I will write traumatising things (and you'll love it)
✝✝ Alex, 23 ✝✝
✝ Minors DNI ✝
Link To my art blog
Requests : Open
Comments/concerns : Open
@TwistedDesire (Quotev!) / @cpc on twitter (Art!)
Would anyone object to a fic written as if you're British, rather than American? It won't be a major plot point, but honestly--- I want to write from something I know, I'm constantly having to guess what American culture is like. LMAO.
Whoever messaged me on tumblr earlier, I’m not ignoring you— tumblr just ate the message and it’s completely disappeared 🤘🏻dunno where it went. RIP to that Ig
I know it’s not new, but I thought I’d make a post on it!
If a user messages you and says they “reported you” and asks you to send a friend request to this guy “elituckertumblrr” on Discord, it means they got hacked! Please don’t message him </3
Personally, I’d try to find other accounts of theirs (that aren’t on Tumblr) and let them know about it. But if you ask and they do know they were hacked, then obviously don’t harass them about it and just move on, cause likely they know what next steps to take.
BUT if you do message Eli Tucker on Discord, he’ll ask for your username, DOB, and country. Then he’ll ask for you to change your email to some Outlook email. DO NOT DO IT. That’s how they get access to your account.
For next steps, Tumblr suggests you to report the account for “spam”.
But yeah! Please stay safe online and be weary on who messages you <3
For further reading on how to protect your account (written by Tumblr Staff):
RULES: post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything)
He moans against you, tongue circling your clit in lazy, worshipful strokes while his fingers slip inside you - two, then three, stretching you open while Evil Ted watches from above, unbearably hard.
Thank you very much @fernpetals, this last sentence is from my David Allen Griffith's story.
"When you came back to your apartment, you saw a bouquet of flowers on your coffee table, obviously from David, you were sick of all of this that you threw the flowers in the bin, then the phone rang."
I tag @scarlettspectra @casuallyobssessed @thatgingernerdgirl @lunaskye999 @lonelyspadez @discoscoob @pointbreakvhs @royaldeadqueen @johnwickb1tsch
Thank you very much @gea-chan96 for tagging me on this. Here's a sentence of the fanfiction I'm currently working in: 'The dancer on the rooftop' . Chapter 5.
-Shit!” Bill sprung up and dashed to the lounge. He frantically picked up Luna's dress, bra and he found her torn knickers peeking from between the couch cushions. -
I'm tagging @kikibit @velvetskars and @bill-skarsgalactic and anyone else who wants to join in.
thanks for the tag @lunaskye999 🫶🏻 Seeing as I've been promising to upload Tempest chapter 2 for literal centuries and haven't delivered, have the last sentence I wrote for it:
Before I could find the words or the courage to respond, he spoke again, "Good, because I'd really like to start the arduous task of getting to bed."
Tagging some of my faves: @rainrot4me @noctiva @dirtyl0ver
Thanks for the tag @bill-skarsgalactic!!!! I’m working on the next day of Kinktober right now, and I intend to have it done soon! Here’s the last bit I wrote like 10 mins ago:
Jack’s voice fades into a distant hum, explaining something about monitors and baseline readings, but all you can focus on is Toby’s thumb stroking your knuckles, grounding you as you slip into the dark.
Tagging some writer friends 😻: @erenasia @ratmillkk @athenstomb @frosttbitten @lordprettyflackotara @cryingintheclubdhmu & anyone who wants to!
Ohh! Thanks for the tag @rainrot4me, Ignore my dumb ass for not checking mentions sooner.
Here's the last thing I wrote, for a cracked Jeff one-shot I'm writing whilst battling a bout of flu. (Not epic times. I worry the fever has made it cursed)
"The house that was not long ago filled with conversation, clinking glasses, desperate wails, now sat hauntingly quiet— as though mother nature herself had witnessed this act of aggression and chosen to quieten the world in silent astonishment."
Tagging some writers who's works I've been enjoying recently: @lotuslimbed, @iyayadonna @dirtyl0ver and @s3thwrit3sstuff, as well as anyone else that wants to chime in 🤘
Would object to seeing things from my current sims 4 game?
*eyes emoji* I was going to just post it but it's not my usual type of post lmfao.
Speaking of, posting a one-shot later next week ;)
I've made certain characters which you'll all recognise, but I've downloaded some abhorrent mods alongside, and...
it's cracking me up.
So far:
Ben has started his own weed farm.
Got blazed with Jeff, who then broke into a neighbours house to commit murder.
Jeff has started fights with every single person who has come to the front door.
Then started beef with every other serial killer in the neighbourhood too.
Jeff Protected Ben from getting murdered in his sleep by one of these other serial killers, by stabbing them from behind, then laughing at the body.
Ben has prevented a burglary by sucking someone's life force out via possession, all because they went for his weed plants. Not even kidding.
He then sold said life force on the black market for 1K,
And started a fucking house fire trying to cook grilled cheese.
There's so much more. And it has VERY LITTLE INVOLVEMENT WITH ME, bro I got that autonomy on HIGH. If anyone wants any more of this, let me know because this is sending me through to oblivion lmfao.
Sims:
Didn't have too much for ben's design icl. Made him a ghost so included the OG colours for fun^
Might add some more characters to the household atsp
CW: Sexual content, drug use (weed), strong language, face-sitting, sex under the influence, ass worship, light degradation, established friendship, friends-to-fuckbuddies dynamic
Summary: It started like every other hangout: weed, laziness, a little too much eye contact, and Ben pretending not to stare at your thighs. But the smoke got thick, the teasing went too far, and suddenly that line between “just friends” and something else? Not so clear anymore.
Wordcount: 9k
You were half-sprawled across your bed, limbs tangled in a nest of pillows, book balanced against your stomach. It had been a slow, quiet evening, the kind where you could hear the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and every creak in the ceiling felt like the house breathing. Most of the residents of the house were out for the night, either on missions or out doing God knows what, which meant one glorious thing: peace.
Just you, your book, and the slow tick of time stretching out beneath the quiet hum of the house.
Then your phone buzzed.
You didn’t rush to check it. Just let your thumb slide down, glancing half-bored until you saw the name.
BEN.
And underneath it:
you tryna blaze?
Your mouth twitched into a smirk immediately. Typical.
Of course he was already baked, sprawled out in his stupid little gamer cave, probably surrounded by empty Monster cans and snack wrappers he’d been “meaning to throw out” for three days straight. And of course, he wanted company. Or maybe just an excuse to stare at your thighs again, which he always did like it was a glitch he couldn’t fix. Either way, you were already climbing out of bed before your brain caught up.
You messaged back a half-assed “omw”, then tossed your phone to the bed and headed for your dresser.
Time to tease.
You picked out a crop top that clung in all the right places, one of those soft, ribbed ones with a deep scoop neck and not much else. No bra, obviously. Then the shorts - the teeny tiny ones, soft, low on the hips. You gave yourself a once-over in the mirror. Good. Cute enough to fluster, relaxed enough to pass off as “what, this old thing?”
Lastly, you spritzed just a bit of body mist behind your ears, something sweet and subtle, the kind he always pretended not to notice, even as he leaned closer than necessary.
Then you were padding barefoot down the hallway, the floor cool beneath your feet, the air still heavy with that rare, uninterrupted stillness. You could feel your own movement, the easy sway of your hips, the way the fabric of your shorts crept with every step. Anticipation licked at your skin like static.
