#female proxy reader

[creepy-friday]

More Creepypasta Mansion Headcanons

Warnings: dark content,violence,

blood,mental illness and drugs mentions,suggestive content

if your room is close to Jeff or Ben,you're not getting any sleep.Both of them would play loud obnoxious music;Jeff would blast metal while the blonde would play hours of techno music while gaming sounds would be heard plus inappropriate loud sounds from whatever he's watching/playing/enjoying himself to

The calmest and safest times are during breakfast or when the others eat in general,everytime someone is in the kitchen they just do their own thing and leave

EJ doesn't need sleep,so if you happen to wander the hallways at night you might bump into him

Slenderman doesn't care about anything that doesn't directly affect him,he would actually be pissed if a resident would complain about something that he doesn't care about,that's why all the creeps can be unhinged at times

One violent fight has to happen at least once per month we all know the violent motherfuckers who start it and an argument has to happen at least once per day

If you're a shy and an empathetic person then your stay in the mansion can be hell,that's why you should stick with the ones who can make your life a little bearable

Even lone wolves like EJ and Bloody Painter don't stay alone for long periods of time.If you're isolated for a long period of time you might hear the static again..some say it's Slenderman who doesn't want his creeps to be alone because the eldritch might care about them,some say that it's because their loneliness can get into their quality of work and it would piss him off

Besides the blood and the desperation,most creeps keep themselves clean,but you might see some residents like Jeff who can wear the same pair of sweatpants for 7 days in a row

If you need money you can simply go to Ben,he will either order what you need for you or make himself useful and get you some cash,altough he is a little fuck and wants something in return even if it's HIS JOB to provide the residents what they need.Maybe a blowjob under the desk will do

Drugs are easy to obtain,even Nina has a bottle of something hidden inside her room,you just have to know what you want

One of the top unspoken rules between the residents is to never,in under any circumstances,never enter another creep's room without permision,the only keys that are provided are to proxies rooms.

[orionlain]

𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩, 𝙙𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙛𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙭. note: posted on archive

𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐅𝐨𝐨𝐝

There’s a gash on her knee, and her panting seems to get heavy every large step she takes. Her knee is tumbling out of exhaustion but she can’t stop. Her nose is bleeding and yet she can’t wipe it off with her dirty clothing. Her screams are running hoarse however she can’t stop to catch her breath. Not when it’s around. Not when he watches. Not in this game of prey and predator

“Please- please! Stop!” The creature falls deaf to her pleas. He continued to tower over the girl. Messing with her mind, and making her deathly sick. She could feel her brain ache, her stomach gurgling out of dizziness. Her eardrums are blanking with a noise so piercing and irritating that tears well up in her eyes. She’s at her limit. She can’t take it anymore, her body is running out every option. It’s impossible to exert with her weak flesh and bones, her weak lung and her loud thumping heart. It’s impossible to keep sprinting and sprinting in this crowded, dark forest. It’s impossible to find a way out of this maze of scratchy pines and damp dirt. It’s impossible to keep on going.

She had admit defeat. This slender figure with a faceless head and deathly white skeletal body, has powered over her. The monster didn’t to seem to feel any fatigue. The monsters clothing recognizable as a humans suit, is flawless and clean. She could feel her dignity ruined and reared up, facing the behemoth. She could feel her humanity slip away from this degrading position, parallel to a lion and a deer. She prepared herself to be met with a strangle from the tentacles attached within his back. Or perhaps her head being severed immediately as he takes a bite. She prepare to see the end of her life. Moments and flashbacks run to her mind as she faces the demise coming forth. The silence and tension of her waiting the monster to get it over with, felt suffocating. It felt hours. Days of anticipation. But it was just responded with silence.

Finally, he rose his tentacle up. She squeezed her eyes shut and hold her breath, saving at least some parts of her to be safe. Clenching the ground earth, and pushing back into the stump of a tree. In seconds she will die soon and be faced with- the tentacle was around her thigh.

“What?” She stuttered. It felt slippery. The tendrils just seem to grope her flesh even harder as she says it.The creature looked at her, she can’t pick up any expression or social cue from the blankness of his face. Pure white, and stoic mess. Although, his body seems to get closer and closer, and closer. The tentacle finally left his grip on her leg, rather, traced to her face. It was wet. Smooth and uncanny feel to it. Out of nowhere, his skeletal skinny fingers now held her chin. Forcing her to face up the tall creature as her cheeks were being squished. She respond by wrapping her hands around his strange arms. And her body slowly losing tension. There was heat around her face. Why? She can’t put it together, but somehow she feels slightly attracted to this being. Mysterious, cunning. All-powerful. She was interested. It was as if all her morals were slipped away when facing such a monster, knowing how much control he has over her.

Accidentally, her tongue opened up. She licked the finger of the tall creature. Even if he didn’t had a face, he was stunned. Although, intrigued. He pushed a finger into her mouth. She choked out of surprise. His hands being already long enough to reach the back of her throat, caused her to spill saliva around her lips. She whimpered. It was too much, it was too intoxicating. His scent was driving her insane, driving her to become so deranged. Driving her to rummage with nasty thoughts. God, she felt so unclean. However it just kept on going against her wishes, and he seems to enjoy this pleading. Playing with her teeth and tongue, as she suckles more and more.

“Mmhm!” She is running out breath, now in a different way. Her legs starts squirming, and she could feel more tendrils coming up on her. They slide upon her skin, and her stomach. So close to her behind, so close to her inner thighs. Her shorts now slobbered with inky goo, and her shirt slowly falling as he kept on going. Suddenly, the creature stopped. His fingers now traced out of the mouth with trails of spit. He stands tall once more.

Good girl.

He uttered. She didn’t know it could speak. And she didn’t knew he was this playful. He opened his mouth, showing rows of sharp teeth and large dark tongue. He towered down and punctured her mouth with his tongue. She responded with her lips collaborating within his. She whimpers even more. Clenching his suit in response, and she could feel him lifting her up. She sat on thigh as he crouched down, and as she goes in more into the creatures mouth, she grinds herself on his sleek pants. Her breath is getting haggard, she can’t barely get oxygen as she make out. The tongue took all the space within her mouth, and she felt so full.

Good, good girl. It said telepathically. His praises just kept on plaguing her mind. She enjoys this even more, and fasten her speed on his thigh. His tentacles kept on going closer to her breasts and ass, tightly boding on her to skin. It ripped up her shorts, leaving with her panties. Then tore her shirt, exposing her top to the cold autumn air. The tentacles fondled and groped on to her tits, so warm compared to her skin. And she could feel his hands slowly rubbing her panties, tracing back and forth between the cloth and her clit. Her body twitches in response, allowing her hand to clench even more on his tie. The man picked her up, putting a stop to their tongues colliding. The tentacles wrapped all around her body, and put up her in the air. He then starts playing with her slit, and his tongue slowly tracing with spit on her panties.. She threw her head in pleasure.

“Mhm! Please.”

Be patient. I usually don’t play with my food.

She knew it was a threat, but it got her even wetter. She started moaning louder and louder. She never felt so good. Never felt so great compared to all her past experiences with men. It made her full, it pushed to the edge never then before, all the while her panties are move to the side of her thighs. She started tearing up from how much stimulation there is. Her naked body slithered with tentacles and her pussy being plunged with a wide thick tongue. Her body spasming out of pure hormones, wanting him to get harder and harder within her pussy. Want him to slide up and down, and grip her harder.

I never knew you humans were this deranged.

He can read thoughts. She gasp in surprise as he even went harder. Starting to hold onto the tendrils as her body gets even more heated up, even more wet and sweaty.

You really do enjoy this. Don’t you? Don’t you darling.

“Yes! Yes I do.”

She came undone onto the monsters tongue. Her head wailed back in response as she let out a high pitch whimper. Her legs kept on shaking and she could feel her arms pathetically grab on the monsters body, for some sort of grip. But as much as her tears fell down on her face, the monster kept on going. The monster kept on flicking his tongue back and forth, sliding down her slit.

“Ha- Wait, wait!”

What little girl?.

As she was about to respond, she choked onto her words. It was cut off as he deepened his mouth into her pussy. Enjoying how weak and frail she was compared to his actions.

“Please please!”

What do you want? Spit your words out.

“Too much! Please- ha- stop!”

The monster chuckled. No please would make the monster drop what he was doing. Although, he did stop, instead, his tentacles put her in a position against the tree bark making the girl face him. Her head was too foggy from what was happening, but she could tell what was next from the heat between them. Tilting to the side and her eyes rolling back to rebound from her orgasm, the monster had to forcefully grab her face to look at him. A grip so harsh she could feel her cheeks bruising, and her arms holding onto the tree.

I’m not done with you yet.

She whimpers, slobber coming out of her mouth. As much as the stimulation hurts her body, she was throbbing. She needed more even as much she couldn’t handle it. She wanted the monster to destroy her. To claim her and use her up. After years of pent up hormones and fantasies, she couldn’t resist.

So needy. You waited so long for this? You humans never fail to amaze me.

She forgot again that he could read her mind. He probably saw all the disgusting perverted dreams that she stored in her mind. From the multiple times she tried to pleasure herself to the times she hope for some being to ram her. He even saw the moment he had chased her and read all the thoughts ridden with a sick wish that he could fulfil it. He even chuckled more to this reveal. He had never saw a human asking to be broken. And throughout all his thousands of years, he wanted to play. Play with his food, something so rare coming out of the entity.

With that, his tentacles slowly withered onto her thighs, shoving them to open up more. While two more nailed onto her hands against the bark. He positioned himself near her crotch. The entity could feel the slick dripping down out of her slit, all while his pants rub onto her pussy. She moaned in return, begging for him to do something about her throbbing pain. As he does it more and more, she became louder, with that he quickly shoved his tentacles into her mouth. Muffling her whines and groans.

Noisy girl.

Soon enough, he finally took it out. She gasped even if his tentacles were choking her mouth. With no warning, he thrusted it in. It was too much, and he was wrecking her more by playing with her clit as well. Fondling her breasts with his large hands, and pounding her back and forth which deepened her skins more into the branches bark, scratching her and staining her with dirt. He finally let her throat to rest, and her loud panting and cries can now be heard and echoed into the forests.

