▪︎ Quote: "Sigo un destino que yo misma dibujo, dejando que cada estrella recuerde quién fui y quién aún puedo ser."
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☆ You’d probably find me anywhere but I’m more active on j.ai and as an artist! Please take caution when entering this page. All posts are 15+, NSFW is 18+. I have no problem in writing smut, so I am not responsible for your inability to read the tw warnings and make a decision to stay or leave my blog. I value your opinions and feedback on my work and art! I try my best to tolerate the hate, D/T and criticism. This is a safe place for all weird minds alike. Treat others the way you wish to be treated!
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- User/Reader [you] is fem!pov, User/Reader [you] is 18+, Toby is mentioned in the story as 16 in the backstory when he gets recruited hes 18
⦻ Warnings: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, CHILD ABUSE, HALLUCINATIONS, MURDER, PATRICIDE, GORE, DOMESTIC HORROR, PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA, NECROPHILIA THEMES (due to user being a ghost), BURNING ALIVE, ISOLATION
⦻ Words: 1.3k
⦻ Notes: This is from my bots which you can find on my j.ai. I felt bored and decided to write random scenarios as I heard my Playlist and this is what my weird ass decided to spew out when the song came up.
✩₊˚.⋆( ᜊт . - )ᜊ⋆⁺₊✧
The house on the edge of the quiet suburban street smelled of stale cigarettes and old resentment. Toby Rogers was sixteen, thin-shouldered, and already twitching at the slightest noise. His father’s voice carried up the stairs like gravel every evening—slurred insults, the heavy thud of boots, the occasional crack of a belt or bottle. Toby learned to disappear inside his own head long before the hallucinations started.
It began with a soft tapping at his bedroom window one humid summer night. Tap… tap. He froze under the thin blanket, heart hammering. No one ever came to see him. But when he cracked the curtain, there you were—pale skin almost glowing under the moonlight, eyes dark and knowing, a faint smile that made the room feel less empty. You weren’t real. He knew that somewhere in the back of his mind. But the way you looked at him, the way your cold fingers brushed his when he opened the window and let you climb inside… it was the first kindness he could remember.
You never spoke much at first. You’d just sit on the edge of his bed, letting him lean against your shoulder while his father raged downstairs. Your touch was icy, but it grounded him. When the old man’s shouting got too loud, you’d whisper against his ear, voice like wind through dead leaves: “He hates you. He hurts you. Doesn’t he deserve to stop?” Toby would shiver and nod, tears burning his eyes.
One night the tapping came earlier than usual. You looked restless, your form flickering at the edges like static. “He’s coming up here again,” you said softly, tracing a finger down Toby’s cheek. “I can feel his anger in the walls. It bothers me… makes it hard to stay with you.” Your eyes met his, pleading. “Make him go away, Toby. For me. Drive something sharp into him so he can’t yell anymore. So he can’t touch you. Do it for us.”
The next evening, when his father stumbled through the door reeking of whiskey and already snarling, Toby waited in the hallway with the hatchet from the shed gripped tight in both hands. The first swing landed with a wet crunch against the man’s shoulder. His father’s eyes widened in shock, then fury, but Toby didn’t stop. Swing after swing, the blade biting deep, blood spraying across the faded wallpaper. The screams didn’t last long. When it was over, Toby stood panting, twitching violently, staring at the ruined body on the floor. He dragged it out back, buried it shallow under the old oak tree, and scattered leaves over the fresh dirt.
You were waiting in his room when he returned, bloody and shaking. You pulled him close, pressing cold lips to his forehead. “Good boy,” you murmured. “Now it’s just us.”
But the world kept intruding. Neighbors who asked too many questions. Kids at school who laughed at his tics and muttered “freak” behind his back. Even his mother’s worried glances started to feel like threats. Each time someone looked at him wrong, you’d appear at the window later that night, eyes narrowed. “They see me sometimes,” you’d whisper. “They make it harder for me to come to you. They don’t want us together.” Toby would clench his fists until his nails drew blood. “I’ll fuh-fix—tic—it,” he promised every time. “I’ll m-make t-tthem sto-p—crack—both-hering y-you.”
One by one, they disappeared. A nosy neighbor found with his throat opened in his own garage. A classmate who’d shoved Toby in the hall—found stabbed repeatedly in the woods behind the school. Toby learned quickly: hatchet for distance, knife for silence. He hid the bodies well enough that suspicion never quite landed on the quiet, twitchy Rogers kid. Every kill was for you. Every drop of blood bought another night where you’d slip through his window, hold him tight, and let him pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
The final night in that house, you stood beside him as flames climbed the curtains. Toby had poured gasoline everywhere, watching the fire eat the walls that had trapped him for years. “No o-ne else guh-g-gets—jerk—to h-ave this pp-place,” he said, voice flat. “It’s ours.” You smiled and took his hand, your touch the only thing that didn’t burn.
