water and mints, tissues neatly folded. A single mirror, gold-framed and slightly fogged, leaned in the corner.

And then there was the chair.

It looked like something halfway between a modern art sculpture and a spaceship seat—sleek, curved, contoured like it had been made to cradle someone. It was upholstered in black leather with subtle seams and built-in supports. Strange as it was, it didn’t feel perverse. Not cheesy or tacky.

It was… functional. Designed. Like everything else in this room.

Jack gestured toward it casually, like it wasn’t anything to raise an eyebrow over. “That,” he said, “is a sensual lounge chair. Enhanced positioning. For alignment, breath regulation, deeper physical feedback.”

Your stomach flipped again. Christ.

He turned toward a cabinet and pulled out another clipboard, this one thicker than the first, and handed it to you. “Before we go further,” he said, “you’ll need to sign this waiver. Standard practice. And—” he paused, meeting your eyes with that intense calm—“we’ll need a safe word.”

You blinked. “A safe word?”

Jack nodded, leaning back against the counter, hands folded loosely in front of him. “Yes. My sessions—whatever form they take—require that the patient always feels in control. If, at any moment, you feel unsafe or overwhelmed, you use it. No questions asked. Everything stops.”

That… wasn’t what you expected. For someone who looked like the personification of a Victorian ghost with resting murder face, he was oddly considerate. Thorough.

“And,” he continued, “you should also indicate if there are any areas of your body you don’t want touched—or if touch in general is an issue.”

You hesitated. Jack watched your silence carefully.

“I’m… not exactly comfortable being touched,” you admitted, voice lower now, unsure. “Not really.”

He tilted his head, brow faintly furrowed. “As in, discomfort from trauma or—?”

You shook your head. “I’ve never… been touched. At least by someone that’s not me. I’ve tried. It just—never worked. Nothing felt… real. Or good. I don’t think I’ve ever had an actual orgasm. And it’s not like I even want sex, really. I just—” You exhaled, rubbing your temple. “—use it to sleep. For stress relief. However there’s never been feeling.”

Jack didn’t speak right away. His gaze didn’t shift, but it softened—just slightly. He stepped forward, retrieving the clipboard gently from your hands and flipping through your answers with quiet focus.

“I see,” he murmured eventually. “That’s… unusual. Not unheard of, but rare. You’re likely dealing with a variant of the Disorder. Possibly psychogenic anorgasmia, possibly neurochemical. But your phrasing—never felt real, never wanted—it’s more complex.”

You nodded, arms crossed tightly. You felt vaguely ridiculous standing in a velvet sex room, discussing the void that lived between your thighs with someone who looked like a cursed Renaissance painting. But oddly enough… you didn’t feel judged.

Jack reached for a pen, jotting something down. Then, after a moment of consideration, he looked up. “I’m registering you as a special case,” he said simply. “Again, we’ll go slow. No expectations. No pressure. Just sensation. Understanding. Rebuilding the pathway.”

Your breath caught. Despite yourself, your eyes drifted over him again—his posture, the quiet precision of his movements, the way his sleeves had pushed up just slightly at the forearms.

Even the way he held the pen. God, even that was hot.

You cleared your throat. “And you’re… trained for this?”

That smirk again—barely there, but you caught it. “Let’s just say I’m highly practiced.”

You looked at the waiver. Then at him. Then, slowly, you picked up the pen.

“…What’s the safe word?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Your choice.”

You glanced around the room, then muttered, “Velvet.”

Jack nodded once, like it was sacred. “Velvet it is.”

Jack's hand lingered at the back of the chair, fingers grazing the leather as he gestured for you to sit. “Go ahead,” he said, his voice deep but even, “relax back, let it support you. It’s built for comfort.”

You eyed the chair, skeptical but curious. The leather was cool against the backs of your thighs as you slowly settled into it. Jack crouched beside you without a word and gently slid your bag from your shoulder, placing it neatly beside the chair like it deserved a designated resting place of its own.

He looked at you with quiet concentration, one hand resting on the edge of the seat. “May I touch you?” he asked.

There was something respectful in the way he said it—not hesitant, but patient. You gave a small nod, and he murmured, “Say it.”

“Yes,” you said, just above a whisper. “You can.”

He nodded in return, then reached up… and touched your ears? Your expression must have said ‘what the hell are you doing’, because Jack actually gave a soft huff of amusement under his breath. “There are over a dozen zones in the female body that can stimulate a neurological arousal response,” he said smoothly, his thumbs brushing gently around the outer edge of your ears. “Ears are one of the most overlooked.”

You blinked at him. There was no reaction. Nothing flared in your stomach or between your legs. You weren’t even sure it tickled. You just stared at him, flatly. Jack pulled his hands back, nodding to himself like he was taking mental notes.

“Alright. Not the ears.”

Next, he moved to your scalp, his fingers spreading through your hair with practiced ease. You expected it to feel awkward, maybe even clinical, but instead it was… gentle. Thoughtful. His fingertips pressed down just enough to release tension, circling at the base of your skull, following invisible patterns across your scalp.

Your eyes softened. Your breath evened. It didn’t arouse you—not in the way you feared or expected—but it felt good. Normal. Like something you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Jack noticed, clearly. “Noted,” he murmured, withdrawing again. “Some feedback, not enough to trigger arousal. Good to know.”

He stepped around the chair, “The neck, then.”

When his fingers touched the back of your neck, it was subtle—almost like he was testing the current in a live wire. He barely pressed at all, and yet your entire body tensed beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Your breath hitched.

Jack froze.

“…Interesting,” he muttered. “Odd tingle, but not necessarily pleasant?”

“It’s—” you started, but hesitated. “It’s something. I don’t know what.”

He gave a faint frown, filing that away. “Alright. Moving down.”

Then his fingers gently circled your inner wrists. You watched him as he focused—his brows slightly drawn, touch featherlight, like he was reading braille in your skin. “These are usually extremely responsive,” he said quietly. “Especially in individuals with dulled primary zones. The nerves are close to the surface here.”

You just stared at him. Nothing.

He looked up at you and raised an eyebrow. “Still nothing?” he asked.

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He gave a quiet exhale through his nose, but not out of frustration. Just… reassessment. “Okay,” he said. “Lower back next. The muscular network there is directly tied to your abdomen and pelvic floor. Sometimes, tension here bottlenecks sensation.”

His hand slid to your waist, firm but not invasive, and pressed into your lower back. The motion was a slow knead, thumbs working just beside your spine. A small breath escaped you—not from pleasure, exactly, but from release. It felt like something began to melt from your muscles. Like heat unfurling.

Jack stilled again.

“Better,” he said. “Still not there. But… warming.”

You let out a low sound of agreement, your body leaning back more deeply into the curve of the chair. Your muscles weren’t buzzing, but they weren’t frozen either.

Jack stood upright, arms crossed loosely as he studied your posture, your breathing, every inch of your subdued response. “Shit… definitely a complex case,” he said, half to himself. “You have all the parts—just not the ignition.”

You quirked a brow up at him. “Are you calling me broken?”

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he said. “I’m calling you… locked. That’s different.”

You watched him. Even his frown was attractive—concentrated, thoughtful, not overdramatic. He wasn’t rattled. He was just… intrigued. Motivated. Somehow, that made the heat in the room just a little thicker.

Jack didn’t say anything right away.

He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something unsettling in his stillness—something restrained. Like he was holding back more than just words. You sat on the edge of the chair, shoulders tense, knuckles pale as you clutched the armrests like they might anchor you in reality.

He crouched in front of you slowly, making sure not to invade your space too suddenly. Then, in that same low voice he always used when speaking seriously, he asked, “Would you feel safer if I guided you through the rest? Or would you prefer to take the lead?”

Your throat was dry, your thoughts in knots. “I don’t know what to do,” you admitted softly, hating the vulnerability in your voice.

He nodded, taking your words without judgment. “That’s alright. I’ll take care of the pacing,” he said. Then he stood and gently reached out a hand.

“May I?”

The question hung between you, soft as a pulse. You glanced down at his outstretched hand—palm upturned, fingers slightly curled—then back to his face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held yours with a quiet intensity. Not hunger, not impatience. Just waiting.

You swallowed, then placed your hand in his.

His grip was warm. Not the dry, clinical touch of a doctor, but something living—calluses you hadn’t noticed before brushed against your knuckles, subtle proof of hands that worked, that knew their own strength.

He guided you up carefully, his other hand lifting the clipboard from your lap with a precision that bordered on reverence. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

"Would you be comfortable sitting on my lap?"

His voice was low, barely more than breath against your ear. The question shouldn’t have felt so intimate—not here, not like this—but something about the way he asked it, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over your wrist as he waited for your answer, made your stomach tighten.

You hesitated.

Not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it.

When was the last time someone had held you? Not for sex, not for comfort, but just—held you? The thought was almost embarrassing in its simplicity.

Yet you nodded.

Jack stepped back, settling onto the chair first. His posture was relaxed but controlled, thighs slightly parted to make space for you. He didn’t pull you down, didn’t rush. Just lifted his chin, watching you with those endless black eyes, and let you come to him.

You lowered yourself slowly, every nerve alight. The first brush of your back against his chest was electric—not from arousal, but from the sheer warmth of him. He was solid, real in a way that made your breath stutter. His arms came around your waist, not trapping, not demanding, just there.

A steady weight. An anchor.

And then—his breath.

You hadn’t expected that. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your spine, the heat of his exhale skimming the nape of your neck. It was too much. Too close. Your own breathing was shallow, uneven, a frantic counterpoint to his calm.

"You’re safe."

His voice rumbled through you, deeper now that you were pressed against him. One hand rested lightly above your ribs, his palm a brand even through the fabric of your shirt. The other stayed at your side, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. Not teasing. Not yet. Just… measuring.

"We’re going slow. All you have to do is exist here."

The words sank into your skin like a balm. Your shoulders dropped, your lungs expanding fully for what felt like the first time in months.

The room came into focus around you—the faint scent of lavender and something darker, earthier, clinging to his clothes. The muted hum of a ceiling fan you hadn’t noticed before. The plush give of velvet beneath your fingertips where you’d gripped the armrest. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

You closed your eyes.

For the first time in too long, you felt something.

"Just follow my hands."

His voice was a murmur, barely louder than the brush of his thumbs along the slope of your neck. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the sheer attention of it. His hands were warm, palms broad enough to cradle the base of your skull as he worked slow circles into the tense cords of muscle there.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath.

His touch trailed downward, following the curve of your spine, pausing at the dip between your shoulder blades. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fumbling—just the smooth, deliberate drag of skin against skin. When his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, he didn’t push. Didn’t assume. Just splayed his hands over your ribs and waited.

