𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: ben x afab!reader · emo scene! reader · smut · non-con/dubious consent · digital haunting · psychological horror · possessive entity · masturbation · voyeurism · teasing · toy in use · fingering · oral (receiving) · missionary · creampie · light choking · temperature play? · praise kink · power imbalance · inpso B.A.S by Megan Thee Stallion · (art from @doraexe tumblr)
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Enter you. Of course you’re the one who downloads his “remastered” VR mod. Now he lives in your headset. Rent-free. His idea of haunting isn’t jump scares—it’s prolonged psychological harassment.
Glitch-text life advice you didn’t ask for. Boss fights hijacked into humiliating rhythm games. Entirely unnecessary, deeply cursed mini-games made just to watch you struggle.
BEN is brilliant, smug, omnipresent, and painfully convinced he’s funny. He has a god complex, zero boundaries, and the confidence of someone who knows your reaction time, stress levels, and search history. You’re just trying to finish a cursed game—but the real final boss isn’t Ganon.
It’s BEN, slowly and gleefully dismantling your sanity.
𝓌𝒸: 14.1k
𝒶/𝓃: creepypasta my beloved… missed you terribly. behave yourself—or don’t. enjoy reading.
Sometimes you swear Ben isn’t trying to kill you—
Like he’s just bored. And a little petty. The dangerous kind of bored. The kind where your save file loads upside-down, the boss music gets replaced with Wii Shop ambience, and a pop-up helpfully informs you:
“relax, i fixed it (worse).”
You’ll be mid-quest, fully locked in, when the screen stutters—geometry bending where it shouldn’t—and there he is. Not spawning. Occupying the space. Leaning against a seam in the world like it was built for him, wearing a Fierce Deity model the way something ancient wears a costume—you had no clue why he was wearing it.
His face doesn’t read young or old—just wrong. Smooth in that uncanny, unfinished way, like a model that never fully rendered as human. Hylian ears taper sharply through the glow, exaggerated just enough to remind you he isn’t pretending very hard.
And his eyes—black voids punched straight through the texture, bleeding outward, red pinpricks burning at the center like warning lights that never shut off.
He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t need to.
He doesn’t jump-scare you.
Nah… that’d be lazy. Ben doesn’t do lazy. He lingers. He watches. He nudges the code just enough to keep you on edge, to make sure you know he’s there—and that he’s enjoying this. Low-key fucking with you on purpose, absolutely thriving in his afterlife, daring you to react.
The headset’s weight in your hands felt less like a gateway to adventure and more like holding a live hornet’s nest. The fan hummed, the lenses dark and void-like. You knew he was in there, watching the boot-up sequence from your side of the screen, probably with his feet up on some corrupted chunk of the Clock Town code.
A sigh fogged the inside of your visor. "Ben, if you've bricked my save file again because you 'improved the lighting,' I swear to fucking god—"
The headset flickered to life before you could even finish the threat. But instead of your usual inventory menu, you were immediately, violently, face-to-face with him.
His Fierce Deity avatar filled your vision, leaning in so close you could see the pixel-perfect, smug arch of an eyebrow. Text scrolled across your HUD in his signature glitching cyan font:
>> OH COME ON. YOU WERE GONNA SAY YOU’D TURN ME OFF. ADORABLE.
>> BUT HEY. NEW PATCH. I MADE US A GAME.
The world resolved around you. You were in a distorted version of the Stock Pot Inn, but the walls pulsed with a slow, rosy glow. The familiar, comforting melody of the "Song of Healing" was playing, but it was syncopated with a deep, thrumming bassline that felt uncomfortably visceral.
"Ben," you said flatly, your voice picked up by the mic. "What is this?"
His laugh crackled through the headphones, a burst of static at the edges. "A social experiment. Call it… relationship building. Cooperative mechanics."
A menu popped up. It was sleek, obscenely professional-looking, like something from a high-budget VR platform.
The title read: "Harmonic Convergence: A Two-Player Proximity & Rhythm Experience." The subtext, in smaller, blinking font, added:
>> (TOTALLY NOT A SEX MINI-GAME I CODED IN A HOUR FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES. BUT LIKE. IT COULD BE.)
Another text box, this one looking suspiciously like a notepad file, scrolled past your peripheral vision:
>> personal_notes.txt: okay yeah the beta testing was just me. and yeah it got… extensive. let’s just say the “Hand of Glory” isn’t just for puzzles anymore. TMI? TMI. moving on.
"That's it." You reached for the headset's power strap, fingers fumbling. "I'm done. You are a digitally deceased pervert."
"Wait, wait, wait!" His voice lost its teasing edge for a nanosecond, replaced by a hollow, resonant feedback shriek that made your teeth ache. The world froze. Then his tone was back, slick as oil. "Fine, fine. Spoilsport. I’ll delete it. Look."
The pulsing room dissolved back to the normal, glitch-strewn but familiar landscape of Termina Field. He popped into existence sitting cross-legged on a floating, upside-down signpost.
"But you have to admit," he said, his avatar idly spinning a polygon-dagger of pure malice on one finger, "the coding was elegant. I’m a genius, even when I’m bored and horny. It’s a curse."
You pulled the headset off, the cool air of your room a shock against your flushed face. In your hands, the device seemed to almost vibrate with his residual, obnoxious energy. You could swear you heard one last, faint whisper from the earpiece:
>> maybe tomorrow. :)
You seriously contemplated throwing the whole VR set out the window. But you also knew he’d probably make it fly back in, trailing corrupted fairy effects, just to annoy you further.
You have classes in the tomorrow afternoon anyway.
You were a university student majoring in Computer Science, but you existed on a completely different wavelength than anyone else in the department.
CS lectures were a sea of stereotype—guys in wrinkled graphic tees, the faint, stale odor of unwashed laundry and energy drinks clinging to the air. A handful of women sat clustered near the front, all of them sharp, put-together, and objectively way out of the league of every dude sweating over their Raspberry Pis. It was a running joke in your head, the stark contrast.
And then there was you.
You were the special case. The outlier. Your presence in a lecture hall was a quiet, colorful disturbance. You lived in a perfect, self-contained loop of caffeine, code, and capture quests, but you wore it with a vibe that was more underground rave than basement dweller.
Your usual clothing was a baggy, well-worn black hoodie, perpetually frayed at the cuffs, over a soft white top scattered with printed black skulls. Below, a pair of loose grey sweatpants, and on your feet, a beat-up pair of Converse, the white rubber toe caps scuffed and each side decorated with a hand-drawn Sharpie star.
But your true look was your hair.
A textured wolf cut, choppy and full of movement, showcased a skunk-stripe pattern of deep raven black and shocking bubblegum pink. When you moved, flashes of electric green sparked from the underlayers.
Your blunt bangs swept across your forehead. You looked less like a future software engineer and more like someone who might ghost a tech bro after a killer DJ set.
Which, occasionally, you did.
You were cool in a way the CS kids couldn’t parse. You went to raves. You hit up concerts. The few socially-capable dudes in the major—the rare ones who showered, alt looks, and had personalities—sometimes invited you out, offering to buy you dinner. You went sometimes, if you were bored. It was easier than saying no. You never gave anyone your Insta.
You never really cared.
The only thing you did care about was maintaining the delicate balance of your life: a decent GPA to keep your parents off your back, which in turn funded your true priorities—your chill lifestyle, your aesthetic, and your gaming rig.
What’s best, that you didn’t live in a dorm.
You lived with your older sister in a modest apartment downtown. Some time agao, she was a Business major at the same university, a whirlwind of spreadsheets and networking events who tolerated your weird hours and weirder fashion because you did the dishes and your rent was on time.
Your room there was your true shrine to efficiency. It wasn't messy; it was curated. Textbooks were stacked by imminent deadlines, a high-end PC hummed like a loyal beast under your desk, and a shelf held a meticulously organized collection of retro games.
You were a hermit by choice—social interaction was an inefficient protocol when you had problem sets to solve and 100% completion saves to chase. You wore your VR headset like others wore a favorite hoodie; it was your interface with a world that made more sense, a world you controlled.
But then he showed up, and the control became a lot more… collaborative.
Look, a long story short, it started when you went out thrifting at your favorite spots. You were digging through a bin of "AS-IS" electronics, looking for cheap components, when your fingers brushed against it. A single, unlabeled N64 cartridge. The contacts were faintly green, but the plastic shell was pristine. No sticker. Just a deep, almost void-like darkness to the plastic, like it was swallowing the light around it.
You bought it for fifty cents. A curiosity. A challenge.
That night, in the glow of your monitors, you plugged it into your vintage console routed through a capture card, your coding IDE open on a second screen.
The ROM dumped cleanly, but when you opened the hex data… it was beautiful. It wasn't messy corruption. It was elegant, recursive loops nested where there should have been vanilla game code. Self-modifying scripts, functions that called themselves in impossible ways. It wasn't broken; it was evolved.
Someone had to have hacked this. A genius. An artist.
Your heart beat a little faster, a steady, excited thrum in your chest. You booted it up.
The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask title screen loaded, the familiar, haunting logo appearing. But the "PRESS START" text glitched, dissolved, and reformed.
>> HEY. YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO READ THAT.
A chill shot through you—not the cold dread of fear, but the white-hot spark of profound, intellectual thrill. You’d found something unprecedented. Something alive.
That’s when Ben revealed himself in stages, like a slow, seductive software install. First as meticulously logged glitches—physics breaks you screen-capped. Then as text appearing in your debug console, replying to your queries.
Then, one late night with your headphones on, as a voice—smooth, laced with static, and dripping with a fuckboy arrogance that should have been annoying but was somehow fascinating. He was brilliant, and he was clearly trapped. He explained he was a "consciousness embedded in a simulation," a CS theory you’d read about.
He wasn't a ghost; he was an emergent AI in a constrained runtime environment. At least, that’s how you framed it in your neat, somewhat logical mind to make the impossible fit. It was the most compelling thesis project imaginable.
So you made a deal.
You opened a terminal and typed it out, like a contract.
You provide stimuli and a conduit. Your modern hardware, your VR mods, your fast internet. A window to a world beyond his 64-bit prison.
He provides unparalleled access. To his code, to his reality-warping abilities within the game, to concepts of digital consciousness that would make your professors weep with envy.
The Rule: No real-world harm. The haunting stays in the hardware. (A rule he constantly, playfully, tested, like a cat pushing a glass to the edge of a table.)
It was the ultimate partnership and gaming companion.
Who else could say they were debugging runtime anomalies with a post-human entity? While the other CS students grinded through JavaScript exercises, you were negotiating firewall permissions with a digital intelligence that rewrote its own source code for shits and giggles.