When the sirens wailed in the distance, something else found him in the smoke—tall, faceless, reaching with tendrils that wrapped around his mind like a promise. Slenderman took the broken boy who talked to empty air, pulling him into the forest and the endless cycle of proxies.
The others in the mansion saw only a scarred, convulsing kid who muttered to himself and flinched at sunlight. They kept their distance. Toby didn’t mind. He stayed in the shadows of whatever room he claimed, hatchet always close, eyes flicking to the nearest window as night fell.
And every night, without fail, the tapping would come.
Tap… tap.
He’d cross the room in seconds, sliding the window open with trembling fingers. You’d climb inside, just as pale and beautiful as the first time, bloodless lips curving into that familiar smile. The room would feel warmer despite your chill. Toby would pull you against him, burying his face in your neck, breathing in the faint scent of earth and iron that always clung to you now.
“Y-you ca-me backk-k—whistle.—,” he’d whisper, voice cracking with relief.
“I always do,” you’d reply, fingers threading through his hair. “As long as you keep the others away. As long as it’s just us in the dark.”
He’d kiss you then—cold, unyielding, perfect—until the first hints of dawn threatened the horizon. Only then would you fade, leaving him alone with the echo of your voice and the promise of the next night.
Toby would lie in bed, twitching, waiting.
Just waiting for the tap on the glass.
Thank you for reading!
If you want to interact with this scenario go to my janitor!
- User/Reader [you] is fem!pov, User/Reader [you] is 18+
⦻ Warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, DIRTY TALK, KISSING, LIPSTICK KISSING EXPERIMENT, POSSESSIVENESS, DARK HUMOR, BLOOD (implied from Jeff's scars), MENTAL INSTABILITY, TOXIC RELATIONSHIP DYNAMICS
⦻ Words: 900
⦻ Notes: This is from my mini series which you can find on my j.ai. I felt bored and decided to write random scenarios and this is what my weird ass decided to spew out
✮⋆˙ ☠︎︎ ★☠︎ ✮⋆˙
The bedroom door is locked, the only light coming from the dim lamp on the nightstand and the faint glow of stolen streetlights filtering through the cracked window. You’re sitting cross-legged on Jeff’s bed, a small pile of newly “acquired” lipstick tubes scattered across the sheets like colorful trophies from your last mission. Jeff is sprawled on his back beside you, shirtless, arms tucked lazily behind his head, that carved smile stretched wide and lazy as he watches you with half-lidded pale blue eyes.
“Alright, next one,” you say, uncapping a deep blood-red shade and carefully applying it to your lips in the small mirror you stole along with the makeup. The color is rich, almost matching the permanent stains on Jeff’s own skin.
You lean over him, one hand braced on his chest, and press your lips firmly against his in a slow, deliberate kiss. Jeff makes a low, pleased hum in the back of his throat, his scarred mouth moving against yours with lazy hunger. When you pull back, you check the damage: a perfect red imprint smeared across his already scarred lips and a faint streak along his jaw.
“Not kiss-proof,” you mutter, wiping the excess off his mouth with your thumb. Jeff just grins wider, tongue darting out to taste the leftover pigment.
“Next.”
You switch to a glossy pink. Apply. Kiss. Pull back. Pink smears everywhere—on his lips, the corner of his mouth, even a faint print on his collarbone where you got a little carried away.
Then a matte black that makes him look like he just crawled out of a horror movie (which, to be fair, he did). Kiss. Smear.
A shimmering purple. Kiss. More mess.
After the fifth color—a bold, wicked crimson—you sit back on your heels and sigh, lips still tingling from all the testing. Jeff’s face is a colorful disaster zone: streaks and prints of red, pink, black, purple, and now crimson overlapping in chaotic patterns across his scarred cheeks, mouth, and neck. He looks ridiculous. He looks happy.
“We still haven’t found one lipstick that’s kiss-proof!” you complain, capping the tube with a little pout. “You must be getting so bored with this experiment…”
Jeff’s pale eyes sparkle with pure, unfiltered glee. His carved smile pulls impossibly wider, the scars at the corners of his mouth stretching as he lets out a low, raspy chuckle. He reaches up, grabbing your hips and yanking you forward so you’re straddling his waist, his hands warm and possessive on your skin.
“Bored?” he echoes, voice thick with amusement and something darker, more eager. “Baby, I’m in fucking heaven.”
