THE DOG AND THE BITCH | EYELESS JACK x WITCH! READER | SMUT
SYNOPSIS; He broke your spell jars. You shredded his log records. You and Jack were at war for as long as you were recruited in the mansion. You know no real reason why he targets you, but the mansion sure is sick of it. They’re gonna have to force you guys to get along– or else they risk forever dealing with war instigated by you and the humanoid medic.
forced proximity trope!
TW; foul language, knife, belt as form of bondage, biting, blood, rough sex, hate sex, lots of creampies, NO pregnancies, claws, implied squirting, lots and lots of cum, angry EJ, nasty EJ, mischievous reader, mischievous EJ, porn with little plot, short-lived angst somewhere in there
WORD COUNT; 6, 245 words
It had been… five months.
Not exactly. Five months, two weeks, and three days.
That’s how long you’ve been here, yet the mansion still has its own undiscovered oddities that you are most satisfyingly fond of.
But that doesn’t mean they’re fond of you.
You’ve figured that out the moment you found your spell jars spilled before the intentions were even completed.
The marks were obvious, of course. You weren’t stupid. In fact you were very intelligent, and you are convinced that Eyeless Jack Nyras is threatened by it.
Not exactly threatened, you knew him well enough. He isn’t that easy to tick off. Although that doesn’t exactly apply to you, you’ve learned.
But you were sure enough he didn’t like being overshadowed. And while he knows nobody does what he does— your ideation of what’s real and what’s not— that’s what bothers him.
You practice witchcraft. Although you don’t worship any deities (your big tall black-faced boss refuses to let you do so), your spells and abilities are proven to be very effective as it’s quite literally your very own weapon against your opponents.
Oh, you could do wonders. Paralyze them. Make them blind. Possess them like a puppet.
You weren’t born with it. Instead, you took the time to do, to learn the abilities you have now.
You worked hard. And it paid off by a fuck-ton.
Sure, people might believe you, might not even hear a word you say. But the second your incantations go into action– they believe, alright.
But some people— refuse to budge.
Jack. Jack. Jack.
His name is ringing in your head the whole time you’re wearily picking glass shards up with your bare, yet perfectly manicured, fingers.
Jack. Jack.
The rage starts to boil in little by little. It especially reached a high point when you took in the fact that your time, your money, your ingredients, your energy– are all gone.
Jack.
After you wipe the last of your carefully curated oils and herbs, you calmly made your way down to where you would always see him at 3 p.m. (Yes, you remember. It’s his down time.): the kitchen.
Your platform heels thumped against the wood floors before it finally clicked on the slightly sticky tiles of the kitchen.
Clad in his gray turtleneck and bootcut denim jeans (and black combat boots to match), was Jack Nyras.
There he is.
He’s sipping his usual espresso coffee and keeps his eyes (sockets) on the rim of his mug, but you know he knows you’re there.
“I hope you were at least satisfied.” you grit, still keeping your calm posture but hiding the bitterness in the cross of your arms.
Jack sets the mug down. He stares at it for a while, then—
“I was. Thank you for wishing such pleasantries over me.”
Your eyebrows furrow. He cannot be serious.
“Tell me, what ever did you gain by doing that?” you took two steps forward. “Was it so difficult to leave my room be?”
He flashes a toothy smirk. Asshole. “It stunk up the whole mansion. It reached my lab. That was the only sensible solution.”
“The disadvantages of your dog-nose is in, no way, my liability.” you hiss. “And if you want sensible, do something sensible for all of us and leave forever.”
His smirk drops. “You’ll all die if it weren’t for me.” His head was turned to you, now. “I have stitched up reckless cuts, wrapped up more broken bones, healed your bodies even when they were in critical condition. You should be kissing my boots and thanking me for letting you do so.” Jack was suddenly right in your face. You could smell the fabric conditioner off of him.
His warmth. You could feel it.
“I’ll thank you the day I’m on my deathbed, you slobbering son of a bitch.” you sneer at him before turning on your heels and stomping out of the kitchen.
Toby was about to make some cocoa, but steered clear when he saw you zooming out the kitchen door. Curious, he went in to see Jack.
“Wuh– what the hell was tuh-that all about?”
Jack empties his mug. “She’s acting nonsensical to logic. I just gave her a lesson on how it is.”
“Dude… yuh–you’re gonna die if you d-do that.”
Jack starts to wash the mug: “I’d like to see her try.”
Pacing, pacing, pacing. You’ve been pacing for fifteen minutes.
Dagger in hand, tapping the blade lightly on your palm repeatedly.
You’ve been thinking on how to take revenge on his prissy ass. You couldn’t let him slide. Jack broke your jars, jeopardized your work, and now he wants you to kiss his boot.
You should be kissing my boots. You should be kissing my boots. You should be kissing my boots.
“I wouldn’t even kiss his stupid dog-face if my life depended on it,” you mutter under your breath, the frustration from his STUPID comment still lingered in the darkest corners of your brain. Kiss his boots? Kiss his boots?
Kissing… Kissing… kissing…
Stop it.
“I’ll make him kiss my ass after I’m watching him die!” In a fit of rage, you threw your dagger toward the dart-board that was already there even before you moved in. Sighing, you drew closer to retrieve it.
Bulls-eye. You expected nothing less of yourself.
Smiling briefly, you yanked your dagger out to put it back inside its case. Scarlet, you named it. You’ve had her for longer than you know. You’ve taken such good care of Scarlet, that even God knows how many years later, she could still easily cut through paper in one, swift slice.
Wait.
Papers.
Papers, papers.
His papers.
Jack’s papers.
You were in his lab via breaking and entering before you knew it. You were in front of his desk, almost shaking with adrenaline with Scarlet still in your hand, handle a little moist with slight sweat.
On your right, was Jack’s daily log records. (You didn’t want to do the more-important records that included each of the residents’ biography– you’d figured the whole mansion would be very disadvantaged instead of just Jack. He’s your target. Not them.).
You read some of it: Injuries sustained by your other co-workers, medicine head shipped in and shipped out to the other mansions belonging to your boss’s brothers that he very carefully and meticulously jotted down, and all medicines, procedures, and treatments he has given to your dear co-workers arranged by date, time, and in, impressively, alphabetical order.
All the records date all the way back to three months.
And all the records… are all shredded.