Ben was the kind of friend you could get high with for hours without saying much - just music, smoke, and the occasional dumb conversation that spiraled into hysterics. You’d crashed in his room more times than you could count, legs in his lap, sprawled on his bed, laughing about nothing. But he was also a complete perv, and he didn’t hide it. His eyes were always on you - your legs, your tits, the way your shorts rode up when you shifted. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. And you didn’t mind. If anything, you leaned into it. The way he looked at you made everything buzz - lazy, vulgar attention that didn’t really mean anything. You flirted back just to watch him squirm, pretending it was harmless even as it built into something hot and humming under the surface.
Ben’s door was closed, but the light underneath was green, some old LED strips he never turned off casting that mossy glow over everything. The faint thump of bass leaked out into the hallway, one of the old-school rap beats he loved so much.
You opened the door without knocking.
The room hit you like a wave - warm and low-lit, completely disconnected from time. Green LEDs traced the corners, casting everything in a neon jungle glow. An open energy drink sat sweating on his desk, surrounded by a clutter of cords, snack wrappers, and some crusty ashtray that looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. The air was stale but familiar, carrying the faint scent of something sharp, maybe the leftover stench of countless smoked joints. Posters layered the walls - glitch art, horror icons, half-naked anime girls with obscene proportions. It was a gamer cave, no doubt. But it was his, and it suited him perfectly.
BEN was sprawled across his bed, head propped on one arm, his blonde hair messy like he hadn’t bothered to fix it all day. He wore grey sweatpants slung low on his hips and a plain white tee that clung to the soft lines of his chest. Laid out beside him on a tray were a few pre-rolled joints, a half-empty grinder, and his rolling tools. In his hands, he was carefully licking the edge of a raw paper, sealing another.
You walked in slow, letting your hips sway just a bit extra. “Wow,” you said dryly. “Already cozy, huh?”
He didn’t look up right away. He sealed the joint, gave it a delicate roll between his fingers, then looked at you through the haze of his lashes. That crooked smile, so mischievous.
“Yup,” he said. “Just needed a pretty lady by my side to complete the ritual.”
You snorted, sliding onto the bed beside him, your bare leg brushing against his. His sheets were warm and smelled just like him - a mix of cheap cologne, weed resin, and boy-sweat baked into cotton.
You glanced at the lighter on the tray - black, scratched and cheap, with a crude naked cartoon woman on the side like a trashy 90s porn ad.
You picked it up, turning it over in your hand. “This your taste in women?” you asked, gesturing at the cartoon tits.
Ben glanced at you, eyes low-lidded, mouth tugging into a grin. “That’s Jeff’s lighter. It’s his favorite. Don’t insult his wife.”
“This?” You turned the lighter over, inspecting the worn plastic and exaggerated anatomy. “This is his wife? She looks like she’d offer three holes and a loyalty punch card.”
“Hey,” Ben said, mock-offended. “She’s a classic.”
“Well,” you said, slipping the lighter into the waistband of your shorts like you were stashing stolen treasure, “she’s mine now. I’m liberating her.”
He made a noise, half groan, half laugh. “Shit. Jeff’s gonna cry when he finds out you jacked his wife.”
You raised a brow, already grinning. “You gonna snitch?”
Ben rolled onto his side, resting on one elbow, his grin widening. “Hell no. I’m encouraging it. You stealing other guys’ girls? That’s hot.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
He held out the freshly rolled joint, still warm from his fingers. “And yet, here you are.”
You took it with a lazy smirk, leaned in, and let your lashes do half the talking. “Maybe I just come for the weed.”
His gaze dipped slowly, mouth to collarbone, collarbone to chest, then lower. His eyes landed on your thighs like he couldn’t help himself. “Mhm. Sure.”
You lit up, Jeff’s Wife sparking to life in your fingers, the flame catching with a flick-snap-fwoosh. You took a long pull, lungs tightening around the heat, the lemon-diesel tang clawing in deep before melting sweet and sticky behind your eyes. You held it until the burn went soft, then exhaled, slow and elegant, like you were exorcising tension.
The smoke drifted out of your nose and lips, warm and smooth, curling over your chest and spine like silk ribbons. It made your skin buzz. The kind of high that flooded you. Colors deepened. Shadows breathed. The bass under the looping track hit you just beneath the ribs, syncing with your pulse.
Ben was still watching you.
He hadn’t blinked.
Lips slightly parted, that same grin ghosting at the edges of his mouth, eyes darkened under the green LEDs like the room was built just to spotlight your existence.
You passed the joint back, fingers brushing his, skin grazing skin. His touch was warm. Always was.
“You’re staring,” you said, voice soft but smug, like you already knew the answer.
He didn’t bother denying it. Just smiled again and laughed, like the truth had never been worth hiding.
You kept passing the joint back and forth until the cherry was a tight, angry ember and the paper wore a tar-dark resin ring near the tip. You ghost-lit it twice with Jeff’s Wife when it threatened to canoe, laughing every time Ben pretended to scold you for “over-torching the dome.”
The haze settled around you like a thick velvet curtain, folding time in on itself. First it landed behind your eyes, numbing thought, then bloomed across your scalp like a heat rash made of glitter. Finally, it sank, low and molten, into your limbs. Your muscles unspooled. Your skin buzzed.
The bass under the looping track had melted into your bones. You could feel it under your ribs now, pulsing in sync with your blood like the room had found your frequency.
You shifted slowly, turning to face him, one knee folded beneath you, the other bent toward his hip. The movement dragged your shorts higher, fabric creeping like it had a mind of its own. The soft inside of your thigh brushed against the comforter. You didn’t fix it. Let the fabric stay bunched high. Let gravity have you.
Ben noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze flicked down, mouth, collarbone, chest, hips, thighs, and stuck there. Then it jerked back up, like he’d caught himself and failed to recover in time. Then drifted down again, pulled off-course like a magnet to metal.
You smirked, catching him in real time. “Eyes up, champ.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even try to defend himself. Just took the joint from your hand and pulled, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled slow. The cherry glowed like a little warning light.
He exhaled, thick and lazy, right between you. Smoke curled in the air, softening the space like static fog.
“Can’t,” he said, voice raspy, grin wide. “It’s too fuckin’ much, baby.”
You raised a brow, but your smile was already tugging at the corners of your mouth. “What is?”
He laughed, the sound low and unguarded. “Everything. All of you.” He squinted, like the green LEDs had suddenly gone too bright, or like looking at you directly was dangerous. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
You gave him your best innocent blink. “What, existing?”
Ben passed the joint back, shaking his head in mock defeat. “Looking like that. Wearing that. Sitting like that.” His voice dropped half an octave. “You’re fucking hot.”
You laughed, but this time there was a crack in it, just a little. The kind that came when you felt seen, and not just as a joke. A heartbeat of honesty pulsed under the high.
“You’re so stoned,” you said, hiding behind the smoke as you took another hit. It clawed at your throat, sweet and sharp, and settled low and warm in your chest.
You exhaled in a soft stream past his shoulder, not looking directly at him now either. Your head floated somewhere above your body, but your limbs felt weighted in the best way.
Ben leaned back against the headboard, one foot flat on the mattress, the other stretched out lazily. His shirt rode up just enough to flash a strip of pale skin above his waistband. A soft line of muscle, shadowed in green. He looked completely relaxed, unguarded in a way that felt rare.
Open. Sprawled wide like he trusted you in his space, or forgot he wasn’t supposed to.