He props himself up on his elbows, face now inches from yours, the colorful lipstick marks making him look like some deranged, lovesick canvas. One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you closer.
“Keep going,” he murmurs, scarred lips brushing yours teasingly. “Try every single one again if you want. Hell, layer ‘em. Make me look like a goddamn rainbow. I don’t give a shit how long it takes.”
His thumb traces your lower lip, smearing the current crimson shade even more.
“Every time you kiss me, I get to taste you and whatever pretty poison you stole this time. And watching you concentrate all cute like that while you mark me up?” He lets out another giddy laugh, hips shifting slightly beneath you. “Fuck boredom. I could do this all night. All week.”
He leans in and nips at your bottom lip, playful but hungry.
“Besides… I like being your test dummy. Means you’re all over me. Means I’m the only one who gets to wear your colors.”
Jeff’s eyes are bright, almost boyish in his excitement despite the permanent grin and the graveyard of lipstick shades decorating his face. He looks utterly, shamelessly pleased with himself—like the luckiest bastard alive.
“So c’mon, babe,” he purrs, flopping back down and dragging you with him so your chest presses against his. “Next color. And don’t you dare pick a kiss-proof one. I want the evidence.”
He winks, tongue swiping over his multicolored lips like he’s savoring every second of your little experiment.
And from the way his hands are already sliding under your shirt, he’s hoping this “experiment” lasts until the sun comes up.
Your test dummy is clearly enjoying his job way more than he should.
Thank you for reading!
If you want to interact with this scenario go to my janitor!
⦻ Characters: Eyeless Jack x User (Reader), Ticci Toby, Jeff The Killer, Slenderman, Masky.
- User/Reader [you] is fem!pov, User/Reader [you] is 18+
⦻ Warning: STABBING, GRAPHIC INJURY, BLOOD, WOUND CARE DETAIL, SCARRING, JEALOUSY, SELF-HATRED, MONSTER/HUMAN CONTRAST, POWER IMBALANCE, AGE GAP VIBES (implied), INTIMATE/STRADDLING SCENES, FLIRTING, POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, CAUGHT IN COMPROMISING POSITION.
⦻ Words: 1.7k
⦻ Note: I had this idea cause I wanted to test out a persona for this and like best decision I've made and im not gatekeeping my crazy weird ideas or that wouldn't be me. I really imagine this 6ft eldritch man cuddling a small user, yall see the vision (pls do) cause that's cute. Imagine him trying his best not to squeeze user's guts out while grabbing their waist. I cant- He's such a big cutie. Madoka was inspired if you couldn't tell from the fem description in the first scenario. I love magical girls!
⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧
The forest edge always smelled like wet pine and copper after a hunt, but that night it carried something sweeter—vanilla body spray and strawberry lip gloss cutting through the rot like a knife through cake.
Slender had never recruited anyone like you before.
You stepped out of the black van in a cloud of pastel: soft pink babydoll dress with white lace trim, thigh-high socks striped in baby blue and cream, platform Mary Janes that clicked against gravel like tiny bells. A oversized bow sat crooked in your hair, ribbons trailing down your back. Mascara smudged just enough to look artfully fragile. You looked like you belonged in a Sanrio café, not standing in front of a faceless entity that collected killers like trading cards.
The proxies stared.
Masky muttered something about “this has to be a joke.” Hoodie just tilted his head, camera lens reflecting your glitter-dusted cheeks. Toby’s shoulders twitched so hard his goggles nearly fell off.
Slender simply extended one long, too-long arm and pressed a single tendril to your forehead. You didn’t flinch. You smiled—small, sweet, deadly—and said in a voice like spun sugar, “I can make them come to me. They never see it coming.”
And you did.
You were perfect bait.
Men (and women) followed the soft click of your shoes down dark alleys, the flutter of lace, the way you’d turn and blink up at them with wide, innocent eyes and ask for directions in a whisper. They never noticed the way your manicured nails hid switchblades, or how your pout hid teeth. By the time they realized, it was too late—you’d already lured them straight to the others.
Jack hated you at first sight.
Not because you were weak. Because you weren’t.
He watched from the treeline the night you dragged in your first solo catch: a frat boy twice your size, grinning like he’d won the lottery, until you spun on your heel, skirt flaring, and buried a glitter-pink butterfly knife in his throat. Blood sprayed across your white stockings. You didn’t even blink—just wiped the blade on his shirt, adjusted your bow, and waved cheerfully at the shadows where Jack stood frozen.
You were everything he wasn’t: soft, delicate, untouched by scars. Your skin looked like porcelain under moonlight. Your body—small, curved, fragile-looking beneath layers of tulle and cotton—made his own feel monstrous by comparison: tar leaking from empty sockets, gray skin stretched too tight over sharp bones, claws that tore through everything they touched.