Thanks to you, the rough, inked paper is as meticulously ripped apart as how it was meticulously created.
You took the time to admire your handiwork when another idea popped into your head.
To add insult to injury, you took the perfectly straight, thin strips of shredded paper—
and mixed them all together.
You escaped his lab as quietly as you came.
The consequences came faster than you would’ve expected.
It was about 9 p.m. now. You’d already had your dinner, classic instant noodles and a soda with fried egg. (Yeah, yeah, health and all— but you were tired.)
You were in the middle of your divination session, your tarot cards flipping themselves all on their own while you were sitting in the middle of your room, on the floor.
The last card was just about to reveal itself, when—
Knock knock knock.
Three loud knocks. But you wanted to finish your reading, so you—
Knock Knock Knock…
Anyway–
KnockKnockKnock—
“Jesus Christ–”
Swinging the door open, you were greeted by Tim, clad in his signature red plaid button-up shirt.
You open your mouth, but he interrupts.
“Downstairs. We need to have a meeting.”
His cold, monotone voice already told you what you need to know. You grinned a little, but stopped when he interrupted your thoughts by walking away. You follow him.
It was only about five steps until you were downstairs when you could already hear the arguing.
“I’m just sayin’ that maybe if you haven’t sabotaged her work— maybe you would’ve been safe.”
“What she does isn’t work. I know what real work is, Brian. I’ve plucked more bullets out of your flesh than she has done any of her ridiculous ‘miracles’ that actually worked.” Jack’s voice was eerily calm, but still had the tinge of frustration. Not much, but it’s there.
You could hear BEN butt in, “Well, she did save Jeff from that lunatic last pickup. All she did was say one word and boom! Lunatic dead!”
Jack hisses. “What he had was a stroke.”
“Yeah,” Kate countered, too. “A stroke she caused.”
He looks at her in disbelief. “You–”
“Everybody shut the fuck up.”
Tim’s voice boomed through the room. All heads turned to him. You could see Jack’s face souring at the sight of you, but nonetheless, he stayed composed.
Then, Tim points to the staircase you both just descended. “Get out. All of you except Jack and Brian.”
A collection of sighs and groans emanated from the small crowd, but all of them obliged and did what Tim said. They always do.
Tim turns to you, then cocks his head toward the couch. Sighing, you plot yourself down a little farther than Brian.
Silence. Then,
“We’ve been at this for way too fuckin’ long.” Tim groans when he lowers himself on the couch, too. You could smell Brian lighting a cig.
Brian takes his first puff. “The whole house is gettin’ sick of it, sug’. Why ain’t you just quit it, now?”
Jack cringes at the nickname.
You click your tongue. “Because he’s nothing but a good-for-nothing dog.”
Jack whips toward you, shoving his pointer finger in your face. “I am not a fucking dog,” he sneers. “You watch your dirty mouth.”
You smirk. “Oh? You think my mouth’s dirty? Come clean it up, then,” you’re grinning now. “Dog.”
He sucks his teeth. Then… licks his lips?
“See what the hell we’re talkin’ about?” Tim takes the cig from Brian, who was offering it to him, then puffing. “We gotta find some compromise,”
Jack scoffs. “The only way you are getting a compromise is to banish this– this— her out of this house forever—”
“We were thinkin’ something more that doesn’t require banishing,” Brian clears his throat.
“And somethin’ that won’t get any blood on the floor.” Tim follows.
“Yeah? I suggest putting him in a cage, then.” You snicker, but none of them laugh with you.
“We were thinking…” Brian starts.
Tim continues. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make you two spend a night together. A little bonding time, if you will.”
You can feel Jack’s repulse blend in with yours.
“Hell no,” you start up from the couch, but Tim pulls you back.
“No. We’re tired of dealing with you two.”
Brian speaks again, “We can’t risk any more of our vital residents being in the infirmary because you two decided to dance a little too hard.”
Jack chuckles darkly. “This won’t fix anything.”
“Not if we were supervisin’.” Tim adds. Supervising? How the hell are they gonna do that?
“We’ll be standing by the door all night.” Brian takes another drag.
Rolling your eyes, “How are we gonna be sure you’re gonna be awake the whole time?”
Tim answers. “We just took a night recon job yesterday. Me and Brian slept all day. We’re awake all night, now. Wouldn’t hurt to do so, either. It’s our off-day tomorrow.”
Fuck.
Fuuuck.
“So we won’t fight anymore. Fine! Deal done.” you start.
“No. Stop tryna fight this. You brought this upon yourselves and you’re gonna deal with it.”
“I–” Jack tries to speak, but Brian stands up and suddenly grips Jack’s arms and drags him to the spare bedroom.
You were next. Tim practically pulls and pushes you until you and Jack were basically stumbling backwards and on your asses on the floor.
Before you two know it, the door slams shut, and a door stopper is wedged into place.
You look at each other, then you get up and start banging on the door.
“Tim– I swear to fucking god– open the fucking door!”
Then, from behind the wood, “Goodnight, you two.”
“You fucking—”
“It won’t work, you know.”
You turn to Jack. His arms are crossed, his face tired and annoyed. Like he was watching some failed experiment he spent months on.
“Yeah? You got any other plans, then? Mr. Nyras?” Your voice was calm now. But Jack could taste the poison it’s laced with from where he was standing.
“They aren’t letting up anytime soon.”
“So? You’re saying we should give into their torture? Have a fucking backbone for once, you idiot–”
He grips your jaw, bringing it closer to him. “Talk to me nice. We’re gonna be spending all night here, after all.” He pauses. “Not to mention, in the same bed, too.”
You break free from his loosened grip and look behind his shoulder.
Your worst fears have come true.
One bed– one bed was situated in the back wall. The headboard was facing the left side, and one big window’s ledge was kissing the side of the bed, giving you a view of the big, bright, moonlight outside.
King-size. How fancy.
“Not unless I sleep on the floor,” refusing to give up your space, you found a thin, foam mat and rolled it out on the floor beside the bed. You were about to lay down until—
“Sleep with me.”
You whip your head toward him.
“What the fuck–”
“You heard me.”
“You pervert. You really are a dog.”
Jack sighs, as if being disappointed. “I meant, sleep beside me. If anyone here is a pervert, it’s you.”
You stood up now. “What the fuck did you just say about me?”
He grins. “I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
“Yeah. With disgust, that’s what.”