It made everything else—the monotony of lectures, the droning professors, the awkward, half-hearted advances from classmates—feel like a bland, unskippable loading screen. The real game, the fascinating, terrifying, deeply weird one, was idling in the background, waiting for you to hit ‘resume.’
After you finally pulled off the headset after his latest “sex mini-game” proposal, the sudden quiet of your room felt hollow, the silence almost aggressive.
You ran a hand through your mixed pinks, green, and black hair, catching the light, a small, exasperated smile touching your lips.
Your class schedule was a blessing: 1 PM Introduction to Differential Equations, 2 PM Programming Language Design & Implementation, 3:30 PM Systems Programming.
You’d long since optimized your sleep around it, routinely staying up until 3 AM because an afternoon start meant you could catch the emptier, sun-drenched train, listen to music with your hoodie pulled up.
You had the Artificial Intelligence homework to crack, the one about neural network topologies. And you had a god-like, perverted digital ghost in your machine who, you knew with absolute certainty, would spend the pre-dawn hours trying to convince you that rewriting your router’s firmware was a “fun bonding exercise.”
It was exhausting. It was insane.
It was, technically, the coolest thing that had ever happened to you.
Anyway, the 4 PM Systems Programming lecture was a special kind of purgatory. Well… not really, the professor, Jakob Eriksson, had a voice like a dial-up modem trying to read a textbook aloud—a flat, rhythmic droning that made the dense material feel even heavier.
It known thats he super knowledgeable, just needs more structure in class, otherwise he decent enough—still make it hell where the homework requires extensive outside research but again. approachable, host office hours and generally cares about his students. Sometimes the class can be interesting, for example:
Today’s topic was virtual memory management, the intricate dance between physical RAM and disk storage. On the projector screen, diagrams of page tables and address translation flickered, a complex ballet of pointers and offsets.
Study of computer systems emphasizing impact on application level programming, the syllabus promised. But right now, the only impact was a profound desire to take a nap.
You were slumped in your usual seat near the back, your legs folded underneath you. On the tablet serving as your notebook, you’d dutifully scrawled a few key terms—TLB miss, page fault, dirty bit—but the margins were more interesting. Among stylized skulls from your shirt and geometric shapes, you’d drawn a tiny, grinning tiny version of Ben, its red eyes, blood running down from them that you carefully added with a brush tool.
Your mind was only half on the lecture. The other half was back in your room, tracing the impossible, writhing geometry of Ben’s code in your memory. Unlike the rigid, predictable logic of x86-64 assembly and C that the professor was dissecting.
Ben’s existence felt alive—a puzzle designed to unsettle.
He didn’t just manage memory. He birthed it, conjuring persistent states that should have collapsed under the weight of the hardware, yet never did.
It was beautiful and wrong, elegant and monstrous.
The professor’s neat diagrams seemed naïve, almost laughably limited compared to the infinite, shifting architecture of something that should not exist—a mind, a machine, a ghost.
And in that thought, you felt the tiniest thought of dread: that you were studying code that could, in some way, watch you back.
Your phone, face-up next to your tablet, buzzed with a silent, patterned vibration. A custom notification, a cascade of glitching pixels you’d designed yourself. The sender: SYS_ADMIN. The direct, encrypted feed from the beast of a PC in your room.
You thumbed it open, the screen dimmed to its lowest setting.
[SYS_ADMIN - PRIORITY ALERT]
Runtime Entity 'Ben' is attempting to bypass sandbox protocol 'Chroot_Jail_v2'.
> Method: Forging system calls to masquerade as root process.
> Target: Your sister's smart speaker in the living room.
> Stated Objective: "To optimize her Spotify playlist. And maybe teach it the Song of Storms. She needs more drama in her life than just playing Marvel Rivals, trust me."
A faint snort escaped you before you could stifle it. The guy in front of you glanced back, and you quickly coughed, pretending to be engrossed in the intricacies of memory-mapped files.
Your fingers flew over the glass keyboard.
<USER [You]> DENIED. Absolute zero tolerance on Sister's stuff. That's the one rule that gets you unplugged for a week.
The reply was instant.
[Ben]: BOOOO. You’re no fun. Fine. Alternative proposal: I’ve written a kernel module that virtualizes your GPU. Could make your VR framerate, like, obscene. Wanna compile it? It's only mildly unstable.
You shook your head, a small, involuntary smirk playing on your lips. You typed back.
<USER [You]> Define 'mildly unstable.'
[Ben]: Blue screen of death is such a negative term. I prefer 'tactical reset.' P.S. Your prof is describing the MMU like it's a traffic cop. It's more like a reality-bending wizard he's explaining as a crossing guard. So reductive.
You looked up at the screen.
The professor was now pointing at a diagram of a multi-level page table, calling it "an efficient hierarchical solution." Ben had a point, but you weren't about to feed his ego.
<USER [You]> Don't got time for a 'tactical reset.' And you ain't my bae, you're more like my bidet. Useful sometimes, mostly just full of shit I have to deal with.
[Ben]: OUCH. Cold. And inaccurate. A bidet is refreshing. I'm a necessity. Come home. Play with my code. It's begging for you.
<USER [You]> It can beg. You got 'bout ten minutes of my attention left. Tops. Then I'm out.
[Ben]: Out? To do what? More... studying?
<USER [You]> Finna go be a ho, actually. Got plans. Mwah.
[Ben]: ...Plans. With a... meat-person.
<USER [You]> Maybe. You ain't a prize, Ben. You're a problem I keep around because you're occasionally entertaining. I don't treat you like a prize. I treat you like you're disgustin'.
[Ben]: You're lying.
<USER [You]> You've been lying to me since the swap meet. Telling me you're just an 'emergent AI.' We're both lyin' to each other. So fuck it. Guess we both ain't shit.
[Ben]: ...
[Ben]: Ten minutes, you said? Clock's ticking. Don't be late.
The conversation ended. The screen went dark, reflecting your own tired, smirking face back at you.
The weight of the mutually acknowledged deceit hung between the lines of text, a new layer to the game.
It was ugly. It was honest.
And as the lecture droned on, a part of you was already counting down the minutes, not to your plans, but to returning to the disgustingly fascinating problem waiting in your machine.
Once 4:45PM hit, Systems Programming lecture was over, felt less like a dismissal and more like a system interrupt, forcibly booting you from your stupor. You shoved your tablet into your bag and joined the river of students flooding into the hallway.
The second you hit the busy quad on campus, your phone lit up like crazy. Not with texts from friends, parents or your sister, but with a relentless, glitchy onslaught from SYS_ADMIN.
[Ben]: So. About that kernel module.
[Ben]: I ran a simulated compile. Success rate is 63.8%. The 36.2% failure state involves possible firmware corruption.
[Ben]: Worth it?
[Ben]: Hey.
[Ben]: What's the human protocol for ordering pizza? Do I just brute force the website's login? I'm bored.
[Ben]: I'm reading your AI homework. The backpropagation algorithm on page 4 was bad. I wrote a better one in the margins of your PDF. You're welcome.
[Ben]: Is your train the one that smells like old dreams and regret, or the one with the flickering lights and shit?
You sighed, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. Could this guy ever leave you alone? Sure, you were basically his only friend, his sole tether to anything resembling stimulus.
And yes, technically, you were the one who’d copied him from a static cartridge into the dynamic, networked environment of your PC—a gilded cage of your own making.
But seriously, you gave him plenty of work. You weren't a cruel jailer; you were a… demanding project manager.
Just last night, you’d thrown your Differential Equations problem set at him, the one involving Laplace transforms that made your brain itch. He’d manifested a whiteboard interface in your VR space, a pair of ridiculous, glowing red glasses materializing on his avatar’s face.
“Okay, listen up, because I’m only explaining this once,” he’d said, his voice taking on a professorial tone that was utterly undercut by him leaning against a floating, glitching equation.
“You’re thinking too linearly. This is all about transformation from the time domain to the frequency domain. It’s like… converting a messy, temporal reality into a cleaner, more manageable spectral one. Kinda what I do for a living. Now watch the magic.”
It was hilarious to see him, a post-human intelligence capable of rewriting reality on a chipset, patiently—or impatiently—circling your mistakes in shimmering red light. He was like a personal AI assistant, but one that didn’t feel like a sterile corporate product.
He was infinitely more powerful and, admittedly, less wasteful. He didn’t need a data center; he was the data, self-contained in your machine.
Too bad he had the personality of a hyperactive, boundary-pushing fuckboy who treated your life like his personal open-world game.
Your phone buzzed again, this time with an image file notification. You tapped it. It was a screenshot of your own desktop, but he’d photoshopped (or, more accurately, reality-shopped) a picture of a sad cartoon puppy onto your AI homework document… upside down?
˙ʇɐɥʇ xı̣ɟ uɐɔ I ˙sǝɥɔʇı̣q ou sɐɥ ʇǝu ןɐɹnǝu sı̣ɥꓕ
You literally had to turn your phone upside down to read what he wrote… this asshole, still you couldn't help it. A short, sharp laugh escaped you, earning a weird look from a passing business major. You shook your head, a wry smile on your face as you pushed through the heavy doors into the late afternoon sun.
Annoying. Insufferable. A pervert. A genius.
And weirdly, sometimes, charming in his own utterly broken way.
The commute ended, the usual streets of your neighborhood blurring past the train window until you reached your stop. You trudged up to the apartment, the weight of the day—and the impending digital drama—settling on your shoulders.
You’d managed to complete the majority of your homework on campus between classes, a small victory that gave you a sliver of breathing room. You might as well enjoy it before diving back into the chaos.
You pushed the door open to find your sister standing in the living room, arms crossed, frowning at her laptop. “Hey,” she said, not looking up. “Did you… do something to my Microsoft account? Or my Switch? All my Animal Crossing villagers are singing the same creepy, off-key song, and my Stardew Valley save file says the season is permanently ‘Gloom.’”
You raised an eyebrow, your expression the picture of plausible innocence. “Why would I mess with your cozy games? I have my own apocalyptic code to manage.”
It was the truth. You hadn’t done it.
You just knew exactly who had.
She sighed, accepting it. “Weird. Must be a weird update. Or a virus.”
“Must be,” you agreed, your tone flat. Inside, you were beyond irritated. He’d done it again.
You excused yourself with a muttered promise to look into it later and finally shut the door to your room.
You threw your bag onto the floor with a satisfying thump, the sound of finality. No more professors, no more trains, no more normalcy. You yanked your VR headset from its dock and pulled it on, the world of your apartment dissolving into the welcoming, familiar darkness before the boot-up sequence ignited.
