Atlas, This World Is My Runway

A funky, some might even say ~groovy~ Tardigrade 18 Y/O Muscular Nerd Who Knows Alot About Alot

[fashionabletardigrade]

Rules Shown Here: Rules

Masterlist

Alice In Borderlands-

TBD

Creepypasta-

Eyeless Jack:

Jack Kills You

Criminal Minds-

TBD

Death Note-

L Lawliet:

L x Bodyguard Reader Headcanons

Helluva Boss-

TBD

Hazbin Hotel-

Vox:

Vox x Musician Overlord Headcanons

Silent Hill-

TBD

Teratophilia-

TBD

Valorant -

TBD

V For Vendetta-

V x Female Vigilante Reader

Monster High-

TBD

MPHFPC-

TBD

K-POP Demon Hunters-

TBD

[onedirectionforever]

“you support gay rights so you must be gay”

i support animal rights do i look like a fucking alpaca to you

[onedirectionforever]

turns out i am gay

[monsieurenjlolras]

holy shit how’d this alpaca learn how to type

[mywitchcultblr]

Diversity win! The alpaca is gay!

[adreamthatsworthkeeping]

[thebirdkiwi]

he was a llama

[mxtomituck]

A llama? He’s supposed to be DEAD!

[rainrot4me]

Rain’s Kinktober 2025 - 07

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW MINORS DNI

── .✦ Eyeless Jack/Ticci Toby x Female Reader - Drugged/Somnophilia

✦ . Warning: Porn without plot, slightly dead dove, slight dubcon, somnophilia, (consensual) drugged sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, creampie, unsolicited orgasms, vouyerism, double penetration, multiple orgasms, needles/medical equipment

✦ . Words: 8.1k

✦ . Note: This one is a doozy guys. Lots of tags here, lots of warnings, be mindful!! Everything that happens is consensual, you just have to read between the lines a bit. Don’t read if you’re not comfortable, but also don’t complain to me about it if you don’t like it!!! Anyway, here starts Kinktober in November, wish me luck!

Tag: #rainykinktober2025

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Toby has always had a thing for vulnerability. 

It’s not just the thrill of power—though he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed that too. No, it’s deeper, more primal, a fascination with the fragile line between trust and surrender.

Ever since you and Toby started this twisted little relationship, he’s found himself drawn to those moments when you’re at your most exposed, your defenses crumbling under his touch.

In sex, it’s intoxicating. The way your body yields to him, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as he pins your wrists above your head, his tics jerking his shoulders in erratic rhythms that only heighten the unpredictability. You arch into him, eyes wide and pleading, trusting him not to break you—even though you both know he could, if the urge struck. 

Day to day, it’s subtler but no less addictive. The way you lean into his side during quiet evenings in the decrepit cabin you share, your head on his shoulder as rain patters against the warped windows. Or how you let him wrap his arms around you from behind while you’re cooking, your laughter soft and unguarded when his fingers twitch involuntarily against your waist. 

“T-Toby, that tickles,” you might murmur, turning to press a kiss to his scarred cheek, oblivious to the storm raging in his thoughts—the urge to hold you tighter, to claim every inch of that trust.

But his favorite thing? 

God, it’s when you’re asleep. 

Curled up next to him in the narrow bed, your chest rising and falling in slow, even waves, so utterly at peace. The moonlight filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting silver shadows over your skin, highlighting the curve of your hip under the thin sheet, the way your lips part just slightly as if whispering secrets to the dark. 

You’re so vulnerable then, aren’t you? Trusting him completely to keep you safe in the dead of night, when the woods outside whisper threats and the monsters—real ones, like him—could so easily take advantage. Toby lies there, propped on one elbow, his dark eyes tracing every detail: the flutter of your eyelashes, the pulse at your throat, the way your fingers twitch in dreams he can only imagine.

He can’t help but watch you, his breath stuttering with each tic. Sometimes, he leans in closer, his hand hovering before gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. 

“S-so pretty,” he whispers to himself, voice cracking like static on an old radio. And then, because the pull is too strong, he kisses you—soft at first, a ghost of lips against your forehead, then trailing down to your neck, where he lingers, inhaling the warm scent of your skin. His touches grow bolder in these stolen hours—fingers skimming the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath to trace lazy circles over your stomach, feeling the heat of you, the softness that yields without resistance. 

You stir sometimes, a sleepy murmur escaping—“Toby?”—but you never fully wake, drifting back into oblivion, leaving him aching with the knowledge that you’re his to protect, to adore, to tear apart if he wants.

And that’s when it all really began.

It started innocently enough—or as innocent as things get in your world. One night, after a brutal mission left him wired and aching, Toby had stumbled back to the cabin late, the scent of blood and forest clinging to his hoodie. You were already asleep, curled under the blankets like a gift waiting to be unwrapped, your breaths soft and even. He hadn’t planned it, not really; he’d just meant to collapse beside you. 

But seeing you there, so trusting, so exposed… it ignited something feral. 

His hands had trembled as he peeled back the sheets, his shaky fingers tracing the curve of your thigh, dipping lower until he was between your legs, mouth watering at the thought.

You’d stirred only when his tongue delved in, lapping at you with desperate hunger, the taste of you pulling a guttural groan from his throat. Your eyes had fluttered open, hazy with sleep, finding him buried under the covers, his shoulders jerking as he devoured you, your panties snagged around your ankles. 

“T-Toby?” you’d murmured, voice scratchy and confused, but then understanding dawned, and you’d arched into him, fingers tangling in his messy hair. 

“Don’t stop… please.” He’d made you cum right there, your moans shrill and loud, until you were trembling and spent, pulling him up to kiss you fiercely.

From then on, it became his obsession—your obsession. Toby gets off so badly on it, the way your body responds even in sleep, pliant and warm, no barriers between you. 

He’d wait until you were deep under, drooling slightly on the pillow, your limbs heavy and relaxed, before sliding into you slowly, savoring every inch as you enveloped him without a word. The friction, the heat, the absolute surrender—it drove him wild, his hips snapping erratically as he fucked you into the mattress, whispers spilling from his lips like confessions. 

“S-so perfect… all m-mine…” And when you’d finally wake, eyes widening at the feel of his cock buried deep in your cunt, you’d cling to him immediately, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as you gasped his name. 

“Yes, Toby—harder—fuck—” It was his favorite, that moment of transition from dream to reality, your trust turning into raw need.

You loved it just as much, encouraging him with sleepy smiles in the mornings after. 

“You can do it anytime, Toby,” you’d whisper, nuzzling into his neck during lazy afternoons. “Fuck me when I’m asleep all you want. I like waking up to you like that—feeling you already inside me. It’s so good.” 

It made him feel powerful, needed, in a way nothing else could. Sometimes he’d come home from missions in the dead of night, still buzzing with adrenaline, and head straight for your sleeping form. No words, just shedding his gear and diving under the sheets, his mouth on you before you could even register the intrusion. Your eyes would flutter open to the sight of the blanket tented over his head, his hands gripping your thighs as he licked and sucked, bringing you to a shuddering climax that blurred your vision terribly.

So, of course, something like this would happen to him.

“It’ll be alright, Toby,” you say softly, thumb brushing over his stubbled jaw. “EJ just needs some material for his study. He said it’s just a little medicine to make me sleep for a bit, and I’ll stay on his medical bed until it wears off. He’ll keep good watch, I promise.” Your voice is steady, but Toby’s fingers twitch against your hips, a nervous tic betraying the calm he was trying to exude.

“N-not sure I like this,” he mutters, his voice low and gravelly, punctuated by the occasional jerk of his shoulder. “Y-you, asleep, down there with h-him? What if somethin’ goes wrong?” His protectiveness wraps around you like a heavy blanket, warm but suffocating. 

Toby’s always been your shield, his hatchet a promise of safety in a world crawling with things that go bump in the night. Letting you out of his sight, especially in a place as the Slendermansion, feels like a betrayal of that unspoken vow.

“He’s your friend, Toby,” you remind him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, where the scar tissue pulls tight. “You trust him, don’t you? And besides, I’m the only true human around, so Jack was very eager.” 

It’s a gentle nudge, and though Toby’s jaw clenches, he nods reluctantly, his hand squeezing yours.

“F-fine,” he says, exhaling sharply. “But I’m comin’ with you. N-no way I’m lettin’ my ba-baby sleep in some creepy b-basement without me.” His resolve is unshakable, and you can’t help but smile.

The trek to the Slendermansion is quiet, the forest swallowing the crunch of your footsteps under a canopy of gnarled branches. Toby’s hand stays clasped around yours, his hatchet slung over his shoulder, its blade catching slivers of sunlight. The mansion looms ahead, a decaying monolith of cracked stone and shadowed windows, its presence oppressive yet all-too-familiar. You descend the creaking stairs to EJ’s basement abode, the air growing cooler, tinged with the sterile tang of antiseptic and rust.

Eyeless Jack waits in his makeshift lab, a cavernous space lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. Stainless steel tables gleam under the light, littered with vials, syringes, and notebooks scrawled with cryptic notes. His eyeless mask tilts toward you as you enter, the black voids where eyes should be unnervingly blank, though his voice is calm, assertive. 

“Thanks for coming,” he says, his tone devoid of the menace his appearance suggests. “This won’t take long. I’m studying physiological responses under induced sleep—heart rate, blood pressure, neural activity. The sedative is mild, FDA-approved for short-term use. You’ll be out for about fourty-five minutes, and I’ll monitor everything from here.” He gestures to a medical bed in the center of the room, its white sheets crisp and uninviting.