“Except that, disgust is not the only thing you’ve felt, no?”
“What the hell are you going on about–”
“I’ve felt things, too.”
Silence. Silence. Sile–
“Do you want to know about them?” Jack tilts his head, hands behind his back.
Like the fucker didn’t know what he was doing.
When there was only silence from you, he continued.
“I’ve felt your heartbeat go faster when I go up-close. I’ve felt your temperature rise when I hold your jaw. I’ve felt…”
He comes closer, hooking his finger into the belt-loop of your miniskirt. He pulls you.
“I’ve felt your pussy tighten when I whisper threats in your ear.”
Your chest collides with his when he tugs harder. Your breath hitches.
You feel his fingers trailing up from your hips to your waist to your—
Jack gropes your tits through your top, humming when his thumbs feel your tightening nipple.
You were in deep shit now. You don’t know what’s worse: him touching you like this, like he was your next goddamn meal—
Or that you weren’t stopping him.
“You say you hate me, and yet your cunt’s leaking at me doing this to you.”
He notices you avoiding his gaze, head turned sideways.
“Look at me.”
Silence.
“Fucking look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Hesitantly, you turn your head towards him. You’re flushed.
“Tell me you want this.”
Silence again.
“Tell me.”
With a grin, “I want this, Jack.”
He growls.
“I want this. I want your hands all over me. Your teeth into my skin. Your claws.”
You lean into his ears.
“I want your cock.”
With no warning, he pushes you backwards, leaving you flushed and breathless on your back.
He stares at you for a bit. He grins.
Pointing a finger toward the headboard, “Hands and knees. Hold on to that headboard.”
“You can’t tell me shit to do—”
“Now. You’ve been a fucking brat to me all week.”
Rolling your eyes but slyly smiling, you crawl all the way from the edge to the headboard, arching your back so you could give him a mean view of your ass. (Yes, he stared.)
He spent no time yanking your skirt down as soon as you held onto the headboard.
Your black thong was now in his view, one inch away from exposing your leaking cunt, which was seeping through the thin fabric.
Jack purred. But you weren’t patient.
“Are you just gonna stare, or—”
His tongues lick your cunt through the thong, hot and wet and sticky and so fucking good. You groan when he started sucking at your clit through the fabric, his lips squelching and making the filthiest of sounds reverberating in the room. YoYou should be kissing my boots. ur pussy is leaking all over– so much that your juice mixed with his spit was spilling from the corner of his mouth and on the bed.
He was licking, licking, licking. Making out with your pussy through the stubborn little piece of cloth you’d wish he’d taken off, too.
“Jack–Jack. Fuck. I’m gonna cum, baby.”
You can feel your world about to fall apart, hips rocking up and down on his face.
Faster. Faster. Faster—
You jolt when he pulls away, the sudden loss of contact greeting you at your highest point.
“What… what? –”
“You’re just as sweet as I’d imagined you to be.”
Sweet? Imagined?
He’s… he’s thought about you like this before?
“Please..”
“Mm. That’s it. Talk to me nicely, and I’ll give you what you want.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Is he really gonna make you play this game?
“Please, Jack.” You arch your back a little more, swaying your lips left and right while your pussy was up mid-air: all for him to see.
“Please what, dove?”
You whine a little, “Please make me cum, Jack.”
You could do nothing but grin when you see his sweater into a small pile on the floor. And you could do nothing but grin even wider when you hear his belt clinking unbuckled, then thrown on the far edge of the bed.
“I’m gonna– fucking break this cunt,” He’s pumping himself. He starts circling the pad of his fingers on your clit, earning something between a gasp and a whine from you.
When he couldn’t just settle on watching you anymore, he hooks his claws under the string of your thongs, pulling hard and snapping your poor panties in half.
“You asshole, that was expensive–”
He plunges his long, sturdy fingers inside the seeping hole of your cunt before you could even finish. You moan, body trembling at the cost of his touch.
Jack worked you open, sucking in his teeth whenever he stretches you just right, watching your walls press firmly against his soaked fingers.
He plunges his fingers out. Another gasp from you. You watch from behind your shoulder.
You see him take his fingers up to his lips, sticking his tongues out, and watch them slide in between his middle and ring digits before his lips wrap completely around them, reaching just below his middle knuckles, popping right back off with a pop!.
“Sweet… so sweet and ready for me.”
He lines the tip of his cock at your hole, rubbing the tip up and down, his pre-cum coating your folds, mixing your wet and his creamy tip.
Jack pushes in, and you tremble. His tip alone was enough to have you shaking.
“Jack– ngh,”
“I know, I know honey. Just let me get this in.”
Midway. He’s in midway. You can feel it.
“Fuck! Jaaack–”
“I know, pretty girl, I know.”
More. A little more.
“Just a little more, honey, I know you can take it. Be good for me, yeah? Been so mean to me…”
You practically scream when he bottoms out.
Shuffles could be heard through the door.
“Not too loud, dove. I want those sounds for me and me alone.” He hooks a claw under the back of your top and—
Riiiiiip!
Your tits bounce out in the cold cold air. Your nipples slightly graze the pillows underneath you.
“No bra, dove?” He chuckles. “So you were waiting for this to happen.”
Of course. Of course he finds a way to irritate you.
“I wasn’t. And don’t call me ‘dove’. It’s fucking corny.”
“I think I’ll do whatever I want.”
“Like hell you will!”
You push yourself back onto his cock with one, big thrust. His frame falters a little, shuddering, before his hand flies to your hair and pulls hard.
“Behave.”
Your heel flings upward and kicks him squarely on the back of his thighs. He grunts in pain before reaching his arm around your throat and hugging tight, abruptly cutting off your airflow. You gasp, strained.
“I fucking hate you.” He growls pressed into your ear. “I fucking hate you–”
Jack pulls back and thrusts into you, hard.
“I hate your hair,”
Thrust.
“I hate your face,”
Thrust.
“I hate your voice,”
Thrust.
“I hate your scent,”
Thrust.
It was only a matter of time before Jack started to speed up, your moans sounding nothing more than strong gasps and little whines here and there. His other arm was wrapped around the front of your hips, pulling you back so his cock could dig deeper into you.
You would have been yelling at the top of your lungs if it weren’t for him choking you.
It didn’t take that long for you to feel the coming of your climax. Your thighs had lost the strength to hold yourself up, so you just gave in and let Jack carry the rest of you while you held on for the headboard.