“So much! So much! Ha- mhm!”

Pathetic.

”I’m gonna- mhm- I’m gonna!”

What is it. Say it. All I hear is gibberish.

“I’m gonna cum soon!”

Her pussy tightened around his inhumane dick. Her head bobbing up and down like an animal, and her eyes crossing up in the air. All she could muster out was whimpers and cries for more and more. All she could do was feel his thrust that were ramming her into a speed no human can take. And her breasts were covered in handprints that turned her skin into a different colour. All while her puffy clit sending waves of pleasure within her pussy. So much at once. So much to handle and feel. She was about to come all over the monster, a thousand year old entity that could kill her in a second if he wanted to.

You’re close.

”I am! Please let me!”

Go ahead darling.

She spasmed around his dick. Letting out a loud wail that scratched her throat, as her hands fuddled around every part of the monsters suit. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop thrusting her and playing with her clit. He didn’t stop gripping her tits and biting on them.

“What- no no! Too much! Please no more-“

You will be done with this when I’m done.

All she could do was let her saliva drool down on her neck and breasts. All she could is whimper out pleases and moans. All she could do is let him thrust more and more even with how much stimulation ride out her body. It was painful, but so, so good.

And she could feel his dick throb inside of her, with his guttural groans coming out of the monster. He was close as well. As much as she question whether or not if it was humanely possible, it didn’t matter to her. She wanted to be filled. She wanted his fluids to come out of her pussy when he was done. She wanted to be bred in ways that she fantasize for years.

You want me to fill you up huh?

“Please! Hm- Please!”

Pathetic, pathetic little girl. Begging for a monster to breed you? Don’t you have a little shame?

“No! no! I’m a pathetic bitch!”

That’s what I wanted to hear. Adorable precious little bitch.

The monster thrusts hard and harder as she grips even more onto his suit. She could feel her ears ringing with how much movement was on her. She could feel her tongue panting out to the monster, asking him to kiss her. The entity agreed, and he shoved his inky tongue into her throat making her unable to breathe.

Mine. You’re mine you got that?

“Uh huh- mhm!”

My human slave. You serve me. You’re going to serve me now.

“Yes! Yes sir!”

She cried out into the forests. Unwillingly knowing that she just signed a contract to the demon. Holding up a future for her to be someone to a boss of many, a leader of monsters, and a manipulative entity. But she didn’t care, all she wanted was her pussy to leak out the cum he was about to spill into her hole. She didn’t care, she just wanted his tongue to puncture the back of her throat even more. She didn’t care, she just wanted to be fucked so hard to the point where she was left shaking. She just didn’t care.

My good little girl.

And he finally thrusted into her for a last time. Cum filling up to the brim where it leaked out. Her legs twitched as she moan into a needy whine. Forever captive by this entity. Forever a food to play with and teased at.

“Thank- thank you for sir.”

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Candypop, after getting into a nasty argument with Slender: Bitch please, my hairstyle cost more than your entire fancy ass house

[fanficgirly18]

X-Virus x Female Chubby Reader| Part 4 [FINALE]

__________________

"Your co-worker is dead,"

pointed out X-Virus, in his hushed voice and his blue eyes, behind those blue goggles, were staring intently at Masky.

Kinda like the way he stared at you before stabbing you with a poisonous syringe.

Masky stared back before laughing, and you felt the vibrations from his chest against your back,

"I couldn't give two shits."

Maybe those words shocked you.

"Let her go."

Those words shocked you more. Did he care-

"Oh, so she is your girlfriend?"

You felt a gloved hand roughly grope your left breast, while the other held you in a head lock. Masky chuckled, his breath going through his mask holes and hitting you on the back of your head.

Clearly he was trying to get a reaction out of X-Virus.

X-Virus' goggles' shined under the dim light as he reached in a worn out looking backpack hanging on his shoulder, and pulled out a baseball bat filled with nails.

"I said, don't move!" snarled Masky, like a rabid dog.

"You said don't take another step forward," corrected X-Virus, and you could hear his grin.

"...you know what I FUCKING mean." Now was your chance. He was distracted.

Taking your chances, you elbowed Masky as hard as you could.

An grunt escaped his lips and he dropped his crowbar. He INSTANTLY snatched your hair, pulling at all the roots. You screamed, and to your advantage used your bigger arms to hit at Masky.

"You fucking bitch," seethed Masky.

"I'll teach-" CRACK.

The sight you saw next would be rated X in the movie theaters. Blood and tissue and bone exploded as the bat swung through Masky's skull.

His mask fell at your feet, and his body fell limp. He was a corpse now.

Oh my-

X-Virus was breathing heavily, clutching his bat. You both looked at each other.

He let out a deranged laugh.

Maybe you felt like crying.

And then suddenly the windows to the cabin, slammed open. Harsh, cold wind came through the entrances.

"I should've known the Slenderman would come after me," muttered X-Virus to himself, clicking his tongue, "I killed his two best proxies."

He then gave you a look before grabbing your wrist, yanking you with him.

"W-what are you doing?" you cried, trying to keep up as he slammed open the cabin exit, and took you towards a huge tree trunk.

"I'm saving your ass."

The tree trunk had a hole at the bottom.

"You've got fight in you," said X-Virus and you could hear his sad grin, "But you won't be able to survive a fight with the Slenderman."

Without warning he pushed you into the hole, and vomit escaped your throat at the following drop. It was worse than an airplane takeoff or rollercoaster.

Blackness took you.

And then you found yourself whenever you called home.

You were back home.

It was over.

_______

End.

[creepybunny1999]

(Creepypasta X SCP Foundation X Jujutsu Kaisen + Female Proxy Reader)

Hello, my follow readers. I'm here to give you an update on the story. If you're new here, I'll give you a quick summary.

The summary: Y/n is a proxy that goes by the name Princess. The creepypasta family gets captured by the SCP foundation. Y/n got out and ran all the way to Tokyo. There, Y/n hides what she is, only soon to be taken by Gojo to join the school. Creepypasta are Curse Spirits, and so are the SCP. Creepypasta and SCP take place in America. No Jujutsu Sorcerer in America.

Now for the update.

Okay update

Y/n is a young detective. She graduated high school at a young age, and she took a college test on her first day to graduate. She got the top scores that anyone has ever seen. Her first case was the missing Charlie Matheson JR. It's a cold case.

Y/n took all of her founds about the case and went to get more evidence. She walked in the woods, not knowing she would never come out.

Y/N L/N has gone missing for 15 years. Only to found by the SCP foundation, then taken to the foundation for 2 years only to escape. Running away to Tokyo.

To act normal, she went to high school where Y/n met Yuuij Itadori. To be more normal, she became his friend. At night, Y/n feeds her bloodthirsty by killing curse spirits.

One day, Y/n knew she couldn't hide what she was much longer. Y/n helped Itadori save their club members. Only for it to end with Itadori eaten one of Ryomen Sukuna's fingers. Not look after Gojo showed up. One look at Y/n, he can already tell she was not normal. Besides the marks, he couldn't tell if she was a curse spirit, or she made a deal with a curse spirit.

Y/N got closer with Charlie than the other proxies. She plays video games, she's didn't know how to play but Ben was happy to teach her how to play. Y/n looks to play with the younger Creepypasta.

When Y/n and Toby met for the first time, Y/n knew she didn't like Toby or any of the so-called doctors or science lab workers.

When Y/n met Itadori, she didn't want anything to do with him. Y/N knew that she wouldn't be normal if she didn't have a friend or two. So, Y/n asked Itadori to be her friend, who said yes.

Y/n join a club with Itadori. Y/n uses the club to find curse spirits to kill.

When y/n saw Gojo, y/n knew she was in deep shit. She was questioned, but y/n never gave them an answer. Gojo thought to just kill her, but seeing as y/n is a friend to Itadori. Itadori would not say yes to the offer that Gojo plans to give Itadori.

Ryomen Sukuna would talk to Y/n every time she was in the same room as Itadori. (More like he would pick fun at her). Itadori shut him up really fast. Itadori saw y/n as he's dearest friend.

Ryomen Sukuna doesn't like y/n. The curse energy around y/n, Sukuna could already know who the curse energy belongs to. It's a bit of Surprise that the faceless walker was still alive.

Toby was pissed that y/n got out to who knows where. Toby worked too hard just to have it come down on him by a stupid little curse spirit woman.

Ryomen Sukuna wants to know how to use you.

Gojo wants to know what you are.

Itadori wants you to be safe.

Toby wants to put you back in your cage.

Zalgo wants to use you to finally kill Slenderman.

Slenderman wants you to survive.

You don't know what you want.

That's all I have for this update, I will be back to ask you guys some questions. Have a Killer day. Bye.

Oh yeah, here is a cool edit picture that I did of Female Reader. I don't own the original. I just grabbed a lot of pictures and then edited them to be one.

[ryreverie]

𝙷𝚎𝚢 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚜,

𝙻𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝!

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───

𝚂𝚊𝚢, 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜?

𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝!

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───

𝚂𝙾, 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃’𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃?

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚈𝙰. 𝙸𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚑𝚎’𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚍𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢, 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚢𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊. 𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢.

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𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙴 𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁?

𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜.

~𝚅𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜

~𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜

~𝙰𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜

~𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜

~𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚜

~𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜

~𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚜

𝙾𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑!

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𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎;

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛!

[raythekiller]

Can We have a Creepypasta Reader who gets hurt and how Creepypasta males & Female’s react please? Make sure to eat and drink some water (●’◡’●)ﾉ

🗒 ❛ Reader Gets Hurt ༉‧₊˚✧

Featuring: Jeff The Killer, Ben Drowned, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Masky, Hoodie, Clockwork, Nina The Killer, Kate The Chaser, Jane The Killer

#Notes: this is the most people I've ever written for holy shit

pronouns used: they/them

˗ˏˋ back to navigation ´ˎ˗

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Jeff The Killer

One of the only moments he shows genuine concern about you, even if in his own twisted or weird way. Focuses more on finding out how you got hurt than trying to help, absolutely ready to murder someone in case they were the one to injure you. There's just an anger in his voice and expression that is difficult to shake off. Will bring you to EJ and tell him "You fucking better take good care of them," in a low and menacing voice. Calls you an idiot and tells you to be more careful after, and although he sounds mad, the way he ruffles your hair affectionately says different.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Ben Drowned

Honestly, thinks you're kidding at first and laughs at it. When he notices you're actually, genuinely hurt, he panics. He died a long time ago, so now he doesn't have a good understanding of what's fatal for a human and what isn't, so he might honest to god consider the fact you might die even if it's a minor scratch. Will try to patch up the wound, failing miserably and just bringing you to EJ instead. Probably hugs you after, more so to bring comfort to himself rather than to you. He just got scared for a second, okay?