You glance at Toby, who’s eyeing the setup with suspicion, his fingers twitching against the handle of his hatchet. “J-just data, huh?” he asks, voice sharp. “No weird s-stuff? You’re not cuttin’ her open or nothin’?”

Jack shuffles off his old mask, placing it onto his desk in the company of friends. He smirks, just enough to aggravate the boy. 

“No cutting, Toby. Just sensors and vitals. She’ll be safe, I swear.” He holds up a small syringe filled with a clear liquid, tapping it lightly to dispel air bubbles. “This is the sedative. It’s fast-acting but wears off quickly. She’ll sleep, I’ll collect my data, and she’ll wake up feeling rested.”

You squeeze Toby’s hand, stepping closer to the bed. “See? It’s fine. Just a quick nap, and you’ll be right here.” You climb onto the bed, the cold leather creaking beneath you, and Toby follows, perching on a stool nearby, his gaze darting between you and Jack.

“Alright,” Jack says, approaching with the syringe. “You’ll feel a small pinch, then it’s lights out for a little over half an hour.” The needle slides into your arm, a brief sting followed by a cool rush through your veins. 

Toby’s hand tightens around yours, his breathing uneven as he watches. “I-I’m right here, okay?” he whispers, his voice softer now, almost tender. “Not goin’ anywhere.”

The world begins to blur, your eyelids growing heavy as the sedative pulls you under.

Damn, that was fast. 

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. 

The last thing you hear is his stuttered, “S-sleep tight, baby,” and then you’re gone.

—

Toby’s grip on your hand is tight enough to bruise, but he can’t help it. 

Your fingers are slack in his, warm and soft, the way they always are against his always cold ones. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too clean, and the air smells like bleach and metal and enough rust to make his stomach twist. Jack’s gloved fingers move over your skin, and every time those fingers brush your collarbone or the inside of your wrist, Toby’s shoulders jerk hard enough to rattle the stool he’s perched on.

“Easy,” Jack murmurs, not looking up from the electrode he’s pressing just above your chest. “Just a sensor. Heart rate, nothing invasive.”

Toby’s jaw clenches. “I know wh-what it is.” He doesn’t. “J-Just don’t linger.”

Jack’s face tilts—a silent acknowledgment—and his hands move faster. The beeping starts up, matching the rise and fall of your chest. Toby watches the line on the monitor like it’s a lifeline. Seventy-two beats per minute. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Your pulse, alive and thumping.

Jack starts up an IV drip, and slides a blood-pressure cuff up your arm, velcro rasping. Toby’s free hand twitches toward the pocket knife tucked in his belt, then curls into a fist instead. 

He’s not gonna do anything reckless. Jack’s his friend. Jack swore. 

He has got to calm down.

But the sight of you laid out like this—shirt skewed up just enough to expose the soft skin of your stomach, legs slightly parted on the bed—makes something dark and hungry coil in his gut. Same as it does when he crawls into bed at 3 a.m., still reeking of dirt, and finds you drooling on the pillow, thighs warm and open under the sheets.

He remembers last week. Came in from a job, knuckles split, head buzzing. You’d been out cold, one arm flung above your head, mouth slack. He’d peeled your panties down with his teeth, buried his face between your legs before you even twitched. The way you’d woken up gasping, hips already rocking against his tongue, fingers scrabbling at his hair…

“Toby, fuck, don’t stop—”

But this isn’t the cabin. This isn’t his bed. This is Jack’s lab, and Jack’s watching your vitals like they’re a puzzle to solve, and Toby’s trying not to think about how easy it would be to slide his hand up your thigh right now, just to feel you clench around his fingers while you’re still gone.

“Toby.”

Jack’s voice cuts through the static in his head. The demon’s standing at the foot of the bed now, arms crossed. “Youre zoning out.”

Toby drags his eyes up. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out. Calm down.” Jack nods at the monitor. “She’s stable. She’s dreaming, probably. See the REM?”

Toby glances at your face. Your eyelids flutter, just barely, and your lips part on a soft exhale. A thin line of drool glistens at the corner of your mouth. His cock twitches, traitorously hard against his thigh, and he shifts on the stool, hating how obvious it must be.

Jack notices—of course he does. “Fourty-five minutes,” he says, softer now. “I’ll have what I need. Then you can take her home. Alright?”

Toby’s throat works. “Yeah.”

The silence stretches, thick and humming with the monitors’ steady beeps. Toby’s thigh bounces under the stool, the hard line of his cock trapped against his zipper, impossible to ignore. Every time you shift—just a twitch of your hips, a soft, breathy sound that might be a dream—he feels it like a jolt straight to his groin. Your fingers flex in his grip, limp and trusting, and he squeezes back harder, knuckles whitening.

Jack’s head tilts. The demon doesn’t have eyes, but Toby feels the stare anyway. A low, amused exhale hisses through the demon’s teeth as takes several deep breaths of the air.

“Jesus, Toby. You’re stinking up the whole lab. I can smell your hormones from here.”

Toby’s shoulders jerk. “F-Fuck off.”

Jack chuckles, the sound wet and gravelly. “Relax, I’m kidding. But seriously, how many times have you two fucked while she’s out cold if you’re this horny watching her sleep. You’re practically vibrating.”

Toby’s jaw locks. He knows Jack meant it lightheartedly, but Toby was never very good at covering his true feelings. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at your mouth—parted, glossy with a thin line of drool—and remembers the way you’d whimpered last night when he’d pushed in slow, your body clenching around him before your brain caught up.

Jack groans, realizing. “Oh, you are a freak. Please tell me you’re not just feeling her up while she’s unconscious.”

Toby’s head snaps up. “S-She likes i-it.” The words come out sharp, defensive, but there’s pride in them too. “She a-asks for it, di-dipshit.”

Jack leans back against the counter, arms crossed. “Elaborate.”

Toby’s eyes flick to you and he swallows. 

“I-I mean, it’s not… n-not all the time,” he starts, voice cracking on the first syllable. His thumb keeps rubbing the same small circle over your pulse, grounding himself. “Just… som-sometimes. When I come in late. Or, uh… when s-she’s already out.”

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh. Just waits.

Toby swallows. “She-she’ll be on her side, or… or her stomach. Mouth o-open. Little wet spot o-on the p-pillow.” His shoulders jerk once, hard. “I just… pull the sheet down. She’s n-not even wearing clothes ha-half the t-time.”

He risks a glance at Jack. The demon’s head is cocked now, listening like he’s taking mental notes.

“I’ll… touch her f-first. Just-just fingers. See if she’s…” He trails off, cheeks burning under the hood. “Wet… She always is. Even i-in her sleep. L-Like her body knows.”

Jack hums, low. “And then?”

Toby’s voice drops to a near-whisper, glaring. “Then I… I go d-down on her. Under the blanket. She-she makes these li-little noises. Just… dreaming. Her hips move on their o-own.” His stutter worsens, words tripping over each other. “I-I keep going ‘til s-she’s close. Then I… I slide i-in. She clenches around me b-before she even opens her uh-eyes.”

He stops. He can’t look at Jack now, just focuses at your face—peaceful, lips parted, a flush on your cheeks from the sedative.

“She wakes up needy,” he mutters. “Al-Always. Wraps her legs around m-me like she’s scared I’ll stop. Tells me—tells me not to. Every t-time.”

Silence. The monitors beep. Thirty minutes left.

Jack finally speaks, voice neutral. “And she remembers?”

Toby nods, jerky. “Y-Yeah. Says it’s like waking up i-inside a dream. That she feels m-me even when she’s not conscious. Likes it.”

He risks another look. Jack’s still, but there’s something in the set of his shoulders—fascination, maybe. Or recognition.

“Interesting,” Jack says quietly. “The body responding before the mind. Physical actions manifesting through brain matter.”

Toby’s grip tightens on your hand again. “Don’t… don’t make it weird.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Too late for that.”

Jack’s boots scuff across the concrete as he crosses to the desk, the sound too loud in the humming quiet. Toby’s pulse is in his throat now, a frantic drum against his collar. He tries to think of anything else, but your soft exhale pulls him right back. Your lips part on a tiny, sleepy sound, and his cock jerks so hard he has to shift his hips to keep from groaning.

Jack scribbles something on his clipboard, reading the monitors, then pads back. He stops just outside Toby’s personal space, voice low.

“Fuck her.”

Toby’s up in a flash, stool clattering. “F-Fuck off,” he snarls, body jerking so violently his neck cracks. “You don’t g-get to—”

“Purely medical,” Jack cuts in, palms raised. “I want the spike in her limbic system when she climaxes under sedation. Arousal response without conscious filter. Thirty seconds of data, max. Then you take her home.”

Toby’s laugh is sharp, cracked. “You’re a f-fucking weirdo.” He’s already leaning over the bed, sliding one arm under your shoulders, the other under your knees. Your head lolls against his chest, warm and heavy, and the feel of you limp in his arms makes his stomach flip with something between panic and hunger.

Jack doesn’t move. “Can’t get weirder than you bragging about railing her unconscious, Toby. I keep my back turned. Won’t look. Just the readings and vitals. One orgasm. You walk out and I never mention it again.”

Toby freezes. Your hair brushes his neck, your breath fans warm across his collarbone. He can smell your shampoo, and the thought of sliding into you right here, with Jack ten feet away pretending not to listen, makes his vision blur at the edges.

He stands there a beat too long, arms full of you, heart hammering against your ribs.

Jack’s voice drops, a velvet rasp that makes Toby’s skin prickle. “Think about it, Toby. How good it’d feel to make her cum and she doesn’t even realize it. No waking up mid-thrust, no sleepy eyes blinking open to pull you closer. Just her body giving in.”