Your orgasm was reaching, now. Eyes rolling back, you shivered against Jack’s body while you gave a strained moan, gasping in between pleasure-filled sobs.
Jack lunges himself into your neck, teeth baring, baring, baring—
biting.
He keeps you like that, and you let him. The pain almost just mixes in with the pleasure, and you couldn’t be in any more bliss.
“Fuck–fuck!” Jack came with a tremor in his veins, hot cum pushing inside the warmth of your walls.
God, you can feel him in your stomach.
Your cum made a creamy ring around his cock, mixing in with his own and messily spreading all the way to his hips.
There was silence.
“Get on your back. I wanna see you.” He commanded. With the little strength you had left, you let go of the headboard and dropped on your back.
The moonlight was the only source of light in the room, albeit a strong one. Jack could see all of you, now. The white light casted a ghost over your body, shining over your tits, your stomach, your face, your legs. Everything.
Jack thought you were beautiful this way.
He looks at the broken skin his razor-sharp teeth had made, almost proud, you think so. Then, he swoops in.
Jack licks your wounds rather deeply. The sting makes you hiss– then shudder. More blood beads up at the red slits of his mark, and he tastes it, too. With a kiss on his bite on your skin, he sits up once more.
He reaches down to grab something, but you gain visibility over it when he was fully on top of you.
His belt.
Without a word, he takes both of your wrists, brings them together, and fastens them with the thick leather strip and locking the buckle (despite your quiet protests).
He pins your wrists down above your head, trailing his claws from your neck, down to the side of your tit, to your ribs, all the way to your hips.
Goosebumps rise on your skin.
“So beautiful… yet such a foul mouth…”
You glare at him. “You hated me first.”
Jack smiles. “I was only stating true facts about you and your personality.”
“Shut up and fuck me,” you hiss. “Dog.”
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
He plunges his cock deep inside you again without warning, and your back arches up as if it was reaching the heavens, before he starts moving again.
Rough. Hard. All the pressure.
And you weren’t complaining.
In fact, you started smiling through the pleasure and the slight pain.
Jack looms over you. “You think this is funny?”
“It is,” you gasp through half-sobs. “You want me hngh– banished from the mansion and yet– ugh–you’re fucking me this hard– ack–”
“So? You were the one— fuck– you were the one checking me out–”
“Because you wouldn’t get out of my face!”
He sped up, and you were certain that every breath you took was forced out by him.
You were crying out loud now. Neither of you cared about how loud you were– not anymore.
“Look at me.” Jack commands, and you oblige.
You look deep into the voids of his “eyes”, with tears blurring up your vision, you kept your gaze steady on him.
His forehead was pressed into yours. Sweat mixing, bodies grinding on each other.
“Do it,” he whispered. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
Fuck, his hips were so heavy.
“I hate the way you walk,” you manage to chuckle a little. “Looks like— hrk—looks like you’ve got a stick up your ass all the time.”
“I don’t,”
“Then why do you do that? —”
“Because having so many people rely on me is a bitch of a workload.”
You continued.
“I hate how you talk like I’m not even there– you’re so— fuck! So passive aggressive al the time and I hate it,”
You can feel your body falling apart– for real this time.
“I hate– I hate how you make me feel so– mngghh— so stupid when I get one single thing wrong, it makes me feel I’m not doing anything right,”
Closer. Closer.
“I hate— oh fuck!! I hate when you make me feel so hot and high when you genuinely smile— I hate how you always look down at me when you’re talking– I hate– I hate–”
Everything blurs into one color when your body finally reaches its point to no return.
“I hate you Jack!” you cry it out as you came, wincing at his cum seeping into your pussy once again.
He keeps you in place— but his composure still very much falters, shuddering and slowly falling down against yours.
Everything seemed to mellow out and come into focus the more you two laid there, with him on top of you and you below him. He pulls out slowly, earning a wince from you, before you two gained consciousness once again.
“You’re a bitch.”
You giggle. “You’re a dog.”
He lets off of you and removes the belt, throwing it away in the dark of the room. You both are now laying side to side on the bed, shoulders touching, hair almost blended together.
Silence.
But you break it this time.
“Why do you hate me?”
You turn toward him, but Jack is still staring at the ceiling.
You continue. “Is it because of what I can do? What I am? Is it because I’m new?”
Jack swallows. But he isn’t nervous. Or angry. Or annoyed.
He’s thinking.
Then, “Every monster I knew starts by saying they were trying to help.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “You think I’m a monster?”
“Not yet,” Jack sighs. “But every person I knew with your kind of power managed to cross a line, somehow.”
“Jack, I never used my magic against you— not saying I haven’t wreaked well deserved revenge on you here and there, but I’ve never used magic on you. Or anyone else.”
He stays silent again. But then, “The people who–”
Jack pauses. Then starts again. “The people who took me. Forced me into their twisted celebrations. They were people I trusted once.”
He turns his head to you. “People who believed they were doing something important when they were hurting me with the same power you have.”
You speak. “But I’m not the people who did this to you.”
“You’re using the same kind of power.”
“No, they used power to take whatever humanity you had left. I use mine to protect the mansion. Do my job.”
Jack scoffs. “You think that makes a difference?”
You stand your ground. “It makes all the difference.”
Jack turns away, looking at the ceiling once again. He runs a hand through his brown locks, breathing deeply.
“You still have a choice. I don’t.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“You can still stop practicing your craft. You can stop relying on spells. You can stop being the thing that people fear. Me? I don’t have that choice. I don’t. I stay this way forever. I can’t even go out in public without covering myself in so many layers just to look half-normal. You can do that with no problem.”
“Are… are you jealous of me, Jack?”
“Not with who you are, at least. But with how different my life could’ve been.”
You stay quiet.
“Do you know what hurts me too, Jack?”
He doesn’t budge. But you know he’s listening.
“It hurts me that whenever you see me, you see them, too. The people who hurt you. They aren’t me. I’m not them. I don’t understand why you keep treating me how you should’ve treated them.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“It’s like— it’s like you’ve already decided who I am without actually taking the time to know me. I’m me. Nobody else.”
He’s the quiet one now.
You prop yourself up on your side.
“Do you think I enjoy this?”
He turns to you. You continue.