“You okay, there?”

You nodded, your "yes" escaping as a shaky exhale.

His palms slid beneath the fabric, warm against the bare skin of your stomach. You tensed instinctively, but his grip tightened—not restraining, just steadying. "Easy," he soothed. "This isn’t about getting you off. It’s about learning how you react."

His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, so light it was almost teasing. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he traced the outer curves, mapping you with a patience that bordered on maddening.

Then—his fingers curled, lifting the fabric higher. Cool air kissed your skin as your shirt rucked up beneath your arms. You glanced down, watching as his hands dwarfed you, his fingers spanning the width of your ribcage.

"Jack—"

He stilled. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you grabbed his wrists, guiding his palms back to your chest. His breath hitched, but he didn’t resist. Let you press his hands flush against the soft swell of your breasts through your lace black bra, your nipples pebbling under the rough heat of his touch.

Your voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "Pinch them. Like I do when I—when I try to hurry."

A few seconds of silence. Then—

Jack laughed.

Not mocking, not cruel. A soft, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "That’s your problem, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumbs already circling your nipples with agonizing slowness. "You’re always in a rush."

You whined, hips shifting restlessly.

He ignored it. Just kept his touch featherlight, maddeningly gentle, even as you squirmed. "You don’t need to chase it," he chided, his voice dipping into something darker. "Let it come to you."

Then—finally—he gave you what you asked for.

His fingers tightened, just shy of pain, and your back arched off his chest with a gasp. "There," he murmured, satisfied. "Now you’re listening." He simply grinned.

“Also, you came prepared."

His voice was low, amused, as his thumbs brushed the hem of your maxi skirt—dark fabric pooling around your hips where you sat straddling his lap. You stiffened slightly at the words, fingers twitching against his hands.

"What do you mean?" you asked, though the heat creeping up your neck already betrayed your understanding.

Jack didn’t answer right away. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the notches of your ribs through your thin top before his thumbs found the peaks of your nipples. He pinched—just so—not harsh, but enough to make your breath hitch. A slow, circular rub followed, the friction deliberate, studying the way your body tensed and released beneath his touch.

“Black lace bra, matching black lace panties,” he observed, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite approval. "Skirt easy to remove. You knew what this session would require."

You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were already moving down, palms skating over the flare of your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt.

The leather belt came undone with a quiet snick, the circle buckle cool where it grazed your stomach before he set it aside. His knuckles brushed your navel as he pushed the fabric down, letting it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

His hands settled on your bare thighs now, just shy of the lace edge of your underwear. You could feel your own dampness—faint, but there—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

Jack noticed. Of course he did.

"Show me," he said, fingers flexing against your skin.

"How you usually touch yourself."

Your pulse thudded in your ears. For a moment, you just stared at him—his gaze unwavering, those black eyes absorbing every twitch of your expression. Then, hesitantly, you crossed your legs, pressing your thighs together in a slow, practiced grind.

Jack’s brows lifted. "What are you doing?"

"I don’t… use my fingers," you admitted, voice barely audible. "They don’t— It doesn’t feel like enough."

A few seconds of silence. Then, a low, incredulous laugh rumbled in his chest. "You get off like this?" His grip tightened slightly on your thighs, as if to emphasize the absurdity. "No wonder you’ve numbed yourself. This much pressure—crossing your legs would dull anyone’s nerves."

You flinched, but his hands gentled instantly, one sliding up to cradle your jaw. "I’m not mocking you," he murmured. "But if you’ll let me—" His thumb brushed your lower lip. "—I’d like to teach you how to do it properly."

Your mouth went dry. "Okay," you whispered.

Jack’s smile was sharp. "Good."

Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly to reposition you—knees bracketing his thighs, lace-clad cunt hovering just above the hard line of his own arousal. You hadn’t even noticed it before, but now it was impossible to ignore: the heat of him, the way his breath shallowed when your inner thighs brushed against him.

"First lesson," he said, fingers tracing the soaked seam of your underwear. "You don’t need to crush the sensation to feel it. You need to tease it."

And then—slow, torturous—he dragged the lace aside.

"You’re wet."

His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as his thumb brushed over the soft, puffy lips of your cunt. Not probing, not demanding—just noticing. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you anyway. Your hips twitched, a reflexive flinch, but his other hand anchored your thigh, keeping you still.

"Probably from me touching your breasts earlier," he mused, more to himself than to you. His fingers retreated, glistening faintly in the dim light. He studied them for a moment, then met your eyes. "You don’t even realize it, do you? Your body reacts before your mind catches up."

You swallowed. You hadn’t realized. The slow, methodical way he’d palmed your breasts—thumbs circling your nipples through the fabric of the lace bra, his breath hot on your neck—had felt clinical at the time. Like an assessment. But now, with his fingers hovering just above your clit, the evidence was undeniable.

Jack tilted his head. "One last chance," he murmured. "Is there anywhere—anywhere at all—that makes you feel good? Even just a little?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Your mind was blank, your nerves alight but directionless. You’d spent so long numb that the mere possibility of pleasure felt like a foreign language.

He sighed. Not frustrated. Resigned.

"Then I need you wetter."

His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. "Stand up."

The command was quiet but absolute. You obeyed on shaky legs, and you rose. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for you to tense—

Slap.

The sound was sharp, sudden. His palm connected with the curve of your ass, not hard enough to sting, but enough to make you gasp. Your muscles clenched, a startled noise catching in your throat, but he was already lifting you, effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your underwear peeled away, the fabric dragging against your thighs before pooling at your ankles.

"Step out."

You did. The air was cool against your bare skin, a contrast to the heat building low in your stomach. When you turned to face him, Jack was still seated, his gaze dark and unwavering. He held your discarded underwear between two fingers, studying the damp spot with detached interest before setting them aside.

"Good," he said, as if you’d passed some unspoken test. His hands returned to your hips, guiding you forward until you stood between his spread knees.

"Now. Let’s try something simple."

One broad palm settled on the inside of your thigh, pressing in—not teasing, not stroking, just pressure. The heel of his hand ground against your muscles, slow and firm, and your breath hitched.

"There it is," he murmured, watching your face. "You don’t need finesse. You just need to be felt." His other hand mirrored the motion on your opposite thigh, fingers digging into the tense flesh. You swayed, your knees threatening to buckle, but his grip held you upright.

"Breathe," he reminded you, his thumbs creeping higher. "Just breathe. I want to test something."

Jack’s voice was low, a rumble against your spine. You felt his hands shift on your hips, his grip firm but not demanding—just enough to steer. His thumb brushed the jut of your hipbone, a silent question.

You tilted your head, frowning. His thigh?

Before you could voice the confusion, he was already moving you. His palms pressed into the softness above your waist, guiding you forward until your bare cunt settled against the hard muscle of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the heat building beneath.

"Slowly," he murmured, his breath warm on your shoulder.

His hands moved you first, a deliberate rock of your hips against him, letting you feel the drag of friction. It was clinical at first—an experiment, an assessment—but then your body reacted. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickered low in your stomach.

Your breath hitched.

Jack stilled, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You felt that." It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, your throat tight.

"Good." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "Now, do it yourself."

He released you, his palms sliding away until only the ghost of his touch remained. For a moment, you hesitated, hovering above him, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Then, tentatively, you rolled your hips.

The sensation was sharper this time—less controlled, more yours. A quiet sound escaped you, barely more than a sigh. Jack’s exhale was ragged against your neck, his own restraint fraying at the edges as he watched you.

"Again."

You obeyed, rocking forward with more confidence this time. The pressure was perfect—just enough to tease, not enough to overwhelm. Your fingers dug into his knees for balance as you moved, your pace quickening without thought.

"Look at you," Jack murmured, his voice thick. "Finally feeling something." His hands returned, not to guide you, but to feel you—his thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, his fingers spanning the curve of your ass, tracing the way your body moved against him. Every touch was possessive, reverent. Like he was memorizing the way you came undone.

Your breath came faster, your hips grinding down in desperate little circles now. The coil in your stomach tightened, your nerves alight with something raw and new. You weren’t just touching yourself—you were using him, his strength, his stillness, the unyielding muscle of his thigh giving you exactly what you needed.

"Slow down." His voice was a blade wrapped in velvet—smooth, but with an edge that made your breath hitch. His fingers curled around your wrist, halting the frantic rhythm of your own touch. You hadn’t even realized you’d started moving against him, hips stuttering with restless need. His grip tightened just enough to emphasize the point, his thumb pressing into your pulse like he was counting every erratic beat.

“Be careful, don’t rush your lesson now.”

Before you could protest, his hands were on your hips, turning you in his lap until you were straddling him backward—your spine pressed flush to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. The shift was effortless, his strength unsettling in its ease. One arm banded around your waist, holding you in place. The other—

Slap.

A sharp, stinging bite against your bare cunt, just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the slick, obscene proof of how wet you were.

"Look at that," Jack murmured, his voice a dark hum against your ear. His fingers glided through your folds with clinical precision, spreading you open like a specimen he couldn’t wait to study.

"Dripping. And we’ve barely started."

His touch was cold. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to make you flinch—a stark contrast to the heat between your legs. You hadn’t noticed before, too lost in the haze of his control, but now it was all you could focus on. The chill of his skin as he dragged a single finger up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.

"Good girl," he praised, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Look how far you’ve gotten. All tense and desperate, just for me."

You could hear the smirk in his voice. Could feel it in the way his fingers worked you—teasing, taunting, never giving you enough. Just slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady as your hips jerked, seeking more friction.

"Ah-ah." A warning nip at your earlobe. "I decide when you come. Not you."

His sharp smile pressed against your throat as you whined, fingers clawing at his thighs. "Patience. There you go," Jack murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp against your ear. "Just like that."

You didn’t remember when you’d gotten fully naked.

One moment, you were perched on his lap, his hands mapping the tension in your hips—the next, your clothes were gone, discarded somewhere in the hazy periphery of your awareness. Jack’s cool skin was against your bare skin, but your body was warm, more like a furnace against him.

His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and methodical, pausing just shy of where you ached. "Tell me what you feel," he said, his breath hot on your shoulder.

"I—" Your voice cracked.

You were wet. So fucking wet it almost embarrassed you—a slick, shameful heat that had no business pooling this fast under the touch of a man who spoke like a surgeon and held you like a sacrament.

Jack hummed, low and approving. "Good. That’s exactly how you should be." His free hand slid up your stomach, palming your breast with a possessiveness that made your back arch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "So responsive. So eager to learn."

You whimpered.

His chuckle was a dark, honeyed thing. "Ah, there’s the sound I’ve been waiting for." He pinched your nipple just so—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your hips jerk—and you gasped, your thighs trembling around his.