Toby’s breath hitches, your limp weight in his arms suddenly heavier, warmer. He can picture it too vividly: your thighs trembling under his hands, the slick heat of you pulling him deeper, your pulse spiking on the monitors as you shatter around him. A shiver races down his spine, electric and wrong, making his knees buckle just a fraction. Nervous sweat beads at his temples, his tics firing off in erratic pops of his joints.

“She’s always so fragile when you do it at home,” Jack presses, stepping closer, his eyeless voids swallowing the light. “You go gentle, don’t you? ‘Cause one wrong move and she’s waking up. But now? With this?” He nods at the IV drip in your arm. “She won’t wake. You could pin her down, fuck her raw—no holding back.”

Toby’s mind fractures. 

What would you want? The question loops, frantic. You’d laugh it off in the morning, maybe—cup his face, kiss the scar on his cheek, murmur, “Toby, baby, if it feels good, do it. I trust you.” Or you’d arch a brow, teasing, “You know I love waking up wrecked. Don’t stop on my account.” But this isn’t the cabin’s creaky bed, isn’t your shared sheets tangled with familiarity. This is here, with Jack’s gaze on the data, your vitals beeping erratically. His teeth grind together, molars aching, as the old permission echoes back. “You can do it anytime, Toby.”

Jack sees it—the crack in his armor, the way Toby’s arms tighten around you like he’s already imagining the leverage. The demon leans in, voice a conspiratorial purr. “Come on, Toby. Give her the kind of orgasm that brands her insides. The one where she squirts without knowing why. You know you’ve always wanted to push that far.”

Toby’s hips jerk involuntarily, a low groan clawing up his throat. Heat floods his groin, sticky and insistent—his cock leaking pre into the front of his jeans, soaking through the denim in a dark, shameful patch. He’s crumbling, vision tunneling to the curve of your neck, the flutter of your pulse. 

Twenty-seven minutes left. Fuck.

Jack opens his mouth, but Toby’s had enough..

“Shut. The fuck. Up.”

Jack’s jaw clicks shut.

Toby stares at you. Long. Too long. Your head lolls against his forearm, hair spilling over his skin like silk. Your lips are parted, breath warm and slow. His eyes trace every inch like he’s memorizing a map he’s already burned into his brain.

Then he looks at Jack. Hard. Dead in the mask.

“Nobody ever k-knows,” he grunts. “Not a word. Not a jo-joke. You keep your back turned. You don’t s-speak. You don’t look. You see t-the numbers, that’s it.”

Jack nods, slow. “Done.”

Toby’s chest heaves. One more beat. Two. He closes his eyes, jaw clenched so tight the scar pulls white. Then he moves.

He lays you back on the table with a gentleness that he reserves only for you, your body settling into the padded leather. He angles your hips toward him, one knee nudged between yours, your thigh brushing his. The sheet pools at your feet. Your shirt rides up, exposing the dip of your waist, the soft skin just above your shorts.

Jack turns and shuffles to his desk, sitting down on his chair, back facing the two of you.

Toby doesn’t look at him again.

Toby’s hands settle on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner flesh just above your knees. He spreads you open slowly, trying his best not to let you lay too uncomfortably. Your legs fall apart with no resistance, knees bending, hips tilting up toward him in unconscious invitation. A low, animal sound rumbles in his chest.

He steps in, knees nudging the table’s edge, and presses. The hard ridge of his cock, trapped behind denim, drags along the seam of your shorts. Heat blooms through the layers, and he can’t stop the shudder that rips up his spine. His hips roll forward once, testing, grinding the length of himself against the clothes. Fuck. You’re warm even through the fabric, and the friction is maddening.

“Sh-shit,” he breathes, barely a whisper. His fingers flex, digging into your thighs hard enough to leave pale prints that flush pink when he eases up. 

His hands slide upward, palms skating over the curve of your hips, thumbs hooking under the hem of your shirt. He pushes it higher, higher, until the fabric bunches beneath your breasts. Cool air kisses your stomach and goosebumps rise in its wake. Toby’s mouth waters. He leans down, forehead brushing your sternum, inhaling the scent of your skin. His tongue darts out, tasting the salt just below your ribs, and he has to bite back another groan.

He straightens just enough to watch your face. Your lashes flutter, your lips part on a soft, breathy sound that isn’t quite a moan but close. It goes straight to his cock. He grinds again, harder this time, the denim rasping against you, the pressure exquisite. Pre soaks through his boxers, sticky and hot, smearing against the inside of his jeans with every roll of his hips.

His fingers find the button of your shorts. They tremble—just once—before popping it open. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and tugs, the fabric dragging over your hips, catching for a heartbeat on the swell of your ass before sliding lower. He has to lift you slightly, one arm sliding beneath your lower back, arching you up so he can peel the pants down your thighs. They pool at your ankles and he kicks them aside.

You’re bare to him now except for the thin scrap of panties, darkened at the center with arousal you don’t even know you’re giving. Toby’s breath stutters. He palms himself through his jeans, squeezing hard, trying to rein in the urge to rip everything off and bury himself to the hilt. Not yet. He wants to savor.

His hands return to your thighs, pushing them wider until the muscles tremble. He drops to his knees beside the table, eye-level with the soaked cotton. One thumb traces the edge of your panties, teasing the elastic, then slips beneath. 

The heat of you is staggering enough to make him smile. He drags the pad of his thumb up your slit, parting your folds, coating his finger in your slick. 

He looks up at your head turned slightly, cheek pressed to the padding, mouth lazily open. Another soft noise escapes you, dreamy, and Toby’s vision whites out at the edges. He presses the heel of his hand against his cock, grinding into his own touch, his hips jerking helplessly.

Jack’s chair creaks. A low, muffled grunt comes from across the room, followed by the shuffle of his palm dragging over the lower half of his face. The air is thick, drenched in the sour-sweet scent of your arousal and the heady, muskier note of Toby’s own need. It clings to the back of the throat like smoke, and he thinks he’ll choke on it.

Toby doesn’t look up, doesn’t care. His world has narrowed to the slick heat between your thighs, the way your skin flushes under his mouth, the soft, involuntary roll of your hips when he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit.

He hooks two fingers into the soaked crotch of your panties and tugs. The elastic snaps against your hip, then gives, and he bunches the fabric in his fist, holding it aside like a curtain. Cool air kisses your bare folds and you shiver, thighs twitching open another inch.

His first kiss lands on the tender inside of your thigh, teeth grazing, then soothing with a slow lick. He works inward, open-mouthed presses of lips and tongue mapping every inch of soft skin until he reaches your center. He exhales, hot and shaky, against your folds, and you make the smallest sound—a breathy ‘mmph’ that isn’t quite a moan but makes his cock throb so hard his vision blurs.

He licks you open, slow and filthy, tongue curling up to circle your clit with the same lazy rhythm he uses when you’re half-awake and clinging to his shoulders. Your body answers without thought—hips tilting, a tremor in your thighs, slick coating his chin. He keeps the pace gentle, even as his own need claws at his spine. His free hand drops to his lap, palming the rigid line of his cock through denim, squeezing in time with each swirl of his tongue.

Toby has never made it to fucking you without you waking up. He’s only ever gotten the tip in before you’re blinking awake and smiling lazily at him.

He loves it, he does.

But knowing that he’s about to fuck your cunt as hard as he wants—without you waking up—he can barely hold himself back.

Your clit swells under his attention, flushed and glistening. He sucks it softly, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, then releases with a wet pop. Another slow lick, base to tip, savoring the taste of you just like he always does. Your fingers twitch against the padding, your head turns, cheek pressing deeper into the table, lips parted on a silent gasp—but you still don’t wake up.

Toby’s hips jerk forward, grinding into his own hand. Precome leaks steadily now, soaking through layers of fabric, making the slide of his palm slick. He groans against you, the vibration rumbling through your core, and your thighs try to close on reflex, but he wedges his shoulders between them, keeping you spread.

He could stay here forever. Could lick you open until the sedative wore off and you woke up mid-orgasm, confused and dripping and begging. But the monitors beep faster now, your heart rate climbing, brain waves flickering into theta, and Jack’s pen is scribbling just as fast.

Toby doesn’t care. He licks you again, slower, deeper, and feels you flutter against his tongue.

His mouth seals over your cunt, tongue spearing deep, curling inside you like he’s trying to taste your heartbeat. The wet heat of you clenches around him, tight and pulsing, and he groans into your folds like he’s stumbled upon water in the desert. His fist loosens on your panties, the elastic snapping back to press against the jagged gash on his cheek, the fabric soaked and clinging to his skin. He doesn’t care, doesn’t feel it. He only feels you and your walls fluttering, your hips rocking in tiny, unconscious thrusts.

His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs small, frantic circles the way he knows you need when you’re close. Your thighs tremble and your breath hitches in a soft, sleepy whine. He answers with a harder press of his tongue, fucking into you in short, sharp thrusts, then dragging back up to lap at your clit again.

He pulls back just long enough to slide two fingers through your folds, giving him an eyeful of your messy cunt, then pushes his middle finger inside. One knuckle, two, curling hard against that spot that makes your back arch even in sleep. Your cunt grips him like a vice, and he adds a second finger, stretching you open, scissoring gently before curling again. His mouth returns to your clit, sucking hard, tongue flicking in time with the thrust of his fingers.

He’s moving so fast he’s dizzy.

Your body responds like it’s been waiting for this—hips rolling, thighs tightening around his shoulders, a soft, breathy “ah—” slipping from your lips. The monitors spike, your heart rate stuttering, brain waves flickering into sharp, frantic peaks. Toby feels it in the way you clench around his fingers, the way your slick coats his thick fingers and drips down his wrist.