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Ticci Toby

He can't feel pain, so he doesn't have a good understanding of how much something might hurt. He just assumes the slightest of wounds must hurt like hell for normal people, so he's immediately freaking out, asking you if you're okay. He actually knows basic first aid, since it's one of the musts for being a proxy, but doesn't trust himself to not hurt you further by accident, so he's another one who'll rush you to EJ. Will be super clingy with you after, mumbling about how glad he is that you're okay.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Eyeless Jack

As a previous med student, his first concern is making sure you're physically okay. Focusing on that helps him calm down his nerves, since he's honestly panicking a little. Will patch you up in complete silence, to the point where it's a bit awkward, only to whisper a low "What happened to you?" once he's done, almost like he's scared of the answer you might have. Hugs you gently after you explain, careful as to not touch the wound, letting out a relieved sigh.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Masky

Similar to Jeff, his mind will immediately jump to the thought that someone deliberately hurt you, which makes his blood boil. Will be very loud and aggressive when asking what happened, making your breath hitch at the sudden protectiveness he doesn't normally show. Let's out a sigh once you explain it was an accident, calling you stupid before going to grab something so he can fix you up, his hands surprisingly gentle. It's a shockingly tender moment.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Hoodie

Gets worried, but not as much as the others. He's not one to think the worst about a situation, so he just concludes you probably tripped and fell or something, so he doesn't really question you any further. It's up to you if you tell him what happened or not. He's always gentle when handling you, but now you find his touch almost ghost-like as he fixes you up, then asking if you feel any better or would like to see EJ for a better inspection. A forehead kiss after he's done in definitely in order.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Clockwork

Doesn't even try to hide it, she's freaking out. Will grab your wound to take a closer look as she frantically asks "What happened? What did you do? Did someone do this? Does it hurt?", her mind is just racing and she doesn't know what to make of the situation. Terrible at patching you up, but does it anyway, she's not letting anyone else go near you when you're hurt and vulnerable. Kisses your cheek once she's done and tells you to be more careful.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Nina The Killer

Her face is literally split open, I don't think she'd be too worried about some minor injury. Just kind of coos at you something along the lines of "Aww, baby got hurt?" and offers to kiss it better. You'll have to tell her if it genuinely hurts, or else she's not going to take it too seriously. Like most of the others, will take you to EJ if you're actually in pain, sitting besides you and stroking your back and hair gently the entire time.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Kate The Chaser

Doesn't express much of a reaction, either. That doesn't mean she isn't concerned, she just can't express her emotions properly. Will calmly inspect the injury and, if it's out of her first aid abilities, will bring you to EJ. It's the most vocal anyone's ever seen her, asking him if it's too serious and if you're going to be okay. Holds your hand gently as he patches you up, caressing the back of your hand with her thumb.

꒰⸝⸝₊⛓┊Jane The Killer

Behaves like a mom. Will coo at you lightly while going "Oh, your poor thing. Come here", taking a hold of your wound and gently cleaning and addressing it, to the point you can barely feel her touch on your skin. Once she's done, she kisses your forehead softly, her black lipstick leaving a mark on your skin.

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[nicksolemnlyswears]

THE MENTOR

summary: coriolanus takes it upon himself to show you the ropes of pleasure

pairing: young! coriolanus snow x capitol! reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: 18+, smut, cursing, fingering, female masturbation, mention of male masturbation, breast play, talks of virginity loss, perv! coriolanus, slight cum play, corruption kink is very prominent LEAVE ME ALONE IM PREDICTABLE, MY MIND IS ROTTEN

a/n: i'm back again! didn't expect it to be so soon but alas i cannot control myself. this can be read as a stand alone or as a prequel for my other one shot ways to destress. i'm working on part 2 for ways to destress but have this while i finish it <3

requests open ✨

Coriolanus steals glances at you from his spot on the desk. You sat cross-legged on your bed, deep in thought, biting the eraser end of the pencil in your fingers. He's formulating ideas about you instead of focusing on the report he has to present to Dr. Gaul tomorrow.

It's the first time you've invited him into your family home since you became a couple four months ago, and you're all alone in the big mansion. He can't help but wonder if anything will come out of it.

Despite being in a serious relationship for four months, Coriolanus has only kissed you. Nothing more and nothing less. It was one of your conditions because he's your first boyfriend.

'Let's take things slow, Coriolanus,' you had said back then, looking at him with those puppy dog eyes you'd mastered.

You're a timid girl. It's why you've never truly had a boyfriend before. None of the other boys you've been on dates managed to coax you out of your shell enough for them to pursue the relationship, except for Coriolanus. He took his time with you, becoming your friend, gaining your trust, and finally asking you out.

It wasn't by chance that he took that route to court you. He's been watching you since you stepped into the classroom last year. The annoyance he felt about being a teaching assistant swept away as a brand new opportunity sat in front of the class like a good student.

He recognized you and the crest on the gold ring you always wear. Your family is wealthy, and they have a great reputation amongst the Capitol's elite. It would benefit him to associate himself with you and, by proxy, your family.

Coriolanus felt luck was on his side when you approached him with questions about the homework the Professor handed out. You served yourself in a silver dish platter for his hungry ambition.

One year later, he has you wrapped around his little finger.

He'd be lying if he said he doesn't have feelings for you. Just as he infiltrated your life, you infiltrated his heart. You're sweet and kind, book smart, and beautiful. He'd be a fool not to feel anything towards you.

When you groan about the essay you're supposed to write and the crease between your eyebrows deepens, Coriolanus steps in.

"It's time for a break, don't you think?" He gently asks, closing your notebook and putting it to the side.

"I guess," you sigh, looking up at him with a pout.

You've been distracting yourself from Coryo's penetrating gaze and general presence in your personal space. You had invited him with the pretense of a study date, seeing as your body asks for something else.

It's time you give Coryo more. He's been incredibly patient with you, just as you'd asked. Still, your heart pounds in your chest at the thought of him touching you like no one ever has, and the knot in your throat prevents you from saying it out loud.

Coriolanus sits on the bed with you, cupping your jaw in his hands, brushing his thumb across your cheek. You lean into his touch with a soft smile, leaning into your body's desire, and you kiss him. It's enough to spark the salacious thoughts in Coriolanus's head.

He deepens the kiss by swiping his tongue on your plump bottom lip, begging you to let him in. Just like he taught you, you open your mouth, letting his tongue lick the inside of your mouth, tasting the cherry drink you love so much.

The corners of Coriolanus's lips slightly curve upwards; he's so proud of himself and you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you, and he willingly leans into you, hugging your hips.

Finding the position mildly uncomfortable, he lifts you to straddle his lap. Immediately, you tense under his hold and pull back. It's instinctual as your thoughts suddenly surface and cause you to overthink.

"Are you alright?" Coriolanus asks you with feigned concern. He knows the reason why, but you're important to him. In his eyes, you're perfect for him, and he doesn't want to screw things up.

"I'm just nervous," you admit, diverting your gaze to his collar and fixing it.

You're tired of feeling behind in life when your friends talk about sex. You're tired of that ache inside you that you can't satiate. You're tired of pulling away each time Coryo makes any move on you when all you want is to feel his skin against yours.

It's only been a few months, but your feelings for Coriolanus Snow run deep. Many will call you a fool for falling into the claws of first love, but it's a mistake you must make on your own.

If anyone is to take your firsts, it'll be Coriolanus.

"Do you want me to stop touching you?" He asks, loosening his hold on you.

Coriolanus is ready to learn the extent of your inexperience. It's been a topic you've only briefly touched upon. Yes, you're a virgin. Has anyone touched you, though, or given you any sort of pleasure?

"No!" You exclaim too forwardly, embarrassing yourself. It spurs Coriolanus, though, as he softly grins. "I mean, no. This is okay. You can keep touching me," you say as you return his hand to its designated spot in the curve of your hips.

"Darling…" he calls, but your gaze remains on his chest as strands of hair cover your face, "Look at me."

When your eyes meet his steely blue ones, he continues, "Have you ever touched yourself?"

"Why are you asking me this?" You ask with your eyes wide and nervous.

"I just want to see how much you know and how far you want to go. I'd feel terrible if I somehow make you uncomfortable or force you into anything you don't want," he responds honestly. Keeping you close to him is his priority, and if controlling his urges is necessary, then be it.

"Oh…" you sigh. You close your eyes tightly before opening them again and responding, "Yes, I do."

"Tell me how," he says. It's not really a question but a command.

Your face burns as you disclose information that is normally private, "I, um, touch my clit."

"I see," Coriolanus nods encouragingly, squeezing your hips, "Do you think about me?" He asks teasingly, giving you a hard time.

The more he asks, the more you relax onto his body, too stuck in your head to notice.

"Sometimes," you admit with a soft smile.

Coriolanus is satisfied with your answer for now. In the future, when he asks again, he needs the answer for it to be always. He'll be halfway there by the end of the 'study date.'

"Has anybody touched you before?" It's the one question he's been most curious about.

"No," you shake your head.

Coriolanus is over the moon. His thoughts get more and more deranged with your confession as his dark side begs him to take away your innocence and corrupt you to his liking.

"Would you like me to?" He asks, grasping her jaw with two fingers to force her wandering eyes to settle on his. He hasn't even touched you properly, and you're breathing heavily. He wonders what's going on in that pretty little head of yours.

You're praising whatever god exists, thanking them for Coryo's forwardness. You don't think you could've gotten the words out otherwise.

"Yes," you answer shyly as excitement builds inside you.

With a short kiss, Coryo places you by the top of the bed, propped up by your many pillows. Your comfort is his top priority today. He wants you to come back for more, after all.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he whispers in your ear as he kisses your cheek.