"You’re perfect like this," he continued, his voice dipping into something rougher. "All soft curves and pretty, desperate noises. I adore the ones with meat on their bones—something to hold, to savor." His teeth grazed your shoulder, blunt and teasing.

"You’re exactly my type."

Your breath came in shallow pants.

It was too much. Not enough. His words coiled hot in your belly, his touch everywhere—one hand still working your nipple, the other now dragging through your slick folds with agonizing patience. "Jack—"

"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. "Let me teach you." His fingers parted you gently, his middle finger circling your clit with just the barest pressure. "This is where you start," he murmured. "Slow. Gentle. Let the ache build."

You bit your lip, hips twitching.

"No, no—look." He caught your wrist, guiding your hand down between your legs, his fingers overlaying yours. "Feel that? The way your body pulses when you touch here?" His voice was a sinful whisper, his breath damp against your neck. "That’s your hunger. Don’t rush it. Feed it."

You shuddered, his words searing into your skin. His fingers moved yours in slow, slick strokes—showing you the rhythm, the pressure, the filthy, perfect angle that made your vision blur.

"You’re so quiet."

Jack’s voice was a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm where his lips nearly brushed your skin. His fingers, still curled gently around your waist, flexed once—a silent prompt.

You hadn’t realized how little sound you’d made until he pointed it out. No moans, no hitched breaths. Just the soft, steady rhythm of your lungs fighting to stay even.

His head tilted, those black eyes scanning your face, again like a surgeon assessing an incision. "Not even a sigh," he mused. "Care to explain?"

You swallowed. "There’s no point," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack went very still behind you. Then, slowly, his hand slid up your torso, his palm skimming the curve of your ribs before settling just beneath your breast. His thumb pressed there, not quite teasing, not quite cruel—just present.

"Are you sure?"

The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat before his other hand dipped between your thighs.

You gasped.

His fingers were bigger than yours—wider, rougher in a way that shouldn’t have been as intoxicating as it was. A single digit pressed inside without warning, stretching you in a single, smooth motion.

Your back arched instinctively, your nails digging into the arm still wrapped around your waist. "Breathe," Jack reminded you, his voice dark with amusement. "And explain."

You tried. God, you tried. But your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as he began to move—slow, deliberate drags in and out, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every retreat.

Your hips jerked, chasing the sensation, but his grip on your waist held firm, keeping you pinned against his chest. "I—" You choked on the word as his thumb circled your clit, feather-light. "I never—needed—to moan."

Jack tsked, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple just hard enough to make you jolt. "Try again."

"It was just—quick," you panted, your thighs trembling around his wrist. "Just to—to relax. Never—ah!—never like this."

He hummed, considering. His finger curled inside you, pressing up in a way that made your vision blur. "Can you handle another?"

You nodded frantically.

Jack’s grip on your breast tightened in warning. "Words, sweetheart."

"Y-yes—"

The second finger breached you before you could finish, stretching you impossibly wider. Your legs spasmed, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him. It was too much—the stretch, the heat, the way your own slick coated his fingers with every thrust. You could hear it, wet and obscene, and the sound alone sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs.

Jack’s lips grazed your shoulder. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something like pride. "Dripping all over my fingers and you’ve barely made a sound."

You sighed softly, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand.

Then Jack stops.

You don’t realize he’s moved until his hands leave your waist, the sudden absence of his touch like a cold draft against your skin. You start to turn your head, confused—

And then he lifts you.

Effortlessly. As if your weight is nothing. One arm hooks under your knees, the other cradles your back, and in a single motion, he stands, taking you with him. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders as the world tilts.

"Wha—?"

No warning. No explanation. Just the dizzying shift of gravity as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops you—softly, deliberately—into the nest of pillows. Your head sinks into the downy embrace, hair fanning out around you.

And then he’s over you.

Knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Up close, the sheer size of him is startling. You knew he was tall, but like this—his torso blocking the light, his thighs pressing yours wider—he’s overwhelming. Lean, yes, but corded with a strength that makes your stomach flip. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining with the faintest shift of muscle as he leans down.

"I’m offering you an experience," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "A real one."

Your pulse stutters. "W-why?"

His lips curl—just slightly. "Because I’ve touched you everywhere. Played with your breasts. Slapped your pretty cunt. Even fingered you." A pause, deliberate. "And you didn’t come. Not once."

The words shouldn’t burn. Not when he says them like he’s reciting lab results. But they do. Your face flames, thighs pressing together instinctively—only for his knee to nudge them back apart. "You got wet," he continues, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But wetness isn’t your goal. You want you to come. Hard. And I’m willing to make that happen."

Your breath is coming too fast now. "H-how?"

Jack’s smile is all teeth. "By eating you out."

Your entire body locks up. Eating you out. The phrase rattles in your skull like a stone in a tin can. You’ve never—no one’s ever—God, you don’t even know what it’s supposed to feel like. Just the thought of his mouth there, his tongue—

No. No no no.

You jerk your head to the side, one hand slapping over your eyes like a child hiding from a nightmare. It’s ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. A medical student, for Christ’s sake. But the heat in your cheeks is volcanic, your chest so tight it aches.

A chuckle—amused—vibrates through the mattress. "Tiny thing," Jack muses, "and yet so scared." Then his fingers wrap around your wrist, prying your hand away from your face. "Look at me."

You don’t want to. You do.

And—oh.

The face mask is gone.

His face is—Handsome isn’t the right word. It’s too… non-human, too soft. Jack is all edges: sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, lips just a shade too red against the cool gray of his skin. His brown hair is a mess of waves, half-tamed, like he’s been running his hands through it. And his ears—those damn pointed ears—twitch faintly as he studies your reaction.

But—with his full face, his eyes that steal your breath.

Pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless depth—like staring into a well at midnight. And beneath them, those faint, inky tear lines, as if he’s been crying shadows.

You should be terrified. This isn’t a man. This is something other. Something that shouldn’t exist outside of folklore or fever dreams.

But he’s also hot. Professionally, clinically hot.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the fascinating one.

Your throat bobs. "I—"

Jack doesn’t let you finish. He lifts your captured hand to his mouth—and bites your palm. Not hard. Not enough to break skin. Just a slow, deliberate press of teeth, his tongue flicking against the fleshy base of your thumb. A shiver rockets down your spine.

"It’s okay to be scared," he murmurs against your skin. "I’ll be gentle." A pause. "Unless you want me to be rough."

The option hangs between you, ripe as fruit. You groan, rolling your eyes like you’re not already arching into him. "Just—just fucking do it, Jack."

His grin is wicked. "Good girl." His lips pressed against yours without warning, but not without permission—the kind you’d given with your breath hitching, with your fingers curling into the sheets of the bed. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was claiming, a hot, deliberate slide of his mouth over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp.

"Open," he murmured against you, voice dark as spilled ink.

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before parting your lips.

He didn’t wait. His tongue swept in, hot and relentless, tangling with yours in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like a taking. Your mouth felt full, overwhelmed, every flick and twist of his tongue dragging a muffled sound from your throat. He kissed you like he was mapping you, like he could taste the years of numbness on your tongue and was determined to burn it away.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching a thread of saliva, and his eyes locked onto yours. "Good," he said, low and rough.

"So good for me already."

Then he was moving down.

He didn’t rush. Every inch of you was a ritual. His lips traced the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse, the hollow of your throat—each touch a brand. His hands followed, sliding down your sides, fingertips pressing just hard enough to make you arch.

When he reached your breasts, he paused. His breath was hot against your skin as he looked up at you, those black eyes glinting. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he said—but it wasn’t a question. It was a reminder. That you were still in control. That he wouldn’t take what you didn’t give.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue circling slow and wet before his teeth grazed the peak. Your back bowed off the chair, a broken noise tearing from your lips. He hummed, pleased, his free hand cupping your other breast, thumb rolling over the neglected nipple until it ached.

"Jack—" you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. "You sound pretty when you say my name." Then he switched sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast, his fingers pinching the first just enough to make your thighs jerk together.

He didn’t let you. His knee slid between yours, forcing them apart. "None of that," he chided, voice dripping with amusement. "I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet."

His lips trailed lower—over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the trembling plane of your stomach. Every kiss was a brand, every nip of his teeth a spark, then glancing up at you. "Last chance to say no."

You didn’t.

His hands slid up your bare legs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider. The first breath he took against your cunt was audible—a slow, deliberate inhale. His groan vibrated through you. "Fuck. You smell perfect."

You shuddered, hips lifting instinctively, but his grip tightened, holding you down. "Ah-ah. I’ll take care of you. Just let me." His hands slid beneath you, palms broad and warm against the curve of your ass, lifting you just enough to adjust your weight.

The grip was firm—not demanding, but certain, like he knew exactly how to hold you without letting you strain. Your thighs fell open wider, almost embarrassingly so, the cool air of the room brushing against skin that had never felt so exposed.

Then his mouth.

Cold at first—a shock of contrast where you were already throbbing—his lips pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Not where you wanted him, not yet. He was savoring this, tracing the delicate crease where leg met hip with the tip of his nose, inhaling like you were something sacred. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, then found his face, cupping his jaw as if to steady yourself. His stubble scraped lightly against your palm, rough and real.

When his tongue finally dragged a long, flat stroke up your center, your back arched off the chair. A gasp tore from your throat, your hand fisting in his hair before you could think to stop yourself. Brown strands wrapped around your fingers, silky and thick, and you pulled—just enough to hear him groan against you.

The vibration rolled through your nerves like a shockwave.

"Fuck—" you choked out, hips jerking.

Jack’s breath hitched, his nose bumping your clit as he glanced up. "Sorry," he murmured, voice already wrecked. But you didn’t let him retreat.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back, holding him in place with a desperation that should’ve embarrassed you.

"Don’t you dare stop."

A huff of laughter warmed your skin before he obeyed, diving back in with a focus that made your toes curl. His tongue was relentless now—flicking, circling, then pressing inside with a twist that had you seeing stars. One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple in time with every lick.

You whimpered, the dual sensation short-circuiting your thoughts.

And the sounds—your moans pitched higher, breathier, tumbling from your lips like prayers. His ears twitched at each one, the pointed tips flicking forward as if to catch every broken sigh. You could feel how much it pleased him, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs, the way his hips shifted restlessly between your legs like he was holding himself back from grinding into the chair.

Then his free hand gripped your thigh, pushing it wider, deeper, as he sucked your clit between his lips.

Your vision whited out.

"Jack—" you sobbed, thighs trembling around him.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you ground against his face, chasing the pleasure like you’d die without it. His fingers pinched your nipple just shy of pain, and you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the velvet walls.