He doesn’t slow down, just fingers you faster, tongue lashing your clit, thumb pressing hard circles until your thighs quake and your cunt flutters wildly around him. 

Come on, baby, he thinks, teeth grazing your clit just enough to sting. Come for me. Let me feel it.

You’re close. So close. He knows it. He knows you.

Toby’s eyes snap to your face the second your moan slips out, soft and drowsy, like you’re half-lost in a dream you don’t want to wake from. Your head rolls back against the padding, neck arching as your lips drag open into a lazy gasp. One arm lifts, fingers curling near your cheek before flopping back down, and your feet kick once, twice, heels scraping the leather in tiny, helpless jerks. It’s so you, so fucking cute even when you’re drugged and forcibly open for him, that a crooked, lovesick grin splits his face against your cunt.

He doubles down—tongue spearing deep, thumb grinding hard circles over your clit. His fingers pump faster, curling against that spot inside you that makes your hips buck. Your thighs clamp around his ears, trembling, and he feels it, the tell-tale lock-up of your muscles, the way your breath catches in a high, broken gasp.

There it is.

He pulls back just enough to mumble into your slick folds, voice muffled and raw, “C-C’mon, baby, give i-it to m-m-me. Fuck—”

Your body seizes. A full-body shudder rips through you, thighs clamping down, back arching off the table. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, pulsing in hot, wet waves as you cum, disgruntled moans and whines spilling from your lips. Slick gushes over his tongue, dripping down his chin, pooling under your ass. He drinks it, lapping greedily, tongue flicking through your folds to catch every drop, thumb still rubbing your clit in slow, soothing circles as the aftershocks roll through you.

Your hips twitch. Your toes curl. Your head lolls to the side, mouth open, drool glistening at the corner, and Toby groans into you, the sound vibrating against your oversensitive skin. He doesn’t stop until you’re limp again, until the last tremor fades and your thighs fall open, boneless.

He pulls back slowly, lips shiny, chin dripping. 

The monitors are screaming now, brain waves spiking into sharp, shaky peaks, heart rate fluttering like a trapped bird. Jack’s pen hasn’t stopped moving the entire time.

Eleven minutes left.

“That’s it,” Jack says, turning. “We’re—”

Toby’s already on his feet, belt clanking, zipper rasping down quickly. His jeans shove down just enough to free his leaking cock, the tip a terrible shade of red, twitching wildly in his palm. His hand wraps around the length, jerking once, twice, hips stuttering forward like he can’t not move.

Jack’s mouth opens. “Toby—”

“Shut up.” His growl is low as he speaks. “Stick t-to your fucking n-notes.”

Jack’s gaze hones onto your spread thighs—still trembling, slick and swollen, panties twisted to the side. Toby drags the head of his cock through your messy folds, coating himself in your release, smearing it up and down your slit. A broken moan tears from his throat when the tip catches on your entrance.

“Toby, the sedative’s wearing off in—” Jack starts.

Toby pushes in. One smooth, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Your cunt flutters around him, still sensitive, still dripping. His head falls back, eyes rolling, a guttural “Fuck—” punched out of him as he bottoms out.

Jack spins on his heel, chair creaking as he drops into it, back rigid and facing the wall. The monitors spike again with your heart rate jumping, a sharp, involuntary clench around Toby’s cock bullying into you.

Toby doesn’t wait. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging bruises into soft flesh, and he thrusts. Hard. Deep. The table rocks under the force, leather squeaking. Your body jolts with each snap of his hips, breasts bouncing under your rucked-up shirt, head lolling to the side. A soft, confused sound slips from your lips, but your eyes stay closed—but you stay asleep.

Toby leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding up to palm your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, hips slamming into yours with wet, filthy sounds. “Dammit,” he rasps, voice cracking. “M’sorry—”

Jack’s pen scratches furiously, pretending he can’t hear the slap of skin, the broken moans, the way your cunt squelches around Toby’s cock with every brutal thrust and the mind-numbing smell of it all.

Toby doesn’t care. He fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out.

He watches the back of Jack’s head like a predator, eyes narrowed, breath ragged. Jack’s claws rake through his own hair, dragging over the scalp in sharp, frustrated pulls. One hand drops to his face, palm pressing hard over his nose, trying to block the thick, heady scent of sex filling the room. His leg bounces, boot tapping a frantic rhythm against the floor.

Toby smirks, crooked and vicious, and lets the moan rip out of him, loud, shameless. “F-fuck, yeah… take i-it, baby—” His voice cracks on the stutter, but the words are clear. Another thrust, deeper, the wet slap of skin echoing off concrete. “You w-wanted this, Jack. Science, right?”

Jack’s shoulders stiffen. A low, uneasy sound escapes him, cursing under his breath. His claws scrape over the desk, leaving faint gouges in the wood. Then his hand drops, fumbling at his belt. The clink of metal, the rasp of a zipper. He doesn’t turn around, just hunches forward, forearm pressed to the desk, one clawed hand wrapping around his own cock. He strokes once, slow, then faster, hips jerking into his fist.

Toby’s eyes lock on the movement, the way Jack’s back arches, the way his claws dig into his own thigh for leverage. The sight punches a fresh wave of heat through him, cock throbbing inside your oozing cunt. 

“Shit, l-look at you—” he rasps, voice breaking. “J-jerking off to me f-fucking her. Freak.”

Jack doesn’t answer. Just strokes harder, claws clicking against the desk, breath hitching behind bared pointy teeth. His leg stops bouncing. His whole body tenses, coiled tight.

Toby leans over you, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. He thrusts harder, faster, the table rocking dangerously. “G-gonna fill her up,” he growls, eyes never leaving Jack’s hunched form. “Gonna make h-her drip with i-it. You’ll sm-smell me on her for d-days.”

“Fuck—” Jack’s claws scrape the desk as his fist pumps faster, hips jerking into his grip. His arm presses harder against the wood, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the shadows.

Toby laughs, breathless. “Y-you were all gung ho about t-this five minutes ago,” he pants, hips snapping forward, your cunt squelching around him with every thrust. “N-now you’re j-jerking off to it? Nasty f-fucker.”

Jack’s hand stutters, but he doesn’t stop. His claws dig deeper into the desk, leaving fresh gouges.

Toby leans up, sweat dripping from his brow. He slides his hands under your knees, hooking them in the crooks of his elbows, spreading you wide. Your legs dangle, limp and open, hips tilted up to take him deeper. The new angle drags the head of his cock against your front wall with every brutal thrust, and your body answers with a loud, dreamy whimper, thighs trembling.

“T-turn around,” Toby rasps, voice cracking on the stutter. “L-look at her. Look how g-good she’s taking it.”

Jack doesn’t move. His fist keeps moving, faster now, the wet sound of it gentle compared to the mess behind him.

“Jack.” Toby’s moan is filthy, teasing. “L-look at what you s-started. She’s dripping for m-me. F-fuck, she’s gonna cum again—”

Your cunt clenches hard, a fresh gush of slick coating his cock, and Toby’s head falls back, scarred cheek twitching up into a nasty smile. “See?” he snarls, hips slamming into you, the table scratching against the concrete floor. “She’s amazing, and you’re h-hard as fuck listening t-to me ruin her—”

Jack’s shoulders jerk. A broken sound tears from his throat, but he still doesn’t turn.

Your head lolls off the table’s edge, neck crooked, hair spilling messily over the side. Each thrust punches a loud, broken moan from your throat—raw, unfiltered noises that even Toby has never heard before. The sound ricochets off concrete, wet and desperate, and it’s the final crack in Jack’s restraint.

His chair spins. Head tilted, sharp teeth bared in a snarl that’s half-hunger, half-rage. His cock juts up, flushed dark, slick with precum that drips over his knuckles as he fucks his fist in frantic, uneven strokes. His nostrils flare, drinking in the thick, heady cocktail of sex and sweat and both of you.

Toby laughs, breathless and vicious. “Th-there he is,” he pants, hips snapping harder, the table creaking. “F-fucking look at her, Jack. Look h-how she moans for me.”

Your moans climb, louder, sharper, hips jerking in tiny, helpless circles. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering wildly, and Toby’s grin turns slack, eyes widening. “She’s g-gonna—”

You cum. A full-body shudder rips through you, back bowing off the table, thighs quaking in the crooks of his elbows. Slick gushes around his cock, dripping down your ass, pooling beneath you. Your mouth falls open on a silent scream, then another broken moan, “T-Toby—” 

It’s so slurred, and breathy, and garbled through sleep-thick air—but it’s enough to make both boys crazy.

Toby’s moan cracks into a growl. Jack’s follows, breathy and snarled, claws digging into his own thigh as his fist flies over his cock, precum splattering his jeans.

Their faces lock over your writhing body, then flick back to you, then to each other again, a silent, electric circuit.

Jack’s chest heaves. “Fuck, that was hot,” he rasps, voice gravel against the strain not to moan.

Toby’s grin is all teeth. “Y-yeah? Told you she’s perfect.”

Jack’s fist slows, slick with precome. “G-gonna cum?”

“Fuck yeah.” Toby’s hips stutter, cock dragging through your spasming cunt. “C-cum with me, Jacky.”

Jack’s nod is sharp, desperate. His claws dig into his thigh as he pumps himself faster again, eyes glued to where Toby disappears inside you.