“Every single one of my spells cost me. Every curse leaves something behind. Every time I get into someone’s mind, I wonder if I’m becoming someone even I myself couldn’t recognize.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“If you think you’re the only monster you think you are here, then you’re dead wrong. It’s not fair to me, Jack. I am sensible. You just never tried to know me the way you never did. You paint me like I’m one of them. Do you think I had a choice when I was forced into this– this ‘job’? Do you think I wanted to be bound to an eldritch faceless entity for the rest of my life? Do you think I want to live my whole life casting endless spells, incantations, sickness only to kill people? Do you ever once think about the fact that sometimes, I want to help them too?”
Jack’s shoulders drop down like he surrendered to a war he was fighting on for so long.
“I had no choice either, Jack. And I’m no less of a monster than you think you are. And I’m definitely not those bastards who took your whole life away from you before it even started– so stop fucking treating me like one.”
Silence. Silence. Silence.
You lay back down, naked and vulnerable, just like he is.
“I’m sorry.”
Your heart stopped for a bit. Was it really happening? Were the walls both of you put up finally going down?
You sigh.
“You should be, asshole.” A pause. You can hear him quietly wince at your response. “Do you know how many jars from Walmart I had to keep spending on because of you?”
A snicker from him. A giggle from you.
“I’ll get you new ones,” Jack started. “The ones I use in the lab are far sturdier and can hold vast amounts of ingredients.”
“They better have no human remains or some shit. You know well I don’t work with those. It’s gross.”
“Gross,” Jack smirks. “Gross, but you fucked someone who eats them. Who’s really gross?”
“Fuck you.”
You started on top of him, straddling his hips.
Your bare pussy was laying on the underside of his cock. Jack is pulling, prodding, and playing with your tits.
You’re getting wet again, and when you know your slick is coating his dick, you start rocking back and forth, sliding yourself up and down, up and down, up and down…
“Take what you want,” Jack rasps. “Take all you want. I’m yours now.”
You grin. “Aww, look at you, all so romantic.”
“Get to it–”
“Talk to me nice,” you sneer. “I’m in control now. You’re under me. I get to do what I want.”
“Fucking minx– shit!”
You didn’t even let him finish his sentence before you pull up and drop down harshly on his dick.
The warmth of his cock began to fill you again, from your thighs to your hips to your chest. So full. So good.
You didn’t hesitate to go hard on him. Jack destroyed you, now it’s time to destroy him.
The cum and slick that remained on both of you were making filthy sounds yet again. Your cunt was leaking and drooling all over him, and his pre-cum didn’t help either. You were riding him, riding him hard and fast and deep, you look down and—
Every time you lift yourself up, strings and connections of yours and his slick were connecting your skins together. Every time you drop down however, the slick pools between you two, creating a bigger pool of a mess although only slightly after each time on your hips.
You were sweating. He was, too.
The room stunk of you, Jack, and sex.
Sex, sex, sex. That was what’s happening, was it?
Not to you. And probably not to him, too.
No. This isn’t just sex. It’s who you are. Who he is. Who you both could’ve been if it weren't for all the fighting. What you could’ve been doing if it weren’t for all the hate.
“Riding me like a whore,” Jack grits.
“You’re the one who likes it.” You press a sloppy kiss on his neck. “I thought we were done with the pretending.”
He groans, claws digging into your ass and thighs, leaving long, whitening welts that were bound to stay on your skin for a day or two.
You grip on his hair, just enough for his head to press back into the mattress.
Then, a sudden snapping of his thighs up into yours made your eyes shoot wide. You whimper and you whimper loud, right into the abyss of darkness sitting on the ceiling.
Jack was fucking up into you, now. And you held yourself, letting him take the reins once more.
You two went at it as long as you could, listening to each other and yourselves losing to the pleasure and the high, the loud squelch squelch squelch of your hips slamming into each other, more and more of your spend and your juice and your arousal building up, up, up—
“Jaaaaack!” you mewl, hips snapping in all directions, body twitching and squirming over him but under his touch.
Jack groans loud and long. Hips snapping up into yours, he comes once again, warmth invading your body.
You were full all over. Full with him, with satisfaction.
Silence once more.
Then he lets you fall into him like a collapsing tower.
Immediately, he reaches for the blanket (which was kicked to the side somewhere during your little escapade), and covers you both.
You and Jack stayed like that. In each other’s arms. Naked, vulnerable, but safe and secure.
“I hate you, Jack.”
“I hate you, too.”
10:32 AM
That was the time your phone greeted you with, before sitting up in a panic.
Your movement stirred him awake.
Him? Him. Jack.
He groans. “What’s with you now?”
“We’re late for breakfast,” you shot up on your feet, snagging your skirt up your thighs as fast as you could. (You would’ve started with your panties first, but someone coldly ripped them apart.)
Jack checks his wristwatch. The same panic blows over him and he starts dressing himself up, too.
You both staggered into the dining room. Everybody’s eyes snapping on you two.
BEN gets the hint first and grins at you.
Kate hums first, then nods. You knew she knew, too.
Jeff, still groggy, does a double take, then flashes a thumbs up at Jack. (Jack sighs.)
Toby, giddiest of them all, and probably received the news first, flashed two thumbs up instead of one.
Tim and Brian? Nowhere to be found. You’d figure they’d gone to get their well-deserved sleep.
Dinner was, albeit, a little awkward. But Jack was right there beside you. Saying nothing, but letting both of your appearances tell the whole story.
Breakfast was done. Dishes are washed.
Jack had done what he promised and brought you new, unused spell jars which you admitted really were high quality.
Silence again. But not unsettling, not this time. Comfortable, nice, peaceful silence. That’s what it was.
Jars were clinking in both of your hands, stopping when your bedroom door was in front of both of you.
You were about to say a heartfelt thank you, but when you opened your mouth:
“The lab is in its downtime between 3 p.m. through 5 p.m.” he started.
You smile. “I know. That’s how I shredded your papers.”
Jack sighs when he was reminded of the work he had to redo.
“Come by. I need company.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Need company?”
“Your company. I would like someone to talk to while I redo all the work you so graciously destroyed.”
“Okay.”
…
“Okay.”
…
“Round four in my room after?”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You don’t hate it. You don’t hate me anymore. So what’s the problem?”