Jack didn’t let up. Not until you were squirming, oversensitive, your hands fluttering weakly against his shoulders in protest. Only then did he lean back, lips glistening, chin damp, his breathing as ragged as yours.

"Good?" he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he already knew.

You could only stare at him, dazed, your chest heaving.

Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.

"Let’s try that again."

Your breath hitched. Again? You’d already come once—shaking, gasping, your thighs clamped around his head like a vice. But Jack wasn’t satisfied. No, the way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his lips glistened with you as he pulled back to smirk up at you—he wanted more.

"You didn’t scream," he murmured, dragging his tongue—tongues?—slowly up your inner thigh. "You didn’t even beg. And from the way your body locked up just now?" A chuckle, dark and knowing.

"You wanted to come hard."

Damn him. Damn him for reading you like a medical chart, for seeing the truth in the way your back arched, the way your fingers twisted in the sheets. You had wanted it rough. Needed it. Months of numbness, of dull, mechanical friction, and here he was—ruining you with just his mouth.

And then—

His lips sealed over you again, and this time, there was no teasing.

One thick, slick stroke of his tongue from entrance to clit, and your back bowed off the chair. A whimper tore from your throat as he flicked—sharp, merciless—against your oversensitive bundle of nerves. The noise you made was pathetic, broken, and Jack growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.

"There it is," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his tongues—what the fuck—pressed against your entrance. "That little gasp. That’s the sound of you feeling something."

Then he pushed in.

One out of his three tongues. Your vision whited out.

The middle one was thick, ridged, fucking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other two coiled around your clit, lapping and squeezing in tandem. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

Your hips jerked, desperate, but Jack’s grip on your thighs was iron, holding you open, forcing you to take it. "You wanna take a closer look?" he teased, pulling back just enough to let you see.

Your stomach dropped.

Three tongues. Long, sinuous, glistening with your arousal. The middle one tapered to a wicked point, the other two slightly shorter but no less skilled, curling lazily in the air like they were tasting you already.

"Wha—" you choked out, but Jack just grinned, all sharp teeth and dark amusement.

"Special case, special treatment," he purred, lowering his mouth again. "And you, sweet thing? You’re very special."

The middle tongue speared into you, deeper this time, fucking in and out with a rhythm that had your toes curling. The other two twisted around your clit, one applying steady pressure while the other flicked rapidly, brutally, over the swollen bud.

You sobbed. "Jack—fuck—!"

He hummed, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "That’s it. Let go." You couldn’t. You were too busy unraveling, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing in his brown hair beneath you. It was too much, the overstimulation bordering on pain, but Jack didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Just kept working you, dragging out every last shudder, every broken gasp.

And then—

"Teach me how to scream," you begged, voice raw.

Jack’s eyes gleamed. "Gladly." He quickly stops.

The shift is sudden, but not rushed. One moment, you’re cradled against the bed, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue was just deep inside you; the next, his hands are guiding you up, turning you with a quiet certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.

He leans back onto the bed, creaking softly. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their precision—stretching out like a shadow given form, his head propped against the pillows, those black eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter.

“Come here.”

His voice is rougher now, the clinical detachment fraying at the edges. A command, not a request.

You hesitate, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips. The air between you is thick with the scent of your own arousal, the slick heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. Jack’s nostrils flare, his tongue darting out to wet his lips—too sharp, too pointed—and suddenly, the reality of what he’s asking crashes over you.

Sit on his face.

Your breath hitches. “I—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. “And I can take it.” There’s a dark promise in his words, a dare.

“I want you to scream my name like it’s going out of style.”

You move.

Clumsy with want, you straddle his chest, one hand braced against the headboard for balance. Jack doesn’t rush you. He watches, eyes swallowing whatever faint light exists in the room, as you lower yourself—inch by trembling inch—until your thighs frame his face, until the heat of your cunt hovers just above his mouth.

His breath ghosts over you, hot and deliberate.

Then contact.

The first lick is slow, almost reverent. A flat, wet stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair. Jack groans, the vibration against your sensitive flesh drawing a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck—!”

He doesn’t let you recover. His tongue flicks, teasing your clit before plunging deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm that’s too perfect, too practiced. You gasp, hips jerking forward, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Stay.” The word is muffled against your skin, but the order is clear.

You whimper, nails scraping his scalp as his tongue curls inside you, fucking in and out with obscene precision. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Your thighs shake, your breath coming in ragged pants, but Jack doesn’t relent.

Then—a sudden second pressure, another tongue—thicker, rougher—joins the first, lapping at your entrance before pushing in alongside it. Your eyes fly open, a strangled moan tearing from your lips. What the hell—?!

Jack’s grip on your thighs tightens, his breaths coming faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, dragging both tongues over that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Your vision goes whites out.

“J-Jack—!”

He growls, the sound vibrating through your core. His mouth is still on you when you feel it—something wrong. A slow, slick pressure, thinner than his tongue, curling against your inner thigh like a living thing. Your breath hitches, muscles locking, but Jack doesn’t let you pull away. His hands tighten on your hips, pinning you in place as that third tongue—fuck, it’s a third tongue—slithers up through the mess he’s already made of you.

It flicks once, twice, against your clit, teasing the swollen bud before pushing in alongside the others.

You scream.

It’s too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he spears into you with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth graze your thigh, his nails carving half-moons into your skin as he fucks into you with that unnatural muscle, coiling and twisting inside you like he’s trying to carve his name into your walls.

Jack’s eyes roll back, his hips jerking beneath you as if he’s the one being ruined. His face is glazed with your slick, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in ragged, animal pants. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. Not when you sob his name like a prayer, not when your nails tear bloody furrows through his hair, not when your thighs shake and your vision whites out—

—because then you’re coming, hard enough to choke on it, your orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.

He drinks it down. Every spasm, every pulse, his tongues working you through it until you’re wrung dry, until your screams dissolve into broken whimpers. Only then does he let you collapse, your body limp, your mind wiped blank.

Jack exhales, slow and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle, possessive circles on your trembling thighs.

You just came hard enough to black out—vision tunneling, muscles seizing, a silent scream locked behind your teeth—but he catches you before you fall. His arms wrap around you, cradling your limp form against his chest with an unsettling gentleness. His lips brush your forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture sweet enough to make your stomach twist.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he drags his teeth over your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to bruise.

You gasp, jerking in his hold, but he doesn’t let you pull away. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your waist like he’s memorizing the give of it.

"Shhhhh…"

His voice is a dark purr, thick with something that isn’t quite human. You feel it vibrate through your ribs, deep and resonant, like the hum of a predator after a good meal. His breath is warm against your skin, but his mouth—when he licks a slow stripe up your throat—is cold.

Too cold.

You try to twist away, but his free hand slides up to cover your mouth before you can scream. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your jaw open just slightly, and he leans in, inhaling like he’s savoring the scent of your panic.

"Shhhh... There’s no need to scream now," he murmurs, voice dripping with false reassurance.

That’s when you see it.

The black.

Not just his eyes—no, those have always been voids, endless and depthless—but the slick, tar-like substance now trickling from the corners of his sockets, slow and syrupy, dripping down his cheekbones like tears. It doesn’t fall. It clings, viscous and shimmering, before vanishing into the sharp line of his jaw.

You freeze.

Jack notices. Of course he does.

His lips curve into a smile—too wide, too knowing—and he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Perfect," he whispers, and this time, when his tongue drags over your pulse point, you taste it—copper and salt and something sweet, something rotting, something that shouldn’t be inside you—

You whimper.

He hums, pleased, and nips at your earlobe. "You did so perfect for me."

His hands slide down your body, mapping the tremors still wracking your limbs, the damp heat between your thighs. He lingers there, pressing two fingers against your clit with a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes your hips jerk despite yourself.

"But I’m not done with you yet."

Because the taste of you—fuck, the taste of you—is better than anything he’s ever had. Better than blood, better than flesh, better than every desperate, writhing thing that’s ever begged beneath his hands.

And he will have more.

He’ll take it slow this time. He’ll let you catch your breath, let your heartbeat settle, let your body remember how to want before he ruins you all over again.

After all, you’re a med student.

You’ll understand the importance of thoroughness. And Jack?

Jack always finishes what he starts.

814 notes · View notes

rainrot4me · 1 year ago

Text

Return The Favor

Summary: Stumbling in on your neighbor’s chopped up body, an unlikely friendship forms between you and Toby. Striking a deal, you agree to help the killer and his friends, buying them necessary prescriptions. But when one visit turns to multiple, Toby becomes curious, finding a not so subtle love note hidden away.

Characters: Ticci Toby x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Mentions of death, explicit description of a dismembered body, decomposition, death, gore, obsession, vomit, throwing up, blood (non-sexual), blood (sexual), vaginal fingering, degradation, biting, overstimulation, squirting, creampie, vaginal, choking, gagging, somnophilia, rough, Toby literally goes insane about you, virginity kink, first time, desperation

Words: 9.4k

A/N: This shit long asl I'm so sorry... Characters in this story are not canonical!

It’s said that when there’s a dead body nearby, your body can sense it before your brain can.

It’s almost like instinct, a survival nature programmed into your brain. It’ll start with goosebumps and chills running all over your body as if you were being watched, this uncomfortable sensation that you just can’t rationalize. Then the anxiety sets in, body aching and sweating for no apparent reason but it just knows there’s something wrong.

Finally, when you’ve finally choked it up to just being your imagination, that’s when you’ll smell it. Throat instantly closing and nostrils flaring at the putrid stench of rot and gore. It’s incomparable, no amount of food poisoning or disease compares to the sickness you feel in your stomach at the smell of a human body decomposing. Every instinct in your body pleading and begging you to get out of there, run as far away until you can’t breathe anymore.

You would know. And it seemed like the boy huddled in front of you did too.

There was no real reason for you to even be in this house in the first place, but your all-too-good heart guilted you into it. You had just come home from work, mind tired and body sleepy as you unlocked your front door, tossing your bag onto the kitchen table inside. It was well past midnight, the diner you worked at closing way later than normal, but at least you made some good tips.

Sliding into your bedroom, you changed into more comfortable clothes, tying your hair back before stepping into your kitchen. You gripped the tiny journal lying on the counter, cracking the worn pages open to where you left off, scribbling your thoughts onto the paper. It was your nightly routine, journaling things you saw or did, a coping mechanism suggested by your therapist. It wasn’t for anything intensive, just minor anxiety and self-image problems, always having negative thoughts about yourself. It helped. Glancing up, you looked through the tiny window above your sink, a clear view of your neighbor’s back porch, Mr. Higgs, an older man who made it very difficult to be friendly. He was a hateful guy, always nitpicking your choice of decorations or specific outfits he didn’t find appropriate. A real sweetheart, obviously.