Toby leans in, voice low and filthy, mocking his Jack spoke to him before this whole fiasco. “Imagine that f-fist is her tight little cunt, Jack. Warm. W-Wet. Squeezing you dry.” He thrusts hard, your body jolting. “She’d milk you, wo-wouldn’t she? Beg for it in h-her sleep.”

Jack groans, hips bucking. “God, yes, keep talking.”

“Bet she’d whimper y-your name,” Toby purrs, eyes gleaming. “‘Jack, p-please, deeper—’”

Jack’s head drops back, mask tilting to the ceiling. “Fuck, Toby—”

“Cum in her,” Toby hisses, thrusting deep, grinding against your cervix. “Paint h-her insides. M-Mark her.”

Jack’s moan rips free. His cock pulses, thick ropes of cum splattering his fist, his hoodie, his jeans. It drips over his claws hot and messy as he rides it out, hips jerking into his grip.

Toby follows a heartbeat later. “Now—” He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing as he unloads, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt. “Take i-it, baby—” He grinds deep, milking every drop, eyes locked on Jack’s spent, trembling form.

The room is thick with the after-scent of sex—sweat, cum, and the sharp tang of everyone’s arousal. Toby’s chest heaves, his cock still twitching inside you, every pulse a lazy throb against your oversensitive walls. Jack’s claws are slick, hoodie streaked, head tilted back just enough to show the glint of sharp teeth as he catches his breath.

They’re both opening their mouths to make some awkward statement or nasty joke, when a sound cuts through the haze.

A low, drowsy groan. Your arms shift, hands dragging up to rub at your eyes. Your knees tug weakly, thighs trying to close, but Toby’s still got you folded open in the crooks of his elbows. Your body jerks once, confused, then stills as the awkward angle registers.

Your eyes blink open, slow and syrupy.

Jack’s right there face slack-jawed, cock still in his fist, cum dripping from his claws onto the floor. You blink again, pupils blown wide with sleep and confusion, gazing at him upside down from where your head hangs off the table’s edge.

“…Jack?” Your voice is hoarse, cracked from unregistered moaning. You shift, and that’s when you feel it—Toby buried deep, stretching you, filling you, the wet heat of his release starting to leak out around him.

Your head lifts, hair sticking to your cheek. Toby’s grinning down at you, smiling like an idiot stupidly in love. “H-Hey, baby,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Welcome b-back.”

Your eyes dart from Jack’s spent cock to Toby’s smug face, then down to where your bodies are still joined. A slow, sleepy smile curves your lips.

“…Did I miss something fun?”

Jack lets out a long, mortified groan that echoes off the concrete.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry,” he mutters, yanking his hoodie down over the mess on his lap and shuffling sideways like a crab. One clawed hand fumbles for a cupboard handle, towels spill out in a frantic white avalanche. He snatches a fistful and turns his back, ears burning deep purplish.

You laugh, absolutely delighted.

“Filthy perverts, both of you,” you tease, voice still husky from misuse. Toby hasn’t moved an inch, he’s still buried deep, hips flush to yours, cock twitching every time you clench around him. His fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest flutter.

“I thought I was having the best dream,” you murmur, grinning up at him. “Turns out it was just you two being gross.”

Jack shuffles beside the table, cheeks flaming, and starts peeling monitors off your skin. The sticky pads come away with little rip sounds, one wire is hopelessly tangled around your arm from all the rocking. 

He untangles it with careful claws, muttering, “Got everything I needed. The data’s gold. I, uh… don’t need anything else. Sorry for the, um… fuss.” He gestures vaguely at the cum-streaked table, the puddle on the floor, his own sticky claws. “My perversion, not yours.”

Toby snorts, leaning down to press a lazy kiss to your cheek. “T-told you she’d be cool with it.”

“Did you now?”

Your hand snakes up and back, fingers hooking into Jack’s belt loop with a lazy tug where he stands a bit away from you. His jeans are still open, zipper half-down, and the motion drags him forward until the bulge in his boxers is right at your face, the heat of him radiating through the thin cotton. Toby’s grip on your thighs tightens, nails digging crescents into your skin as he watches, pupils blown wide.

Jack’s hands hover in the air, claws flexing, unsure where to land. “I—I’m good, really—”

“Shh.” You cut him off, voice syrupy and drowsy. “You didn’t get to touch me, right? And since Toby’s always a greedy little hog…” You roll your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, making Toby’s cock slide shallowly inside you, he whines your name, high and wrecked. 

“Hush,” you murmur, then tug Jack’s boxers down just enough to free him again.

His cock springs out, flushed dark, still slick with his own release, a fresh bead of precome pearling at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, and Jack jerks, a sharp, startled moan ripping from his throat. His claws finally settle on the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Toby’s hips stutter, shallow thrusts chasing the heat of your hand on Jack. “F-Fuck, you’re evil,” he pants, but he doesn’t stop you, just watches, transfixed as you stroke Jack slow and steady, thumb swiping over the head to spread the mess.

Jack’s head drops forward, head tilting, breath fogging the air. “Shit, I—” Another moan, broken, as you twist your wrist just right.

Your smile is wicked, still drowsy around the edges.

“Aw, I’m sad I missed the fun,” you murmur, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Tell you what… if I pretend to be asleep again, will you two fuck me as hard as you want?”

Toby’s grin is feral. Jack’s head leans back, a low, hungry growl rumbling behind it. They lock eyes—a confirmation, a challenge—and both nod like starved wolves.

You hum, satisfied, and guide Jack’s cock to your mouth. The slick tip slides between your lips, salty with his own release, and you take him in just past the head. A soft, sleepy moan vibrates around him as your eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning your cheeks. Your body goes lax again, head still hanging off the table’s edge, mouth slack and open.

Toby’s hips snap forward once, hard, burying himself to the hilt again. Jack’s claws dig into the table, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as your tongue flattens against him, warm and wet and perfect.

They don’t wait.

Toby sets a brutal rhythm, hands pressing under your knees to fold you open further. Jack threads careful claws into your hair, guiding your mouth down his length in shallow, greedy thrusts. The room fills with the wet slap of skin, your muffled moans, their ragged breathing.

Asleep, you take it all, and they give you everything.

๑ back to my kinktober masterlist

── .✦ rainrot4me2025, all rights reserved. ꩜ .ᐟ

[ohmygodryan]

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Creepypasta Reverse Harem x F! Reader (Part 12)

"𝓗𝓮𝔂 𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓜𝓾𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻, 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓘? 𝓜𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓪𝓾𝓽𝔂 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝔂 𝓲𝓯 𝓘 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓶𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓯𝓮?” -AFI

★ ₊ ˚⟡ Following a series of mistakes on Halloween, a college girl, and her group of friends, are thrown into a sequence of events that will ruin their lives forever.

𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼 - Eyeless Jack, Tim Wright (MH), Brian Thomas (MH), Jeffery Woods, Toby Rodgers, Helen Otis

I am unsure of the original creator of these images, if known please tell me and I will credit :)

Previously called Morosis. Please see my blog for more chapters!

"𝓢𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓶𝓼 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓯𝓪𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓮𝓼. 𝓢𝓸 𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓲𝓵𝓮, 𝔂𝓮𝓽 𝓼𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼." - Slipknot

12┆Vermillion ★ ₊ ˚⟡

The girl had been hauled to a cement prison not long after her assaliant’s initial monologue. He had thrown her into a cell that reminded her of medieval torture dungeons. She felt it was overly theatrical, especially when considering what she had witnessed along the way there.

There were far more bodies than she could have ever anticipated. Some hanging, some strewn about the ground carelessly. Most were mangled, although some she had debated whether or not they maintained a semblance of life. If they did, it was evident by their grim expressions that what little remained was as fickle as candlelight. There was one outlier amongst the carnage. A familiar pair of eyes that the girl had to ponder for an agonizing moment, where she had seen them before. 

It was a woman, similarly bound like she had been to that chair when she had woken up. There was a cloth forced between her jaws, preventing any noise from escaping her bloodied lips. It was the very same nurse from the mental institution who had been managing her medicine. Those same hands that had been rubbed raw by rope had forced pills down her throat. Despite this, the girl felt a surge of pity in her chest.

The feeling remained as she sat splayed across the floor of her cell. 

The ceiling, spiderwebbed with cracks, stared down at the girl tauntingly. If the walls that surrounded her were so debilitated, why had no one broken them yet? 

The stone had begun to shimmer red on account of the blood spilled on its surface. She had struggled to find a spot where the rusty hue wouldn’t stare back at her, hence why she had settled on the fracture. It was the greatest entertainment she had. There was the occasional scream dispersed between the squelching of flesh; however, she tried ignore it. 

A day or two ago-- at least that was her estimate, a victim of the masked man had shaken the walls with ferocity, trying to preserve his life. Despite how fruitless it was, she had pressed her hands to her head, trying to block out the volume. Whatever drug he’d pumped into her system, while it had worn off long ago, left her with a residual headache. As she hunkered down, dust had rained down upon her, which alerted her to the flaw in her prison. 

Today, she had her nose pressed to her knees as she watched the particles trickle down like ashen snow. He had returned, tending to some other unfortunate prey. While he had kept his blade to himself thusfar, at least when it came to her, this did not spare her the screams. She had no idea how much time she had left, but she was sure of one thing: Jeff was not coming for her. 

There was another shrill cry, followed by a crashing sound. In tandem, a piece of stone stirred within the crack. She watched with bloodshot eyes as it peeled from its maw, clattering before her feet with a dull thud. The severed chunk was jagged, and when she tilted her head, it looked rather like the tooth of a shark. 

Wordlessly, she closed her palm around it. 