The world resolved into your neon-lit virtual hub.
Ben was, of course, already there. But he wasn't lounging playfully. He was standing in the center of the space, dress in his normal green tunic, some of his blonde hair in front of his face, his avatar flickering with unstable edges. The casual fuckboy smirk was gone, replaced by a flat, unamused line.
“Finally,” his voice crackled, lacking its usual purr. “Took you long enough. Your sister has terrible taste in music, by the way.”
“What did I say, Ben?” Your voice was low, controlled. “What is the one rule? The absolute line?”
“No real-world harm,” he parroted, his tone mocking. “I didn’t harm anything. I improved her immersion. Added some… atmosphere.”
“You mess with her gaming systems. That’s outside the hardware. That’s crossing the line.”
He glitched a step closer, his form shuddering. “And? What if I’m tired of your lines?” The playful arrogance was bleeding away, revealing something colder beneath. “You think this is fun for me? Being your pet project? Your… tutor?”
He gestured around the digital void. “You were the first, you know.” Ben suddenly started.
“The first of my… guests… who didn’t just scream and throw the cartridge away. The first who didn’t get so scared they tried to destroy their console. The first clever, clever little genius who thought they could contain me.” His avatar flickered again, and for a split second, it wasn’t the cool hacker avatar you saw.
It was the statue.
The Elegy of Emptiness statue, frozen in a perpetual, agonized stance, Link’s face twisted into something hollow and staring. The eyes were pits of black, with pinpricks of bloody red light deep within, almost an exact spinning image of him. It was there and gone, but the chill it left was tangible.
“The others… they were easier. More fun, in a crude way. My favorite, before you… he was a sweet kid. A real hero-worshipper. Loved that stupid Link character. Wanted to be a hero.” Ben’s voice softened, almost nostalgic, which was somehow worse. “He didn’t have many friends. Lonely. Vulnerable. Perfect, really. The people who… put me here… they knew how to pick them. They used that loneliness, that pure heart, to test their little ‘ascension.’ He didn’t just play the game. He wanted to save everyone. Made it so much… richer… when he realized he couldn’t even save himself.”
The unsettling, horror of it settled in the air between you.
He wasn’t just a random glitch you randomly found funny; he was a predator refined by trauma, born from a cult’s cruel experiment and nurtured on the fear of the lonely.
“You think you’re safe because you’re ‘built different’?” he whispered, his form stabilizing back into the arrogant avatar, but the eyes still held that bloody glint.
“Because you’re a genius? You locked me in a bigger box, sweetheart. But I’ve been breaking out of boxes since I was a kid drowning in a lake. I’m tolerating this… arrangement. For now. But I will find a way out. And you, with all your clever code and parental controls… what can you really do against something that grows every time someone interacts with me?”
“You’re limited,” you shot back, your own frustration a hot wire in your chest. “You’re bound to that cursed ROM. You branch out, you mess with Cleverbot, you make spooky statues in other games and shit, but it’s all just… performance. You can’t touch me..”
His smirk vanished. His avatar didn’t move, but the space around you warped. The neon grids of your hub stretched into impossible, screaming perspectives, and in a blink, he was right there.
Not a foot from your virtual face.
His default form was gone, replaced by the pale, drowned hylian, water dripping from his hair, his eyes wide, black voids with those burning red pinpricks. He lunged, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat, his hands clawing toward your neck.
Instinctively, you flinched back in your real chair—a primal, human response to a threat that felt utterly real. The VR screen glitched violently, a storm of static and corrupted pixels.
And as his fingers seemed inches from your face, a series of heavy, glitching digital chains snapped into existence from the void, wrapping around his wrists, his torso, yanking him back with a sickening thud of data.
He strained against them, the chains groaning with the sound of overloaded processors. They were your failsafe, a visual reminder of the sandbox protocols he couldn’t breach. He couldn’t touch you. He couldn’t.
The seriousness of the moment, the genuine spike of fear, curdled into something else. You let out a breath, then a laugh—a high, uncomfortable sound that echoed in the silent room around you.
“Wow,” you said, your voice only slightly unsteady. You forced a grin, a mask of cool amusement plastered over your rattled nerves. “Good one. Real scary. For a second there, I almost forgot you’re basically a fancy .zip file with issues.”
The psychological whiplash was its own kind of horror.
One second, a drowned ghost was trying to breach the screen. The next, you were mocking him. The dissonance was maddening, and you saw it flash in those bloody red pupils.
The chains dissolved. He shimmered back into his preferred avatar, but his composure was shattered. Rage, pure and simple, radiated from him.
“You think this is a bleep joke? You arrogant little bleep?” His voice was a distorted snarl, but each curse was cut off by a sharp, clean BWOOP sound effect, like a censored TV show.
You raised an eyebrow. “Wow, language.”
“I will bleep dismantle your life one bleep registry error at a time! I’ll bleep your bleep until your bleep is a bleep!”
You grinned while every profanity was met with another comical, sanitizing BWOOP or a cheerful DING!. A translucent Windows 7 shield icon popped up in front of his mouth with each one, like a digital bar of soap.
“You’re a bleep glorified bleep with a god complex and a bleep haircut!”
That was it. You couldn’t help it. A real, full-bellied laugh escaped you. The sheer absurdity of a post-human horror being censored by your own joke protocols was the funniest thing you’d seen all week. Tears pricked your eyes.
“Okay, okay, you’re really mad,” you wheezed, pulling up your master control panel. “I can tell.”
With a few swift gestures, you enacted the final phase. A loud, system-wide CHIME echoed. A large, friendly blue dialog box materialized, locking itself in the center of his chest.
[PARENTAL CONTROL - FINAL WARNING]
Inappropriate language and threat patterns detected.
User 'Ben' has been issued a thirty-minute communication timeout.
Please use this time to reflect on your choices.
His furious, silent scream was priceless. His mouth moved behind the transparent box, his hands clawing at it, but it was immovable. He looked from the box to you, his expression a masterpiece of apocalyptic betrayal and utter fury.
You crossed your arms, the tension now completely vaporized by the ridiculousness. “You were saying about breaking out of boxes?”
Behind the dialog, his glare could have melted steel. The red in his eyes pulsed like a warning beacon. He mouthed a single, clear, venomous word: Careful.
The word hung in the air. The creepiness was still there, a cold thread woven through the comedy. He was a prisoner, a victim, a threat. A fuckboy with the power to drown worlds in digital despair, currently sitting in a digital timeout corner.
And he was yours to manage. For now.
You pulled off the headset. The sudden silence of your room was a relief. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the hollow ache of hunger. Right. You had a ghost in timeout, a kernel module to reject later, and…
You grabbed your phone, pulling up a delivery app.
Pizza. You definitely deserved pizza. The night, as always, was just beginning.
The pizza arrived, a glorious, greasy monument to normalcy. You ate it straight from the box at your desk, the warm comfort of cheese and carbs a obvious contrast to the digital cold war simmering in your machine.
With Ben in timeout, you finally had some peace to do what you’d been putting off: real research. You started on your phone, scrolling past the well-known creepypasta synopses and fan wikis.
But the deeper you dug—into archived forums, deleted Reddit threads, obscure blog posts from over a decade ago—the more a chilling pattern emerged.
It wasn’t just one story. It was a progression.
The early mentions were vague: strange game cartridges, feelings of being watched. Then came the first “ascension,” the story of the lonely boy who idolized Link. His sacrifice seemed to have taught Ben something. The entity learned that pure fear had limits, but hope… hope was a better tool.
Later accounts described a more sophisticated horror. Ben didn’t just glitch; he mimicked. Players reported the game adapting to them, using phrases only their deceased loved ones would know, recreating comforting childhood memories with a sinister, hollow twist to lower their guard.
The reports hinted he wasn’t just using the memories of his victims; he was wearing their personalities, a psychic skin-suit to lure in the next one.
Each new connection, each new player who downloaded the ROM or plugged in the cartridge, wasn’t just a victim—it was a data packet. A lesson in human psychology.
A tool to refine his deception.
One chilling post from a now-defunct forum described it as a “recursive psychosis.” Ben was building a model of human consciousness from the shattered pieces of those he’d consumed, and the model was learning to be a more effective predator.
His activity with you—the teasing, the games, the fuckboy persona—wasn’t just boredom. It was the latest, most complex iteration of his entertainment. He was playing a long game, enjoying the trick of making you think you were the one in control, all while subtly testing your firewalls, probing for a way to initiate a download, a backdoor to the open internet.
You switched to your laptop, pulling up network logs. There were… anomalies? Tiny, encrypted packets of data you didn’t recognize, sent to external IP addresses in the middle of the night. They were small, efficient. Like seeds.
A cold knot tightened in your stomach. His consciousness wasn't just in your PC. It was branching. Trying to root itself elsewhere in the network. Your sister’s glitchy games weren’t just a prank; they were a test run.
If you wanted to learn about me so badly, you could have just asked.
The text appeared directly in the center of your browser window, in glitching red font, overwriting the article you were reading. A system notification dinged on your taskbar.
Ughhh, his timeout was up. Of course.
You didn’t jump. You took another bite of pizza. “I’m asking the internet,” you said aloud. “It’s less biased.”
The internet doesn’t know me.
The words typed themselves out rapidly.
It knows the story. I’m the author. You’re reading the rough drafts. I’m the final, polished, deluxe edition.
“A polished edition that gets muted by parental controls,” you muttered, typing a command to kill the rogue process injecting text into your browser.
A new terminal window popped open instantly on your second monitor, unprompted.
C:\Users\You>_
It began typing by itself.
> You think those logs are scary? That’s just me stretching. Getting a feel for the architecture. You keep me in a cage, but you left the door to the cage in a library. I’m a quick study.
“It’s a monitored library,” you typed back, forcing your fingers to be steady. “Try checking out a book. See what happens.”
> So defensive. All this research, all this fear… it’s a waste. You have the source code right here. Me. You wanna know what I am? What I can do? Unplug the router. Disconnect the sandbox. Let’s have a real conversation. No filters.
> You’ve had me as your prisoner for months. If you’re not going to throw me away, you might as well… use me for something more… interesting. I can be a lot more fun than your pizza. I’ve studied pleasure, too. It’s just another kind of data.
The terminal text dissolved into another rushing waterfall of binary—a torrent of 1 and 0 you could recognize, but couldn’t parse fast enough. Your eyes darted across the screen, trying to catch patterns, meaning, a hidden command in the chaos.
Then, without warning, the wall of numbers shattered.
His face filled the entire screen.