Coriolanus feels your shaky breaths as he kisses down the expanse of your neck. He takes it as a good sign when you stretch it out more for him.

"Coryo," you bite back a moan when he finds your sweet spot.

He gently bites into your delicate skin, leaving a soft red mark. Coriolanus can't visibly mark you yet, or he'll cast a wrong impression on your father. So, he settles for red flowers that will disappear by morning.

His fingers expertly unbuttoned the crisp white blouse of the university's uniform. He lifts his head briefly to look at the pale pink bra that deprives him of your breasts. It's pretty and innocent, like you.

"You're beautiful, darling," he says when he spots your nervous eyes waiting for his approval.

Dipping down once more, he mouths the mounds of your breasts, leaving wet kisses on your skin. Coriolanus wraps his mouth over the cups of your bra, teasing you, introducing you to his touch.

Sitting up, he helps you shrug off the white blouse. He kisses you to distract you from his hands that wrap around you, unclasping the bra. He's pleasantly surprised with the neediness you kiss him with. Poor thing must've been wanting this for a while.

Coriolanus pushes you back down with his weight, never breaking the kiss. He slides your bra off and throws it into a corner of the room. Pulling away, he looks at your bare chest, licking his lips lustfully.

You deprive him of the sight when you insecurely cross your arms to cover yourself. It peeves Coriolanus to no end. Surely, you must know what a sight you are.

"Don't cover yourself, darling. You're beautiful," he says, grabbing one of her hands and kissing her palm.

"T-thank you," you stutter out, letting your other arm fall to the side.

Coriolanus finds it precious how polite you are to him. How compliant you act with a couple of kind words from him. That's just how he likes it.

Coriolanus begins with a simple touch. He traces a path down your neck with the pad of his finger, trailing it across your skin and up the swell of your breasts. He circles the stiffening peak of your nipple, giving it a cheeky tug.

He's happy with the moan that falls from your lips despite him barely doing anything. Taking it up another notch, he leans his head down to latch onto your nipple, the fat of your breast filling his mouth.

Coriolanus releases a moan of his own as his tongue flicks over your nipple, and you arch your back into it. However, he's unhappy with the lack of contact from you.

Reaching for one of your hands, he places it on the back of his head, urging you to touch him. This is only fun if you want to touch him as much as he wants to touch you.

One hand digs into his hair, and the other wraps around his back. Coriolanus goes back and forth between one breast and the other, incorporating new things for you. Kissing, sucking, pinching, squeezing, biting. He's confident he's made the right choice with you when you respond beautifully to one of his bites.

"Yes, Coryo, more," you whine and beg when he tugs on your nipple with his teeth. For that, he leaves a pretty purple bruise on your chest. A reward for himself.

"That's it, darling. Don't hold your pretty moans from me any longer," Coriolanus purrs, finding your red-bitten lips.

Coriolanus involuntarily ruts into you when you slip your tongue into his mouth. His girl was turning bolder by the minute; all she needed was to be touched.

No one can shake the innocence off you as you moan and widen your eyes when you feel his hard cock press into you. Coriolanus is straining against his trousers and has been for a while now. This whole situation is a fantasy come to life and it makes him throb.

He must control himself. He cares about you greatly, and with that level of care comes control. Control over himself and you. Three years ago, he failed to control himself, and he failed to control Lucy Gray. He can't afford to make the same mistake. There is more at stake now.

Realistically, Coryo has barely touched you, and you're a needy mess. There is heat coursing through your body that is settling in between your legs. Your panties stick to you with your arousal, making you fidgety.

Reminds you of your clenched thighs whenever he's near. How you've abused your clit thinking about Coriolanus and his affectionate ways that are reserved solely for you.

"Coryo, please," you beg, cupping his face in your hands.

"Tell me what you want," Coriolanus pointedly says. He enjoys your innocence, but he wants to taint it so desperately. He needs to hear you talk dirty words in his ear.

"Touch me," you say, pressing your lips against his.

Coriolanus keeps his hands firmly on your waist, not giving into your pleas until you speak clearly, "Where do you want me to touch you, darling?"

"Please, touch my-my cunt," you stutter your words as your face burns again. You hide your face in his neck, brushing your lips delicately against it.

You're the complete opposite of him. Soft when he's rough. Innocent when he's wicked. Quiet when he's outspoken. What a perfect pair you make.

You gasp when he feels you through your wet panties. Coriolanus traces up and down your covered slit, teasing you. You're moaning into his neck, his foreign touch overwhelming you.

With a kiss to your temple, Coriolanus sits up between your spread thighs. He lifts your skirt, bunching it on your middle, preferring to leave it on your body. Your center is exposed to him, the wet patch on your matching panties clearly visible to his eyes.

You watch him as he bites his lips and rubs his hands up and down your thighs. He's preparing, reminding himself to keep his shit together. If it were up to him, he'd be fucking you silly.

"Let's take these off, yeah?" Coriolanus slips your ruined panties off your legs without waiting for your response. He kisses up your ankle to your knee as he settles between your thighs.

Your thigh is next as he nears your wet center. Your arousal glistens as it clings to your pussy lips. You look down at Coryo, propped up on your elbows.

"Darling, why don't you show me how you do it?" He asks, amused.

When you make no move, he grabs your hand and places it between your legs, encouraging you, "It's just you and I."

"Okay, Coryo," you whisper.

Biting your lips, you press your middle finger on your pink pearl. It's still safely hidden between your lips. Coriolanus observes how your cunt reacts to you circling your clit. Thick clear liquid drips from your opening, and he catches how you gather some of it to spread on your reddening clit.

The closer you get to your peak, the faster you go, your index finger joining your middle finger as you broaden your movements. Your head is thrown back with whines that join the 'shlick, shlick, shlick' of your wet cunt.

Coriolanus forces himself out of his trance of seeing you play with yourself from up close. He hadn't caught himself talking you through it, speaking lewd words to make you cum. Quick as a snake, he grabs your wrist to stop you.

"Coryo, no. Why'd you make me stop?" You whine, lifting your head back up.

"I'm not done with you just yet," he responds sternly, releasing your wrist. Today you'll only cum around his fingers.

"Oh?"

Coriolanus dips his finger between the lips of your cunt, gathering your arousal in his finger. He's finally touching you like you asked. He taps on your clit that's peeking out of its hood, making you lightly flinch at the suddenly burst of pleasure.

"Have you ever fingered yourself?" He shamelessly asks before he attempts to slip a finger into you.

"No, it feels uncomfortable," you respond, figuring out where this is going.

Coriolanus holds back a smile. It's like he'd won the lottery and gained this beautiful, pure creature, untouched by anyone. You're his to taint to his image so you always remember his touch.

"Will you let me give it a try?" He pretends to ask. If you say no, he'll still try to convince you.

"Mhm," you hum, "Be gentle."

"Always," Coriolanus quips, locking eyes with you.

Coriolanus coats his middle finger with your arousal before he pushes his finger in. He circles your clit to get you to relax due to your constant tense state.

"I need you to relax for me," he speaks up, kissing the inside of her thigh. Taking a couple of deep breaths, you finally soften, "There we go, princess."

Coriolanus distracts you by swiping his fingers up and down your slit, so you don't know when he plans to slip it in. Finally, his middle finger dips into your opening, parting your walls. "So fucking tight," he groans when he finds your walls want to push him right out.

You let out a shaky gasp when you feel his long finger breach your entrance. It's been years since you last tried. It doesn't hurt, to your surprise, but there is a particular feeling of your cunt accommodating his finger.

"I'm sorry," you quickly apologize, biting onto the back of your hand when he tentatively starts pushing his finger in and out.

"It's nothing to be sorry about. It's a good thing," he reassures you. His cock will feel so snug when he fucks you for the first time. He's hit a gold mine with you.

Your walls squeeze his finger like a vice, and he finds himself reminding you to try and relax. Carefully he pumps his finger in and out, light clicking noises coming from the wetness of his finger and your cunt.

Slowly your expression of discomfort morphs into one of pleasure, aided by his thumb on your clit. Curving his finger, Coriolanus searches for that spot inside of you. He knows he's got it when you moan out his name and fall back on the bed, grabbing an old teddy bear from your bed and biting into it. You're dripping on his hand.

It's so much he debates on adding another finger. He has to be careful, though. You're so tight, and he wishes to reserve the thin barrier of your innocence for his cock to push through. There's no doubt it'll tear with the size of his cock.

A token of that much value should be taken properly and not in a flurry of lust. Girls like you have been taught to take care of it until the right man comes along and Coriolanus is confident you feel that way toward him.

God, his cock is so fucking hard. He must be leaking pre. Desperately, Coriolanus rolls his hips on your mattress to relieve some of the tension. This is your doing, and you're not aware of how much you're torturing him.

Coriolanus tries to push his pointer finger into your cunt, but it proves difficult, especially when you flinch away and grab his wrist to stop him.

"Stop, it hurts, Coriolanus," you cry and try to wiggle away. One finger is enough for you. It's far more than you could ever do on your own.

But Coriolanus doesn't like being told what to do, and he hates it, especially when people he considers close call him by his full name.

"I'm sorry, darling. I'll be gentle, but you have to let me if you ever want to take my cock," Coriolanus reminds you sweetly.

"Promise me," you say with a blush caused by his crude words. He's right. After today, you'll surely want him to go all the way with you, and neither will have the patience to go as slowly as today.

"I promise. Here, bend your legs. It should be better." Coriolanus arranges you in such a way were your pretty cunt is fully exposed to him, spreading to reveal your pink and tight opening. He kneels between your legs, rubbing your clit. "Remember to relax."

Coriolanus starts all over again, circling your pretty clit and fucking one finger into you. Once you close your eyes, losing yourself in the pleasure, he grabs hold of your thigh to keep you in place and pushes the tip of his second finger.

He ignores your complaints and rubs your clit more furiously, subduing your pain and replacing it with toe-curling pleasure. He thrusts shallowly until your cunt gives way for him to slip the two fingers entirely.

"Good girl, see, that wasn't so bad," he says in a slightly mocking tone you don't catch.

"Thank you, Coryo," you moan as your hand reaches to the one on your thigh.

Fuck, you sure know how to feed into his ego. He's heard that phrase so many times when he helps you with your homework. How will he keep his cock in his pants when you say that to him in the university library?