She had grown accustomed to the scorched sound of metal against stone. The cement puzzle piece was sturdy upon inspection. The revelation had reminded her of a scene from a movie she’d once seen before, and with no other semblance of hope, she’d begun to widdle it against the bars of her cage. 

She figured that if she could loosen it enough, she could break the bar loose. The stalks were widely set, tauntingly so. Just enough to tease the idea of escape, but hold it cruelly above her head. She had never been so grateful for malnutrition, as weeks of being starved had rendered her skin sallow and sunken in. If she could just sever one, she thought maybe-- just maybe, she could squeeze through. 

She worked tirelessly, only stopping her efforts when she was occasionally visited by her captor. He popped in to give her small rations of food or water. She managed to eat them, knowing she needed her strength, although with a great deal of effort. She had gotten used to the stench of death. What was more troublesome was whenever her teeth bit down on her food, the texture would turn to a wet, fleshy sensation as images of the bloated corpses from before ran through her mind. It took all she had to stifle losing the contents of her stomach. 

She had to be strong, she reminded herself. She couldn’t count on Jeff, and she certainly couldn’t entertain the idea of Jack. No, she was on her own. She would find a way, she had to. 

She repeated this mantra as she began to see a cavern form on the base of the bar. Dust coated her hands, turning them to the pale gray of a marble statue. She wished she could say she felt as elegant a fragment of art history, but she was simply a pile of organs and skin clinging desperately to the illusion of consciousness. Who would she be when-- or if-- she got out of here? She would still have a black mark on her soul. Death would inevitably follow her. Her friends would likely still scorn her. She began to wonder why her hands still worked away, whether it would be better to stay put in this cage.

Despite everything, she wasn’t sure how or why they kept on moving.

Between the redundant scraping of stone, she picked up on the presence of a new noise. It was equally as rhythmic, but instead of a crunch, it was a steady tapping. She jolted away from the bars upon the revelation.

It was footsteps.

He lurked into view from between the slits of her cell. His sleek posture mirrored the iron, his black hair standing stark against the white mask. The cheerful blue of his jacket felt a bit ironic. It was the most color she’d seen in quite some time. She wondered why a full-fledged serial killer would wear such a recognizable color. He was certainly memorable. To her, it seemed counterproductive.

The beady eyes carved onto his mask's surface seemed like they were staring right through her. He maintained his silence for a moment, hands tucked intently behind his back. She felt like the animals behind the glass at the zoo.  Upon the observation that he brought no food, the question arose as to just what he was doing there.

“Damn, would you look at you? You’re shaking like a leaf.” His voice was dashed with a jubilant edge.

The subtle tilt of his head alerted her that he was examining her. Her knuckles strained white with the grip around the severed stone, as if it would shield her from suspicion.

“And…dusty, apparently.” He snorted.

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her ragged form was an ample distraction; she was begrudgingly grateful. 

In a flash of silver, he produced a switchblade. A cold lump of fear descended on her stomach, despite the bars between the pair.

He examined it carefully, allowing it to catch the light, “You must think I’m a terrible host.”

She didn’t respond; the cotton of dread in her throat was far too dense to consider speaking.

“I’ve hardly given you any attention. No wonder you’re restless. But you know, you don’t have to roll around the dust for entertainment.” He snickered.

She looked back at him placidly. The tips of her fingers had turned a dull gray, her nail beds half moons of grime. Although she couldn’t see the rest of herself, she knew the situation must be bleak. It was getting harder and harder to run her hands through her hair. 

She pried her lips open, defying the congealed fear and dehydration coating her tongue, “Well, when you’re in a cage, might as well act like a dog.”

She watched his shoulders go rigid. He cocked his head like an owl, the smile-clad mask making him look inhuman. Suddenly, he burst into a fit of laughter. His hair shook, shielding her from the beady eyes.

“Oh, so you’re funny! You really are trying to make me feel guilty for leaving you alone. I’ve been missing this the whole time?” He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

She tried not to let the frown show on her face. It hadn't been her intention to make him laugh, and she certainly did not want to let him see how dejected she was. 

In the commotion, she’d managed to tuck the rock safely behind her back.

“So what made you change your mind?” She prayed her words would dissuade him from looking a few inches down to her incriminating work.

“Feeling chatty? Alright, I’ll bite.” He continued to twirl his blade dextrously around his fingers, “I’ve been restless as of late. You’ve got me all inspired, to tell the truth. And what must a painter do with this much creative energy— well, uh…create!” 

He wiggled his fingers as if he were giving an inspiring speech. She couldn’t tell if the blade he was holding had been stained with that red hue or if it was the light reflecting off his stained jacket. 

“I’m a man of my word, you know, I said you would go untouched. And that was a chore, because you are a real artist’s dream. Symmetrical features, all that elegant bullshit— well, not so much anymore with all that grime, but I digress.” He vaguely shook his hand in her direction.

She felt herself wilt, inadvertently looking back to her caked hands. 

“I’m not sure it’s a compliment that you want to cut my face off.” She frowned.

Maybe she’d grown so hideous that he’d lose interest in his murderous intent. Or maybe by the time Jeff got there, she’d be a husk of muscle tissue deprived of her blanket of skin.

“Want is a strong word. I’d much rather play around a bit, get creative. I’m far more concerned with your blood.” His last word rang through her brain like a haunting bell toll.

She watched him apprehensively, feeling his stare grow in intensity. She wasn’t sure what the fascination with her bleeding had been recently. Between demons and serial killers, she figured she should feel rather special. Maybe all those mosquito bites in her youth had been an omen. Somehow, not even that silly thought could lift the pit of nausea forming in her stomach. 

“You know you’re a very visual person, right? So expressive. Don’t ever play poker—or bet anyway, that's my advice.” He pointed a goading finger at her dreadful state. 

She swished her dry tongue around her mouth, trying to stir up any moisture. It was no use; when she spoke, her voice was reduced to a pitiful croak. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She feigned nonchalance, trying to choke down the burning in the back of her throat.

He let out another laugh, serrated like the edges of his blade.

“You don’t have to look so terrified! If you’re worried my knife is gonna slip—“ the tool bounced from each of his fingers with practiced grace, “you’ve got those cozy bars between us. Just relax. As I said, I’m reasonable.”

She scowled at his display. The action made her wince, the edges of her lips cracking with the effort. The reason why he’d decided to humor her today was nonexistent. Certainly, that could only mean he was bored. That course of events was not an option, so she forced out the words despite the pain. 

“What am I supposed to take away from this, exactly?” The venom in her tone made her stomach twist.

She thought she saw the beady, masked eyes glinting under the light.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to figure you out.” He shrugged.

Her gaze pierced through the plastic barrier.

“Oh really, why’s that?” 

The steady flicking of the blade between his fingers came to a stop with a cold snap. The pale sheath remained, and he ran his thumb down divots.

“I’ve just been trying to understand why you’ve got all these people interested in you. Tell me, why does an average— boring, let’s be honest, student like yourself get wrapped up in all this business?” His pale fingers gripped the metal.

Boring. Instead of offense, she could only feel longing. A tug at her chest as she reflected on the sweetness of waking up with average stress, fitting for her age. Of course, he hadn’t meant it to be endearing, but to her, the thought was blissful and cruel. A prize dangled before her, just out of reach. No, she could never return to boring, not for all the mudune activities in the world.  

“Mistakes were made. I’m sure you can figure out by now that I’m pretty good at them.” She responded bitterly. 

He let out what could have been a scoff, or a snort. Either way, she dreaded whatever he’d come up with next.

“You still want to play coy? At least you’re right about one thing.” He abandoned his judgmental leering to instead drop to his knees.

Suddenly, she was at eye level with the black caverns. The urge to escape their gaze was prevalent, to scramble backwards and bury her head. The longer she stared, the more she envisioned the false jawline of the mask morphing into ashen skin. The painted smile became a shark-like grin, the jagged lines beginning to fill with tar. The eyes, the everflowing voids of nothing, were boring into her, threatening to consume all that she was.

The rapid beating of her heart was the only reminder she was still here. It served as a vessel of escape, allowing her to tear away from the horrible trance. Back to the familiar sight of the dust-covered floor, although she didn’t dare raise her gaze further, lest she draw attention to the whittled chunk taken from the bar. 

“Helloooo, anyone home?” A steady tapping caused her to finally look back at her captor, “You know, it’s common courtesy to at least pretend to listen when you’re in a conversation.” 

She didn’t respond, instead opting to look like a petrified deer in front of an oncoming truck.

“Fine, you don’t have to tell me. It can't be anything I haven’t already inferred.” He bounced on his toes.

This finally caused her to stir. She creased her brows, the action foreign. It was the most expression she’d shown in what must have been days.

“What do you mean?” She muttered.

He left her in apprehension for a moment before leaning closer in a drawn-out fashion. His earring, which had been hidden behind his raven hair, seemed rather ironic. Such a casual accessory for such a gruesome man. 

“(Y/N) (L/N), 4th year psychology student. I know everything about you. You applied to be in communications, switched your second year, because who the fuck would major in communications? You lived in student housing with Jennifer Calloway, with whom you went to high school with, Rebecca Sinclair, and Cassandra Denning. And somehow, someway, poor little Cassandra ends up brutally—and I mean brutally murdered. Like, holy fuck, even I was impressed.” 

His monologue sent a bitter chill down her spine. She couldn’t say she was shocked to learn this. Stalking was never something she thought she’d become desensitized to, but he was in no way special. Although this was information he could very well have learned from the news, so it was hard to be impressed. 

She looked at him with rueful eyes as he continued, “So, I’m sitting here wondering, how could someone like you, Miss ‘I Have Trouble Making Decisions,’ be capable of such morbid creativity? The feds sure think you are, I’m sure that time in the ward was really enlightening for you, huh, psych major?”