In the moment he feels nothing but dead space. Loss. Gravity. Whispers of a tempest around him, but it's something like a memory of imagination. The cold of it completely numbs him. The sun is gone, as are the stars. He tries to look above him, but realizes a moment later his body is completely destroyed.
The water explodes around the Fallen, engulfing it in a typhoon for what feels like an eternity, that fiery comet from the heavens a beacon of ill fortune for anyone unlucky enough to see it. The burns are worse than the water in his lungs. Then his mind changes; the water is far worse than anything. It's all encompassing, renewing, stripping.
He can... feel it?
The shore presses against his charred skin, slowly healing with ocean water seeping from each of the fast healing cuts as he crawls from the hurricane he'd made. But the burns remain open. Blistering.
Half of him is gone. His wings are gone, they'd have pulled him up by now if they were still there. What's left of them has him crying out into the night as he realizes... They are. They're gone. His only vice and his only proof of some kind of virtue. Gone. Gone, gone.
Gone.
What happened to them?
His hands pathetically, slowly, reach to the stumps that are left, doubtfully checking if it's real, or some kind of sick lie. His hands have nothing else to hold but the burn marks from the Fall; his claw—muddy from dragging himself from the lake—hooks into the closest wound and he flinches, spine contorting as he roars with tinted saliva stringing from his sharp maw.
He can't help but continue to roar.
The sound takes the life from the land around him. Rot buries deep under the mud and water half of him lays in, reaching like veins in a blue blooded corpse in all directions. Tears run down his face like the rain, and it all blends; like the tempest itself is trying to hide him.
There's nothing but sparks around him—cleavers of pain, the static rain that's stabbing his senses and his wounds, and he crawls—or tries to—one talon digging into the grassy mud bed over the other as he drags himself further from the river.
These questions are without spotlight, just whispers behind his consciousness: Where is he going? Meant to go? Did he fight hard enough to escape, and is this the reward?
Who is who? Who took his wings? Who made sure he reached land alive? Who made him? Who is he? Where is he? What place is this? Why is the air so heavy? So, so heavy...
The winds carry off his strength and what room he has left in his mind to manage his panic.
His body is feeling the cold more intimately again, numbing slow.
Numbing, numbing, till there's silence.
Everything is quiet now.
Much too quiet.
Gone.
♡
I posted this on Quotev foreva (4 months) ago. Im so busy i probs wont continue it (soon) buuuuut .....??
((Jack took his personal knight out drinking to, you know, take the edge off your nerves from the incoming war on humanity and it's allied monsters from an incoming evil. a Mistake.))
[Crack but also it's just fanfiction lmao // SUGGESTIVE BUT IN A WEIRD WAY BUT STILL MDNI GO TF AWAYYYY]
A/N: =^) No descriptors for Reader, except she has cropped curly hair and can tan??? girl idk figure it out. **WRITTEN BY @ERISMAKESCHAOS AND HER OWN TWO GOD GIVEN HANDS ON THE LAPTOP KEYBOARD**
Jack didn't think this would happen, never in a thousand years.
He's the one people fear, he's the one who towers over his enemies and roots himself in vices like an oak, never toppled. He's the one to be wed to powerful nobility, and the one people say should have the throne—if for his reputation and past actions in boarding alone.
But here he is, cradled in the arms of this deluded, drunken, bastard knighted woman, in full display of the tavern whose patrons are having a fit and a half.
"Put me down." He snapped and growled. Tried to, and wouldn't admit that struggling out of her arms was actually making him struggle. It's the ale. The broken arm, makes it awkward. He's… also in shock. "Put me down, woman, I'll gut you with my hands—"
Never in another hundred million years would he admit his voice wavered when her arms tightened around him as she walked, shifting him to avoid the edge of a seat and a patron.
"Floor's wet, Sire, so I wouldn't dream of it." He can hear her smiling through her mask, he swears it. "Safer up here than slipping down there."
Jack shoved her away from him after she hoisted him on the bar top. He all but scrambled back from her and nearly tipped backwards as she stumbled back, a little afraid of her next move and the strength she'd put behind it. Jack looks his knight up and down, trying to analyze her audacity. Her black armor seeming darker than reasonable in the shadows and candle light of the tavern where it's fastened over her casual wear. He'd no idea why she'd insisted on keeping the half set of garb on when he'd requested a low profile, but now he guesses she was hoping for a scene to happen and to be recognized.
Let it be known the 4th Prince was saved by his knight he'd tried to share a drink with—his brothers are going to have a ball. Not like this was the first time, and that fact pissed him off more. It would have been fine, if not for a slight of chance. Now, his first mistake was letting her drink something as strong as what he liked.
But he couldn't have stopped her from having a bit of fun with spirits… he's seen nothing but tension follow her after the latest council meeting with the Witch. Warnings were given, hopes of peace snuffed, and her mind has been lost to thoughts of the farms of her friends and family on the outskirts of the city going up in flames. He'd overheard her crying in the morning, and demanded reason; she's his knight for gods' sakes, she shouldn't cry. It… makes him uncomfortable.
She'd been ordered to go along then after. Jack just wanted to be nice, didn't he. Well he can go fuck himself next time and tell her to shut up instead. He can hear her now, using the invitation to drink as justification for her humbling actions in the morning, and wants to kick her this second.
Jack swears [Y/N] doesn't care about her pay that's dusted off of the King's coin purse, that she prefers sapping the life out of him one grievance at a time. He flinches as she grabs a rag from the barkeep that's bent and laughing a little too much for someone who could be easily hanged, walks over to the mess, gets on her knees and begins wiping up the spill haphazardly. Jack doesn't like the fact he can imagine which tune she's humming as she does.
Jack doesn't know what to say, all he looks forward to is hunting down the one who'd started a brawl—tried to—and tried including him. He'd have fought regardless of his broken arm—his splint, an original design he'd tested on his more than willing knight when she thought wrestling with a stubborn heifer caught in a fence was a reasonable idea (he knows she just wanted to impress him. It was impressive how hard he laughed) was paying off beautifully. Jack would loved to make an example of his capability.
But nooo, the most lightweight Dame, [Y/N] of Blu, bastard daughter of the king's executioner and the 4th prince's personal servant and guard, had to step up and swing when he'd been shoved—tripped!—and put the prick on his ass, screaming, making him drop his mug. Jack isn't a little prince, he's a grown fucking man and he'd gladly kill and bury the body himself.