But compared to his usual eight PM lights out, the living room lamp was still bright, shining directly through his open back porch door. That was odd. As long as you had known this guy, it wasn’t like him to be up this late, let alone be outside. Every instinct told you to just clean up and go to bed, his angry ass probably scooting off a raccoon or something. But you just couldn’t pass up that nagging feeling, your kindheartedness overpowering you. So, sighing, you tossed a hoodie on and slid out your back door, stepping down the porch steps into the cool grass.

You flinched as a flash of brown passed your vision, small and thin against the dark grass. Cooing, you kneeled down, holding your fingers out as Mr. Higg’s old cat, Addy, sniffed the air around you, pressing against your bare legs as she purred. The man was way too protective of his cat. Something was definitely wrong.

Standing again, Addy pranced away, meowing loudly behind you as your bare feet became wet against the midnight dew, grass sticking to your ankles as you walked, arms hugging yourself against the cold. This would probably just end with you getting told to mind your business and stomping back to bed upset, but it was the thought that counted. Gripping onto the porch rail, you stepped up his creaky wooden porch, knocking against the wooden frame of the open door.

“Mr. Higgs? Everything alright?” You called into the room, refusing to go in. There was no response, you knocked again after a couple of seconds. Still nothing. You gulped, rubbing your arms against your sides, nerves wracking you. “Okay. I’m coming in. Don’t get mad 'cause you didn’t answer me.” You called again, pressing past the door and wiping your wet feet on the welcome mat.

The house was quiet, the only light being the lamp sat on a coffee table adjacent to the old couch. All the furniture had an older look like something out of the eighties, it made you cringe. “Mr. Higgs, are you home?” You shouted down the dark hallway, all the doors shut except for one at the end which you assumed to be his room. Hugging yourself, your legs felt anxious, your mind racing with all the reasons you shouldn’t walk down there. There was no reason for it, this was all just probably some old guy who forgot to shut his door, but you just couldn’t shake the feeling.

Taking a step down the hallway, that’s when it started. Those feelings, like your body can feel shouldn’t be there. The air suddenly grew thick, a nauseating feeling setting in against your chest, pressing down like a conscious weight. But you shook it off, telling yourself it was just you scaring yourself with all of those crime shows, but you should’ve known better.

The door was cracked, moonlight from the open shades pressing against the doorframe, your hand flat against the wood as you pushed the door open. Then came the smell. It was stout, a putrid funk that wafted against the walls, souring the room. The room was dark, pupils blown wide as they fought to see, hand sliding against the wall and searching for a light switch. Your body was tense, senses on high alert against the dark, breathing ragged against the awful stench filling your senses. Your eyes were beginning to water, wondering what in the hell could be stinking this terribly, until you felt the switch, flipping it on.

Your first instinct was to throw up, throat constricting and stomach tightening, but you just couldn’t move. You were petrified by the scene in front of you. Mr. Higgs was there, at least, what you could recognize of him. His head had been cleaved from his body, intensive amounts of blood staining his beige bedsheets. His cheeks were bloated, a gnarly purple color as his veins poked against his forehead, skin wrinkled and soaked in blood as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. They were yellow now, dark veins contrasting against the orbs as puss leaked from every hole on his expressionless face. The rest of his body was scattered, chunks of muscle shredded from his arms and hands like they had been cut off, legs more or less the same. His wide stomach was completely visible, his skin swollen and dark, bloated against the same liquids spilling from his pores. The blood was the worst part. It was just everywhere. Splattered on the sheets, the nightstand, even the walls, specks reaching the roof. You were so lost in your racing thoughts, your heart pounding heavily against your chest as you gripped the door tightly, knuckles white on the frame. You could feel the cold sweat drip down your brow, utter fear chilling your body.

You wouldn’t have even noticed the tall boy standing in the corner if he hadn’t flinched, eyes wide and locked on you. He was lanky, easily taller than you and pale. No, not pale, more gray. He had curly brown hair that fell in front of his eyes, his freckled cheeks flushed against the bandages across his jaw. A pair of goggles rested amongst his curls, a dark mask covering his nose and mouth. He wore dark wash jeans loose around his hips and a heavier brown hoodie that was stained with dark blood. Oh God. The boy didn’t look much older than you despite his bruise battered skin. But he wasn’t moving, wasn’t talking, he was just watching.

His hands were behind his back, shoulders scrunched against the corner of the dark walls as you pressed back off the door frame, breathing ragged. “Who the hell are you?” You grimaced, tone coming across a lot more confident than you felt. The boy flinched, not out of fear, more like a bodily reaction. He refused to answer, eyes scanning around quickly until he pressed off the wall, sliding to the shuttered window and pinching the blinds open, scanning the night without explanation. That’s when you heard loud boots stepping up the porch steps, head spinning quickly down the hallway. “Shit.” You heard him, the boy’s voice panicked and rough, his boots stepping quickly across the hardwood and into your vicinity. Panic strained you, head spinning back quickly before your vision was filled with his arms wrapping around you, palm slapping over your mouth as he pressed you to his chest.

You tried to fight back, mumbled pleas against his hand as you shouldered his arms, your back pressed firmly against him. He was dragging you into the room, your feet dragging as you struggled, clawing his arms away but he never budged, practically unaware of the scratches you were leaving on his hands. “F- Fuckin’ quit-” He growled quietly, pressing open the small closet doors and dragging you both in, quickly shutting the door as you heard the boots grow louder down the hallway. A sliver of light shone through the crack in the door, leaving you just enough room to see the gorey scene as you pressed off of him, his muscled arms refusing to let you go.

“Toby?” A scratchy voice called into the room, the figure stepping through the door frame and into your line of sight. At his appearance, you froze completely, your body tense against the boy behind you. His arms gripped tighter, bandaged fingers digging into your cheek as he kept you quiet. He was horrifying.

This man was taller than the one in the closet with you, pasty skin a sharp contrast against his dark messy hair. His eyes were wide, pupils dark against his reddened scleras. He wore a white hoodie, dark jeans covered just the same with Mr. Higg’s blood. But the worst part, the part that made your heart pump in your throat, was his smile. It was etched in, flesh torn upwards into a mocked smile, teeth exposed from the side of his cheek. The area was mangled, seemingly unhealed as blood dried against the cut. He almost made Mr. Higgs seem not that bad.

“Twitch, come on,” He called again, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket as he strolled around the room, kicking Mr. Higg’s severed foot out of the way. “I’m gettin’ tired. This guy had some good beers and I’m tryna get back home and drink ‘em.” He snickered, turning back out of the room and back down the hallway, his loud boots stomping against the old floors. Who you presumed to be Toby didn’t let you go, arms just as tight around you as you gripping his hoodie’s sleeves tight. “Fine then! If you’re gonna play fuckin’ hide and seek then I’m leavin’ your ass here!” He called throughout the house, your body only untensing when you heard the back porch door slam shut, loud boots thunking down the porch and out of earshot.

You both waited a couple of seconds, heart thudding in your ears as arms slowly released you, palm unclasping from your mouth. Panicked, you slammed out of the closet, turning around quickly and facing Toby, back pressed against the nearest wall as you searched for something to defend yourself with. “D- Dumbass.” He grit, pressing out of the cramped closet and facing you, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie. The stench of the room pressed harder than ever, making your head dizzy as you pressed out of the room and down the hallway, Toby quick on your heels. “Whoever the fuck you are, whatever the fuck you want, I’m sure Mr. Higgs didn’t have it. Why in God’s name is he in pieces in his bedroom?” You hissed, gagging as the image replayed in your mind, turning into his kitchen and wracking the cupboards. When you found a small plastic cup, you ran water in through the sink, chugging the stout liquid down as you calmed your breathing. Toby stayed in the doorframe, crossing his arms. You probably shouldn’t have let your guard down, knowing full and well what he had just down to your neighbor, but you figured if he was going to he would have already.

“It’s none of y- your business. I don’t k- kill innocents, so you s- shoulda just stayed home, m- missy.” He growled back, stuttering through the words. You tossed the cup in the sink, the plastic clattering against the metal as you turned to face him, running your hands through your hair. “Hard to when you guys so obviously left his door open. The bastards hounded me for years, you’d think I’d be happy about his death, but not fucking like that.” You hissed, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms, bare feet cold against the porcelain tiles. “I mean, Jesus. And I mean, thanks and all for the save back there, but how is killing him and saving me any different? It’s just favoring one innocent over another.” Toby shook his head, sliding past you and tugging a drawer open, shovelling through old receipts until he found the stack he was searching for. He passed it to you, paper crinkling as you skimmed through, old pharmacy receipts for prescription medicine.

“H- Had the old bastard bu- buying our meds. Paid h- him off and everything. Un- Until he started g- giving us coun- counterfeits, sellin’ u- us out. He h- had to pay u- up somehow…” He huffed, shoving his mask down off of his nose and under his chin, his thin lips chapped against the bandages hugging his cheeks. And of course, he was cute.

“So he gets shredded?” You had to breathe through that sentence, throat tight with nausea. Toby nodded, a small smirk crooking at the corner of his lips. You grimaced, pressing off of the counter and through to the living room, the old furniture seeming a lot less homey now. You were going home, filing a police report, and praying to God these fuckers didn’t come back to get you instead.

“U- Uh, might wa- wanna clean up, t- too,” Toby chuckled from behind you. You paused, confused as you looked around, stomach twisting as you looked down. Bloody footprints trekked through the kitchen behind you, a trail leading to your bare feet as you lift your knee, gagging at the sight of Mr. Higg’s blood coating your soles. Toby was laughing, the noise muffled against the ringing in your ears as you hunched over, stomach convulsing as you puked on the hardwood floors, your lunch from work coming back up. Head straining, you panted, wiping your lips. “Oh, s- shit, okay.” Toby hissed, sliding to your side and raising you up, hugging you close to his side. He drug you through the door, stomach still churning as you watched your footprints faintly appear beneath you, purposefully dragging them through the grass to get the blood off. You felt disgusting, giving no fight as Toby brought you to your porch steps, helping you up. He was so bipolar, angry and distasteful for one second, then cautious and endearing the next. It really was like you were dealing with a teenager.