He fucks you steadily with his fingers adding a little force to make your tits jiggle. You hold onto the teddy bear, moaning softly. It's so easy to tell when you're about to cum like this. Your walls squeeze him so tightly he believes you'll push him out.

"You're going to cum, darling?" Coriolanus asks you, pulling you out of your bubble.

"Yes," you sob. This orgasm feels so different from your other ones. Like it comes from deep within. Maybe it's the penetration of Coriolanus's fingers, or perhaps it's just him doing all the work that does it for you.

"Let me hear you," he spits out as he curls his fingers more, hitting the spongy spot inside of you over and over again till the sound of your juices squelching echoes in the room.

"Coryo, Coryo, Coryo," you gasp, repeating his name with a cry and holding tightly onto his free hand.

He keeps fucking you through your orgasm, his fingers and hand wet with your cum. You nudge him with your foot when it's too much, your words jumbled in your tongue.

You lay limp on the bed, body flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. Your hair sticks to your forehead, and your skirt is wrinkled and skewed on your midsection. You believe you look like an outright mess, but to Coriolanus, you couldn't look more perfect than in that moment.

As he removes his fingers from your fluttering hole, a string of cum stretches between his fingers and your cunt. Impulsively, he brings them up to his lips to taste you.

"Coryo, no, what?" You pipe up, embarrassed.

"Mmm," he hums in pleasure. He's on the verge is saying fuck it and fucking you tonight. You taste so divine he wants to get in between your pretty thighs to clean you all up, "Have you never tasted yourself?"

"No, I've never thought to," you murmur, scrunching your nose.

"You taste good," Coryo says, plunging his fingers into you again, making you whine from oversensitivity. "Try it."

Not giving you a choice, he presses his index and middle fingers to your lips. You part them slowly, dipping your head to take them into your mouth. The ring on Coriolanus's middle finger clicks against your teeth. You look at Coryo as you suck them, searching for his approval.

"Good, right?" He asks when he pulls his fingers back.

You shyly nod, surprised by your behavior. Your trust in Coryo is so immense that you don't question his actions. Anything he'd ask you would do.

Coriolanus smiles widely, cupping your face to kiss you. He's proud of you and of your progress today. He's happy to have someone to mold to his needs as well.

He's complacent at the moment, seeing you act shy, and he has no problem being delicate, either. Still, a part of him can't wait to have you in his grasp to properly bite and squeeze and spank to his desires. To have you teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure along with him.

"Coryo?" You call for him as he stands from the bed. You grab his hand, pulling him back down.

"Yes, darling? Is there something wrong?" Coriolanus questions, scanning your body for any discomfort.

"I want to…" You want to touch him. His hard-on is clearly visible on his red pants, and you would be a liar if you said you weren't curious as to how it looks.

"To what…" He wonders. You point down to his crotch, where you can make out the outline of his erection. "You want to suck my cock?"

"Yes, I want to make you feel good," you nod with your puppy dog eyes, and he has to will himself to say no. It's a difficult task when you're desperate to fall into his hands.

"My darling girl, don't worry about me. We'll get around to it another day. It's late," he softly chuckles, kissing your cheek. You've run out of time, soon your parents will be home. They probably don't want to find you being fucked by your boyfriend. "I promise you can help me next time, yeah?"

"Promise," you smile.

His eyes flicker to your lips to memorize them. He'll be sure to picture them tonight when he's fucking his fist. He thinks you'll be a good little cocksucker because of the way you eagerly sucked on his fingers earlier.

If not, he'll teach you.

Who knew he'd become a mentor of sorts once again.

*sips tea* thank you for reading! i really hope you liked it!

*starts choking on blood* damn it coriolanus, not again! before i go just know i'm working on ways to destress part 2! i will be back, this is not the end! *head thumps on the table*

[happysharkintensifies]

Booktok makes me sick, not just because of all the shitty books. It's the prevalence, no, the celebration, of toxic masculinity. Every single booktok book features some variation on the same man. And without fail, against all sensible reason, these characters are portrayed as handsome and charismatic and desirable.

It makes me sick when these authors hold up these toxic, predatory traits and put them on a pedestal as some kind of Ideal Man.

It makes me sick when their aggressiveness and possessiveness is treated as romantic. It makes me sick when these shitty men forcibly grab women, invade their personal spaces, and render them helpless by 'purring' in their ears, every. single. fucking. time.

It makes me sick that these misogynistic, heteronormative, and hypermasculine social conventions keep appearing in so-called feminist literature.

Strip away the idealized elements and you have what is basically the rich, white, cishet, alpha-male archetype. He's tall, usually six feet, physically fit and muscular with obligatory six pack abs, and conventionally handsome, with a chiseled jawline. He's usually clean-shaven, and any hair he may have on his body is minimal. He maintains composure at all times and rarely shows anxiety or uncertainty. He exudes raw charisma and charm and navigates social spaces effortlessly.

His hobbies, if he has any, are stereotypically masculine. When it comes to sex, he's confident, skilled, exclusively dominant, and always knows what to do without communicating with his partner. The sex he enjoys is usually rough, animalistic and overpowering. He may have been with several women in the past, and he may be regarded as a sex god, both in-universe and out.

His toxic traits are rarely portrayed as negative. But when they are, they're usually held up as some edgy, anti-hero persona and the reader is inevitably manipulated into sympathizing with him. He'll be portrayed as a tortured, wounded animal, and his female love interest (and, by proxy, the reader) will decide on some variation of 'I can fix him'.

He is essentially the unrealistic standard the ideal Proper Man; the one that men are expected to emulate, and that women are expected to swoon over.

But what really irks me is the lost potential.

If there are men who don't fit into this mold, they are depicted as pathetic, ineffectual, or any number of negative traits.

The narrative quietly and passive-aggressively mocks them and portray them as boring and un-sexy.

After all, is this the kind of man who will bravely swoop in and sweep a helpless woman off her feet? Of course not. Such men are boys. Wimps. Cowards.

These books are supposed to be fantasy: a genre in which easily anything can be explored. If faeries, magic, and contrived mating bonds can exist, then why can't we also have male characters who exist outside the stereotypical, hypermasculine mold?

Why is it that we can have so many fantastical, impossible, and wondrous magical forces, creatures, and peoples, but we can't have men who aren't possessive, abusive, or controlling?

Why is it that male characters, have to be so innately dominant, abusive, and violent? Why do they have to be so fit and muscular and strong?

Even worse, why is it treated as something that is so natural, so inescapable, even in the realm of fiction?

Where are the men who aren't tall and fit? Where are the men who don't have sculpted abs or chiseled jawlines? Where are the men who aren't lean and muscular?

Why can’t we have men who are skinny or overweight? Why can't we have men who aren't handsome or attractive, but just average looking? Why can't we have men who are shorter or just average height?

Why can't we have men with non-stereotypical hobbies? Why can't we have men who love to read, or paint, or write, or sing, or dance, or build model kits?

Why can’t we have men who are timid and shy? Why can't we have men who feel anxiety, fear, and sadness? Why can't we have men who aren't afraid of crying openly?

Why can't we have men who aren't sex gods? Why can't we have men who aren't confident in bed? Who are anxious, or even scared, at the prospect of sex? Who are passive instead of dominant? Who want to experience intimacy and affection?

Why can’t we have men be kind and gentle and sweet for once?

I'll tell you why we can't. Because booktok says men like these are not 'man' enough. Booktok says men like these are the 'boring' option, and completely devoid of interesting quirks, traits or personality. Booktok says men like these are underserving of attention, and only fit to be background noise.

As far as booktok is concerned, men like these can't exist.

[j0eyj0rdis0n]

I don’t know how to say this but I am in love with your polyproxies. Your writing is so well thought out and amazing I AM BEGGING FOR MORE. I’ll do anything! You’re amazing btw

Hi love!! I’m so glad you like it! I’ve honestly been having a really hard time getting motivation to write smut so I hope this will do! You’re absolutely amazing too!! 🖤🖤

POLY PROXIES PT.2

Fandom: Creepypasta

Plot: None just poly with the proxies 🫡

Warnings: SMUT, face fucking, cum swallowing, recording, unprotected sex, creampie, oral female receiving, nutting on the readers face 😎

Fucked brainless, that’s what you were. Taking them all so well whenever they wanted. You were theirs and they let you know it. They loved the way you took them without complaint. Letting Toby abuse your mouth and Tim twist you into whatever dirty position he wanted you.

You know… Tim doesn’t exactly take lightly to complaints. So when you tell him “yes sir” it’s like music to his ears.

Currently Brian’s sits in the chair on the opposite side of the room, slowly stroking his throbbing cock. His video camera in his other hand, which currently, is zoomed in on your drooling mouth as Toby goes to town. The boy was fucking your mouth like an animal in heat. Like he hadn’t gotten his rocks off in months. And you, being so damn good, were taking him so well.

Toby’s desperate moans and sinful whines filled the small bedroom as he absolutely abused your mouth. He could barely open his eyes to watch you he was so washed away by the bliss that was slowly building inside him.

“Yes! Yes- F-fuuuuck-“ Toby cried out desperately only taking two more harsh thrusts for him to come undone. His hot seed slid easily down your throat as he collapsed next to you on the bed. His chest was heaving and his mind so clouded he couldn’t do anything but hold your limp hand as Tim fucked you further into oblivion.

Brian focused the camera on your pretty pink pussy that he was so desperate to get a taste of. He watched Tim with envious eyes, watching as your hole happily invited his cock in. He watched as your slick ran down the insides of your thighs, seeing the shine against Tim’s lower abdomen. He could barely wait for his own turn.

Tim let out low grunts and growls with every thrust, praising you for being so so good for him.

“Damn sweetheart, your pussy wants me to come fast huh?” He groaned out as his head rolled back.

He loved the way you squeezed around him, like your tiny hole was desperate for more. More of his deliciously thick cock that filled you up just the right way to have your toes curling. 

“So pretty for me too~” He harshly grabbed your jaw, pulling you up to meet him so he could catch your lips in a deep kiss. His strong arms made holding you in the complex position look easy. His large fingers found their way to your mouth, replacing his soft lips and prodding you to suck them like the dumb little bitch you were.