But something got twisted in her mind alongside the sweet grass she braided on the farm she grew up on. He didn't know—well. Yes, he did—whether he likes it or not. He just won't admit or hint to anything. Not like a lack of a sentence is proof of itself, he's hung other failures for doing more and less. The memory of her lifting-rather-tossing the bastard like a sack of rice by the collar of his shirt into a support beam replays in his head, and he debates on if the heat he feels is from embarrassment, or some kind of reaction from the ale that's making his clothes too tight. Mentally checking for symptoms of any poison, he finds none, but maybe an aphrodisiac…
Someone whistled, and he snapped out of his blind stupor when he realized she'd taken off her helmet, setting it down by her knees gingerly, wavering where she knelt. Jack glared at her smiling face, he knew it; As [Y/N] looks up at him with smudged black-gray pigment around her dark eyes and her face flushed from the one drink and the chafing metal on her skin, he resents her. Jack resents [Y/N]'s cropped hair that's longer and even curlier now from the sweat, and he resents her pretty scars and her even prettier sun scorched skin and the dusting of moles and freckles that decorate all over it-
"You're not hurt, are you Sire?" She called to him, and the tavern has gone quieter for however long, and now quieter again. This isn't the damn theatre. Jack wonders how she'd look in a play if he sold her to a traveling act, and tells himself he didn't care. He'd throw something at her on stage if she'd even tried to get by.
"What do you think?" He glowered.
She tilts her head, her eyes blinking at two different rates, looking dumber and duller than a bag of bricks, and he wonders why he hasn't dissected her yet, imagining her body placed on his examination and surgical table. Naked, perhaps dead or sedated, watching him with wide eyes as he tells her she deserves a lesser mercy than he's giving her-
… Is the aphrodisiac getting stronger-
"I think you took a nasty spall- fall," Good gods, Jack thought. "N' I think you need to rest 'fore we can walk y'home." She hiccups and nearly topples over from the force of it. Jack deadpans, defeated, and evaluating the fact the King approved her for the umpteenth time that month.
… No, he thought, watching her slip when she tried getting up. Jack doesn't know how [Y/N] carried him at all.
> CREEPYPASTA ; Ticci Toby x GN!Reader
A/N: Felt like exploring Toby's character in a fic I plan on writing. His POV, refers to Reader as 'you', no pronouns. I think… please lmk if there are any identifying ones.
MDNI. MDNI. MDNI.
>> CW: DD:DNE - Toby thinks of you dead and likes it, completely inaccurate psychosis episode, blood, SH, suggestive, thoughts of killing and death, Toby's really really weird, disturbing imagery with no context.
Toby's eyes burn from the obsessive gaze he holds with the paint. His neck hurts from straining to look up at the canvas. He figured out at least an hour ago that when his gaze moves, so much as shifts, the painting follows suit, melting downward to meet his eyes with it's textured own. And the more he stares at the texture, the more it moves around, twists, and hurts his head. So, it's a staring competition as his cuticles unravel from him tugging loose hangnails between his teeth. He's bleeding from his bit lip too, blood trickling down to his neck, and he likes because it feels real.
Textured brushstrokes start to come to life and he's afraid of them infesting the place—twisting little maggots of browns, blues, grays and peach eat the face of the timeless bloke unlucky enough to be preserved before him. If they get out, if they crawl into the eyes and ears of you, or the other paintings, or him, get worse…
Toby wonders what they feel like, twisting as they look for orifices to eventually wiggling their way into; his ear canals and nostrils and eyes and hand-made incisions, and make home. It would be horrific to watch, and if he could feel the pain of it he would very much want it to happen to him, rather than you. But he just watched for now.
Suddenly he's thinking of your face, and the face of the patriarch peels open in a way that makes his poor, starving stomach lurch with bile like the open sea in a storm. Now, it's you.
You would call him a fucking freak then go on with your day if you saw him there, and run if you knew what he was thinking; A dog being taunted with a squirrel outside the window, but this window is to Hell and the squirrels are skin-walkers. Sirens, maybe. He wants to look away now and let the walls close in on him like a cage, like barbed wire fence collapsing, like a iron maiden or someone touching him when they weren't allowed to.
The blood on his face is starting to move around, too.
Toby huffed, bringing a hand up and didn't break gaze while smearing the blood off his chin and neck—he was relieved when they didn't immediately start moving up or on his hand. But then they did and he huffed again, trying to be tough in front of the maggots, telling them and himself they wouldn't win—but it was more of a whimper.
Oh, but then his mind is back to you as he stares at the shuddering painting, as it's always where his mind goes eventually… left in a hurry this morning, reddening face and downcast, bleary eyes, looking for something to settle down your mind. You both had fought this morning, and you'd obviously won, so he just wound up pushing your buttons with infuriating accuracy.
Fuck you.
Toby decides after some time watching these things and feeling them on him that he would much rather enjoy seeing you all maggot-brained and rotted instead of him. He wants to kill you sometimes. Maybe if he kissed you on the mouth, you would be infested too.
But he doesn't want you dead dead if he survived this. Just catatonic, maybe.
Now he's picturing you dead, and the room feels a little smaller when his gaze slips down from "your" torn face. The painting doesn't have your scars. Shame, they're his favorite part on you. One of them.
No new ideas besides the ideas you give him follow after that. He wishes you were here.
Now he's sad.
Then you're in front of him. Your mouth is moving and he clearly hears you, shouting worried insults into his face as you fall to the ruined carpet of the mansion hall—but there's disconnect. He doesn't process what's coming out of your mouth, only that he thinks it's pretty when he looks up from staring drunk at your chest.
His chin is grabbed suddenly. His head is forced to the left, and then the right, and you're just trying to make his brain melt. He could swear it, be damned if he's wrong.
"Toby? Toby." Your voice is far away. "What happened. What did you do? Did you—" His mouth is forced open with your hand on his forehead and you look inside to check for feathers or the fur of rats and he nearly faints.
He tries in the moment—really tries, and not in a mocking way either because he really does sometimes care about your fun facts, and really did sometimes find them fun—to come down with the memory of your tidbits of who the hell the guy in the brassy frame in front of him is, because it's the painting's normal face now, not your dead one, because you're right here.
Some proud fucker with too many badges in too many colors, and a single gaudy shoulder pad that made him look like the nutcracker from that Barbie movie.