His voice dropped to a sickly tone, any semblance of snark replaced with a foreboding edge, “No, I know that couldn’t have been you. Not the girl who fought throwing up over something as simple as a body. You’re not nearly interesting enough for that. So spare me the curiosity, because I really hate mysteries—how did your friend really die?”

The girl’s body intricately laced with anxiety, limb to limb. Somehow, his disbelief was anything but comforting. There was something in the way he spoke, a subtle knowing, that sliced her to her core and left her open to his inspection. He knew she wasn’t capable of any real danger; he knew she had been run through by each layer of her terror. She desperately clung to the hope that Jack was wrong, that she wasn’t a bird hopelessly fluttering about. But the iron bars that stared back at her were the truth. 

She simply stared at him with the eyes of a caged bird. Longing, hopeless, defeated.

“You ain’t biting, huh?” The disappointment in his voice sent a shudder down her spine, finalizing the actuality of her situation. She was running out of time.

He pushed himself up, pocketing his deadly trinket, “Go ahead, be cryptic. And just when I was getting excited. You'd better hope your boyfriend gets a clue here soon. It’s been a real pain trying to pin this guy down.”

Her eyes watched his movements carefully. He was sulking like an aimless teenager, trying to pretend they weren’t viscerally uncomfortable with the world. It would have been comedic without the current circumstances. 

“I told you,” She pressed her teeth together in malice, “He’s not coming.”

He lolled his head back, producing an exaggerated groaning noise.

“Oh come on, we’ve been over this before. Although I really hate being wrong, I can’t help but be excited to think he won’t. If he doesn’t, oh boy, I’ll really show you how to have fun, party girl.” He hissed the last part in a slurred, suggestive manner. 

She deadpanned, still clinging to some useless determination to save face, “And what would your fucked up idea of partying be?”

His shoulders instantly perked up, much like a cat tuning into nearby prey. He took a step closer, letting out a breathy chuckle.

“They call The Painter for a reason. I think we could make something really magnificent together. I can finally make you interesting. Afterall, the beautiful canvases are always my favorite.” His voice shook with maniacal fanaticism. 

The haunting, rusty murals from the room of butchery entered her mind. The swirling shapes, hidden faces screaming within the ocean of red. It finally came together. It wasn’t years of grime and bloodshed; it was an intentionally crafted exhibit. 

“You’re an artist?” The statement sounded more skeptical than she’d meant it to.

He waved his hand in nonchalance, thankfully not taking offense—or simply not noticing, rather, her snide undertones. 

“Artist is a bold statement. You have to earn that title. There are painters, crafters, creators, but that doesn’t make you an artist. Oh, but with you, I could be. Just imagine what I could do with you.” His mask edged closer to the bars so that she could hear the shallow breathing beneath its milky shell. 

She tried to keep a steady pace with her accelerating heart rate. With the way things were progressing, she’d need more time. Time she might not have before this fickle man could snap and tear her face from its perch on her head. She weaved the words carefully, garnishing the statement with wide, doe-like eyes. 

“That was some of your… work? In the room I was in before, I mean?” She thought back to the twisting and cascading designs, culminating into something that reminded her of a morbid version of the Renaissance. 

Before he could delve into another, presumably, endless rant, she pressed with her questioning, “How do you get it to certain shades? I mean its all blood, right? How does that work?’ 

He paused, once more tilting his head in that unnerving manner. His posture, which had been proud and deliberate, fell ever so slightly. He observed in quiet intrigue for a moment. Almost imperceptibly, he took a cautious step towards her. 

“I age it, essentially.” His words were careful, yet full of passion, “Layers on layers of patience. Once I finish part of it, I have to wait days, sometimes weeks, for it to oxidize in the way I’d like.” 

She recalled the image to the best of her ability. She had sat slightly off-center to the mural, she estimated. Fairly close to the wall, enough to see the spots where blood had been caked so heavily that it begun to crack. That was why the shapes were so hard to distinguish, she realized. What had looked like blotches of various shades of red were, in some abhorrent way, genius placement.

“Pointalism.” The word came to her from the depths of an art history book, "That's what the technique is called, right?”

The method by which he’d manipulated the blood caused it to form in small patches. If she’d stood back, she’d likely have been able to see one big picture. If it wasn’t all around despicable, she may have thought it was impressive. 

He perked up even further, his entire demeanor shifting in the fraction of a second. She could feel the glee practically wafting from him. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so insignificant in her spot below him. 

“That’s right.” His voice was gentle, almost awkward, “Maybe higher education isn’t a waste of money.”

She tentatively leaned closer to the bars, allowing her eyes to become pools of vulnerability, “My aunt… She loves art. She’d keep all of these books around the house, mostly for decoration. When I was little, I’d get bored and read them.”

The story was entirely true, and entirely painful. The sticky, pristine paper had stuck to her fingers in the way good quality prints should. They clicked when she turned the page. The memory filled her with the smell of fresh parchment. She tried not to let tears blur her eyes at the comforting sensation of reminiscing. 

“Sheila (L/N), right?” He recalled, although this time without a speck of mocking in his tone, “I wouldn’t have expected you to be close.”

The girl internally flinched. He’d really done his homework. The thought of him knowing of her aunt was, in all aspects, horrifying. If she escaped, would he come for her in retaliation? In all of what she’d been through, she’d managed to keep her aunt out of the ordeal. She couldn’t live with the thought that the one who’d done so much to protect her could be in danger because of her foolishness. 

The thought was almost enough to dissuade her from speaking further with him. However, she was breaking through. A touch more familiarity, trust, perhaps he could be more malleable. Then maybe, just maybe, she could spare her poor aunt Sheila. 

“She’s all I had.” Was all she could stand to say, “I wouldn’t say I’m any expert on art or anything. I was just… observing.” 

For once, it seemed he was the one at a loss for words. He stood there in an almost bashful way. His hair hung over the mask as he subtly looked down, the pieces shielding her from the beady gaze.

“When I die, I guess I’d rather be beautiful than just another body.” She said softly, suddenly. 

What had been meant to appease felt suddenly very true. She wasn’t sure what would have been left of her if Jack or the Operator had gotten to her first. Piles of viscera, a husk with no soul remaining. Neither option sounded pleasant. But in death, perhaps she could be something different, something less pathetic than she was now. 

He seemed to take notice of her somber tone, pressing his head against the bars.

 “I will give you what you deserve.” His words seemed grave, elegantly laced with manufactured tenderness, “You will be nothing less than magnificent, I promise.”

A strange, twisted comfort crawled its way across her chest. Imagining her lifeless self decorated into a morbidly beautiful creation, it was a better alternative. If she couldn’t find her way from these bars, then at least her corpse wouldn’t be in more disgraceful hands. 

Seeing his relaxed posture, she dared continue with her charade. 

“Do you make your own original stuff, or do you recreate classics. Like you know, studies of the masters?” She was surprised by how close the two had become, despite the barrier.

Even more surprised that she kept it that way. 

“I used to. Who would I be if I didn’t have an ounce of creativity? But I suppose, sometimes I still do. Even I get art block.” She thought she could hear a grin in his voice, “Do you have a favorite painting?” 

The question took her off guard. Despite her extensive reading, she would by no means consider herself an artist. She didn’t draw, let alone paint. Although she’d garnered enough of an eye for technique. She scrunched her nose. Why was she thinking about it that hard, anyway?

“Monet’s water lilies.” She answered gently, begging internally that he wasn’t pretentious about these things. 

“Beautiful.” He hummed, “Fitting.” 

He savored the silence for a moment. One of his hands was draped leisurely on the bars, tapping every so often. A sudden metallic edge made her cast an eye to the way he twiddled his fingers. There was a silver ring wrapped around his thumb. It was strangely pristine, considering his work. In fact, his hands were just as elegant. The movement was hypnotic. 

A strangled noise from above made them both snap to look at the spider-webbed ceiling. More dust rained down from the commotion, coating her in another sheath. She coughed, attempting to stifle the noise with her hand. It wasn’t much relief, seeing as her smudged hands only muddled her lips with more grime. She could feel his gaze on her. Embarrassment fluttered under her skin, and she wished her matted hair could make her disappear altogether.

“Ah, well, it was nice while it lasted.” He broke the silence, pulling away from his spot beside her, “How does that one song go? The wicked never rest?” 

He attempted to hum it, but eventually gave up and waved off the imaginary conversation. He straightened his tarnished jacket, as if he had some extravagant event to attend within the squalor of the prison. 

“We’ll talk later. Sound like a plan?” There was a finality in his voice that told her that it may not be entirely true. 

“Wait—” She called.

This may very well be the last chance she had to reason with him. She pressed herself against the bars with such immense urgency that it sent a tremor across the surface. The jutting edge of the missing chunk wedged itself into her side. She didn’t dare wince, clinging to the cell in desperation.

“Wait. Are you going to leave me here for days again?” Her warped tone was garnished with the right amount of desperation. 

He only half turned to look at her. His hair blocked the entire upper half of the mask, leaving only the haunting smile to look back at her. 

“I told you, we’ll talk later.” He reiterated. This time, his tone was placidly cold.

“You were right, okay.” She mushed her forehead against the iron, “I’ve been bored. More than that. It’s horrible, I’m going crazy in here.”

He didn’t respond. The smile, in tandem, stared back at her.

“Couldn’t you let me out, just once? I…” She attempted to swallow back the dryness in her throat, “I want to see your paintings.” 