Addy circled your ankles, her dense fur tickling your skin and making you jump, Toby gripping your arms tighter. “Oh, hi kitty.” You cooed, breathing deep as you kneeled down, scooping her up into your arms as Toby helped you up the rest of the steps. Without asking, he slid open your screen door, helping you both inside as Addy purred against your chest, Toby wary as he stared at her. You dropped her on the floor gently, Toby sliding the door shut as you hunched over your sink, cleaning your mouth and grabbing a rag for your feet. Toby still eyed Addy, fidgeting his nails as he followed her. “Ever seen a cat before? She was Mr. Higg’s.” You chuckled, cleaning the soles of your feet off and tossing the rag into the sink, still feeling unclean. Toby nodded, rubbing his arms nervously as he looked back at you, smiling awkwardly. “Yeah. Us- Used to have one. T- They kinda sc- scare me now.” Smiling, you scooped Addy up again, petting her soft fur as you brought her close to the boy, his neck twitching nervously.

How could this guy shred a man to pieces, but petting a cat was too frightening for him? You couldn’t understand. Digressing, you gripped his wrist, steadying the twitches as you placed his hand on her back, rubbing gently as Toby flinched, breathing quickly. Addy purred, unbothered by the action as he became more comfortable, fingers playing with her fur before he pulled his hand back, breathing deep.

You were too nice for your own good, too easy at giving the benefit of the doubt. Of course, you would find the redeemable traits in a murderer, heart hurting for this boy who was more or less the same as you. Groaning, you dropped Addy, crossing your arms. “Listen. What you did, it’s… For my own conscience, I can’t let it happen again.” You grit, circling your countertop and sitting on a stool, your journal tucked in front of you as you fidgeted with the pages. “If we can agree, I’ll buy your meds. I have a friend who can write me prescriptions, no questions asked. But I need you to understand, under no circumstances, are you allowed to harm me. I’ll call the cops.” Like the cops could stop these lunatics. But, you needed some type of leverage.

Toby thought quietly, eyes narrowed as he flinched uncomfortably against Addy rubbing on his shins, purring loudly. If you could hold your end, there would be no trouble, but he had to know he could rely on you. “Th- The meds aren’t for m- me. My f- friends, they need ‘em to function, m- mentally… You g- gotta realize this is- is serious.” Even stuttering his voice was stern, arms crossed as he thought, contemplating. You nodded, brushing your hair from your face as you groaned, realizing how desperately you needed to learn to set boundaries. “I can get them. But you have to keep your end, too.” You hissed back, pinching your fingers nervously. Toby smiled, crossing his heart, literally. Rolling your eyes, you nodded, rubbing your face as you groaned. What the fuck were you even doing?

“I’ll have them by the end of the week. Come later at night, cops’ll be swarming for weeks thanks to you.” Toby nodded, sliding over to the counter and gripping your journal, tearing a page out as he wrote the list of prescriptions you would need to get. It was a hefty list, some of that shit intense. “Abou- About that,” He slid his mask up over his nose, sliding the screen door open as he stepped out, chuckling. “Do- Don’t go outside. Gonna ma- make it look like a g- gas leak.” You could hear the smile in his voice as he shut the screen, sliding his hood over his head and peeling down the porch steps. Finally taking a deep breath, you stared at Addy, wondering what in the absolute fuck you were doing. Rest in hell, Mr. Higgs.

He made it look like a gas leak alright. The house was on fire in minutes, the bright orange flames lighting your room as you heard sirens in the distance, your other neighbors gathered outside their houses as you climbed into bed, groaning your displeasure. Cops and firefighters swarmed for days afterwards, investigating the area thoroughly, but never finding any remains of Mr. Higgs, his body buried somewhere far away. They eventually grew restless, the city quickly cleaned up the charred remains of the house and a new plan for construction was set in soon. It went over smoothly, no one even suspecting a thing.

The days passed slowly, nervousness building as the end of the week grew closer, feet shuffling as you stood in line at the pharmacy. You got the doctor’s notes easily, already called in and waiting to be picked up as you were handed a small paper bag, the pharmacist eyeing you closely as you hurried out. Once in your car, you rummaged the sack, eyes wide as you read the dosage instructions on each little pill bottle. You read each bottle carefully, cringing at the names of the contents: Thorazine, Prolixin, Haldol, and even Aripiprazole. They were all high-end antipsychotics, the list of treatments for schizophrenia and mania, along with treatment-resistant depression. The last bottle caught your eye, a quick Google search told you it was for tourette's. So his twitching wasn’t just nervousness, huh. Shoveling the sack into your bag, you sped home, Toby well on his way as the sun set low.

The first week was easy, Toby in and out without so much as a hello, nodding his thanks as he bolted back into the woods, eyes dark and heavy. It was easy for you, moving along with your life despite the one night of the week. You felt easier, the boy quick about his stops with some chat, but never hanging around for too long, eyes always scanning the tree line nervously.

As weeks passed, he grew more comfortable, you learned that he was quick about stopping due to his friends, their curiosity about you making him nervous about losing his ‘dealer.’ You learned to leave his meds on the counter, sometimes not even present when he would sneak in at the late hours of the night, your job taking precedence over your sleep schedule. But with all of this money being spent weekly on medicine, you had to pick up more time at work, everything being paid for out of pocket not to raise suspicion. You were sleeping more, journaling and your hobbies taking less importance until they were practically nonexistent. It was hard, your serving heart refusing to let you rest, making sure Toby got his medication is the most important thing. You were strained, to say the least.

However, surprisingly, after a couple of weeks, Toby wasn’t in a hurry to leave. He had slid in like he always did, you sat at the counter eating your dinner as you scribbled through the pages of your notebook, summing up the previous days. You were exhausted, Toby making you jump slightly as he shut the screen door, rummaging through the paper sack. “G- Got any more?” He grinned shyly, sliding his mask and goggles off and tossing them onto the counter. You nodded to the fridge, an extra container of leftovers from the diner quickly opened in front of him as he shoveled it into his mouth. “It’s better heated up,” You laughed, shutting your journal as you slid off the stool, gripping the to-go container from him and popping it into the microwave. You both sat there awkwardly, Toby kneeling down to rub Addy’s back as she appeared beneath him, soft purrs echoing. He was still nervous, never petting her for too long before standing back up, the microwave beeping. The food came out steaming, sliding open a drawer and handing him a fork, Toby continued to shovel the food into his mouth. You hissed, holding his arm as the steaming food sizzled inside his mouth, it had to be burning him. “Oh. Y- Yeah, I don’t fe- feel pain. Th’s good, tho- though.” He grinned, slurping up more of the food. He acted like he hadn’t had warm food in forever, stuffing his face and barely giving himself time to chew. You rolled your eyes, chuckling as he ate.

The stays became longer after that, his excuse being he was hungry, continuously raiding your fridge until you began to have food ready for him, prepping his meals along with your own. Thirty minutes turned to an hour, to two hours, and then eventually through the night. He would crash on your couch, Addy curled in his lap as the television blared some old movie. That was one of the only times you didn’t see him ticcing, the cat acting as an anchor against his restless body. He looked truly comfortable, using your blankets and pillows to his advantage, beginning to invite himself to stay the night after a while.

You sat at the counter, Toby snoring loudly as he laid face first into the couch pillow, scribbling into your journal. It was the one thing you had time for, having to get up early for work as the soft glow of the kitchen light lit the pages. Toby was practically pushing himself into your life, his lack of manners and curious mannerisms leading him to take initiative. You were grateful for his friendliness, giving great detail of his missions with his friends and explaining that whole situation. Even still, you were wary.

But against your better judgment, your relationship with the killer was becoming less transactional. He brought you things to make for dinner, talked with you through your mutual sleepiness, and even took care of Addy when you were too delusional after work. For lack of a better word, he was becoming a friend, showing up for more than just his medication, even sometimes forgetting the bag and having to chase him down. He was infesting your life, arriving earlier than he should and leaving later than you cared for. The end of the week was becoming optional, the screen of your porch door sliding open nearly every night of the week Toby didn’t have a mission. It was annoying but in a comforting way, like you both were becoming closer naturally despite your differences.

As you heard his snores, you groaned, rubbing your tired eyes as you began to write, letting your pencil guide on the page numbly as you wrote your thoughts. It wasn’t directed at Toby on purpose, but the further you got down the page the further your heart sank, hand fisted in your hair as you rested your elbow on the cold marble counter. “Ah, Jesus…” You grit, scribbling the final few words as you lean back, rubbing your head. The words weren’t lies, more of a hard truth you weren’t willing to accept, chalking it up that you were just tired and desperate. The words could have been about Toby, or they could have been about anyone, you didn’t really care. Sighing, you tore the page out, folding it and shoving it into the back of the book, closing the pages quickly. Sleep sounded much easier as you flipped the kitchen light off, turning the volume of the television down as you trudged upstairs to your room, giving one last glance to the snoring boy and his matching cat.

Toby knew his mishaps with you, his moral compass long forgotten the more time he spent inside your home. He told himself it was just easier, food and shelter at his disposal whenever, but he knew better. It was so much more than just picking up medicine for Tim and Brian now, it was a solid relationship, a bond that was forming in his eyes.

It had been almost four months since the unfortunate death of your neighbor, a smile creeping every time he saw the charred flecks of wood buried in the overgrown grass. You had begun to leave the back door unlocked, reasoning that someone breaking and entering would be less of a hassle than him. That was what Toby really hooked onto the most about you, your humor about everything. Despite your hardships and the emotions you had to overcome, you held a caring heart, compassion always lacing every action. He found it admirable, your humor through your busy life. And, likewise, he did feel bad for making you work so much, tired eyes always hurting his heart whenever you were around. But, it wasn’t like he could get a job, so he helped where he could, cleaning and learning to cook for your sake. He needed this medicine, for his friend’s and his own stability, even at your expense.

You were already nestled at your spot on the counter, writing your thoughts in that damn journal. You barely even looked up as he entered, diving for the fridge as he scooped up Addy with one arm, her purs a nice vibration against his shoulder. Popping the container in the microwave, he leaned in over your shoulder, trying to catch a glance at your scribbling before you shoved him off, closing the book quickly. “Ah, ah, mind yours.” You smiled, forking your own food into your mouth. “O- Oh come on, [Y/N], just a pe- peak.” He smiled back, gathering his food as he began to eat, sliding onto his familiar spot on the couch. It was routine now: where you sat, what he watched, what you both talked about. He explained his latest mission with Masky in more detail than you enjoyed, pushing your food away as you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. You both laughed throughout the night before you whisked your food into the fridge, calling your goodnights before heading upstairs.

Toby continued to watch the television, brushing Addy’s back with his bandaged fingers as he sat his empty container to the side. His curiosity nudging him, he raised up, tossing his trash before he slid to the counter, you all too confidently leaving your journal there. Slipping back onto the couch, he began to flip through the pages, listening closely for your footsteps as he read your entries, smiling as they dated all the way back to your high school years.