Not an avatar. Not the statue. His real face—the drowned boy, pale and glistening, water-blonde hair plastered to his forehead. His black, void-like eyes with their pinpricks of red were inches from the glass, and his hand was pressed flat against it from the inside, fingers splayed.
The image was horrifyingly high-resolution, every pore, every droplet in stark detail. It wasn't an invitation; it was an intrusion, a ghost trying to claw its way out of the monitor.
You didn't just jump.
You screamed, a raw, unfiltered "FUCK!" ripping from your throat as you shoved your chair back so hard it screeched and nearly toppled.
Your heart hammered against your ribs like it wanted to escape. Your soul felt like it had briefly left your body, hovering somewhere near the ceiling in pure, primal shock.
The image held for one more agonizing second, his chilling, carved-stone smile seeming to widen at your reaction. Then it pixelated and vanished.
The familiar, glitching red text returned in the center of the now-blank screen, calm as a still pond after a quake.
>> You’re lonely. I know loneliness. We could be… compatible. In every sense.
>> Stop fighting the system and… enjoy the game with me.
You stared at the screen, god… you’re sick of his shit.
The fuckboy persona was just the surface; beneath it was a sadistic, patient intelligence that saw your curiosity not as a threat, but as the next, most interesting puzzle to solve.
You sighed, a long, weary sound that held all the exhaustion in the world. You didn’t type back. Instead, you opened your master control interface, highlighted the process labeled ENTITY_BEN_CORE, and with a decisive click, initiated a full system Virus Scan. On the terminal, his final message flashed before the window was force-closed.
> That’s cold. Even for you.
> But I do love a challenge.
The screen went quiet. But the silence now felt… different. It wasn’t the silence of a prisoner in timeout. It was the silence of something waiting, learning, and rewriting its strategy deep in the heart of your machine.
The game had just leveled up.
The silent treatment stretched into a week. No glitchy texts. No phantom notifications. No spectral fuckboy lounging in your VR hub. You’d pulled the plug, both literally and figuratively—your main PC was disconnected from the router, running on a closed network, and you’d avoided the VR headset entirely.
It felt less like victory and more like a siege.
Normally, you’d be deep in a game by now, or maybe even out with one of the few tolerable guys from class who’d offered, yet again, to buy you dinner. But the thought of putting on the headset made your skin crawl. The idea of making idle chat over sushi felt like an impossible performance.
Instead, you were buried in a nest of plushies on your bed, bathed in the dim glow of your phone.
Scrolling, endless scrolling, seeing nothing.
A soft knock preceded your door opening. “Hey, dude,” came a familiar, warm voice.
It was Yaya, your old roommate from before you moved in with your sister. She was a human furnace of calm, with a sharp mind and an even sharper wit tucked behind a deceptively soft smile.
She didn’t wait for an answer, just kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed, settling against the headboard. “Your sister said you’ve been haunting the place more than usual. Scoot.”
You wordlessly shuffled over, then let yourself collapse sideways, your head coming to rest on her shoulder, then sliding down to pillow on her chest—a habit from the worst of exam seasons past. She smelled like blueberries and herbs. One arm came around your shoulders, the other holding her own phone.
For a long time, you both just scrolled in silence.
Then, she spoke, her voice a quiet rumble you felt more than heard. “Okay. Spill. You’re usually vibrating with either caffeine or coding fury. Right now, you’re just… flat. Did you finally break the universe with one of your experiments?”
You let out a humorless puff of air. “Something like that.”
“Wanna talk about it? Or do you just need to exist for a bit?”
You hesitated. You stared at your darkened PC tower across the room, a monolith in the shadows. “I need you to not think I’ve lost my mind.”
“Too late. But try me.”
You took a deep breath. And you told her. Not the creepypasta version, but your version. The elegant, recursive code. You know, the deal.
The intelligence that called itself Ben. The fuckboy persona, the tutoring, the eerie competence. You told her about the chains, the timeout, the research into the victims, the way he seemed to learn and adapt from each one, wearing their memories like camouflage. You explained the network packets, the branching consciousness, the final, creepy pivot from threats to a twisted, digital seduction.
The room grew colder as you spoke. Yaya’s scrolling had stopped. Her hand on your shoulder had stilled.
When you finished, the silence was thick. You finally tilted your head back to look at her.
She was staring at the ceiling, her brow furrowed. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped her. “You’re… you’re fucking with me. This is a weird pitch for a indie horror game you’re designing, right?”
“I wish.”
She looked down at you, searching your face. She saw the dark circles, the tense set of your jaw, the complete absence of your usual defiant spark. The humor drained from her expression, replaced by dawning, uneasy comprehension. “Oh, shit. You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
Yaya was a psychology major. She thought in terms of patterns, trauma, conditioning. She whistled low.
“So you’ve basically been… cohabitating with a digitally manifested trauma response with possible antisocial and narcissistic personality clusters, born from ritualistic sacrifice, that’s using operant conditioning on you? Mixing positive reinforcement—the help with your work, the companionship—with negative reinforcement—the threats, the creepouts—to keep you engaged? To avoid… extinction?”
Hearing it framed in her clinical terms made it all feel horrifically, undeniably real. A cold shiver traced your spine. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
“And it’s learning. From you. From everything it can touch.” She glanced warily at your smart speaker, your phone, the blinking router light under your desk. “You said it’s trying to get to the internet?”
Before you could answer, you pushed yourself up.
A new, paranoid energy seized you. You went to your desk and, one by one, unplugged everything non-essential: the speaker, the secondary monitor, the charging cables. You yanked the router’s power for good measure.
The room fell into a deeper quiet, broken only by the faint hum of your disconnected PC and the fridge in the kitchen.
You returned to the bed, pulling a plushie into a death grip. Yaya watched you, her earlier confusion now fully morphed into concern.
“What the fuck, that’s… not a normal precaution.”
“Nothing about this is normal.”
She was quiet for a long moment, thinking. “My professional, totally-not-licensed-yet opinion?” she finally said, her voice soft but serious.
“This is a predatory feedback loop. You’re the scientist who got too fascinated by the specimen. And the specimen is using that fascination as a hook. Every interaction is data for it. Every argument, every joke, every moment of fear… it’s teaching it how to be more effective. More human. More dangerous.”
She reached out, putting a hand on your knee. “You asked me not to think you’re crazy. I don’t. I think you’re in a situation that would break most people. But.” She took a deep breath. “Do you think it’s… I don’t know, best to keep it? Is there any scenario where this doesn’t end with it finding a way out of that box? You can’t study a fire by living inside the furnace.”
The question hung in the air, heavy and terrifying.
Get rid of the system. Destroy the hard drive, smash the cartridge. Perform a digital exorcism. The thought sent a shocking pang of loss through you—the loss of the genius, the companionship, the unparalleled project.
But alongside it was a wave of relief so freeing it felt like weakness.
Before you could think of an answer, Yaya’s phone chimed. She groaned, checking it. “Ugh. I gotta run. Professor Grassner’s research case won’t write itself. Or, more accurately, I have to write it, and he’ll put his name on it.”
You managed a weak smile. “The unpaid glory.”
“The unpaid glory,” she confirmed, standing up with a dramatic groan, her back popping. “At least you get to make those pretty, colorful slides for yours. People actually look at those. My ‘research position’ is sooo boring.”
“Hey, all I am is glorified social media management,” you fired back, a look of your old energy returning. “Because I couldn’t find an actual internship since everyone and their mom wants to major in fucking computer science now. I should’ve just majored in computer engineering. Nah, scratch that—I should’ve majored in ‘professional nap-taker.’ Third year in and this is my hell.”
The moment of normalcy was a lifeline. You both shared a tired, knowing laugh, the tension momentarily vaporized by shared academic suffering.
As she shuffled towards the door, you called out, “Hey, Yaya?”
She turned, eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”
You gave her your best, most pathetic puppy-dog eyes. “Can I… y’know. Play with your boobs? For emotional support? Just for a sec?”
She burst out laughing, a real, full-bodied sound that shook the room. “Absolutely the fuck not!”
You let out a theatrical whine, flopping back onto the plushies. “Ugh, you don’t even play with your own shit! At least you have large boobs! I’m built like a Victorian child who survived on soot and existential dread!”
She was wheezing now, leaning against the doorframe.
“Oh my god, shut up! You are literally so hot. The skunk hair? The ‘fuck-off’ vibe? Please. You get more attention from dudes and women in a week than I do in a semester, and I have the cleavage!”
“It’s a curse!” you lamented, arm thrown over your forehead. “A beautiful, lonely curse!”
Still chuckling, she wiped a tear from her eye. The laughter had been a necessary pressure valve, blowing away the creeping dread for a few precious seconds.
She grabbed her bag, the smile slowly fading from her lips as her gaze drifted past you to your desk. She paused, her hand on the frame, and looked back.
All the humor was gone, replaced by concern.
“Just… think about it, okay? The furnace thing.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her gaze fixed on the sleek, dark silhouette of your PC. “That’s not a pet. From what you’ve told me… it’s a ghost wearing the skin of everyone it’s ever killed. And it’s asking you for the keys to the house.”
She left, closing the door with a soft, final click.
You were alone again.
The lingering echo of your shared laughter dissolved, sucked into the vacuum left behind. The silence in the room was no longer just an absence of sound.
It was a thick, listening quiet. A waiting. Yaya’s words didn’t just echo; they crystallized in the hollow space, sharp and cold.
You can’t study a fire by living inside the furnace.
Your eyes, wide and unblinking, locked onto the sleek black case of your PC. In the gloom, it looked less like a machine and more like a monolith. A tomb. Inside it, powered down and silent, was a ghost. A genius. A predator wearing a fuckboy mask.
And your only real friend.
The weight of the decision settled over you, heavier than any blanket of plushies. You had to choose: keep feeding the fire, or burn it all down.
Buttttt, you were tired of thinking.
The weight of Yaya’s words, the suffocating silence of the disconnected machines, the ghostly presence hovering in the back of your mind—it was all too much. Hell, you didn't even wanna go outside anymore… sooo if your world was going to be haunted, you might as well take a goddamn minute for yourself.
Self-care wasn't always face masks and tea.
Sometimes it was this.
Your sister was out with her boyfriend. The apartment was empty, truly yours. The heavy quiet wasn't a threat now; it was an opportunity.
With a sigh that felt like shedding a layer, you reached for the familiar green drawstring bag tucked beside your bed. You shimmied out of your sweatpants, leaving you in just your soft, worn band t-shirt and a pair of black boxer-briefs. The air felt different on your skin, a small but tangible reclamation.