General, Captain, Sargent, Cleopatra, Donkey Kong, whatever the fuck, he doesn't know. He doesn't care, actually, because you're trying to shake him back into focus and drag him to the parlor.
You're really hot when you're talking. Shoving him down, trying to get him to listen.
Leaning back to pop your back with a groan. Complaining.
Crying, too. Turning away from him when you start because you don't want him to see.
Glaring at him over your shoulder while you collect your first aid kit.
Scoffing and rolling your eyes at him when he tells you in a mumble why he was bleeding.
Pissed off at him, forcing him to sit still and give you his hand so you could take care of him, laying it in your lap and yelling about how stupid he is when you take one look at the bloody mess and waste half a water bottle trying to wash it away.
losing my mind over the concept of Toby having psychosis and thinking "oh no the room is getting smaller" when really his pants are tightening from him thinking of you dead.
am i fucked up for thinking this is funny yes or no i think yes but then again this fandom isn't all that right so.
YES I'm writing about it. YES this is the first post I make after an Epiphany about Free Will. YES I need help. I'm in therapy tho my third sesh is next week dw
losing my mind over the concept of Toby having psychosis and thinking "oh no the room is getting smaller" when really his pants are tightening from him thinking of you dead.
am i fucked up for thinking this is funny yes or no i think yes but then again this fandom isn't all that right so.
What if i made another fic where Toby was hitchhiking/trainhopping and Runaway!Reader tagged along. What if there were eldritch and psychological horror elements. What if it was all in a modern/Peak 2010s setting in the Midwest following the line to the East Coast. What if Toby is the only one who is allowed to fall in love in this scenario, Reader cockblocked by something that kills every relationship they've had—whether thats obsession or an emotional disorder. What if I named it The Best Days Of My Life because I like that Rio Romeo song
What if i had fun and made a fallen angel!EJ AU to fulfill the whimsy quota of this stupid fucking fandom. What if it included some worldbuilding with fantasy and some sci-fi and slightly modern/urban elements. What if I had even more fun and make there be gods and magic and a war in heaven. What if i had some more fun by making the characters asshats like they should be in my eyes and making the Reader unequiped to deal with these bastards emotionally. What if I named it Rain because i love the Sleep Token song so much.
What if i made YET ANOTHER CRP fic where my love eyeless jack came up for round 700 and i force him into an AU of my most beloved fanfic 365 Days by Peaches04 on Quotev. What if in that AU, instead of being taken back to the cult, Reader was stolen from it by EJ, and Jack keeps them as a pet/assistant/reason for living. What if they want to go back to the cult because EJ isn't much better, and they're not supposed to be there. What if they have to die in the end, too, but EJ wants to save them.
What if what if what if i made fanfiction and fanart again to have fun and revive my own creativity and happiness instead of beating myself up for not being like other creatives in the space
News flash: no one cares if you don’t like Fanon Creepypasta. You’re not better than anyone. If you don’t like that side of the fandom just don’t interact with it. I’m just so over ppl hating on fanon like it didn’t carry the fandom for years, especially bc a lot of the og creators left. You’re mad about shipping and simping? Welcome to fandom culture. People have always had crushes on the Creepypasta characters. And it’s a normal part of fandom culture. This idea that “creepypasta used to be serious 24/7” just isn’t true. Romantic/ playful fanfics always existed even in 2012. Literally waffle Toby? Stoner BEN? BEN and Jeff friendship? There’s always been playful sides to the fandom. If you don’t like other people’s interpretations of a character, then make your own. I’m so tired of seeing ppl who think they’re better than others shitting on lighthearted/ romantic/ playful interpretations/ versions of the Creepypasta characters. Especially when most of the characters are DA ocs it’s just not that serious. The fandom doesn’t revolve around you. There’s no need to bring other ppl down or shit on them bc you think you being into the more serious/ realistic side makes you better. It just doesn’t. Stop being so full of yourself and let people have fun. People who act like that are the reason people are scared to release their OCs and be creative. If you’re considering releasing and oc/ crp story please do. Don’t let these rude ass ppl bring you down.
The Lord could be considered kind to someone who hasn't known the word for years. Even while considering their words weren't conventional—or ever really "good," and their smiles, if ever caught by hybrid's eye, reminded him of something with too many teeth, too wide of a lip, and foam dripping between the cracks.
But, they didn't speak, and their smiles could only be perceived in his mind when his gaze pointed in The Lord's general direction. All this to say, there are only upsides to consider.
One was, The Lord didn't have hands to touch him.
A favorite, the Cage is safe. Locked for eternity, and therefore safe.
No one knows where the cage is.
Grian was always referred to by a real name, even if it wasn't aloud or his given one.
He was allowed to speak.
He was allowed to do whatever he wanted, how he wanted, forever.
If anyone besides the voice in his head would ask him about why The Lord kept him alive, he'd say something offhandedly naive because nothing sensible has ever come to mind.
Naive or hopeless, such as The Lord is simply lonely. Although that one is frequently shot down and kicked moments after it takes off, considering Grian is fairly certain The Lord is more complex than that. Dangerous.
Immure might be an infinitely better word than lonely. Because no, it couldn't be lonely, not with all the masked Pigeons in the house to keep it company, no matter if they never spoke. Not to disregard the roaming Thing outside that keeps everyone on edge, wilting flowers Grian is always so careful to keep. Then there's Grian himself, the only life in this too-artificial place -- there's no reason to be bored of the company!
Speaking of the Thing he has no reason to look out for it now, his hands buried deep in the soil of one of the poppy beds that line the fork off the path when entering the secluded garden. His sanctuary, physical diary, the only thing to keep him sane in the borders of the Map.
Grian may think all these things to pass the time, himself being all he truly knows he has. There are more questions than answers in this place, so many more that it might drive him mad thinking of all the ways he could kill himself with what he has, then respawn back in his unmade bed like there was nothing wrong at all.
So no, he won't cave today, thank you very much.
Daawwwgg I finally locked in. it happened. What do you mean its only 400 words-
i need to make an essay about the two tropes of horror, psychological v. eldritch, found within and versus Creepypasta and MCYT and which does what per fandom. Opinions of which is worse, and/or the outlets that each bring, detrimental or beneficial
because i have free will and this sure would be a use of it.
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
izzy806
snowghoul
jacobvanloon
areudirty
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