It seemed as though everything you thought spilt onto these lines, emotions erratic between every page as he realized just how much of a people pleaser you really were. All through your recent years, it was nothing but service, acting through the goodness of your soul until it felt sickening, fake almost. He cringed, flipping quickly through but finding nothing juicy, no deep dark secrets that he felt were interesting. Sighing, he closed the journal, standing to set it back onto the counter, until a slip of paper fell from between the pages. Smiling, Toby leaned down, arms twitching as he slid the journal back onto the counter, leaning against the marble as he flipped the paper open, reading carefully.

“Sometimes, when I think about it too hard, I get all emotional about myself. I know I put on a front, like everything I do I’m in charge of and can handle, always putting everyone around me first. But what if I wanted to be put first? I do so much for the sake of others but it never seems to be returned, never compensated for the mental strain. Well, maybe I want to. Maybe I want to be loved like I see others, rough and real. I have no clue how I even would, I can barely handle touching myself before I'm overwhelmed. But I just want someone else to take the reins, show me that I don't have to work my brain so hard and can just numb out. That's not too much to ask, right? Just someone who can love me, not some creep or one night thing, someone who cares. If I never ask for anything again, that would be it. Someone who wants me for me.”

He could have died. The brunette’s cheeks dark as he re-read the crumbled page, excitement coursing through him. In his mind, he wanted to storm upstairs and just rattle you then, showing you how good he could treat you. It was like a bomb had gone off, Toby having to pretend like him having a crush on you wasn’t achingly obvious, convincing himself he just didn’t know how to act around women. But now it was clear, his mind racing with a million wants and needs, body spasming under the excitement.

Convincing himself to leave, he slipped the note into his pocket, body buzzing with excitement as he slid out your door. He would be back, like always. But this time, he would show you what you truly needed, what only he could give you.

Like always, Toby left a note for the medication you needed to pick up, it sometimes changing week to week. Everything looked normal, the usual combination of pills reading off. But as you scanned the bottom, you groaned, shoving the paper into your pocket. Trilafon, Saphris, and… Plan B. As if your desperation for some affection couldn’t have gotten much worse, your heart twisted, a lump growing. Whether it be for some girl he was laying or a girlfriend he already had, you didn’t care, all you wanted was to get the medicine and go. Crawling into your bed sounded like a much more exciting activity than dwelling on the brunette, heart saddened in all the way you knew it shouldn’t.

To make your night even better, Toby didn’t show. It wasn’t unusual, for him sometimes not to show up for days due to extensive missions. But a part of you longed to see him, especially after today, just to help your mind with the whole morning-after pill situation. So now, instead of imagining him surrounded by his friends on a mission, you imagined him towering over a girl. Strong arms holding her, body contorting to fit against hers… You could’ve been sick, shaking your head as you ate quickly and pressed upstairs, barely petting Addy before you slinked into bed, hauling the covers over your head.

It was lonely on nights without his presence in your house. But especially tonight, thoughts racing uncontrollably to the point of tears, thick droplets streaking down your face as your chest hurt, longing for a body, any body, to hold close to yours. Maybe you really were just a transactional thing.

Toby smiled as he trekked through the familiar stretch of woods to your house, heart racing in his chest. He had it all planned out, exactly what he wanted to do, his cock already twitching in his jeans.

He hadn’t shown up tonight on purpose, hanging back at the mansion to take the best shower he could, Ben teasing him about how good he smelled as he was leaving. You had to be well in bed by now, body tired after working all day just for him. He would take care of you, showing just how grateful he was for how much you were giving up just for his friends and him. Pressing past the tree line, he smiled, pulling his hood down as all the lights in your home were out, signaling your retirement.

Pressing up the steps, he slid the screen door open quietly, careful not to alert you as he clicked it shut. Stripping his hoodie, he tossed it onto the couch, Addy purring light against the cushions. It was warm in your house, black t-shirt hugging his arms as he untucked it from his jeans, climbing up the steps, his mask and goggles quick to come off next.

He was too excited for his own good, boots stepping quietly against the old hardwood as he slinked to your door, fidgeting with the knob. A rush of your scent blew into his face, your perfume stout in your small bedroom, eyes searching around in the dark space for your bed. It wasn’t hard with your breathing, quiet snores making him smile as he leaned against your mattress, admiring your unawareness. You looked so peaceful, his bandaged fingers tracing your cheeks and brushing your hair from your face, your skin flinching under his touch. “Hi, baby…” He whispered, the pet name sounding right against his tongue as he referred to you, tugging the sheets down.

Toby always knew how nice of a body you had, you sometimes sauntering around the house with shorts and a t-shirt and making his eyes trail just a little longer than normal. But now, under his cold hands, you were even more gorgeous. You were wearing an oversized shirt, a slight tug at the fabric revealing that you only had panties on underneath, you slightly stirring as his nails brushed your skin. The brunette was excitedly jittering, kicking his boots off as he climbed onto the bed, kneeling at your curled body sound asleep. You shifted, rolling onto your back as you breathed deep, stretching your arms before settling back into yourself. Toby could have died, your legs stretching out to rest around him, his cock twitching with interest against your now visible panties. A quiet sigh breathed through your lips.

That was all the invitation he needed. Running his cold hands under your shirt, he felt your warm skin and goosebumps rising as you squirmed under them. Your brows scrunched but Toby pressed further, running his fingers along your waist and up to your tits, palming the mounds gently as he smiled. It was crazy to him just how soft your skin was, not weathered or bruised from missions or nature, perfectly smooth under his axe-calloused hands. Pushing your shirt up to your chest, he gasped at your round tits, the weight so perfect in his hands as he pinched at your nipples, rubbing the nubs gently. Toby was never very sure of anything, always brushing through life at the command of others. But the one thing he was sure about? His love for boobs, especially yours.

Nudging closer between your legs, he rested your knees on his thighs, leaning down to your chest as he popped a nipple into your mouth, sucking gently. The nub was hard against his tongue, slowly circling as he massaged the opposite one in his palm, pinching your nipple gently. That’s when you began to stir, hands sliding against the bed and unconsciously searching for the cause of your sensitivity. Lazy hands pushed against his face, soft groans echoing in the boy’s ears as he popped off your nipple and moved to the next one. Your hands fingered through his hair, tugging lightly until your eyes were beginning to flutter, your mind slowly coming alive. Toby let off your tit, kissing along your chest and licking a stripe between your tits, humming as he watched your eyes slowly blink open, confusion rocking you. He kneaded your tits gently, tugging at your nipples as you realized what was happening, eyes slowly widening as you strained to sit up against him. “Toby? Wha-” Your voice was scratchy, ridden with exhaustion as the brunette kissed up your neck to your cheeks, pushing you back down as he slotted himself flush between your legs. Slowly realizing what was happening, your cheeks flushed dark, hands pressing against his chest as you squirmed, nervously babbling as your body was still half asleep. “Lay b- back, baby… You’re so ti- tired, let me take c- care of you…” Toby sighed, running his hands back down along your skin, relishing in the way your body nervously shook under him.

You physically could not believe what was happening. This had to be a dream, some sick trick your mind was playing as you felt cold fingers hook under your panties, sliding them down. Heavy eyes wide, you grabbed his arms, clenching your thighs together against his waist. “No- No, wait- I don’t even, I mean, I’ve never-” Toby was already shushing you, gripping your wrists together and kissing your palms before pushing them back down to your sides, resuming his tug down your thighs. “I’ve go- got you. Don- Don’t gotta worry about a- a thing…” He smiled, raising your legs up to slide your panties down the rest of the way, hooking them off of your raised ankles before pulling you down closer to him, pushing your shirt over your head. “Read y- your journal, you don- don't gotta act protective, ba- baby. I know this is what y- you want…” If you weren’t already panicking, you definitely were now.

You wanted to hound him for snooping through your journal, mouth opening to tell him off. But as his fingers brushed against the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your folds, you lost all train of thought. He was watching you, eyes excited in the darkness of your room as he swiped his thumb closer again, your thighs flinching shut. “Anyone else e- ever touched here before?” He mumbled, pressing his thumb against your plump lips and tugging them open, getting a nice look at the wetness that was already forming between your folds. Shaking your head, Toby lit up, cock pushing hard against his jeans as he had to adjust his position, using both hands to pull your lips apart, sighing at how pretty your cunt was. Just something about knowing that Toby was claiming his stake on you, imprinting his touch for the first time before anyone else could, made something deep inside of him burn. It wasn’t like the brunette got much play himself, hooking up with a girl here and there, but being your first? That already made this so much better than any other girl could even try.

Sliding his fingers through your wetness, you gasped, hands clutching the pillow behind your head as he groaned, spreading your arousal across your lower abdomen. You whined, thighs begging to clench together as he purposefully slid your juices over your cunt, pressing his thumb down against your swollen clit and jolting your back off the mattress. You had only ever masturbated here and there, your body getting too overwhelmed after one orgasm and forcing you to stop, but would Toby stop? As he brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth, you doubted his restraint.

“Please be gentle…” You warned, hands planting on the mattress as you sat up, resting on your elbows as you watched Toby bring his digits back down to your cunt. He rolled his eyes playfully, tugging your folds open with his opposite hand as he pressed the tips of his fingers against your entrance, pressing in slowly. “I’ll try…” He laughed, your fingers gripping the sheets tight as you watched his fingers sink in slow, stretching your cunt uncomfortably. His index and middle fingers screwed into your tight walls gently, twisting his wrist to draw a moan from your lips, digits spreading against your gummy walls and making your entrance ache. “Just i- imagine my dick in here…” He cooed, eyes darting between your nervous face and your pretty cunt fluttering around just his fingers, barely even handling them.

Pressing his opposite thumb against your clit, he began to rub in small circles, dragging your hips further and further off of the mattress until you were practically rolling your hips against him. His fingers probed in and out of your cunt at a slow pace, just enough to make you comfortable with the unfamiliar intrusion, but his arms ached to go faster, curl his fingers until you spasmed. “Toby…” You sighed, his hands moving in time with other as he screwed his fingers inside of you, angling them just enough so they pressed against your tight walls. His name sounded like heaven against your aroused tongue, so quiet but so desperate, secretly drawling for more. “Tell me w- what you want, ba- baby…” The pet name made your face hot, your stomach fluttering as you pressed back into the pillows, running your hands down to your thighs and squeezing the flesh. “I want… more…” You sighed through your arousal, cunt clenching desperately around Toby’s cold fingers, sucking them back inside every time he drew them out. The brunette laughed, pushing his feet under him to push his hips up against your ass, your hips raising off the bed as he fingered down into you. You could feel his cock straining behind his jeans below your raised ass, twitching needily with every tug of his fingers and moan that whined from your throat. His size was overwhelming, making your heart pound as Toby began to curl his fingers, making your eyes shut quickly.