And for one long, weightless moment, you didn’t say anything at all.
You just looked at him. And he looked right back.
And with him leaned back like that, legs spread, shirt hitched, eyes soft, the green LED glow hit him square across the lap.
That’s when you saw it.
The fabric of his sweatpants was tented high, unmistakable, the outline of his cock pressing forward through the thin cotton like it wanted to be caught. Straining, zero deniability.
You stared.
Then blinked.
Then stared harder, because subtlety was dead and weed made honesty feel like gravity.
“Ben,” you said, voice tilting into mock-scandal, “are you seriously hard right now?”
He followed your gaze. Then looked back up at you with a grin that was equal parts boyish and filthy.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You snorted. “That’s not a maybe, that’s a–” You waved a hand at his lap. “–whole situation.”
He spread his hands in mock surrender. “I told you you were hot. You didn’t stop being hot. These are just… natural consequences.”
You reached out with your foot, gave the side of his thigh a playful nudge.
The motion pressed the fabric tighter across his lap, and your laugh cracked out again, half amused, half oh God that’s real.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re curious,” he countered, eyes narrowing like he could see right through your laugh.
Your mouth opened to say no I’m not, but nothing came out. Because you were. High stripped out the buffer between thought and want, and the want was humming now, low and warm, insistent.
The joint had burned down to a roach. You pinched it between your nails, took the last hit, and leaned forward to drop it in the ashtray. He caught your wrist as you were pulling back, lazy-light, just holding. Testing.
“You good?” he asked. No teasing this time. It was a real, genuine question.
You nodded. “Yeah. You?”
“Very.” His thumb brushed your wrist bone. “C’mere.”
You could’ve pulled away. Should’ve, maybe. But the room was hazy and slow, and the softness in his eyes disarmed you. So you shifted closer, knees bumping his thigh, one hand braced near his shoulder. You smelled warm skin, burnt paper and his usual cologne.
He picked up a fresh joint, stuck it between his lips, and sparked it with a lazy flick. The tip flared orange, then settled into a steady glow. He took a long, slow drag, deep enough that his chest rose with it, then leaned back against the pillows, exhaling the first cloud toward the ceiling like a reset. Clearing the air. Or maybe setting the stage.
He looked at you then, eyes low, mouth already curling.
“Shotgun?” he asked.
You didn’t answer. Just leaned in.
He hit it again, slower this time, holding the smoke tight in his lungs. Then he turned to you, mouth parted. One hand reached up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you close.
When your lips met, he exhaled - a slow, steady stream of smoke blown straight into your mouth. It hit first: warm and bitter, sweet around the edges, thick with heat. And then came the kiss, soft but hungry. Like a line you'd both been dancing around for months had just vanished.
You kissed him back.
Slow, exploratory, like you were mapping something sacred. His lips were warm and a little chapped, tasting like weed and lemon and sour candy. Your mouths opened together, just enough for your tongue to flick against his. You caught his bottom lip, pulled slightly, and he made a sound, low, helpless, that landed between your thighs like a dropped match.
His free hand skimmed the curve of your waist, fingers slipping just under the hem of your crop top. Just holding, touching.
You shifted closer. Your chest brushed his, just enough contact to feel the heat of him through his shirt, just enough to make the fabric of your shorts hike even higher where they bunched at your hips.
You finally pulled back, barely, just enough to breathe.
Both of you were flushed, high, and vibrating. His eyes were dark and wide, pupils swallowing the color. Yours probably looked the same.
“Friends, right?” you asked, voice soft, breathless.
“The bestest of friends, baby,” he agreed, grin crooked. “With… all the right benefits and everything.”
You laughed, nodding.
Your forehead rested against his, breath mingling, skin sticky-warm from the haze and heat. Your thighs burned where they touched him, every point of contact sparking like static. His hand was at your waist, thumb drawing idle circles just under your shirt. You were both buzzing now, high and heady and tipping further into it with every second.
“God, we’re so fucking gone,” you murmured.
Ben chuckled at that. “Yeah. Just how I like it.”
Then he kissed you again.
This one was different, still slow, still playful, but needier. Hungrier. Like now that the seal had been broken, neither of you could pretend not to want more.
You climbed into his lap without thinking, just a smooth shift of hips and hands and suddenly you were straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips, weight settled over the obvious swell in his sweats. You felt the hard length of him, thick and twitching under the soft cotton.
You both paused at the contact. His eyes found yours and the look on his face made your stomach flip over itself.
Like you’d just undone him.
“Comfy?” he asked, voice thick, low, amused.
You smiled slowly, then rocked forward just enough to grind, a lazy little shift of pressure that dragged the curve of your body right across the solid length of him.
“Getting there,” you murmured.
His hands moved automatically, like he couldn’t not touch you, palms sliding over your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner curve like he was trying to memorize it. His gaze kept flicking between your mouth and your chest and your hips, like he didn’t know where to look first.
You leaned in and kissed him again.
Your tongue flicked lightly against his and his breath hitched, hands tightening at your waist like he was holding back from doing more, barely. Then his hands moved, slowly, sliding up under your shirt, warm palms dragging over your ribs, until they reached your tits.
He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped softly into his mouth, the contact lighting you up from the inside out.
He groaned, low and needy, and did it again, a little firmer this time, kneading like he needed to memorize the weight of you in his hands. You rocked forward, your body answering instinctively, pressing into his palms.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still tingling, then hooked your fingers under your shirt and peeled it off in one smooth motion. Tossed it to the floor without a second thought.
Ben’s breath caught like it punched through his lungs. He stared, lips parted, completely wrecked.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re unreal.”
You smiled, slow and lazy, grabbing his jaw with one hand. “Then do something about it.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His mouth landed hot and open against the curve of your breast, tongue dragging slowly over the soft skin before he closed his lips around your nipple and sucked, firm and slow.
Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your throat as the wet pull of his mouth sent a jolt straight to your core. Your fingers tangled in his hair without thinking, holding him there.
He moaned low and guttural, like this was his high, his hit. The vibration of it made you twitch.
Your hand reached blindly for the joint still smoldering in the ashtray. You brought it to your lips and lit it again, the flame kissing the tip just long enough to catch. You took a long, slow drag, deep enough to burn, hot enough to sting.
Smoke spilled from your mouth in a silky stream as his tongue flicked and swirled around your nipple, his hands gripping your waist like he was grounding himself. Your body was already humming, nerves lit up, every inch of skin aching for more.
“Holy fuck, Ben…” you breathed, voice cracked.
He grinned against your skin, teeth grazing you, then leaned back just enough to look up, cheeks flushed, lips slick, eyes wild.
“This is all your fault,” he rasped, voice ruined and teasing. “Coming in here in those shorts…”
You smirked and reached down, dragging your fingers lightly over the hard ridge in his sweats. He gasped, hips twitching up into your hand.
“You’re the one pitching a tent,” you whispered, “not me.”
He chuckled, short and breathless. “Fair.”
Then he sat up, one hand bracing behind him, and tugged his shirt off with the other, tossing it onto the edge of the bed. His torso was lean and pale in the green LED glow, muscles defined just enough to be noticeable when he moved. He was sprawled back, open and exposed, letting you look.
And you did.
Your hand dragged down his chest, over the faint cut of his stomach, pausing right above the waistband of his sweats.
Then you reached lower.
Your fingers curled lightly around the outline of his cock through the soft cotton, teasing just enough to feel the shape of it. Thick, hard.