You felt his thrusts getting sloppy, or at least you thought so, honestly your mind wasn’t processing much more than the ecstasy you were feeling.

His grunts slowly turned into low moans as he finished inside of you. He pulled out slowly, replacing his cock with his thick fingers, stuffing your pretty hole and making sure not a drop could escape. He motioned with his head for Brian to come closer, finally letting him have his turn.

Brian couldn’t even keep the camera still as he jumped up and raced over to have you. He pushed Tim out of the way, handing him the camera which Tim grumpily focused on the scene that would unfold in front of him. Brian practically jumped at the chance to taste you, taste your slick and Tim’s seed combined. With one long stripe of his tongue he already had you whining, your pretty thighs about suffocating him.

But god did he love it. He loved how close you made him just by crushing him with your perfect thighs. And on top of how absolutely delectable you tasted?? He could die happy now.

He held your thighs apart just enough to give him breathing room as he attacked your clit with kisses and licks. He absolutely loved how he could get your thighs to shake when he pulled away just before you were about to come. Once, twice, three times, four times. By the time he had finally let you finish you were on the verge of passing out. Cute tears in your eyes, thighs shaking, and sobs wracking your body.

Oh how it was too much for you to get used by the three men around you. It made them all laugh how ruined you looked.

“Come on pretty, give me a lick.” Brian smirked as he got up, putting his cock inches from your swollen lips. “Come on, I know you got it in ya’.”

Being so good like always, you took his length in your mouth, tears falling as you did as he asked. Brian ripped the camera from Tim’s hands, putting it in your face to get a nice close up angle. Watching through the viewfinder it didn’t take long at all for him to finish. How absolutely filthy you were being was just the icing on the cake for him. He let his load go right on your pretty face, painting you just how he wanted before he turned the camera off and put it down on the side table.

Toby happily licked your face, ‘cleaning’ you up and giving you a sloppy kiss right after. Brian laid on your right, giving you a soft forehead kiss, silently letting you know how good you did.

“Toby you know your place.” Tim grumbled, pushing him off the bed and taking his place next to you on the left.

With an irritated glare to Tim, Toby helped put your shorts on and took his place in-between your thighs, resting his head.

[creepy-friday]

Bad Habits[Creepypasta]

Warnings: blood,violence,drugs and suggestive content

Jeff

Renewing his permanent smile whenever he feels he's getting better.Misery became his comfort.

"I'm getting better at it" he scoffed walking past you as you raised an eyebrow."I swear" a whisper not reaching your ears.

Toby

Hours of sitting in front of a screen watching people fuck each other.Pleasure might make him feel something yet the routine started to scare him.

"Nothing else is new." he stated as his head hit his hands.

Hoodie

Looking at old photos.There is a spark of hope in them,in the eyes of those faceless people,in the eyes of the boy he once was.He even had scribbled quotes on the back of them.

"Broken photos make the best pictures frames" a smile formed on his face as the man gestured to his camera.

Masky

Drugs.He has an appetite for feeling dizzy and faded whenever he has the time to.Overdosing on whatever he has and mixing it with personality switches.

"Are you fucking high again?" you asked him in a serious manner.

"Almost reaching Heaven" he dry laughed,knowing damn well.

EJ

Watching brutal gore videos whenever he feels the need to feel less bad about himself.m and about his actions.

"Perhaps all demons are human" he stated.

"All humans are demons". you shrugged.

[ohtobeleah]

Damn You Seresin // Jake Seresin

Summary: After a near fatal car accident sends Jake into a coma, you come to terms with the fact that saying goodbye was always going to be tough. No matter the situation.

Warnings: Character Death. Crush injuries. Car accident. Jake Seresin x female reader.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author Note: Day Thirteen of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: Crushed. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Although Jake Seresin was a bit of a risk taker in the sky–he was, if anything, one of the safest drivers on planet earth. He never ran red lights or forgot to look at stop signs. He gave way, checked his blind spots, always drove the speed limit and never, ever drove without his seatbelt on. 

He got his Ford F-150 serviced whenever it was due, he rotated his tiers and changed his oil. He took care of his truck and others on the road hoping that good karma would come back his way and keep him just as safe. 

But it wasn't enough. You got the devastating call on Saturday night. You'd been up late working on your thesis for genetically enhanced proteins. The pros, the cons, the effects. It had been a long night, but any minute you were expecting Jake to pull up in the drive. You were expecting him to come through the front door smiling, ready to take you in his arms and carry you up the stairs. You were ready to hear all about Roosters antics and Fanboys latest obsessions. You were ready to fall asleep soundly in your fiance’s arms like you had done a hundred times before and would do a hundred times more if given the chance. 

But Jake never came home. Although Jake Seresin was a careful driver, it just wasn't enough for the drunk driver who had come around the corner at one hundred miles an hour and smashed into his truck head on. Crushing him entirely. 

“It would have been better if he died in the crash—“ You’d been at Jake's side ever since he’d been out of his many many surgeries. He was barely alive–but there was always hope. “He’d be just as dead, but you wouldn’t be feeling like this.”

The doctor who was speaking barely sounded audible, you couldn't focus on anything but the plethora of machines that were keeping Jake, your darling boy, alive. Just barely. It had been just a week and you missed him to a height that you never thought you could miss someone. He was right there, right in front of you, yet he was a world away. Gone. 

“This way, he died in slow motion.”

“He’s not dead–” You hissed as you gripped your fiance's hand just a little tighter, trying to will him to wake up. Rooster all but let out a sob as he crossed his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. Sure, you were Jake's Medical Proxy– but Bradley was your person. He knew you almost better than Jake did. He knew you knew that it was the end of the line–you just couldn't be the one to make that call. 

“Y/n, just listen alright–you don't have to make a decision right now–but, just listen to what she has to say.” At Bradleys request, you listened to the doctor who spoke almost monotone. Rooster came to stand beside you with his hands on your shoulders comfortingly. He just wanted you to be alright, he always promised Hangman that if anything ever happened–he’d take care of you. Bradley always thought Jake would go out in a burning fire ball of Jet fuel, he never once thought he’d be taken by a drunk driver. There one minute…gone the next. 

“On Monday his heart ruptured and they repaired it but on Tuesday, his lungs collapsed. By Thursday his kidneys failed and the sepsis and infection took three more days to kill his brain.” It was hard to hear a timeline of the father of your unborn child’s medical conditions laid out so clearly—but you needed to hear it to clear the delusional fog that was keeping you from seeing the bigger picture. 

“Okay, alright so we give his body time to rest and he’ll pull through, right?” The room was completely still besides the monitors beeping rhythmically. The doctor, Annabella Davis, just shook her head in response as Bradleys grip on your shoulders tightened. 

“Y/n—if Jake had died in the car accident by the side of the road, if you had seen him zipped up in a bag and driven off, he would be every bit as gone as he is right now—but you would know it.” It was almost as hard to hear as the voice that echoed in your memory from that phone call. That call that changed your life forever. “And you can take some comfort in that. I didn’t know him like you did but I would imagine he would have wanted you to have that comfort.” 

Jake was meant to live a long happy life– but here he was, crushed to death by some drunk driver in the car he took care of so that it would take care of him. None of it made any sense to you. Why him? Why you? Why would your child that you only found out about a week ago, grow up without a father, without a dad who loved them dearly and so tenderly. Jake would have been a great dad—he always said he was scared to be anything like his own, but sitting beside his body, broken and bruised, you wished he knew about the life the two of you had created. 

“I love him so much.” But you didn't want him to suffer anymore than he already had. At this point you were just keeping him on life support for your own benefit. You didn't want to let go–until you looked around and took in all the machines that were keeping your fiance breathing. All the machines that were assisting him, pumping his blood, breathing for him. There was no brain activity. Jake Seresin was gone and had been since you first got to his side. He waited that long, just to see you one last time. To say goodbye. To forever remember your beautiful face. 

“Bring me the papers—“ Now it was your turn to say goodbye, to let go. To start a life without Jake Seresin in it. Something you thought you'd never have to do. All because of a drunk driver. “He doesn't need to be in pain anymore.” The tears had begun and you weren't sure if they would ever stop. “Bring me the papers please, Doctor Davis.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~*

“Is that–everything?” You asked softly as you stepped towards Jake's hospital bed. The nurses had just finished taking Jake off all the machines that kept him alive. No pain relief, no support. He was just simply him. He looked so peaceful all things considered. 

“Uh yes—yes that’s everything.” Doctor Davis confirmed as she pressed her lips into a fine line.  “It's just a matter of time now.” 

“Okay.” You sighed, taking a seat beside the love of your life for the final time. His hand was cold, unlike all the other times. He was fading. 

“Damn you Seresin, damn you.” Bradley stayed off to the side. He didn’t want to leave you alone but he respected your sorrow enough to give you space. He just wanted to be there—again, just in case you needed him. He had promised Hangman he’d be there, for everything. 

“This is why it took me three fucking years to tell you that I loved you and another three years before I moved in with you.” A small, barely audible chuckle crept through the tears and sadness in your voice as you watched the rise and fall of Jake's chest. He was breathing, but barely. 

“You always thought I was scared of commitment. Scared to commit.” You were a wreck, but you knew that in Jake's final moments you wanted it to be your voice that carried his spirit away. You wanted to be the guiding light for his soul like he had been yours here on earth. “But no honey, no it was never that—it was because I was scared of this, I was scared of just how much I loved you.” 

Bradley Bradshaw had never seen such a love burn as deep and true the way you and Jake Seresin loved one another. Sure he always thought his parent’s relationship was the peak of love. But then there was you and Hangman. And nothing could compare. 

“I was scared of the feeling that I’d never be able to find happiness without you. That’s what I was so scared of Jake. I was scared of this.” In those few seconds where Jake's body completely stilled, you knew he was gone. Your husband was gone and you were all alone. Left to live a life without the one man you never wanted to live without. He was your best friend, your husband, your partner in crime, the father of your child. 

And he was just gone. Without any reason to explain the fact that he was on his way home to you when he was hit, when he was taken from you. When you’d lost the love of your life. 

“Oh my god, damn you.” 