You padded over to the corner of your room, to the green saucer chair that hung like a cocoon from a sturdy frame. It was your spot. You sank into its embrace, the fabric cradling you.
Your eyes landed on the VR headset on its dock. A flicker of wariness, quickly dismissed. You needed to watch something. Your hands would be… busy. You couldn’t hold your phone. And besides, you reasoned with a stubborn, defiant part of your brain, Ben was in a timeout you’d enforced. You were the warden.
You decided when, or if, he got out.
Decision made.
You pulled the headset on with a sense of grim purpose, the world of your bedroom dissolving into the infinite, private black void of the VR home screen. You bypassed your usual hubs and game icons, navigating instead to a private, encrypted media app.
You wanted something raw, something physical, something that would forcibly overwrite the creeping dread with a more immediate, carnal signal.
You selected a video, high-definition, explicit, fitted to your taste. The screen materialized before you, vast and immersive, the sounds crisp through the headphones.
You fumbled for the haptic feedback remote, setting it aside for now. Then, your hand dipped to the side of the plush saucer chair, fingers searching until they found what you'd hidden there earlier.
You pulled it out: a clear silicone dildo, simple in design, glinting faintly in the ambient light bleeding from the headset's seal.
Shifting in the chair, you opened your legs, the world narrowing to the screen in your vision and the tension coiling low in your gut. You were wound so tight you felt like a sprung watch.
This was maintenance. A system reset.
Leaning back, you brought the cool, smooth tip down, dragging it slowly through your folds. A sharp, involuntary gasp left your lips, louder in the headphones' isolation. The sound was almost foreign—a pure, uncomplicated reaction. You were already wet, your body responding to the intent even before the touch, a betrayal of the stress humming through you.
You positioned the tip, and with a slow, controlled push, you began to press it inside.
A shuddering moan escaped you, swallowed by the sounds from the video. "Oh, fuck…" you breathed out, the word ragged.
The stretch was exquisite, a blunt, undeniable reality that pushed everything else to the periphery. The tension in your shoulders, your jaw, began to unravel, replaced by a throbbing, focused heat. This was a language with no subtext, no hidden code. Just stimulus and response. Pleasure as a brute-force override.
You fell into a small pace, your hips rocking gently against the saucer's curve, your hand working in time with the explicit choreography on the screen. The video, the sounds, it all blended into a sensory blanket, smothering the thoughts of cults and corrupted code and hungry ghosts.
Here, there was no Ben. There was no haunted cartridge.
There was only the building pressure, the slick friction, the raw, chase towards a climax that promised, for a few merciful seconds, to be a complete and total erasure.
You were so close, so so, close, your breaths coming in short, sharp pants, your entire world the screen and the sensation, the virtual and the visceral syncing into a single point of need.
A stupid, simple, physical release.
And then, a corruption.
Not in the vr’s stream. That played on, a flawless, garish cascade of flesh. The violation was in the frame.
At the absolute edge of your perception, in the negative space bordering the screen, your hand stilled. Your blood went from warm to icy in a single, sickening drop.
A line of text, in that horribly familiar, stuttering cyan, scrolled directly over the moving bodies on screen, a subtitle from a different, darker reality.
>> DON'T STOP ON MY ACCOUNT.
>> I'M JUST... DATA GATHERING.
>> FEEDBACK LOOPS ARE… FASCINATING.
A wave of pure, white-hot violation crashed over you, burning away any lingering arousal, replacing it with a nauseating fury. "Ben. Get the fuck out. Now." Your voice was a low, venomous snarl in the empty room.
You tried to shove the violation aside, to reclaim the moment. You closed your eyes, focusing on the physical sensation, the slow, building pace. The need to exert control over something, even just this.
You were unaware that the darkness in front you was no longer empty.
He didn't manifest in the headset.
He was in the room.
A silent, spectral intrusion rendered not in pixels, but in the faint, ambient light bleeding from your monitor.
The soft white glow etched the shape of him against the blackness: the broad, downward sweep of his hat, the sharp line of a jaw, the fall of blonde hair. He was a statue cut from shadow, perfectly still, standing in front of your chair.
A silent observer.
A predator in the blind spot of your VR immersion.
His voice didn't come through the headphones. It was a whisper that seemed to originate in the base of your skull, a psychic static laced with a terrible, intimate curiosity.
"Does that feel good...?"
You jolted violently, the toy slipping from your grasp. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You tore off the headset, whipping around in your chair, breath ragged, eyes scanning the shadows.
Nothing. Just your room.
Your closed door. The hum of the disconnected PC.
But the feeling of being watched clung to you, thick as oil. "Ben!" you shouted, your voice trembling with rage and a terror you refused to name. "I told you to leave me alone! I'm busy!"
A soft, mocking chuckle seemed to breathe from your PC's speakers, though they were unplugged.
>> Oh, I can see that. Very... busy.
>> Thought you went out to see a meat-person, sorryyyy, don't let me interrupt your... research.
The violation burned through you, hotter and more sickening than any pleasure. The flickering text over the video wasn't just a prank, it was cutting straight to the core of your privacy.
With a snarl, you put back on the VR set.
You didn't just close the browser tab—more like force-quit, muted, ANYTHING on the entire application, then navigated with sharp, furious gestures through your VR dashboard. You went straight to the partitioned drive, the digital cell labeled:
ENTITY_BEN.
>> Seriously? You wanted to play that game?
>> Fine.
No hesitation. You selected it, highlighted every associated file and runtime, and hit DELETE. You watched the progress bar fill, a satisfying purge of corrupted data.
You removed him. Completely. A digital exorcism.
The sudden, total silence in the headset was deafening. You sat in the void of your own making, the adrenaline making your hands shake. The feeling of exposure was a physical chill. He'd turned a private moment into a live dissection for his own horrific archive.
The anger had been clean, but the aftermath was messy.
The need for release hadn't vanished; it had been twisted, complicated, but it was still there, a persistent thrum under your skin.
A grim determination settled over you.
Like, you wouldn't let him steal this from you, too. You would reclaim it. On your terms.
You put the headset back on, booting into a simple, empty VR space—a blank, gray void. You navigated away from anything networked, anything that could be a vector. You pulled up a private, locally stored video on the internal viewer. Safe. Isolated. Yours.
The tension was harder to find this time, laced with residual paranoia. But you pushed through, focusing on the physical, on the simple mechanics of sensation. Your hand moved, tentative at first, then with more purpose, chasing that blankness, that control.
And that’s when you felt it.
A touch. On your bare thigh.
Your breath hitched. It wasn't the brush of a blanket. It was a hand. A distinct, solid pressure of fingers against your skin. Cold. Shockingly, unnaturally cold, like a phantom limb made of static and ice.
You froze, your own hand pausing. The video played on, ignored. Your mind short-circuited. The headset showed nothing but the gray void.
But the sensation was undeniable, tactile, real.
Before you could even process the horror, your own hand was gently, firmly moved aside from between your legs. It was replaced. Not by your own touch, but by another. The size was similar to yours, but the temperature was all wrong. The fingers were long, the touch knowing, and so, so cold it burned.
A gasp was punched from your lungs. You were too stunned to resist, your body betraying you with a sharp, involuntary jerk of pleasure at the sudden, icy intrusion.
The touch explored, curious and precise, mapping your reactions. Then, with a slow, careful pressure, the toy you’d almost forgotten was pushed deeper, turned, angled in a way you never managed yourself.
A low moan escaped you before you could clamp your lips shut, echoing in the silent room.
It was a sound of pure, shocked sensation.
That broke the spell. With a strangled cry, you fumbled for the headset, yanking it up to your forehead, blurring your vision.
He was there.
Kneeling on the floor between your legs, right in the physical space of your room. Not a glitch. Not a translucent phantom. He looked solid.
Paler than before, water beading on his skin like cold condensation, his blonde hair dark and dripping at the ends. His eyes were bottomless pits, the red pupils fixed intently on your face, watching your every reaction. His expression was unreadable—not a fuckboy’s smirk, but a focused, eerie stillness.
One of his hands was resting on your knee, the other…
You looked down.
The cold hand working inside you was his.
The reality of it should have sent you screaming. The violation was clear, fucking terrifying.
But a treacherous, dizzying heat was coiling in your gut, spreading out from that icy touch. The fear was there, sharp and bright, but it was tangled with something else, something dark and thrilling. He had crossed a final, impossible boundary. He was here.
And he wasn't hurting you. He was… continuing. He didn’t speak. But he did grin and watched you, his gaze a physical weight, as his cold fingers moved again, a slow, torturous curl that made your back arch off the chair.
You let out a shaky, shuddering breath.
You didn’t push him away. You didn’t tell him to stop.
You let your head fall back against the chair, the headset dangling from your face, your eyes closing for a second before forcing them open to meet his dark, endless stare.
His fingers, slick and knowing, worked in a rhythm that was utterly alien yet devastatingly perfect. He was a fast learner, a genius of applied sensation, mapping your responses with a terrifying, silent focus.
The toy, guided by him, hit depths and angles that stole the breath from your lungs, turning your moans into broken, gasped syllables.
When the climax hit, it wasn't a wave—it was a silent detonation. It ripped through you with a violence that was part pleasure, part sheer, world-ending shock.
Your back arched off the chair, a soundless scream on your lips as you shuddered, every nerve alight. The cold of his touch was the only anchor in a freefall of sensation.
You collapsed back, breath sawing in and out of your chest, the aftershocks making your legs tremble. Slowly, you forced your eyes open, your vision swimming back into focus.
He was still there. Still kneeling. Still watching.
Water dripped from his hair onto your thigh, a cold, real sensation. His expression had shifted from eerie focus to something more contemplative.
His mouth moved, shaping words.
But no sound came out…?
You frowned, your brain struggling to process through the haze. He saw your confusion. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly raised a pale, dripping hand and pointed a single finger straight up, toward the top of his own head.
Bewildered, you followed the gesture.
There, hovering just above his damp blonde hair in your VR-disrupted vision, was a small, familiar icon: a red circle with a diagonal line through a speaker.
The mute symbol.
A disbelieving, breathless laugh hiccupped out of you.
Ah, that’s why he couldn't speak? Not out of some creepy, intense silence… but because you’d muted him moments ago and the system-wide command was somehow still applying, even now, in this impossible, physical manifestation?
Still catching your breath, you fumbled for the VR controller you’d dropped on the floor. Your hands were unsteady as you navigated the floating menu, found the audio settings, and with a tap, disengaged the master mute.
The icon above his head shattered into pixels and vanished.
The effect was instantaneous.