His breath left in a harsh exhale. “Fuck…”
You looked up at him through your lashes. “Still comfy?”
His laugh came out strangled. “I might die right here.”
You smiled, sweet and slow and sharp, and kept your hand right where it was, just a gentle squeeze to remind him: you weren’t done yet.
His hands returned to your thighs, sliding down the tops, fingers hooking lightly into the waistband of your shorts.
“Stand up,” he said.
You raised a brow, but obeyed, sliding off the bed with a lazy stretch and planting your feet at the edge while he stayed reclined, half-propped on his elbows, looking up at you like he’d just paid cover for a private show.
His gaze dragged down your body in one slow, greedy sweep.
“Alright,” he said, voice hoarse. “Let’s see the full damage.”
You laughed at that, your high wrapping around you like a spotlight. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts and peeled them down inch by inch, deliberate, teasing, until they slid over your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles in a lazy heap.
Ben made a sound behind you - half choke, half moan.
You stood there, breathing slow and thick, skin glowing faintly in the green LED wash. The lace of your panties caught the light just enough to glint. They were delicate, semi-sheer, dipped low in the front and high at the hips, hugging your body like they’d been drawn on with intention. Every curve. Every inch. The fabric disappeared between your legs, framing more than it covered.
Ben’s breath caught. His eyes were glassy and wide, pupils blown into darkness.
“Holy fucking shit,” he muttered.
You smirked. Stepped out of the shorts, kicked them aside. “What?”
He gestured vaguely with one hand, the other clutching the bedsheet like he needed something to ground him. “Those panties, fuck… Turn around.”
You blinked, faux-innocent. “Huh?”
He cleared his throat, coughed out a breath. “Do a 360. I need the full damage report.”
You snorted, but spun slowly on the balls of your feet, hips swaying just a little extra as you turned, high enough to forget shame, bold enough to enjoy the effect. When your back faced him, you paused. Let your weight shift to one hip. Let the lace bite in, frame the curve of your ass, draw a map for his hands.
Ben groaned, out loud. A broken, involuntary sound from deep in his chest.
“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “Put that ass in my face.”
You looked at him over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth. “You serious?”
He was sprawled now, head tipped back against his pillows, one arm slung behind him, the other curled around the lighter. His cock strained up in his sweats, tenting high and twitching slightly with every lazy pass of his eyes across your body.
“Deadass,” he said, expression completely serious. “Sit on my face. Right now.”
You giggled, high, flushed, and drunk on the absolute wreckage you were causing. “God, you’re such a slut.”
He grinned, unapologetically. “I’m your slut tonight. C’mon, baby. Don’t be shy. Bless me.”
So you did.
You crawled over him with that stoned, feline confidence, every shift of your hips intentional, every glance over your shoulder calculated. You swung one leg over his torso, then the other, straddling his chest with your back to him, knees planted wide on either side of his ribs.
Your ass was facing him - full view, center stage - lace stretched tight and glinting under the LED wash. You felt his breath hitch beneath you, his hands already rising to grip your thighs like he couldn’t believe this was real.
Then you shifted higher, inching back toward his face until you were kneeling over him, thighs bracketing his head now, your weight hovering just above his mouth.
Ben let out a breath like he was bracing for impact.
Your back arched naturally from the position, spine curved, ass fully presented, pussy barely veiled in lace and practically dripping just inches from his face. Not yet touching, just hovering. You paused there. Letting him look. Letting him want.
His hands slid up your thighs, slow, almost reverent, fingertips digging into soft flesh as if to prove this was real. His thumbs pressed into the crease where your thighs met your hips, anchoring you above him. You could practically feel your heartbeat pounding between your thighs.
And then you sank.
The moment your ass pressed down onto his face, just the lace meeting his mouth, Ben let out a deep, guttural groan, muffled, greedy, almost relieved. You felt his breath bloom against you, hot and humid, as he exhaled right into you, like he was inhaling your scent and exhaling something holy.
Then he gently pulled back.
“Hold up,” he rasped, voice cracking under you. “Gimme a second.”
You stayed hovering, thighs trembling slightly from the angle, breath shallow from the anticipation. He shifted beneath you, one hand fumbling at the nightstand until he grabbed another joint. He lit it with a flick, spark-snap, inhale, the flame flaring briefly beneath your thighs as he lit up.
The audacity of it made your stomach twist.
He took a slow pull, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around the joint as he breathed in deep like he was savoring both the smoke and the fact that you were straddling his face.
Then he exhaled right against the lace covering your ass and pussy.
The smoke rolled out of him in a thick, curling stream, winding through the sheer fabric of your panties. The warmth of it hit you in waves: soft, then sharp, then gone, but the heat it left behind buzzed under your skin.
Your thighs flexed. Your hips twitched forward without meaning to.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, voice high and thin, fingers digging into the sheets. “Ben–”
You giggled, half breathless, half overwhelmed, because the whole thing was insane. You were stoned, half-naked, dripping, while this man was lighting up under your ass like it was a fucking altar.
And then he put the joint down.
No more teasing.
He buried his face in you, no hesitation now, mouth pressing firm through the lace. His hands gripped your hips, guiding your weight down until you were fully seated on his face.
His breath came rough and greedy, every exhale hot against your core, every inhale dragging in your scent like oxygen.
You looked over your shoulder and the sight hit you like a punch - his face flushed, eyes glassy and half-lidded, completely lost in you. He looked wild. Like he was grateful to be buried there.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you gasped, still laughing through the high, hips twitching.
In answer, he smacked your ass. Hard.
The sound cracked through the haze, sharp and filthy. You gasped, whole body jolting, skin stinging where his hand landed.
“C’mon,” he growled into the fabric, voice hoarse, “shake that ass a little for me.”
You blinked, heat rushing up your spine. “What?”
“Right here, baby,” he rasped, thumbs digging in deeper. “Just move. Just a little. Right on my fucking face.”
You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, but you did it.
You rocked your hips, slow at first. Just a little grind. Just enough to let the lace drag across his lips and cheekbones.
He groaned beneath you, low and broken, completely gone.
You did it again.
And again.
Your thighs trembled as the pressure built, as his nose pushed hard against the wet patch soaking the lace. You started to move without thinking - slow, swaying circles that fed both of you. You were high, throbbing, heart racing, riding his face like you were chasing something.
Ben reached for the joint again, fumbling one hand off your hip just long enough to bring it to his lips. He hit it hard. Then he exhaled - a thick, warm breath straight against your ass.
“Good fucking girl,” he growled between exhales. “That’s it. Fuck, you’re so hot like this.”
You kept swaying, kept moving your hips just enough to tease, just enough to keep him groaning under you like he could lose it just from the feel of you.
You were shaking. High out of your mind. Pussy soaked. And this man was smoking and moaning and burying his face in your ass like it was his last meal.
“Okay, okay,” you gasped, hands scrambling for his knees as your thighs started to go numb. “You’re gonna make me blackout.”
He pulled back, just enough to breathe, his cheeks red, face wrecked, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked dazed. Like he’d taken a hit of something stronger than weed.
You slid off him, dropping to your knees beside his chest, panting, legs shaking.
Ben blinked up at you like you were something holy, lips parted.
You leaned over and snatched the joint from his fingers, took a long hit, then blew the smoke slow across his chest. “You good?” you asked, smirking.
He nodded, jaw tight, then licked his lips and leaned up on his elbows. “Fuck. Yeah.”