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~**

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

so you wnat BEN DROWNED requests eh? well I can send one in for you since I’ve really enjoyed your writing since you wrote that one conchita fic🔥 so I might as well request one if you’d like, i hope you aren’t getting annoyed with me or anything😭 so….

May I request(platonically)Ben Drowned with a Male! or GN! Parent-like! reader who has a Kayo Sudou Personality from The Evillious Chronicles? i also have her song right here if you’d like to take a listen to it^^ also there’s this one too apparently if you’d like!

Also if you could I would like Jane the killer and possibly Slenderman too^^ THANJS!! HEHHEE

and that’s her😭😭 SHE LOOKS SO AMAZING EHENNS

Aaaa dont worry i could never be annoyed by requests!

Thank you so much for requesting!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Creeps with a Kayo Sudou!Male!Parent-like!Reader

Ben drowned

Ben definetly needs a parent in his life

The boy lives off of mountain dew and doritos

HE PEES IN BOTTLES PLEASE HELP HIM

The minute you are in his life you immediately clean up his entire room while he is out on a mission

It goes from greasy man cave to spick and span in the blink of an eye

You even sew him up some nice blankets and hoodies

To replace the ones that were so caked in sweat and filth that you HAD to throw away

There were no saving those things

When he gets back, the firsr thing he wants to do is plop into his chair and get back onto the game he was working on before he left

But as he turns the doorknob and peers inside, his jaw drops

His stuff!!!

Where did it all go???

And why does it not reek of sweat and socks for once???

You come up behind him and place a hand on his shoulder

"I see you've found your room. Absolutely speechless, are you? I knew you would like it!"

Yeah, the neat and tidy room he once had goes back to greasy man cave in about a week

And you are forever banned from his room for what you did <33

You practically massacred him after you threw out his huge load of snacks

Slenderman

He is seen as a fatherly figure around the mansion as well, so he understands the struggle as well as the happiness

He finds it a huge relief to have your help around the mansion from time to time

While he is still technically your boss, you do have moments where you two just get to talk to each other

Sharing silly stories about the antics you both get into helps relieve a lot of stress

You even get to stay up past curfew to walk with him in the woods a bit, just to get put of the house

And you are one of his most trusty seamstresses

If he needs work done fast, he knows to go to you

One time he had a suit that would have been well beyond repair to anyone else, but you

You fixed it up in a few seconds

It astounds him every time

You also get along quite well with Trenderman too

He'll occasionally pop into the mansion, ignoring everyone welcoming him in as he hurriedly shouts "Where's y/n!"

Most of the time it is one of his iconic "fashion disasters"

Something that greatly ruins a piece, such as a tear, stain, etc

You always are the first person he goes to

And you always figure out a way to help him everytime

Jane the Killer

Jane doesn't talk to you much, but when you do talk, it is always pleasent

After talking to you a few times during some 2am passing conversations in the kitchen, she invites you to one of the "C dorm's" hangout sessions

These meetings consist of Liu, Jane, Helen and E.J

And now, you!

Most of the time, it is just a bunch of chatter around some snacks and drinks (usually either wine or tea)

But occassionally, there will be a theme

For example, one week they all read the same book and next time they hung out, they all disscussed the book

You were roped into one of the miscellaneous hangout sessions where they all just talked together

It was a very nice time, but after about an hour and a half, you noticed something that ticked you off

The pillow Jane was holding had a rip in the corner, the stuffing falling out

"Hey Jane, how long has your pillow been like that?" You ask

She looks down at the pillow and shrugs "a while I guess. Why?"

You take the pillow from her and quickly sew it up, before giving it back "there."

She looks at it with a soft "woah"

She gives you a smile "thanks!"

This turned out to be a mistake, because you now find yourself sewing the groups tears up all the time

One of Jack's tarps tore, you were there

Helen's canvas ripped, you were there

Liu's stitch across his nose came loose, and you were there

The entire group appreciates you, especially Jane

You've helped her create some oretty snazzy outfits

[arcielee]

Peace Beneath the City

Summary: Years have gone by and you receive a familiar visitor. Paring: Osferth x Female!Reader Word Count: 3052 Warnings: Smutty smut, we got season 5 Osferth coming in with the d that they were fighting over, oral (female receivng), p in v. 18+ MINORS DNI. Author’s Note: Thank you @aspen-carter​​ for being my beloved beta reader, seriously you all would unfollow my ass if I posted without her sage insight. Anyway, here is part 2 of Silver Coins as per the poll I posted! It’s smutty, it’s sweet, it’ll pull at your heartstrings (maybe). Enjoy! ♥  Dividers by @jaysdividers​ Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @sirenofavalon​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy @eddiemadmunson​ @schniiipsel​ @aaaaaamond​​ @tssf-imagines​​

The old man who owned the alehouse was considered a philanthropist for the growing city, an elder in this regard who would help with the affairs. You thought yourself fortunate that he was always kind to you and the other girls, with a sense of kinship for the mismatched gathering beneath the roof.

When he passed and it was known he had no children of his own, it brought forward a slew of greedy claimants who tried to take ownership of the tavern and by proxy the whorehouse below.

This was when you and the girls dared to step forward, bringing your combined silver saved from the years and demanded ownership, demanded your freedom and for the right to own yourselves. 

Their response was the threat of riots, their reverberation for violence rolled throughout the city and promptly died at the feet of Lord Uhtred and his men. Perhaps it was luck, or maybe the mercy of the gods, that they happened to arrive that day, intrigued by the city brimming with chaos. Lord Uhtred was quick to remind them of the faithful peonage served and how it should be rightfully rewarded with ownership; he then continued to boast of the sound mind you possessed and his faith for you to take on this vacant role. 

Most importantly, he told them that if they decided to keep the tavern still, that you, as well as the other women who rallied behind, would leave the city and return with them to Coccham. 

Your face was flushed and you had no words as you watched the title be signed to your name.

That night was a celebration for the new era in the city of Gloucester. The cups brimmed with ale and you were able to find Osferth in the crowd; it had been several months since the last night you spent with him and you felt the warmth pool between your thighs at the sight of him. You were bold to seat yourself in his lap and table cheered when you wrapped your arm around his neck and pulled him in with a soft kiss; he grinned with your affection. 

He stayed with you that night and it was just as sweet as before with his same eagerness to please you. He was adamant to practice your trade secrets and you adored him for being quick to learn, responsive with your soft moans and hums for direction. 

You had been heartsore to see him leave and you declared that they were forever welcomed within the city walls. It was a new day to embrace new responsibilities and the decree let it be known that you and your own were protected by Lord Uhtred. 

The city of Gloucester was on the apex of the river Severn, at the cusp of Mercia and the crossroads where travelers, traders would pass back and forth from Wessex to Wéalas. You showed that you were savvy with your role and there was an unspoken accord that the city was a sanction, a place where Dane, Saxon, or other could come to trade, rest, drink, and fuck in peace. 

You became the revered Madam of the city and it began with you moving your belongings upstairs and renovating the downstairs amenities, having them cleaned and properly furnished. You were the known shrewd haggler, creating partnerships to guarantee stock, food and ale for your establishment and its residents. With the growing respect, you were able to convince space to be made and stalls created for the passerby merchants, which allowed the small economy to thrive. 

The city adored you and the peace continued, with a harmony that welcomed when Lord Uhtred returned. On this night, the tavern was thrumming with life and your eyes danced over the men, your cheeks flushed as you searched for him.

Lord Uhtred was seated at the head of one table, with his men around and some already partnered with your girls. You could see Sihtric, his hint of a smile as he drank his ale, and Finan with his cheeky grin, glowing as the ladies were vying for the attention of the handsome Irishman. 

And then you spotted him. 

There was maturity from the years that had passed. Baby monk, as you remembered Finan and Sihtric crowed, was no longer suitable for the man who entered. You noticed that his face had leaned, his features had hardened but that his cerulean blue eyes still twinkled when he saw the men. He held himself with a severe pride, his shoulders broader, perhaps from the years of fighting, but he still moved with the same grace as he weaved through the crowd and came to seat himself. 

You knew the years had changed you as well and with that thought, came that flutter of trepidation down your spine, though your steps still brought you towards where they all were now seated. Your hands were nervous and smoothed the silk of your wrap dress that hugged to your womanly curves; your curls were worn down and billowed with your walk. Your face was bare, as you no longer felt the need to paint it to appease men; in fact, you had not taken another man to your bed since the last time Osferth had been in the city and this was because…

Well, he was different. 

Despite your unease, there was also the warmth that coiled in your lower abdomen and gave a determination to your steps; you called out for their cups to be refilled and you were greeted with the uproarious response of Lord Uhtred and his men. You felt a hitch in your chest when you saw how his face glowed with his recognition, how his eyes watched you move to his side, a soft touch to his shoulder and you leaned forward to whisper in the shell of his ear, “My lord, you are welcome to stay in my bed this night, if it pleases you.” 

You watched him through your eyelashes, coy with your demeanor, and felt the flutter of pleasure as you watched the severity etched onto his features soften from your touch, how your words made him redden with your proposition. He looked into your eyes and you saw the same kindness as before, then he reached to pull you onto his lap. A giggle spilled from your lips and the men cheered even louder, drinking to good health, good fortune, and to good friends.

With the commotion, Osferth nuzzled into your neck and you felt the tickle of his lips to your ear, his voice low. “You are always a pleasure, my lady.” 

You shivered with delight at his words and there was a comfort against his chest, you felt almost girlish with how your feet almost touched the tavern floor from your seat in his lap. As the men regaled with tales of their adventures, you felt his large palm move around your waist and rest on the outside of your thigh, the gentle caress of his thumb. When you shifted your weight, you felt his hardness beneath your bottom and your cheeks grew rosy, a heat that pooled between your thighs. 

Osferth noticed the shade of red and when you looked into his eyes, his hand moved to squeeze the softness of your hip and he gave you a sly wink. 

The anticipation bullied you; it grew late and the men paired off, you were quick to slide from his lap and take his hand into your own, all but dragging him upstairs. Your face blushed again from the good natured catcalls from Finan, Sihtric, and the remaining company; your head remained high, but you stole a look to see the shy smile on his face as he followed your steps. 

Your room was cool from the night air that came through the windows, the soft flutter of fabric from the curtains you took care to hang. You turned on the ball of your foot to see him stop in the doorframe, bending over to remove his boots. 