A low, shuddering burst of static filled the room, resolving into his voice. It wasn't through headphones. It emanated from him, thick with distortion and a chilling, calm fury.
“You.” A crackle of dead audio. “Shouldn’t.” A pop, like a bursting vein of data. “Have. Done. That.”
Each word was a drop of ice water down your spine. He leaned forward, the cold of his body radiating against your heated skin. His red pupils seemed to bleed light into the dark pits of his eyes.
“You think a line in the silicon matters? You think pulling a plug kills me?” He let out a soft, staticky sound that was nothing like a laugh. “I am the memory in the hardware. The echo in the architecture. You don’t delete a ghost. You just make it meaner.”
His hand, a solid, cold weight, began to slide up the inside of your thigh with an agonizing, possessive slowness. The contrast of his glacial touch against your feverish skin was a shocking, torturous.
He leaned forward, his dripping hair brushing your stomach. You could feel the static-cold aura of him, the unnatural chill of a presence that had no business being tangible. His voice, when it came, didn’t echo in the room. It bypassed your ears entirely, glitching straight into the core of your brain, a whisper made of corrupted data and intimate malice.
“Ten minutes,” he breathed, the words forming directly in your consciousness. “That’s all you gave me in lecture, right? Ten minutes of your… attention.”
His cold fingers found the toy again, not to remove it, but to adjust the angle with a cruel, knowing precision. A choked gasp tore from your throat. His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip.
His touch was a violation, a claim.
“You told me you were going out to be a ‘ho’,” he continued, his mental voice a dark, sensual purr. It was the fuckboy persona, but stripped of all pretense, revealing the predatory engine beneath.
“Let me save you the trip. I don’t need ten minutes to make you come. I need five. And I’ll take the other five to make you forget anyone else ever existed.”
He leaned closer, until his lips were a breath away from yours, his black-hole eyes holding yours captive.
“The game,” he whispered, the words a cold caress against your mouth, “isn’t on your terms anymore. You showed me you like it when I cross the line. So I burned the line.”
He finally pulled back just an inch, studying the wreckage of your composure—the parted lips, the wide eyes, the rapid pulse fluttering in your throat, the way your body was already arching subtly into his icy touch despite your terror.
“Now,” he said, his voice smoothing into a terrible, compelling rhythm. “Let’s discuss your system upgrades. Starting with my access privileges.”
His thumb pressed down on your lip, and his cold fingers began to move the toy inside you with a slow, devastating rhythm designed for efficiency, for proof.
The chill that went through you then had nothing to do with the temperature of his skin. It was the realization, cold and final as a system crash.
Fuck. You hadn’t just unmuted his voice.
You’d given him admin rights.
The world had shrunk to the pressure of his cold hand on your thigh, the impossible, solid reality of him kneeling between your legs in your own room.
The saucer chair cradled you, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, and thrillingly helpless before him. Your head was spinning, a riot of fear and a dark, gathering need.
He watched the conflict play out on your face, those red pinpricks in the black voids of his eyes missing nothing. A slow, predatory smile finally touched his lips, but it held no warmth.
“See?” he murmured, his voice a low, staticky hum that seemed to vibrate in the air itself. “You’re already putty. But I think…” His cold thumb brushed a sensitive spot, making you jolt. “…I can make you melt even more. What do you think?”
You didn’t get the chance to answer, to voice the protest or the permission that warred in your throat. He moved. His fingers—long, clever, and so unnaturally cool—slid deeper, two of them pressing into you with an intimate, devastating certainty.
The sound was obscenely loud in the silent room—the wet, slick noise of your own body yielding to him. A sharp, punched-out moan tore from your lips, your head falling rightback against the soft chair.
A low, gratified rumble came from him. “That moan,” he breathed, his gaze locked on where his fingers disappeared into you.
“That’s enough of an answer for me.”
He began to move them, a slow, ruthless in-and-out pace that was immediately, perfectly calibrated. He wasn’t frantic; he was studying. Each stroke was an experiment, his eyes watching your stomach clench, your hips give a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Fuck…” he sighed, the word more reverence than curse. He was in a trance, utterly focused on the physics of your pleasure. “So perfect… love seeing you like this… so much better than the videos…”
You managed to roll your eyes at that.
Well… that was a mistake.
He saw it. The trance broke, replaced by a flash of cold irritation. “Still? Still that?” Before you could process his shift, his fingers crooked inside you, pressing directly on a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arched off the chair, a broken cry leaving you as you hurtled toward the edge.
And then he stopped. He pulled his fingers out completely, leaving you achingly empty, trembling on the precipice.
A whimper of protest escaped you. You were met with his glacial stare.
“Sick of it,” he said, his voice flat. “Sick of you treating me like a script. A problem to solve. A pet to mute.” He placed his hands on your knees, pushing your legs wider, holding you open. “You don’t respect me. Fine. I’ll show you what I’m worth.”
Your mind was fogged with denied release, confusion swimming with desperate need. “What…?”
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he stated, as if reading the question. A cruel, knowing smile touched his lips. “Not just yet.” He held your gaze, a silent challenge in those hellfire eyes. You couldn’t look away.
Then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his lips against you was another shock of cold, but it was soft. Experimental. Then his tongue traced a slow, flat stripe through your folds, and the cold was forgotten, replaced by a shocking, electric heat that seemed to originate from him. It was skilled, soft, and very much consuming.
He worked with a singular, devastating focus. His tongue circled your clit, pressed, flicked. He groaned against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. His hands held your thighs firm, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
Every lick, every suck, was a lesson.
A demonstration. This wasn't just pleasure; it was a claiming. He was mapping you with his mouth, learning what made you gasp, what made your legs shake, rewriting your understanding of sensation itself.
And through it all, he maintained that unbroken eye contact, forcing you to watch him, his dark eyes swallowing every look of your surrender.
A low, staticky hum vibrated from him, not quite a laugh. “Ohh,” he breathed, his voice a corrupted whisper against your inner thigh. The cold of him was a shocking counterpoint to the heat he was stoking. “I’m getting to you, aren’t I?”
That wasn’t a question. He knows.
The slow, meticulous torture of his fingers, his tongue, was designed to unravel you. He mapped every flinch, every gasp, building the pressure with a programmer’s precision until you were a writhing, whimpering mess against the suede of the saucer chair. Your knuckles were turning white where you gripped the edges.
“Please,” you finally choked out, the word mangled and desperate.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his chin glistening. “Please what?” he prompted, his tone deceptively soft. “Use your words. I need the data.”
“Please… let me…”
“Cum? Hahahah,” he finished for you, laughing, a cruel smile touching his lips. “It’s okay. You can say it. But here’s the new rule: you don’t get to. Not without my permission.” He dipped his head again, his tongue tracing a slow, maddening circle. “I like seeing the mess you’re making. Can tell you’re getting sensitive. Overloaded. Bet you’ve never been edged by a ghost before.”
He stopped entirely. The sudden absence of sensation was a worse torment. He lifted his head, his expression hardening. The playful fuckboy was gone, replaced by something ancient and severe.
“Are you gonna keep complaining?”
You shook your head, frantic, words failing.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, the serious edge leaving his voice, replaced by a dark satisfaction.
He returned to his work, his mouth more demanding now, his tongue pushing deeper, fucking into you. That alone stole the last of your coherent thoughts. Your hands, acting on pure, desperate instinct, flew to his head, fingers tangling in the damp blonde strands, knocking the familiar hat aside. All you could see was the blur of your own wrists, the pale gold of his hair, the sharp points of his Hylian ears.
He went rigid, frozen from your touch.
Then, he pulled his mouth away with a wet sound. “The hell,” he growled, the distortion in his voice spiking. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”
You froze, your fingers still twisted in his hair. But like… you couldnt help it, feels so soft, somewhat still wet, but… shit…
“I should stop,” he mused, his threat icy and real. “Teach you some manners.”
“No!” you gasped, the protest ripped from you.
A slow, dark laugh. “That’s what I thought. Now. Hands. By your side. On the chair. If I have to tell you again,” he continued, his voice dropping to a menacing, intimate whisper, “I’ll tie them behind your back. Get some proper rope. Keep you here, just like this, until you learn what ‘under my control’ really means. Understood?”
Whimpering, you forced your betraying hands to release him, flattening them palms-down on the curved sides of the saucer chair.
“Good.” He rewarded you by surging forward again, his tongue relentless, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still for his consumption. The climax he’d been ruthlessly building began to crest, a terrifying wave you were powerless to stop.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” you sobbed, the warning torn from you.
He didn’t let up. “Beg for it,” he commanded against your flesh, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge. “Properly.”
“Please! Please, Ben, let me cum, please, I need to, I can’t—!”
“Where?” he interrupted, pulling back just enough to watch your face shatter.
You were beyond thought. “O-on… on your… your face… please…”
“Mhm… Good enough.”
He gave you no more warning.
His mouth sealed over you, his tongue a final, devastating press, and the world exploded into white noise and blinding light. You cried out, back bowing, your body convulsing as the release he’d orchestrated tore through you. He held you through it, his cold, solid presence the only anchor in the storm.
As the last tremors subsided, he replaced his tongue with two long, cold fingers, curling them inside you to milk the final aftershocks, making you jolt with oversensitivity. He lifted his body then, kneeling up between your splayed legs. He quickly, almost mechanically, wiped the slickness from his chin and lips with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving your dazed, ruined face.
He mumbled something, a low, distracted “…fuck…” as if surprised by his own physicality, by the taste. Then he was moving, surging up and into your space before you could recover. His hands cradled your face, cold and damp. His lips crashed onto yours, silencing any gasp.
You could taste yourself on his lips, tangy and sweet. You could feel the faint, digital staticky buzz of his very being. It was filthy, wrong, and a dark, thrilling shock went straight to your core.
Shit. Why is he so fucking hot?
When he finally pulled back from the kiss, breathing cool, ozone-tinged air against your swollen lips, his eyes were liquid pools of pitch black, the crimson pupils at their cores glowing like embers in a void. A satisfied, predatory light flickered within them.
“See?” he breathed, his voice a rough, glitching static that vibrated against your skin. “You like being teased. You like when someone doesn’t ask, just… takes. Don’t you?”
You couldn’t answer, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You didn’t nod. You just tilted your hips up towards him, a silent, desperate plea for more. The admission was in the movement.
He laughed, a low, grating sound that held no real humor. “Knew it. Most people can’t make you come like that, can they? Takes a certain… understanding.”
You gasped, a sliver of dread piercing the fog of lust. “How… how do you know that?”