You raised an eyebrow, catching the way his eyes dropped immediately to your tits, bare, nipples peaked, flushed with heat. He adjusted slightly against the pillows, and the motion drew your gaze right back to the problem he was very clearly dealing with: a thick, twitching bulge fighting hard against the fabric of his sweats.
“You look uncomfortable,” you said sweetly.
He gave you that look, cocky, half-lidded, and said, “You could help with that.”
You tilted your head. “Oh yeah?”
“C’mon,” he groaned, hand dragging up his own stomach, breath hitching. “Put that pretty mouth to use, baby.”
You grinned. “So needy.”
He let his head drop back onto the pillows, both arms folding behind it like he was posing for you. “So fucking ready,” he shot back. “C’mon. Be good.”
You moved slow on purpose, fingers to the waistband of his sweats, teasing first, dragging your nails along the edge just enough to make him twitch. Then finally, finally, you hooked both sweats and boxers and pulled them down in one slow motion.
His cock sprang free, flushed and leaking at the tip. Thick, heavy, curved just slightly - resting against his lower stomach with a twitch of tension like it couldn’t wait.
You blinked. “Jesus, Ben.”
He just smirked. “Don’t act surprised.”
You giggled again and leaned down, trailing one teasing kiss along his hip, letting your breath ghost along his length without touching. His thighs tensed under you, all muscle and impatience, and his cock twitched again, begging.
“Fuck, baby…” he moaned, voice raspy, “don’t play with me.”
He raised the joint to his lips, hit it slow and deep, then let the smoke roll lazily from his mouth as he met your eyes. “Suck it, I know you want to, come on.”
You laughed, a quiet, wicked thing, and then finally wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and took the tip into your mouth.
Ben groaned, a low broken sound that filled the whole room.
Your tongue circled his head slowly, lapping up the precum before easing further down. Your lips stretched, mouth warm and wet around him. He tasted like skin and salt and faint weed resin from your own breath. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails dragging lightly, and he shuddered.
Above you, he watched, arm still behind his head, joint dangling from two fingers now, eyes glued to the way you moved.
“Holy fuck,” he groaned. “That mouth is too good.”
You hummed around him, sinking down farther, slow, smooth, letting him feel every inch of tongue and spit and suction. He bucked just slightly, thighs twitching, breath catching in his throat.
“Oh my god,” he gasped. “Yes. Just like that, baby. Fuck.”
He took another hit, shakier this time, and exhaled with his mouth hanging open as you swallowed him deeper. His cock throbbed against your tongue, thick and hot, and you could feel the tension in his abs start to lock tight.
You pulled off just enough to flick your tongue under his head, your hand stroking him slick while you looked up and said, voice hoarse: “You’re not gonna finish already, are you? You haven’t even seen my pussy yet.”
He groaned hard, dropping his arms and gripping the sheets now like he was falling apart. “I want–fuck–I want everything.”
You smirked, then dropped your mouth back down and gave him exactly that.
You sucked him just a little longer - slow, deep, wet strokes that had his thighs trembling and breath stuttering. Your tongue dragged under his cock, lips pulling tight around the shaft, spit dripping as you bobbed, moaning low just to feel the way it made him twitch.
Your ass was up, arched, back curved in the perfect angle, and fuck, you knew exactly what you were doing. You could feel his eyes on you, glued to the way your hips rolled slightly with every movement, the way the lace of your panties stretched over your ass, sheer and teasing.
Ben let out a breathless moan, one of those completely undone sounds, and rasped, “Jesus, baby… fuck, I love that view.”
You popped off his cock slowly with a wet slurp, licking your lips as you looked up at him. His chest was rising and falling fast, one hand twisted in the sheets, the other still loosely holding what was left of the joint.
“Break time,” you said sweetly, crawling up his body like a cat. You landed in his lap and plucked the joint from his fingers and took a hit.
He grinned, eyes glassy, mouth still open a little. “There you go, baby. Hit it.”
You exhaled over his mouth before kissing him again.
The kiss was smoky and indulgent. Your tongue flicked his, slow and open, letting him taste himself on your mouth. Ben groaned into it, hands sliding up your waist like he needed to anchor you to him. His grip tightened like he couldn’t stand the thought of you slipping away.
But you pulled back, just slightly, hips rolling in slow, sinful circles over the thick line of his cock, pushing up tight against the soaked fabric of your panties.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You tryna kill me?”
You rolled your hips again, just enough to make him twitch under you. “Mmh. Not yet.”
Then his voice went lower, rough and ruined: “Ride me, baby.”
You blinked down at him, feigning surprise.
“From behind,” he added quickly, licking his lips. “Turn around. Let me see that pretty ass bounce. C’mon. I need it.”
You grinned down at him, slow and wicked. “Need it, huh?”
“Yes.” The word hit like a confession, ragged and raw. “Need to feel you take it like that. Need to see you own my dick baby. I wanna watch every fuckin’ second.”
Your smirk deepened. You leaned in until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear.
“Good boy,” you purred.
Ben’s eyes blew wide. Pupils dilated. His breath caught like you'd just yanked the soul from his body with just those two words.
You leaned down, dragging your tits across his chest until your nipples brushed his lips, and he latched on instantly. Mouth hot and hungry, sucking at your tits like he needed it to survive. The sensation made your thighs tremble.
You cooed softly, threading your fingers through his hair with one hand. “You always this obedient?”
He moaned into your chest, mouth full, eyes fluttering. “Only for you.”
You smirked again, dragging the moment out like honey. Then, with slow purpose, you reached down, thumbs hooking beneath the waistband of your panties.
You peeled them down - hips swaying, lace dragging over your thighs, past your knees, until they dropped soft and delicate beside the bed.
You held still, letting him look. Letting him see you fully bare, flushed, slick with want.
“Better?” you whispered.
Ben’s voice cracked. “So much better.”
You rewarded him with a slow grind against his cock, slick heat sliding over the length of him, coating him with every wet pass of your hips.
Then you leaned forward, kissed his forehead, sweet and mock-innocent, and turned around with slow, theatrical grace.
You pivoted in his lap, facing away now, knees planting on either side of his hips. The movement made your back arch naturally, ass settling over him in full view, your hands braced on his thighs for balance.
You reached between your legs, fingers curling around his hard and swollen cock, and guided him toward your entrance. You didn’t take him in yet. Just let the swollen head kiss your folds, sliding slowly through your slick, teasing both of you with the pressure and heat.
Ben choked. “Holy fuck.”
You looked over your shoulder, grinning. “Enjoying the view?”
He nodded like it physically hurt to wait. “Please, baby. Bounce on me. I need it.”
You sank down slowly, inch by inch, letting him feel every stretch, every shiver, every tight, hot drag of your body as you took him in.
He filled you, thick and deep, your walls gripping him as your hands braced on his knees and your head dropped forward with a breathless, guttural moan.
Behind you, Ben was losing it.
Groaning like a man possessed, hands grabbing at your ass, hips twitching up just to meet you, already ruined and begging for more.
You rocked your hips, slow at first. Letting him feel it. Letting yourself feel it - the stretch, the slide, the slick rhythm building in your core.
Then you started to ride.
And the sound of it? Skin on skin. Wet. Rhythmic. The slap of your ass against his thighs with every bounce. You could hear his breath falter - every inhale jagged, every exhale laced with curses and praise.
“Goddamn,” he panted. “That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
You looked over your shoulder, voice breathless, lips parted in a smirk. “Enjoying it baby?”