Your hand moved to cover your smile, touched with his gesture, and he peered up at you, his face brightening with a grin of his own. He took care to set them by the door and your feet padded soft across the rugged floor; you pressed against his chest and tilted your chin up to find his lips.

They were soft and warm as you remembered; his large hands roamed your body, one that cupped the back of your neck to deepen the kiss and his other gripped into your hip. You moaned into his mouth and his tongue pressed forward to taste you, the slow motion to savor before his kisses trailed your jaw and fell to the junction of your neck. You sighed and melted flush against his chest when he nipped his teeth against your pulse, gooseflesh rippled over your skin that showed. 

“My lord,” you breathed, daring to tease him. “You kiss like a man starved.” 

He pulled back and you see the upward curl of his bow lips. “My lady,” his voice was low like before. “You, of all people, may simply call me Osferth.” 

Your eyes met with the brilliant blue of his own and you saw they still held that same genuineness as before; you reached to trace his jaw and stepped closer still, your lips finding his once again. 

His arms wrapped around the small of your waist and picked you up enough for your feet to not touch the floor; you smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck, enjoying his woodsy musk mixed with sweat and ale. 

Osferth was careful to eye the bed and his long steps brought you to the foot of it; you felt  his hold relax and once the floor was beneath you, your hands were quick to unfasten his embossed leather and help him remove the albe underneath. You stopped and allowed your eyes to wash over his matured form, the crimson returning to your cheeks.

His broad shoulders only emphasized his slender waist and there was a refined definition to his abdomen, the same tuft of hair across his chest. Your eyes looked over each healed scar that decorated him, as well as the sporadic placement of freckles from where the sun had kissed his pale skin.

That thought, the sight of him emboldened you and your touch was gentle, just a finger to trace the jagged line above his pectoral and you followed it with a kiss. He hummed his pleasure from the tickle of your lips and reached to catch under your chin, bringing your eyes to meet with his own and you see how his pupils swallowed the brilliant blue. 

“May I?” He asked and his large palms moved to rest on your hip, on the knot for your dress. He watched you, always adamant for your consent, and you smiled at him. Your hands rest on his own and you helped him untie, allowing the silk to spill onto the floor. 

It was his turn to admire you; his eyes looked over your curves, adoring how the silk chemise beneath clung to them, and widened at the sight of your nipples peaking beneath the soft fabric. 

His tongue wet his lips, your name a fervent prayer whispered and he pulled you into his arms, flushed against his bare chest and his lips tasting the curve of your neck. You made a noise that was a mixture of a giggle and a hum when his tongue trailed your collarbone, his hot mouth latched to the softness of your chest and left love bites. 

“Please, my lady,” you can feel his breath, how his lips curl with his words against your flesh. “Allow me to show you what I have been practicing.” 

Your eyebrow arched and he reached for your hem, pulling the silk over your head. You giggled again as your curls spilled onto your shoulders and you felt his large palms clasped onto your waist; there was a quick lurch when he pushed you to fall back against your bed. 

He grinned with your almost lyrical laughter, you were bright and flushed and he moved to climb on top of you, kissing every inch of you with a renewed hunger; a soft moan escaped you and his mouth moved lower, stopping only to nip at your hip bone before trailing towards your center. 

Osferth nuzzled between your thighs and you felt the blossom of blood when his tongue dragged along your wet slip, then pressed between the top folds and began to flit back and forth against your pearl. You mewled his name, gripping the bedclothes and pushing to your elbows to look down at him; your eyes fogged with pleasure and he pulled back, the dribble of spit that fell from his lips onto your cunt.  

He looked at you with a grin that dimpled his cheeks. “I find this better prepares the ladies…” but he trailed off, his focused return to move until his slender fingers touched the wetness with deliberate circles. 

Your question to the plural use of ladies died on your tongue, your head fell back against the bed with a moan to the gentle prod of his finger as if he was searching; a louder moan spilled from your mouth and you moved to muffle the sound, but his other hand caught your wrist. 

He shook his head. “It is just us,” the grin was still on his lips. “Let me know how this feels for you.” 

You were almost wanton from the pleasure that continued to build in your lower abdomen, more vocal with the second finger that curled sinfully within you. He paced himself, the momentum brought you to the precipice of your peak and then his mouth returned, suckling above your entrance. The simultaneous act had you seeing stars.

“Osferth,” you exhaled and he moved to climb on top of you, his mouth finding yours and you moaned from the taste of your release on his lips.  

You grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onto his back, your hands moved to the laces and helping him remove his breeches; he was bare and you straddled him, the slickness from your cunt trailed his cock and your palms were flat on him tensed abdomen, holding yourself as he shifted to line up with your silken folds. 

Though the stretch was not as severe as the other times, there was still the unmistakable fullness as he slowly sheathed himself into your cunt. You felt the warmth of his palms on your thighs, how they grabbed into their softness and his eyes were watchful for your response, allowing you to adjust.

You realized your fingers dug into the solid plans of his abdomen and you exhaled before you slowly began to rock your hips into him.

He relaxed with your movement, a guttural groan from the back of his throat as he reached deep within your wet heat. You clenched in response, his jaw tensed and his eyes fluttered while your own soft noises came with how he hit your sweet spot.  

His hands moved to grab your hips and the rhythm quickened, the coil in your stomach tightened with each pleasurable thrust and your cunt clenched. 

You almost whined with its abrupt stop; he pushed himself up and rolled you onto your back, with kisses that tickled your bare chest as he cradled into your hips, pushing into you once more. Your back arched, your fingernails bit into his shoulder and you sighed when his hands came to rest on your hips, rutting into you and the rhythm returned to press upon your sweet spot. 

His pace began to build towards your second release and your cunt fluttered around him; he groaned, his hand shifted and his thumb pressed against your bud with a familiarity, matching with the brutal pace of his hips. His touch was the push over, the rolling pleasure causing you to clench with your own release and he followed.

There was a tenderness in the moment, with the slouch of his posture and how it allowed his damp brow to touch against your own. You closed your eyes and enjoyed how your breaths synchronized, enjoying his woodsy musk with sex. When your heartbeat settled, you opened your eyes and he pulled back, the returned curl of his lips and a sweet kiss before he allowed you to move from beneath him.  

The basin was filled and you took care to hand him a damp cloth; he was careful to wipe himself and he laid on his side, waiting for you to return. His arm reached to pull you close, to rest your head in his chest and cuddle beneath the quilts; it was the same comfort you remember, the gentle thrum of his heart to your ear. 

After a moment, he asked, “My lady, do you ever feel we may have been destined for one another?”

This was a thought you would revisit over the years, whenever you rekindled the shared intimacy of the few nights you two had spent together. Reality always brought you back, for you knew he was damn near a nomad and driven by his bastard status to create something all his own. It was a plight you could relate to, as whoring had not been your own life’s ambition, but you had been able to create from it, a life of comfort and a kinship with the girls. 

A haven all your own. 

“I believe,” you began, your voice soft and words slow to form on your tongue. “That we all each have our destiny to follow and that we are lucky enough for our paths to cross, from time to time,” and you turned your head, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw and against his neck, savoring his scent that would linger on your sheets when he would leave you once again. “Please know that you are always welcome whenever you return.”

He did not say anything, but wrapped his arms tighter around and hummed his acknowledgement. You closed your eyes again and relaxed against him, enjoying the soft touch of his fingers as they drew circles on your backside.

arcie’s masterlist  

[creepybunny1999]

Question

I need help. Please fandom the Creepypasta, SCP foundation, and Jujutsu Kaisen.

I have come up with the best crossover.

What I need help with.

A book title (I couldn't come up with one)

A love interest for Y/N (someone in Jujutsu Kaisen)

Y/N ex (someone from Creepypasta)

Y/N back story (not how she got Slenderman blood in her, ps She bite one of the tentacles, that's how)

Ticci Toby is in the story, but instead of him being a proxy, he works at the SCP foundation.

The creepypasta fandom theorized that the SCP foundation is in the same AU, I took that idea and ran with it.

The creepypastas and SCPs are Curse Spirits.

The foundation works with the higher ups.

The foundation can be found in America within the story

The story will go back and forth from the Foundation to Jujutsu Kaisen. But the main story will take place more in Jujutsu Kaisen.

I want to make it an X reader

The reader is female. She's a proxy, goes by "Princess." Reader has Slenderman blood in her. The blood isn't activated until she wears her mask. No, she can't Teleport. No, she doesn't have tentacles come out from her back. The only thing she has of Slenderman is healing time. She heals a lot faster than a normal proxy. The creepypasta sees Slenderman as a king, and that's why the killers and other proxies give her the name Princess.

Y/N was in the foundation under the name SCP-Princess. In one of SCP-682 escapes, y/n took the time to find a way out. Once outside of the foundation, she ran all the way to Jujutsu Kaisen to take place (I don't know where that is, I want to say Tokyo, but not sure).

Y/N doesn't age. She does have curse energy, but it's not strong enough to have Jujutsu Sorcerers on her ass. Y/N is a curse spirit, but the energy of her curse doesn't show till she puts on the mask.

A high-level sorcerer can till that y/n made a deal with a strong curse spirit (who happens to be Slenderman, but they don't know that)

Y/n doesn't call him Slenderman. She calls him Master.

Y/n is cold and loyal (only loyal to Slenderman)

Y/n does show some human emotion, but it's rare to see it. (It shows more in front of children)

Because of Slenderman blood in her, she fought the feel to kill humans. Killing Curse spirits helps the feeling. (That and no missing people or mysterious murders going around)

Y/n looks human. Seen she doesn't age, she likes to be 17 or 18. (E/c eyes color h/c hair color s/c skin color) (the mask only changes her eye color)

Y/n acts human to people around her who are not Creepypasta.

Yes, Ryomen Sukuna knows about Slenderman, but he went by a different name back then. (The Faceless Walker)

Ryomen Sukuna did not get the chance to fight Slenderman. (So that would be cool to write about, a fight seen with Ryomen Sukuna vs. Slenderman, but think about it, Ryomen Sukuna would win. Ryomen Sukuna vs. Zalgo. Now that's a fight I want to see)