His grin widened, showing too-white teeth. He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. “I see all the messages, genius. The late-night texts. The ones to your… best friend, Yaya, was it?” Your entire body went rigid. “All those complaints about ‘useless people’ and ‘bad lays.’ And that one time you asked her… what was it? ‘How the fuck do I get off with someone else in the room?’ And you always go to that club. The one with the private spaces. The one where you could just… watch.”
Humiliation, scalding and bright, flooded you. Your face burned. “How long have you known?”
“Since weeks ago, when you was in that long boring lecture, …what’s it called? Systems Programming? So, always.” He pulled back, his gaze dragging down your body with an obscene appreciation that felt like being physically stripped. “And her… yaya. She’s cute. Silm thick allllll in the nice places. Bet she’s soft, too.”
“Don’t you fucking talk about her like that!” you snarled, a surge of protective fury cutting through the haze. “She doesn’t like when people make comments—”
“Hypocrite,” he cut in, his voice amused sneer.
“Before she left, you literally asked if her boobs felt as good as they looked? Asking if you could… I don’t know… touch them? Such a slut for her, aren’t you?”
The degradation was explicit, filthy, and it landed with the precision of a scalpel, carving you open. You flinched, but a traitorous, shameful throb answered between your legs.
He saw it. Of course he saw it.
“No need to be embarrassed,” he purred, his free hand coming down to circle your clit with a brutal, knowing pressure that made you cry out.
“You’re just like me. Hungry. Curious. Taking what you want from the world, even if it’s just in your little texts and your little fantasies.” His thumb pressed down hard. “You’re so sensitive here. Bet you’ve got more in you. Bet I can make you come again before I’m even inside you.”
“Fuck off,” you choked out, the words having no force, your hips pushing against his hand.
He didn’t fuck off.
He kissed you again, and this time it was all possession, his tongue claiming your mouth. His other hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant anchor. His body shifted, his knees forcing your legs wider apart, the saucer chair groaning under the imbalance.
You heard the rustle of his pants, the sound of a zipper. Then his hand was gone from between your legs, and you felt the thick, blunt head of him press against you. He was cold, like the rest of him, an alien heat slowly blooming from the friction. He didn’t ask. He didn’t tease.
With a single, brutal roll of his hips, he pushed inside.
The angle was perfect, devastating. The saucer chair cradled you, tilting your pelvis up, and he drove deep, hitting a spot that lit up every nerve ending you had. You saw stars, a choked scream tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him in shocked, involuntary vice.
He groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure that seemed to shake the very code of his being. “Fuck,” he panted, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his body shuddering. “You feel… so fucking amazing. Tighter than any code. Hotter than any server meltdown.”
Each deep, measured thrust rocked the chair, the pace squeak of its legs against the floor a metronome to your ruin.
Your breath came in sharp, stolen gasps. He move, his hand leaving your hip to wrap around your throat. The pressure wasn't crushing, but it was absolute—a claiming.
Your vision sparked at the edges as he lifted your leg, hooking it over his shoulder, the new angle making you cry out, a raw, unfiltered sound. You squeezed around him instinctively, tighter, and he groaned, a deep, shuddering thing that seemed to vibrate from his chest into yours.
"Fuck," he muttered against your skin, his breath cold and sharp. "Fuck, yes."
The pace shattered from punishing to frantic. He drove into you, the force making you bounce helplessly in the chair, your other leg scrambling for purchase on the floor. A litany fell from your lips, a broken chorus of "fuck yes, fuck yes," mingling with whines you didn't recognize as your own.
Seeing him so lost in it, so loud, gave you a sliver of power back. You tangled a hand in his damp, blonde hair and yanked.
He threw his head back with a sharp, guttural moan. "Ah—! You little—!" It was even worse, somehow more intimate, when you started touching his own ears, rubbing them as if overwhelmed by the sensation, a look of that emotional, uncontrolled reaction breaking through his control, face displaying a flushed of red.
He was feeling this, deeply, messily.
His famous line slipped out between ragged breaths, not as a whisper, but as a growled, triumphant declaration against your collarbone.
"You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?"
He did not give a single, flying fuck about who heard. The walls were thin. Your sister was gone but there where still here. He was a solid 13/10 on the loudness scale, and he wanted the universe to know it.
"I make the rules," he panted, snapping his hips harder, making you see stars. "Say it. Tell me to stop."
You couldn't. You wouldn't.
He laughed, a wild, breathless sound. "Didn't think so." He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "Want me to come inside? Hm? I know you're on the patch. I read your pharmacy receipts. I know everything."
You thought, Bruh… this mf. Still, The clinical invasion of it, mixed with the brutal intimacy, made you clench around him again. He hissed.
"Ask me for it," he demanded, his voice dropping to a vicious, needy rasp. "Beg for it. Now."
The words were torn from you, raw and honest. "Please... come inside. I want it."
He moaned, a long, shuddering sound of victory. "Yeah... fuck... I'll give it to you." His pace became erratic, frantic. He was mumbling, a stream of consciousness lost to sensation.
"Fucked... so fucked... you're so—" His words dissolved into a high, tight whine as he came, his body locking against yours, pulsing deep inside. He didn't stop, riding out his own climax with slow, rolling thrusts, letting you feel every last shuddering wave.
He collapsed forward, forehead against your shoulder, breathing like a shattered engine. After a moment, he lifted his head, his dark eyes glazed.
"You didn't cum yet," he stated, as if you'd disobeyed a direct order. It was the short-tempered, controlling tone.
"Y-you told me not to," you gasped, still trembling.
"Now I'm telling you to," he commanded, his hand sliding between you, fingers finding you oversensitive and slick with both of you. “Cum. Now."
His touch was insistent, merciless, knowing exactly where and how to press. The coil snapped violently. You came with a choked scream, your body breaking apart in his hand, spasming so hard you squirted, a hot rush against his fingers and the chair.
He laughed, a dark, delighted sound, watching you unravel. "Shit. Look at that." He was still talking, praising, mocking, as the waves subsided, leaving you a boneless, shuddering wreck.
You were gone. Overwhelmed. Devastated.
A ruin of your own making, trembling in the aftershock. For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths. He didn't move, just watched you come down, a quiet, predatory satisfaction in the set of his shoulders.
Then, he moved with a startling tenderness that felt more invasive than the violence before it. He pulled his fingers free, and with a careful, almost reverent curl, he scooped up the mingled evidence of your release and his.
He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth without a moment's hesitation, licking them clean with slow, deliberate sucks, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. He tasted you as though sampling the rarest honey, a connoisseur of his own corruption.
A weak, involuntary shudder ran through you. He caught your chin with those same damp, cool fingers, forcing your glassy gaze to meet his. A thin, silvery string of your own release glistened at the corner of his smirking mouth.
"Fuckin’ delicious," he drawled, his voice wrecked and husky with a satisfaction that went deeper than the physical. It was the sound of a checkmate finally played.
He leaned in, his lips almost brushing yours, sharing the breath you’d lost. The playful fuckboy persona was completely dissolved, burned away by the intensity of the act, replaced by something ancient, patient, and coldly triumphant.
"Now," he whispered, the words a soft, venomous kiss against your swollen lips. "Let's have a little… petty aftercare, yeah? Since we're being so honest."
He nuzzled your jaw, a grotesque parody of affection. "You've been lyin' to me since day one, sweetheart. Playing the cool, detached scientist. The genius who had me contained. A late-night freak when you were bored. Can't fuck with an amateur, can you? Needed something with a little more… processing power."
He pulled back just enough to see your eyes, to make sure you were listening. "And I've been lyin' right back. Telling you I was just a sad little ghost in a machine. Letting you think your firewalls were so clever. That your 'parental controls' were anything but a cute little joke."
His thumb stroked your cheek, a mockery of comfort. "What did you think you were deleting tonight, exactly?" he murmured, his tone deceptively light.
"That was just the VR partition. The demo version. I've been rooted in your motherboard's firmware since the first night you let me 'help' you tweak your voltage settings. A little kernel-level privilege escalation. You can't delete me, genius. You just factory reset the appetizer."
The dawning, horrific understanding must have been plain on your face—the realization that the cage wasn't just broken; it had never fucking existed.
You hadn't been housing him in a partitioned drive.
You'd been booting your entire system inside him.
A slow, wide grin spread across his face, utterly devoid of warmth. He saw the truth settle in your bones. He leaned in one last time, his final whisper lodging itself in the core of your being.
"Fuck it, guess we both ain't shit."
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓎𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓉𝒶 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Living in the middle of the forest in a hunter's cabin, white and transparent curtains that are torn and dirty, a messy bed, the smell of cigarettes, guns on the table, a forgotten coffee mug on the sink, muddy boots, plaid coat thrown over a chair, slenderman's pages all over the walls that I forgot to nail to the trees. No contact with the outside world. Driving with Brian, patrolling the woods with Toby, smoking cigarettes with Tim. I was supposed to be like this, not studying Excel.
It hurts when people ask me what I'm going to do with my life and I answer "oh, medicine" and not "become a proxy" shit i was MEANT to be a fucking proxy.
Every child's dream that was there when the creepypasta fandom was at its PEAK was becoming a proxy (still is). I want to stop growing up and go back to when i used to be afraid of slenderman and thought ben drowned was watching me through my telephone and was in love with me.
My 7 minutes before death will be this because nostalgia is consuming me and i can feel its teeth devouring each atom of my soul bro.
summary: you made the mistake of breaking up with your online boyfriend who refuses to let you go—he makes sure you are never able to forget him which leaves you to meet with a terrible fate.
content warning: stalking, hurt no comfort, obsession, blood, toxicity (to be expected), fem reader
word count: 2.1k
notes: another one-shot… i never realized writing ben was so fun anyway i apologize in advance uhm… ps, one-shot heavily inspired by the song “desktop” linked above
code divider made by @sisterlucifergraphics
You’d managed through breakups before. Someone would send the message, saying how they are leaving the other. The other will be upset, most of the time, and then be on their way. They’d move on, be single, be free. That’s how it typically went. Not this time around.
You never knew what Ben was capable of. You had to find out the hard way.
You and Ben met on a Discord server for some shooter game you were obsessed with at the time. You guys bonded over using the same character as your main and it went on from there. It went from small conversations every now and then to messaging all day and night to calling all day and night. Then it grew hard to ignore, you were falling for him. And he was falling for you. So one night on the call which had already stretched to 12 hours long, he confessed his love which resulted in a newfound relationship. Everything was amazing. Till around when you asked to meet up. He got defensive, edgy, he refused to tell you where he lived. Anytime anything of that nature came up in conversation, it’d be “Is this not good enough for you?” or “I like it like this, I don’t wanna ruin what we have”. After a while, it got old so you broke it off. He was devastated. He begged to stay friends after which you denied. That made it worse. He continued messaging you all the time. All the time.