Then you picked up the pace.
Ben’s hands went wild - gripping and smacking and guiding. He watched every movement, helpless beneath you, eyes glued to the curve of your spine, the bounce of your ass, the way your pussy swallowed him over and over again.
“Fuck, baby,” he moaned, head tossing back. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”
You rode him like you were made for it, hips rolling, thighs burning, your breath hitching with every wet slam of your body onto his. His cock hit deep, thick and pulsing, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with every thrust.
The high turned everything glowing. Slow and sharp at the same time, your nerves screaming in color, the pleasure a wave cresting higher with every grind.
Ben was wrecked beneath you.
Hair plastered to his forehead. Mouth open. Hands glued to your ass.
His voice kept running, hoarse and reverent. “Fuck, baby… you're fucking perfect. This ass, Jesus, it’s like you knew what you were doing coming in here wearing those skanky ass shorts.”
You laughed, breath catching. “I did know.”
He smacked your ass, hard, and you gasped, clenching around him, the sudden sting sending sparks straight to your core.
“Fuck–Ben!”
“That’s right,” he growled, driving up into you now, matching your pace with desperate thrusts. “Say my name while you bounce.”
You whined, voice high and broken, rhythm faltering, not from weakness, but from the sheer pressure building deep in your belly. That hot ache. That pull. The knot winding tighter with every slap of skin and every rough, perfect stretch of him inside you.
And that’s when he shifted, suddenly grabbing your waist, voice low and rough.
“My turn.”
You blinked, breath catching. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sat up, pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, then bit your shoulder lightly. “Get on all fours, baby. Time for some backshots.”
You obeyed instantly, too high and desperate to argue, crawling forward with shaky hands and arching your back for him - ass in the air, thighs trembling, soaked and ready. You felt him shift behind you, hands roaming, gripping, one spreading you open while the other wrapped around his cock and stroked it slowly, letting the head glide through your slick folds.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice shaking. “Fuck, I could stare at this all night.”
You giggled in response, wiggling your hips in invitation.
He lined himself up, notching the head at your entrance, and then pushing into you in one smooth, hard thrust.
You moaned, face pressed into the sheets, hands fisting the blankets as he bottomed out.
“Fuuuck,” he growled behind you, voice wrecked. “So tight. So fucking wet. Shit.”
He pulled back, then slammed in again, harder this time, his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. He found a rhythm quick, pounding into you with the force of every high, every tease, every bit of tension you’d been building all night.
You were a mess beneath him, moaning openly, back arching deeper with every slap of skin on skin. The way he filled you was obscene - thick, deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body twitch.
And the sounds, wet and messy. His hips slapping into you. His groans. Your cries. The slap of his palm against your ass, again and again, leaving stinging heat behind.
“Take it, baby,” he growled, hands fisting your hair now, yanking your head up slightly. “Fucking take it. This what you came here for, huh? Wanted to tease me and then ride me like a slut?”
You gasped, eyes rolling back. “Yes–fuck, yes, Ben–don’t stop–!”
He groaned, deep and shaky. “That’s it. Let me fuck this perfect little pussy like you fucking deserve. Loud and messy, baby. Just like us.”
He didn’t stop. Just kept pounding you from behind, one hand gripping your hip so hard it’d bruise.
Ben was deep in it - hips snapping, fucking you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The rhythm was relentless now, his cock hitting all the right spots, his voice rough with heat and weed and need.
He smacked your ass hard and moaned, “Fucking look at you–bouncing like that, pussy so tight–I can’t–fuck–”
You didn’t even have time to respond.
His thrusts stuttered, body locking behind you, and with a strangled groan, he pulled out at the last second - just enough to let himself spill all over your ass in hot, heavy ropes. His moans were deep and broken, every drop of cum landing sticky against your skin as he trembled through it.
You blinked, still catching your breath, still high, still aching.
He collapsed back onto the mattress, panting. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
You looked over at him slowly, grinning. “Wow.”
Ben covered his face with both hands. “Don’t. I swear to God.”
“Oh no, I’m absolutely going to.” You sat up on your knees, turning to look down at him with mock-disbelief. “You didn’t even make me cum, dude.”
He peeked at you from between his fingers, looking sheepish and cocky all at once. “Okay, but that ass? That wasn’t fair. You can’t just look like that and expect me to hold it together.”
You gave him a look. “So what, I get left high and dry?”
Ben blinked once, then twice - then sat up, expression shifting into something darker, focused. “Hell no. I saved the best for last.”
You arched a brow. “Oh?”
“C’mere.” He was already laying back down, arms open, mouth parted, voice low and hungry. “Ride my face, baby. Let me give it back to you.”
You laughed, high and breathless and already climbing over him. “Knew I could count on you.”
But before you could move into position, you paused, suddenly very aware of the cum running down your lower back and ass. “Hold up,” you muttered, twisting just enough to grab the first thing within reach: his crumpled T-shirt, half hanging off the bed. You wiped yourself off with slow, absent swipes, dragging the fabric across your skin, catching traces of heat and stickiness. Ben watched from below, dazed and fascinated, like even the clean-up was hot. When you were satisfied, and his shirt thoroughly ruined, you tossed it aside and climbed fully over him.
He grabbed your waist the second you were close, guiding you up over his mouth, eyes dark and starving. You hovered for half a second, teasing, just to watch him squirm.
“Don’t you fucking dare play now,” he growled, hands tightening. “Sit down, baby. Let me make you cum like you deserve.”
You sank down slowly, facing him, thighs bracketing his head, and the second your pussy made contact with his mouth, he groaned into you. His tongue licked a broad stripe through your folds, and your hips bucked instinctively.
“Fuck–Ben–”
He moaned like you were feeding him something sacred, wrapping his arms around your thighs and locking you down as his tongue worked deep, long licks, then short flicks against your clit, then sucking, then licking again like he couldn’t get enough. He was loud about it, sloppy, like he didn’t care how wrecked he sounded or looked.
You grabbed his head for balance, hips rolling gently against his mouth, moaning high and shaky with every flick of his tongue.
He didn’t. If anything, he got more intense, hands sliding up to grip your hips and hold you still as he sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed like he was high off your moans alone.
You looked down at him, face half-shadowed, mouth open under you, eyes barely open, consumed. He was devouring you. Making up for cumming early with every stroke of his tongue like he was trying to erase the mistake.
You started shaking.
Your thighs clenched around his head.
The pressure in your stomach snapped.
You whimpered, hips grinding hard against his mouth as your orgasm hit, white-hot and shattering, making you collapse against the headboard, whole body trembling as his mouth stayed on you, licking through every twitch and aftershock.
You finally pulled back, breathless, hips trembling, thighs soaked.
Ben looked up at you, face shining, lips swollen, still panting.
“I win,” he whispered.
You slid down next to him and punched his chest lightly. “Only ‘cause I let you.”
He grinned, all teeth, completely fucked out. “Nah, babe. I earned that one.”
The room was quiet now, except for the low loop of the playlist and the sound of your breathing, uneven but slowly settling. The air was still thick with smoke, sex, and sweat, but softer now, warmer. Your limbs were jelly. Your skin tingled. Your brain was floating somewhere between holy fuck and I regret nothing.
You were laying beside him on the bed, one arm over your eyes, chest still rising and falling in slow, shaky waves. “I can’t feel my legs.”
Ben laughed next to you, his voice hoarse, almost wrecked. “You’re welcome.”