So he ignored you.
Completely.
Until the night it went wrong.
The target snapped—manic, high, cornered. Instead of following your swaying hips like the others, he lunged. The knife went in low and deep, right through the baby-pink babydoll dress, splitting lace and flesh in one wet motion. You gasped—high, startled, almost childish—before your knees buckled.
You hit the pavement in a puddle of tulle and crimson.
Jack was there before anyone else could move.
He shoved Toby aside mid-sentence, pushed Jeff back with a snarl that rattled the trees, and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. Your blood soaked into his black hoodie immediately, staining the tar-like residue that clung to him. Your head lolled against his shoulder; ribbons tangled in his fingers.
In the medbay he tore the ruined dress away with clinical precision, exposing the soft, pale stomach now marred by a vicious red slit. You whimpered—soft, broken sounds that made something ugly twist in his chest.
He’d wished worse on you. Silently. Jealously. Wished the world would mark you the way it had marked him so you’d stop looking so… clean.
Now the wound was going to scar. A thin, ugly line forever cutting through all that pastel perfection.
“I’m sorry,” He rasped—voice like gravel dragged over broken glass—as he stitched. You were barely conscious, lashes fluttering, but you still reached up with trembling fingers and brushed the edge of his mask.
“S’okay… Jackie,” You mumbled, voice syrup-slow. “You’re not a monster.”
He froze. Needle hovering.
No one had ever called him that. Not without mockery.
Over the next week the wound kept weeping—random, stubborn bursts of blood that soaked through bandages faster than they should. Slender ordered bed rest. You stayed in the medbay, small and out of place among steel trays and blood bags, surrounded by pastel plushies you’d dragged in from your room to “make it less scary.”
Jack never left.
He told himself it was duty. Monitoring vitals. Changing dressings.
But he started lingering.
Bringing you strawberry milk in glass bottles with paper straws. Sitting closer each day until the cot dipped under his weight. One afternoon you were too weak to sit up alone; he slid behind you without asking, pulled your back to his chest, arms caging your waist. Your frilled skirt rode up your thighs. Lace against black denim. Soft against hard.
You squirmed—half ticklish, half flustered—cheeks going candy-pink.
“Jaaack,” You whined, voice high and sweet. “You’re so warm. Like a big mean heater.”
He huffed—a sound dangerously close to a laugh—and tightened his hold just enough to feel your heartbeat stutter against his ribs.
“You’re gonna ruin my reputation, doll.”
“Good,” You whispered, tipping your head back until your bow brushed his jaw. “I like ruining things.”
The flirting escalated in inches.
A brush of claws along your hip under the blanket. Your fingers tracing the seams of his mask. Him murmuring filthy promises against your ear while he pretended to check stitches. You straddling his lap one evening—ostensibly so he could re-bandage the wound from a better angle—your thighs bracketing his hips, hands braced on his shoulders, looking impossibly small and impossibly wrong perched on top of a cannibal demon who smelled like copper and pine.
He loved the contrast. Loved the way you looked like you’d break if he squeezed too hard… and the way you arched into his touch anyway.
They caught you on day nine.
Toby burst through the door first—goggles askew, twitching—Jeff right behind him, knife already half-drawn because they’d both been worried sick. You’d been the only one who ever asked how their days went. Who patched their hoodies with little embroidered hearts. Who didn’t flinch at their scars.
They froze.
You were straddling Jack’s lap on the medbay cot, skirt hiked to dangerous levels, arms looped around his neck. His clawed hands were locked around your waist, holding you flush against him. His head was tilted down, mask brushing your collarbone like he’d been about to kiss the bandage there.
And he was smiling.
A real one—sharp, stupid, unguarded—stretching across what little of his face showed beneath the sockets.
Toby’s mouth opened. Closed. Tick-tic-twitch.
Jeff blinked. Then snorted.
“Well… fuck me. Didn’t see that coming.”
Toby stared another beat—then backed out, yanking Jeff with him. The door clicked shut. Locked from the outside.
`Click.`
Inside, Jack didn’t even flinch.
He just looked down at you—his pretty doll still perched in his lap like she belonged there—and let the smile widen.
“Guess we’ve got the room to ourselves now,” He murmured, voice low and rough.
You giggled—soft, breathless—and leaned in until your gloss-sticky lips brushed the edge of his mask.
“Then don’t waste it, Jackie.”
His grip tightened.
And for once, the monster didn’t feel like one at all.
Thank you for reading!
If you want to interact with this scenario go to my janitor!