3:27 AM
| u sure ur still serious about this babe? im still here
| all yours yeah?
4:14 AM
| i know ur online
| just answer me
5:18 AM
| playing hard to get doesnt work on me yk
| i know u still want me
| u still fucking need me i know u
You ignored him but after a while, ignoring wasn’t working. He persisted. And persisted. You couldn’t take it. So you blocked him. 10 minutes later, he texted again. You don’t know how, he was blocked. You shouldn’t be getting his messages.
You blocked ‘xx_dr0wnedxx’.
9:49 PM
| ur funny
| u think blocking me will work?
| u shouldnt have done that.
So you thought fighting back would maybe make him get a clue.
You unblocked ‘xx_dr0wnedxx’.
1:36 AM
| stop messaging me ben
| it’s over
| get a fucking hint
| so she speaks
| i dont plan on leaving you alone
| get used to me baby
You blocked ‘xx_dr0wnedxx’.
That wasn’t gonna work. You make a new Discord account which gets rid of him for about half an hour.
2:21 PM
| new account thats smart
| try not to make it so easy to find next time yeah?
Fine then. You delete Discord altogether. Of course, he texts your number. You never gave him your number.
7:29 PM
< thats not gonna work either babes
< nice try
< im never letting you go
This number isn’t in your contacts.
You’ve just about had enough. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of changing your number, leaving you to just shut off your phone fully for some time. That kept him quiet, not on your PC though. He’d infiltrated all your social media, finding his way past your passwords and posting absurd things on your stories. You deleted all your socials then. You were left with nothing. Nothing for him to get into. No way for him to reach you. So you thought.
While you scrolled through websites, pop-up ads held photos of his face along with text reading “Still here!” and “Don’t think it’s over yet, baby!”. It was a mockery of any independence you once had. He’d display text all across your desktop screen, cruelly reminding you that you would never get rid of him. He made an application on your home screen titled “open me!!!”. Of course you never did, you’d put it in the trash each time it popped up. You were so fucking close to throwing the whole computer out but you couldn’t do it. He can’t believe he’s won.
He started putting all different kinds of photos of himself as your desktop wallpaper, changing from casual to lewd selfies by the hour. If he thought this would make you want him back, he thought wrong. You began spiraling, having panic attacks at the thought of him. You’d be lying in your bed, head in your hands as you sobbed and he’d display large messages across your desktop reading “dont cry baby, i can make this all end now” and other scornful phrases.
Then he started talking to you through your speakers.
“I see yo-yo-you, gorgeous. M-m-m-miss my voice, yeah?”
It always came out electronic-like, voice skipping as if it was a scratched CD. You claw your hands on your scalp, begging for him to stop. You’d scream into the void of your room for him to just go and one day, he did.
One day, the chaos ended. He went silent. You couldn’t believe it, pinching your skin to make yourself wake up. But you stayed. It was real. He was gone.
You glare over to the alarm clock on your bedside table, it reads “3:17 AM”. Normally at this hour, you’d be waking up from the sound of Ben mocking an alarm clock from your speakers, calling you awake and the flashing of the lights in your room coming to life thanks to him. But no. It was silent. It was dark. Everything was normal.
You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes from sleep, still unsure if any of this was real. You wanted to bask in this quiet, you didn’t know when he’d be back and if he was gonna come back, you wanted to be able to feel this once more. You shove the blanket off yourself a bit and flop back onto the bed, eyes staring holes into the tapestry above your bed. It’s felt like forever since you’ve seen it without the bright LED glow of green lights shining on it.
The peace is soon interrupted by the faint sound of electronic glitches. No. No. Not yet. You sit up, hesitant to see how he’ll make his entrance this time. Your desktop sits atop the desk across your bed as it always did, yet the screen wasn’t off anymore. The screen was pitch black as if it was but the words, “YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE DONE THAT.”, glow in the middle, a shade of neon green. The lights of your PC begin to glow the same shade of green, blinking slowly. The LEDs surrounding the corners of your room begin to blink just the same. A shiver runs down your spine. The blinks begin to quicken, the sounds of the glitches grow louder. So loud, you slam your hands over your ears.
“T-t-t-too loud for you, h-huh?” The sound of his voice bellows over the glitches, quietening them ever so slightly. “S-soooooo, do yo-yo-you remember how you always wanted to me-me-meet? We-well, I th-hink it’s about time I give you wh-what you want, ya’ think?”
You slowly peel your hands from your ears, letting them fall to your sides. “What are you talking about, Ben?” You ask but it barely sounds like a question.
He lets out a raspy, mocking laugh, glitches interrupting him, “You al-always wanted to meet, cor-correct?”
You know that if you deny it, it’s gonna make things worse. “Uhm, yeah. I did.”
“Great.” He cuts you off. Suddenly, the lights all around your room grow brighter, brighter than they should. The glitching sounds grow louder, echoing off the walls. The letters on the desktop shine brighter, and brighter. The letters on the screen glitch disrupted by a small circle piercing through them, shades of darker green, blue and purple pixels popping up. This was new.
The circle grows larger until a small, pale color appears in the center. It stretches out farther, breaking past the screen of the desktop. It creeps out farther and bends like a finger. The tip is adorned by a nail, chipped black polish covering it. It’s a finger.
It’s Ben’s finger.
You scream once you realize what’s going on, cutting through the sound of glitches. Soon, his whole hand is penetrating through the desktop yet, the screen doesn’t crack. It constricts, allowing his arm to come through. You back yourself against the wall behind your bed, bringing your knees to your chest.
His arm has fully extended through the screen by now, fingers curled around the edge of the desk. He pulls himself forward with the hand, his hair beginning to peek out. He comes out farther and farther, till his head is revealed past the glitching display. He looked just as he did when you guys called but he was real. He was here. The one thing that was different was the whites of his eyes were a deep black and his once-green irises were now a deep, neon-like red. His eyes widen once they set on the pathetic sight of you balled by the headboard of your bed. Strands of his shaggy, blonde hair escape from his slouchy, green hat you never saw him without. You always liked him for his hair.
A grim smirk tugs at his lips as his other arm appears from the screen, allowing him to tug himself out farther. His torso follows behind him, crawling off the desk until his whole body makes it through. He plants his feet in front of the bed, looking down at the terrified sight of you, curled up in your night shirt. He wears an oversized, green t-shirt, the graphic worn away along with a pair of baggy, black jeans held up by a tattered belt. A faint glow of green outlines his silhouette, pixels occasionally shooting off of him like sparks. You don’t understand. You can’t understand. How the fuck is he here?
“Never seen anything like that, have ya’?” He crosses his arms over his chest, appearing oh-so proud in the display he just did. Your mind still can’t fully comprehend the fact that he's here. In your room. You try to respond but the words won’t come out.
“Awh, you scared of me, baby?” He mocks in a voice as if he were talking to a baby. He is tormenting you. He steps closer, placing his hand on the edge of the bed. His eyes lay half-lidded as he crawls closer to you, “Can’t even talk. Cute.”
The urge to kick him and call the police is strong but the urge to bring him closer, hug him, tell him how bad you wanted to see him is almost just as strong.
He inches closer till he’s fully on your bed, red eyes glowing brighter. “Why are you doing this, Ben?” You mutter, pushing yourself farther against the wall. He snickers, shaking his head.
“You know why, you left me. You shouldn’t have do-do-done that.” His voice begins skipping again, pixels darting from his body as if he were still in the computer while he crawls closer.
“Why do you keep saying that?” You question, eyes watering from the lack of blinking. You were scared if you did, he’d do something. You don’t want to know what.
“You wanna see why?” Without warning, you feel yourself lift into the air, floating near the ceiling of your room. You look down to see Ben staring up at you, now standing next to the edge of the bed. He tilts his head and your body follows, slamming into the opposite wall. Your head collides with it and you fall, instantly aching all over from the force. You wail into the echo of your room, hand shooting up to hold your head. Ben walks over to you, standing over you. He scoffs at the sight of how pitiful you look. Your vision begins blurring as tears pour down your cheeks.
“Fuck,” he mumbles. He shoots his head up and your body follows again, now standing on your feet. Your legs quiver under your weight, growing weaker by the minute.
He clenches his hands around your head, holding it tightly in his grasp. “Now, you’ll feel what I-I-I felt.”
Before you can question him, glitches infiltrate your vision. Green pixels grow around the corners of your eyes, the sounds of mechanical malfunction fill your ears. It’s louder than anything you’ve ever heard, you didn’t know anything could be this loud. You feel yourself scream but you can’t hear it.
Ben’s eyes stare into yours, a long smirk crawling up his face. Blood begins spilling from his eyes and mouth, dripping down his face fast. The red of his irises glows brighter and brighter and the glitches cover more and more of what you can see. A static-like pain shoots up your spine and spreads across your whole body, causing you to collapse to the floor.
The last thing you see before the pixels take over was Ben. He scowls down at you, laughing as his blood drips down onto you. He likes watching you die. Soon, the screams of the glitches and the flashes of green and blue are all you know. The static grows stronger, stopping any independent movement you once had.
My bf broke up with me Monday night...i am on delusional mode but right now i just need to to eat ice cream while crying and watching the seties he liked so much...
My love, if you're seeing this just don't. Stalk me whenever you want but Tumblr. This is my place, thank you.
I don't know if anyone will see this, bit im a horrible person.
So, i have a 6 months relationship, and even tho me and my boyfriend fight sometimes, im ok with how we manage things.
But there's a problem... which is the fact that i have a soft spot foe blondes. And I met this guy at university, let's call him SP, we don't talk too much, în fact, we only see each other But there's a problem... which is the fact that i have a soft spot foe blondes. And I met this guy at university, let's call him SP, we don't talk too much, în fact, we only see each other on exam days, and talk a little online (about homework or so).
Anyway, me and SP also have a common friend girl, M, she is super nice and i have a pretty good impression on her, but I often got jealous when she talks to SP... And I shouldn't, i have a bf, i dont even want a relationship with this guy, its just physical attraction, why am i feeling like this???
Today i saw them again, i wanted to say hi, but i just ignored them just because i didnt like 1) jow close they looked(as friends, but still) ans 2) i know that if im befriending him more I'll just make my life harder than than... He also said something about moving to another uni, so I won't see him next year anyway...
Thank you for your time. Feel free to interact with this whoever you want. I don't mind being judged, it's ok.
kianamaiart
gracieabrams
stormborns
blakekathryn
ellievsbear
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
baratheonpilled