You peeked at him from under your arm. He was grinning, stretched out, completely bare, hair a mess, his face still flushed from all the effort he’d poured into eating you like a man on death row. He looked proud.
You smacked his chest lightly. “You came in like two minutes.”
“Okay,” he said, raising a finger, “but it was an elite two minutes. And I made up for it.”
You grinned, letting your head fall onto his shoulder. “You did. I’ll allow it.”
You both laid there for a beat, catching your breath, the silence not awkward but earned. You let your hand drift across his stomach lazily, tracing little shapes in the sweat-slick skin.
Ben reached for the nightstand and grabbed a fresh joint from the tray. He popped it between his lips and patted around until he found Jeff’s Wife.
He sparked it up, the familiar flick-snap-fwoosh breaking the quiet, and took a long, smooth hit. He exhaled toward the ceiling, then passed it to you without looking, like muscle memory.
You took it, inhaled deep, let it buzz through your lungs, then blew a stream of smoke out across his chest. “This is gonna hit so much harder now.”
He groaned. “I know. My body’s already vibrating.”
You giggled and rolled halfway onto him, leg thrown over his thigh, chest against his side. His arm wrapped around you like it always did, natural, like this wasn’t new. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d both turned a friendly little blaze session into a full-blown face-sitting, dick-sucking mess.
The joint passed back and forth in silence for a while, your breath syncing to his. The music kept humming. The lights kept glowing. The haze thickened, but everything felt still.
Then Ben spoke, voice quiet, amused. “We should add this to the weekly agenda. Blaze, bounce, bond.”
You rolled your eyes and pressed your face into his neck. “Shut up and pass the joint.”
He handed it over, and you both faded back into the stillness, warm skin against warm skin, smoke curling around your bodies like a blanket.
And for the first time all night, neither of you had anything more to say.
Just two… friends.
High.
Wrecked.
And satisfied.
Epilogue
The next day, Ben was posted up in front of his setup, headset slung around his neck, chair leaned so far back it looked like he might slide out of it. His screen glowed with some half-paused game, but his hands weren’t moving. He was just sitting there, totally still, totally zoned, with a crooked little smile tugging at his lips.
He looked like a guy who’d just won the lottery.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the LEDs. Jeff barged in, shirt twisted like he lost a fight with it, breathing like he ran halfway across the house. “Yo. Where the fuck is my lighter? Don’t make me start flipping shit.”
Ben didn’t answer. Just blinked real slow, smile not fading.
Jeff narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that shit. Don’t do the quiet little idiot smile. You seen it or not? The black one. With the big-tittied cartoon bitch on the side. My wife.”
Ben finally turned his head. Lazy. Like it took effort. “Iunno. Maybe she ran off with someone better.”
Jeff squinted. “...Why the fuck are you smiling like that?”
Silence.
Jeff paused. “Wait. Wait.” Then he groaned like he already knew.
“No fucking way,” he said, pointing. “That’s a post-nut smile. Bro. Who the fuck’d you bag?”
Ben just smirked wider and leaned back even more, stretching like a cat. “Hey man, I don’t kiss and tell. But damn…”
“Don’t fuckin’ play with me, dude. Who was it?” Jeff was circling the room now like the answer was hidden in the furniture. “Did someone actually ride your gross little dick?”
Ben gave him a slow, deliberate nod - the kind that said, oh yeah.
Jeff stared. “Was it…?”
Then his jaw dropped. “No. No fucking way.”
Ben just licked his lips and stayed quiet.
Jeff grabbed the back of the gaming chair, staring down at him. “You fucked Y/n?!”
Ben didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His smirk said it all.
Jeff took a step back like he was physically offended. “What the fuck. How the hell did you pull that?”
Ben shrugged one shoulder, smug and unbothered. “She came over to blaze.”
Jeff blinked. “You’re telling me you got to hit that off a fuckin’ joint and a playlist?”
Ben grinned. “Didn’t even play a full album, bro.”
Jeff made a noise like he’d just been shot. “Unreal. That ass is crazy. You could bounce a quarter off that thing and it'd hit orbit.”
Ben’s voice dropped into that cocky murmur. “I didn’t bounce shit.” He paused. “It bounced on me.”
Jeff grabbed his head like he was in pain. “You felt it?”
Ben leaned forward, arms on his knees, eyes glinting. “Both hands. Full grip. Sat on my face. Twice.”
Jeff just stared, mouth open. “Twice? You ate it?”
Ben blinked, deadpan. “Would again.”
Jeff exhaled like a man defeated. “Jesus fuck, man. I’ve been trying to get a look at her tits through a hoodie for six months and you’ve got her reverse cowgirl on your head like a fuckin’ carnival ride.”
Ben laughed, full chest, satisfied, lit up from the inside out.
Jeff shook his head, muttering. “She let you hit? Shit. I gotta start brushing my hair or something. Fuckin’ embarrassing…”
Ben leaned back in his chair again, stretching, arms behind his head. “Too late. You’re not her type.”
"Can you pick me up" Please god let Jeffrey be a passenger princess
Omg get in my car honey I’ll take you anywhere.
── .✦
Jeff is chronically carless.
“You think I got time to learn how to drive? I’m way too busy.”
…He absolutely could’ve learned by now. He just doesn’t want to. And he is not too busy, he’s too lazy.
He has absolutely no idea how to drive. Doesn’t understand turning radiuses. Thinks the pedals are vibes-based. He once called the gearshift “the little stick thingy.”
So instead? He texts you at the weirdest hours like:
He won’t say thank you. Not verbally. But he’ll grunt, throw his bag in the backseat, hop in and rest his nasty-ass combat boots on your dash, then glance at you like:
“…Took you long enough.” He’s grateful. He’s just allergic to being soft.
Arms always folded, feet up, head tilted back against the window like he’s in an early 2000s music video.
He has strong opinions about your playlist but refuses to make his own or change the songs himself. “Ugh, skip. Ew, skip. This one sucks—WAIT WAIT GO BACK I LOVE THIS ONE.”
Asks to stop for snacks and then raids the gas station like a child with no supervision. Comes back with Sour Patch Kids, Monster, and something that probably expired in 2017.
Has never buckled up in his life.
“So if I killed someone in the Walmart parking lot and dragged the body across state lines, that wouldn’t be a federal offense, right? Hypothetically.”
Constantly rolls the window down just to stick his head out like a dog. He’ll spit and throw trash out the window.
Touchy in the passenger seat. Will rest a hand on your thigh when he’s feeling soft or bored. Tugs on your sleeve at red lights. Sometimes stares at you in silence until you go “what??” and he just shrugs and looks away.
If he’s left waiting too long, he WILL call someone else (probably Ben), but will talk shit about how “you abandoned him” the entire time. “No it’s fine. I’ll just rot here. Alone. In the Wendy’s parking lot.”
Hi! It’s me! Lucas: the guy who just posts and still doesn’t quite know what to do with this blog.
If you’ve been around a while, this is kind of a loose sequel to this post I made a while ago about realism in Creepypasta.
(You don’t need to read it to get this one—but hey, it’s there if you want the full saga.)
So, I saw two confessions on the crp confessions blog, you can see them here and here, and they made me mad.
Like, really mad.
So let’s talk about them.
Then I’m gonna explain what realism SHOULD mean. Ya got that? K good.