His fingers pressed so deep in your cunt, curling against your sensitive walls and making your jaw hang, beginning to press against your walls at a steady rhythm. It was like a new fire had lit under Toby, fingers screwing in at a quicker pace and making your stomach clench, face screwing into an overwhelmed feeling. His fingers pumped in, knuckles sinking in through your wetness and gripped by your gummy walls, curling his fingertips just right as he got deep. It was so intense, so rough, just a mess of slick and your wet cunt sounding through the room with every squelch as he abused your clit, swiping left and right quickly. Your thighs twitched and ached with every curl, trying to close around his hand practically fucking you into sensitivity. Your hands wrapped around his forearm quickly, begging his wrists to stop curling abusively inside of you as you tugged your nails into his skin. Toby wouldn’t, continuing to pump his fingers as he stared at your flushed face, cunt squelching embarrassingly loud. “Just a l- little more… Co- Come on…” He groaned, nudging his hips against your bare ass as his fingers milked moans and whines out of you, his fingers glistening with your arousal every time he tugged them out. He couldn’t feel you clawing at his arms, loud groans begging him to let up as your cunt clenched, molding around his thick fingers.

You could feel your orgasm rolling through you, Toby huffing as the veins in his arms popped, his shoulder muscles straining against his shirt as he watched your face carefully, picking up as your moans became louder. “Gonna come f- for me? Yeah?” He teased, clothed cock twitching against your ass, pushing your cheeks apart as he rutted against you. He curled his fingers quicker, mumbling his arousal as he watched your cunt swell around him, clit throbbing under his thumb. Your orgasm hit you like a truck, stomach tightening and forcing you to sit up, Toby was quick to let off your clit and wrap his arm around your back, holding you up as he pumped your through your cunt squelching, tightening around his digits. Your eyes rolled, teeth grit tight as he palmed your clit, slowing his pace to a slow thrust as you became undone against him. No orgasm of your own had ever compared to that, head light and chest heavy as you breathed quickly, gripping Toby’s shirt tight.

Refusing to let you go, Toby leaned in, pressing kisses against your neck and licking at your sweat, relishing in the warmth around his digits. You whined, cunt sensitive as he tugged his fingers out, his skin raw and pruned against the wetness coating his digits. Your folds were absolutely drenched, Toby spreading his fingers through your lips and pushing his sopping fingers over your warm thighs wrapped around him. “God, y- you’re so wet-” He gasped, pressing his fingertips back against your clit as he laid you back, gripping your tit. Your mind panicked, cunt flashing with sensitivity as he began to rub against your clit, swiping left and right against the rub quickly. “Toby- Stop- Toby, please-” You cried, breath catching in your throat as your stomach clenched, his fingers pressing hard as he pinched your nipples, eyes trained on your wet pussy. “You e- ever squirt before?” He smiled, transitioning fast between digging his fingers into your cunt and pulling them back out to swipe against your clit. It was nauseating, cunt crying desperately for relief as he dug nails into your tits. Gasping loudly, you gripped his arms, knees screwing tight against his sides as you cried out, hips bucking up against his hands.

Every time his fingers slipped into your entrance, they squelched loudly, fluttering around the intrusion before desperately aching as they tugged out and moved onto your clit. “Squirt li- like a whore, m- mkay? Quit fightin’.” He hissed, letting his hand off your tit and scooping under your left knee, pushing it back to open your cunt wider, spreading your legs further apart. Your head was dizzy, heart pounding as you gasped for air, panting at every push of his fingers. You were already quick to cumming, but it felt weird, not that normal clench you felt in your stomach, more of a strain against your cunt itself. You cried out, tears slipping down your cheeks as he forced your pussy against his will, ruining you.

As he swiped his fingertips down hard against your clit, your entrance clenched, mouth opening wide as you cried out, hips bucking up as you felt your cunt squirt, thighs trembling hard. There was literally nothing to compare it to, mind hazy as you sprayed onto his black shirt, his fingers digging into your entrance and pushing more juices out of your swollen folds. Toby was smiling, moaning his approval as he rubbed your clit softly, pushing the last of your orgasm out as you strained against the mattress. “Gunna fu- fuck you dumb, baby…” He growled, tugging the soaked shirt over his head and tossing it as he unzipped his jeans, tugging them down and off his legs as his cock hung heavy against your drenched cunt. You couldn’t even react, head spinning as Toby gripped your hips, pushing you onto your side as he grabbed your ankle, pulling it onto his shoulder and straddling your other.

Neck craning with excitement, he teased the tip of his swollen cock between your folds, slicking himself up with your ruined juices. “This is wh- what you wanted, is- isn’t it?” He smiled wildly, pressing his cock into your ruined cunt, groaning loudly as you swallowed him in, warmth gripping tight as he gripped your leg, other hand stable on your tit. You groaned, face turned into the pillow as he began to thrust deep, giving you no mercy as he tugged at your nipple, biting at your calf as he fucked into you. You felt so full, your body so exhausted already as stretched you further, your entrance burning against the sting of this new girth. You squeezed him so tight, cock forcing itself deeper with every tug of his hips as you began to cry, tears staining your pillowcase.

“Fuckin’ tal- alk to me, baby. Gunna mak- make me cum al- already.” He sighed, teeth chewing against the meat of your calf as he pressed your cunt wider, sweat dripping from his nose as his curls clung to his forehead. He let off your tit, left hand slinking up to grip your jaw and turn your face back to look at him, your eyes heavy as they blurred with tears. Toby looked so good right now, cheeks dark against his freckles as he towered above you, cock pushing against your gummy walls and making your mouth hang. “So pretty…” He smiled, slinking his hand down to your throat and squeezing, cock pulsing as your face tightened, mouth gasping out as he clamped tighter, refusing you air. There was something so orgasmic about cutting your airway, watching your body react as he fucked your virgin cunt, holding your life in his hands. He had to breathe deep to stop himself from cumming, his violent brain spasming out.

He pushed your ankle over his head, pulling out roughly as he rolled you onto your stomach, you gasping from the wave of air hitting your lungs. Pushing himself against your ass, Toby swore, pushing his cock back into your cunt as he pushed your back down, making you arch against him. “Just a l- little more, m’kay?” He growled, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and squeezing hard, pressing your face down into the pillow. With a new pace, he fucked down into you wildly, hand kneading your ass hard as digging his nails into your skin, little welts forming across the soft flesh. Your muffled cries sounded against the pillow, head light and static filled as you gasped for air, Toby’s cock ramming down against your g-spot. “Never s- seen a bitch so willing, so des- desperate for my dick you’d gi- give it up so easily.” He teased, growling as he let off your neck, neck sore as he leaned down, pushing your hair off your neck. Toby hadn’t felt like this before, wanting to mark you, fucking you so desperately he wanted to carve his shape deep inside. He couldn’t let you go without knowing exactly who you craved, corrupting you, ruining you, molding you to fit only him.

He licked against your shoulder, sucking onto the skin before he pressed his teeth, digging both hands into your hips as he sunk them in, groaning at the pop as your blood soaked his teeth. You were crying, screaming into the pillow as your entire body begged for him, craving him, mind going blank as your blood dripped from his chin as he licked at the wound. He pressed on, nibbling into the crook of your neck and sucking revolting hickies into your skin, marking you like an animal. “Wan- Want you to come on m- my cock, baby. I got- gotta fill you full, want y- you ruined for everyone b- but me.” He mumbled quickly, cock begging to spill inside of your warm cunt as you reached around, gripping his hair as he sunk his teeth in again, walls fluttering around him. You pulled his hair, dragging his mouth off of your neck and to your lips, smashing your swollen, tear-stained lips against his as he groaned, kissing you roughly.

You were cumming again, back arching onto Toby’s cock as you moaned into his mouth, walls holding him tight inside. He tried to move, to continue thrusting, but you were so tight all he could do was rutt his hips, begging for friction as his own seed spilt, his brows screwing tight as he came deep inside of you, warm cum seeping deep into your cunt. Your mind was blank, eyes rolled as you cried into his grasp, his nails digging into your hips until you were nearly bleeding. Your cunt squelched, milking his cock as he finally pulled from your lips, letting the last of your orgasms fizzle out before he pushed off of you, slowly tugging himself out as you whined. Looking back, his cock was soaked, glistening with your arousal and streaks of blood, Toby’s eyes wide. “Ah… Yo- You tore…” He hissed, wiping his soft cock with his shirt before pulling his boxers on, quickly trotting out of your room. You dropped your head back onto the pillow, cunt aching and body ruined as you sat in your sweat and each other’s cum, mind tired as you slowly blinked.

Toby was back in seconds, a water bottle, a wet rag, and a small bag all in tow as he climbed back onto the bed, flipping your lazy body onto your back. You smiled, sipping the water bottle slowly as he began to clean you up, gently running the warm rag between your folds and against your thighs until he was satisfied, gently rubbing your skin. Finally, he grabbed the bag, your confusion evident as he tugged out the prescription bag, rummaging for the plan b he made you buy and popping one of the pills out, handing it to you as he smiled. Your chest welled, previous anxiety dissipating until you began to tear up, taking the small pill before reaching to wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him down next to you. Toby went easily, body cradling against yours as he kissed against the bruised spots on your neck, rubbing your bite mark gently.

As you began to doze, Toby mumbled something about your note, your mind too dizzy to hear the rest. The last thing you saw was a subtle flash behind your eyelids, sleep overtaking you as Toby held you close.

Morning came quickly, your body stirring, reaching for Toby but finding the bed empty. Confused, you sat up, eyes heavy and head still pounding but you pressed off the bed anyway, searching for the boy. Downstairs, on the countertop, laid his hoodie neatly folded, with a small piece of paper resting on top. Sauntering over, you reached for the top, sliding it over your head, it falling before your hips as you gripped the paper, reading its contents.

On a mission. Be back later tonight. Meanwhile, enjoy ;)

Flipping the paper over, you gasped, slapping your hand over your mouth. A small picture was taped to the back, a polaroid-type photo of the two of you cradled together, your bare body pressed against his, bruises and sweat on full display. Smiling, you tucked it into his pocket, breathing the scent of his hoodie deep as Addy circled your ankles, begging for breakfast.

Staring out your back porch door, you made sure it was unlocked, always open for him. Killer or not, that boy was yours now, accepting his every mishap the same way he did yours. For the first time in a long time, you felt wanted.

Rest in Hell, Mr. Higgs.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

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