1️⃣ Eyeless Jack ≠ Emotionless Jack
“He’s a demon now so why would he be emotional…”
WTF do you even mean. What are you on about? Have you just not heard of nuance?? Or like… any vampire story that wasn’t Twilight?
Let me set the record straight:
💀 Being a demon, eldritch abomination, or cannibal does NOT make you immune to nuance.
It’s very possible that Jack would still act like a person, because he used to be one.
Let him mourn. Let him bond. Let him feel.
Just because he’s cold on the outside doesn’t mean he has to be hollow on the inside.
It is a true testament to how uncreative people can be that they cannot comprehend a non-human having human traits.
That’s literally the entire point of horror sometimes.
2️⃣ The Slender Mansion Is Not the Problem, Your Laziness Is
“The mansion trope is unrealistic 😭”
Oh, so now realism matters in the world of faceless teleporting demons and immortal serial killers??
Here’s the deal:
People keep confusing “I don’t like this trope” with “this trope is unrealistic,” and it’s driving me insane.
You’re allowed to not like the Slender Mansion trope.
But don’t act like it’s inherently flawed or unrealistic just because you’ve only seen it done badly.
There are SO many ways to write it well:
🏚️ Maybe Slenderman built it over decades
🧠 Maybe he brainwashed or manipulated people to build it
🌀 Maybe it’s a pocket dimension
👁️ Maybe he needs it to keep tabs on dangerous entities
⚔️ Maybe the tension of them all hating each other is the point
You can write all of this in a grounded, character-driven way.
But you have to actually write it.
“Realism” doesn’t mean they hate each other forever. It doesn’t mean they’re emo, sad, edge monsters who stab each other on sight.
It means asking why they don’t, and writing that reason.
⚖️ What Realism Should Actually F**ing Mean*
Creepypasta thrives on creativity and new interpretations. That’s what made this fandom so fun in the first place.
But now? We’re just letting it rot.
People want “realism” but what they really mean is “I want every character to be bland, edgy, traumatized, and incapable of emotional complexity.”
So let me say it clearly:
🔎 REALISM SHOULD MEAN:
🧠 Exploring Toby’s disorders beyond just CIPA and Tourette’s
(And actually getting ALL OF them right for once.)
🩸 Understanding Nina’s psychology and how she either evolves past it or is consumed by it instead of reducing her to a fangirl stereotype
(IRL, people idolize murderers all the time, this isn’t a stretch.)
🖤 Giving even characters like Slenderman nuance and motivation
(Let him be terrifying, but let him have a reason.)
🎭 Writing Sully as a person and not some cartoon evil/edgy alter-ego
🧠 Realism should mean digging deeper. Getting creative. Telling stories that hit.
💥 Not This Bland, Flavorless, tasteless, generic, lazy Hellscape
Realism is not:
Taking all the fun stuff away
Erasing the mansion
Removing supernatural elements
Making everyone sad, edgy, and miserable with no room for connection
Making every character a hate machine who murders on sight
Realism is not an excuse to make every take dry, boring, and completely devoid of heart.
If you’re gonna write realism, do it right.
Get creative. Think it through. Don’t dismiss ideas because you can’t write a reason for them to work.
If someone wants to write a mansion AU, a found family, a Slenderdad arc, LET THEM.
We are in a fandom built on creativity and horror, not bland elitism.
Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.
And if you’re mad at me: I live in the Slender Mansion, come find me.
Bruh you said EVERYTHING that needed to be said because people wanna sit on the sidelines and whine instead of get creative- Creepypasta is Unique in it tests how creative and out of the box and if you cant make the Mansion or Eldritch Characters with Nuance
Look inwards. Because just because you lack creativity doesn't mean we all have to pause our life and know about it too.
If your argument is it's not realistic, then you're introducing a close-minded narrative and perpetuating a bad message for creative writers and artists everywhere. Work on that before taking a crack at Creepypasta honestly.
*complete essay and entirely un-needed tips/advice ahead*
THIS Is what I live for. It's what I die for: Creating in depth characters in the mansion universe. This is so fucking well put I could not have put it better myself.
The point is, esp in my au, most of them fucking hate eachother; it's a group of serial killers in a mansion. And half of my longer works and one shots are spent subtly hinting, or sometimes delving into that fact. (not hating on the they're all friends vibe, sometimes I read stuff that's really good from that standpoint.)
But anyway.
Something I live by in writing, is that things have to be logical, but not necessarily 'realistic'.
And I think that is what the original poster was talking about.
I.e: Logically, Eyeless jack could have human traits because he used to be human.
Logically, there would be a natural progression for Nina; maybe she realises Jeff is a dick, or maybe she goes completely the other end.
This involves situations too: think of my work 'garden party' for example.
Realistically, there's no fucking way on earth a group of serial killers would sit outside and have a garden party with each other. (unless that's your thing!)
Yet thread logic into it. Try and come up with a reason why they would. It's part of the fun. Introduce reasonings for characters acting a certain way, or things occurring.
In garden parties case, it happened because of a dick-measuring contest. Everyone got dragged outside, because of MC/Jeff's distaste for one another.
As I said, the logical bit of it is part of the fun.
For the slender mansion, as the original poster said:
-everyone could be manipulated into being there
-maybe it's safer for everyone to stay together, even if they hate it,
etc.
As soon as you do that, you can turn any situation into something logical.
Maybe you write a fic centred around a can of Pepsi (something on my desk).
How? Introduce reasonings. Maybe Ben and Mc get into a heated argument because that can of pepsi was the last thing his ex girlfriend had touched before she died, and you drank the whole thing. (angst) etc. Or maybe, (smut) Eyeless Jack accidentally pours that entire can of pepsi down himself and has to change...etc.
See what I mean?
But at the end of the day, none of that matters realistically.
i'm no stephen king. I'm just a tumblr writer (barely) , so you're well within your rights to not listen to this at all and tell me to do one.
The bottom line is this: just have fun. And you can do what you like, you have your fun your own way. If your vibe is to write fanfic where everyone gets along, or write an Au where jeff is actually a butterfly from outer space, or an AU where eyeless jack is actually a bottle of mayonnaise-- go for it.
You write NSFW of teenagers. I don't think you have room to speak about " pedophilic nasty you need help " stuff like you're against it when clearly, you're not.
Genuinely, which creepypasta is a teenager????? Sure, their lore and stories may take place when they are younger, but I’m writing far after that fact. I am a teenager for crying out loud, so where in your wonderful mind do you think I would enjoy writing about children. 🧍♀️ I write porn, I write gore, when have I ever fit kids into either one of those scenarios.
If someone I’m writing about being 18/19 makes you uncomfortable, I really cannot help you. I am 19. I personally don’t feel comfortable fawning over people outside of my age range—older or younger.
But here’s the real kicker, how are you going to come onto this page and leave this ask? Why are you here? I can click clack on my keyboard all day, you don’t have to view a single thing I say. You made the personal, active choice to click on this page. How is that my fault? And you’re responding to a Offenderman hate post for cryinggggg outttttt louddddddddd. If you like minors and are an Offenderman glazer just say that cutie. But do not come on here preaching to me!!!! I don’t care!!!!
I know my truth, I know what I write, I monitor and control everything I post warning/age/public wise, and I know where my boundaries are. Just because you have icky warm feelings when you see kids doesn’t mean I do! Please get help xoxoxoxo
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.
Thanks for the tag @vamillepudding!
revenant
Inheritance
Side of your father
these are high pressure tags. if you don't play my feelings will be hurt forever @coquitten @galaxythreads