There was a moment of agonizing silence. The only signifier he was listening was the subtle crack of his ring-clad thumb. Then, he rolled his head back, hair brushing his shoulders like a gentle breeze. His chest rumbled with a gentle chuckle.

“Oh, you’re smart. I’ll give you that.” His response was velvety smooth. 

Her heart sank. She slumped down, face dragging down the metal, smearing the dirt further.

“Now that, that’s interesting.” 

That was all he said before he turned away again. He gave her a casual wave before disappearing back down the hallway again. His footsteps faded with that petulant tapping, leaving her with only the dust on her hands for company. 

He stayed gone for a few days, save for obligatorily feeding her. He slipped in while she was sleeping, seeing as she’d always wake up to a cold, hard tray. It wasn’t like she minded, after all; it gave her more time to whittle. 

She’d gotten further now. With each stroke, the cavern grew. As she worked, it occurred to her how peculiar this behavior was. He’d always brought her rations with something snide to say. It was distressing at first, but the irritating noise of his voice reverberating through her ears was a hollow absence.

She pressed the rock further into the gap. His distance was a signifier; it had to be. 

Their conversation played over and over through her head. What she had said, had it really doomed her? All his claims were certainly facetious. But that shift in tone when she’d probed about his work. It was different; it was vulnerable. That was not a lie. 

She thought about the change in his demeanor. The way he casually leaned against the bars. The delicate ring around his finger, the way his earrings glinted in the low light. How they shook when he laughed.

Why was that something she couldn’t move past? Did it mean something to her— for her? And why, why did it burn when she knew he was looking at her from beyond the mask? 

The thoughts wouldn’t stop. They pulsated and pressed until it consumed her entire consciousness. It was debilitating, filling her throat with a sensation she wasn’t sure she could breathe through.

And then, it stopped. She looked down. 

The bar came off harmlessly in her hand. It took her a moment to regain clarity. She had to stop it from clattering to the floor and ruining her efforts.

She’d done it; it actually came off. 

She stumbled to her feet, the task proving to be difficult through her shroud of dehydration. She clenched her teeth together in anticipation, gingerly pressing her shoulder through the gap. She felt the pit grow in her stomach as she realized that she was right. She’d fit. 

With a deep breath, she tightened her grip on the severed bar and forced herself through the opening. 

[fashionabletardigrade]

Vox x Musician Reader Overlord Headcanons

Authors Note: Just finished watching Hazbin and omg, must write. Anyways, enjoy some headcanons of how I think Vox would be with a musician partner <3

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

D/N=Demon Name

Imagine, you a musician in your human life, your fate sealed in hell with the downfall of your career, are found by a tall moth man in a red fuzzy coat. He takes you off the streets with the promise of making you a star, of course it would come with a price. You'd get your star quality life back in exchange, Valentino would receive 80% of any profits made until you could pay off your debts.

Over the years you've reached a new audience of sinners and rose to fame. Valentino's debt has been paid off, and you've risen to the top after shedding the weight of the pimp.

Your abilities are linked to your voice and instrument, giving you the title of the D/N. Driving fear and longing into the hearts of your listeners. Eventually causing such a commotion that other overlords recognized the new arrival.

#D/N is the highest trending tag in hell, and it does not go unnoticed by VoxTek. Vox's office tv flashes, "Huh, appears that they've actually made it on their own" Val snickered while Vox looked at the recent new headlines D/N CONCERT TOUR SOLD OUT FOR REST OF THE YEAR. "Who is D/M and why the FUCK is this the first time I'm hearing about them VAL?" Vox shouted, eye flashing red at Val. "Oh please, they were just a casual deal I made a few years ago, a demon that wanted to be famous, they're not the first ones-" Vox cut him off, "That's not the point! As the CEO of VoxTek it is my job to know about all the content everyone is consuming", Vox walks past Val adjusting his tie, approaching the door. "D/N is a headliner a clearly a public favorite. I think it's time we formally meet this demon".

You can feel the bright lights of the stadium on your skin, eyes piercing threw you in anticipation, your steady hand gripping the microphone. Vox and Val eye the stage while Velvette starts her live stream, "Evening sinners!" you shout, voices erupt from the crowd, glow sticks illuminating the dark walls and signs waving throughout the bodies. Music blares within the stadium, the building nearby shaking from the vibrations. "Oh wow, they're not bad, guess I made the wrong choice letting them go so soon" Val says behind Vox, "Hello hell! It's your gal Velvette here at D/M's tour! It jammed packed and I'll be streaming the whole thinggg!" Velvette enthusiastically drawls out.

The roaring of vocals and instruments shook Vox, his eyes focusing on D/M. It was clear to him how much influence they'd have on hell! A popular music sensation! He needed an interview right away! Vox could practically feel the electricity coursing through his wires at the mere thought.

Backstage, your hair and makeup being touched up by your stylist, the sound of dress shoes making contact with the ground can be heard, multiple sets. "Ah D/M what a pleasure to meet you!" You spin your chair around to face the unfamiliar voice, eyes finding a demon with a tv head. "Ah evening, an autograph I presume?", Did you seriously not know who he was? "Haha! Such a great sense of humor! Perfect for a one-on-one interview! I am Vox, CEO of VoxTek, leader of the Vees" he talks on, arm wrapped around your shoulder walking you towards Valentino and Velvette. "Oooo D/M, I see you've really been doing well-" "OMG guys I am here with D/M! Say hi to my followers!"

From then on you were invited onto Vox's show, answering questions from both Vox and your many followers regarding your work. 'When is your new album coming out?' 'Any merch drops' 'Do you have a significant other?' 'Would you rather fuck-'.

Ratings skyrocketed and Vox couldn't be more impressed, you had so much presence, charisma, influence. It would only be right for him to have you on more often! A promising headliner.

Time passed as you were a frequent guest on VoxTek, gaining even more traction, fans, Vox's attention. He'd start going to your shows more often under the guise of gaging a better feel for the demographics of your audience. Huffing if either of is partners suggested otherwise, sometimes taking Val or Velvette with him in order to not look suspicious. Eventually enjoying your music more and more, your voice, your technique, Vox no longer saw you as just a mere headliner. You two became more comfortable with each other, sharing more about your own interests, how your days were going, your pasts. Dare he say, you two were friends.

One day, Vox is behind stage, diligent eyes focused on your form, eagerly waiting for you to finish your last set of the night. "Phew Vox, you won't believe the sign someone just waved in the crowd! You alright?" you ask while wiping the sweat from your forehead, "Oh uh yeah! Ha just a lot on my mind is all" he looks away. "I'm all ears if you want to talk about it" taking a sip from your water bottle and focusing your attention on your talk show host friend. "Well, uh, so uh you see" he struggles to articulate. Making eye contact he takes a deep breath before speaking, "There is someone I have been...interested in for quite some time and I'm unsure as to how to approach the situation" you nod your head understandingly, "Uhuh I see I see, sit and continue" you guide him to the chairs in your dressing room. Blue fingers fidgeting with the fabric of his dress coat, "I've begun getting more and more comfortable with them and at first I just saw them as another headliner to exploit-" his screen flickers lightly "but that's no longer the case, now seeing them makes me feel weak yet full of electricity at the same time and sometimes sweaty-" your chuckle cuts him off, a cyan hue crossing over his screen as he glances away and continues "but I catch myself wondering what would happen if I told them about my feelings, if anything could happen between two overl-demons, y'know?". You nod your head understandingly, "I get that, I believe I've been feeling a similar way as of late...I think that you should tell them, the worst thing they can say is no to the all-powerful and awesome VOX" you say dramatically, bringing a small smile to his screen. He takes a step closer, gently taking your hand into his, "Y/n, I've become so enthralled by both you and D/M, you make me feel...alive, please do me the honors of being mine"

Later On...

Vox treats you like royalty, it has since been broadcasted to all of hell that you are no longer single. "...now for the groundbreaking news regarding our favorite musicians love life! Word on the street is that some lucky sinner has since won their rotten little heart over! Who could be this lovesick fool? ME! HAHA!"

Tries his hardest to go with you on tours but apparently as CEO of VoxTek he has to go to work or whatever *rolls eyes*

Brings you large bouquet of your favorite flowers at the end of every show, he waits with a smile and compliments "Wonderful as always!" "Of course nobody could take their eyes off of you"

Gets possessive if a performance calls for a more revealing outfit, won't complain "Stunning as ever..." "Vox! The show starts in 30!" "More than enough time", queue you appearing with a mark or two on you.

Always has an arm around you during overlord meetings. The Television Overlord and The D/M Overlord, a terrifying duo. Good luck if a demon or overlord tries to disrespect his love, he'd either kill them so fast they won't be able to process the lights around them exploding, glass imbedding itself into their limp body. Or he'd be patient and torment them. Subliminal messages appearing on their social medias, headlines in the news with the demon's face on a 'missing' poster, pressure would lead to them likely killing themselves before Vox can get to them, but he wouldn't give them that opportunity. Coming back home like the sweetest boyfriend and soon to be husband, jumping into your embrace like he just ran a quick errand.

You would quickly become friends with Velvette since she soon becomes your new person stylist, depending on your genre you might need to make some minor adjustments since she can get carried away dressing you up, "Oi try this on! These are alll the rage right now" she said while ushering you into the fitting room, coming out wrapped in tight leather "Aye yai yai, someone looks like therye used to this" Val would say glancing at Vox who can only stares with a couple of wires surfacing from behind him and a quiet *snap* noise is heard, perhaps a screenshot.

Would absolutely melt if you openly dedicated or wrote a song for him. His favorite demon, wrote a song, just for him!. "Ohh look at what's playing! You hear that? That's the sound of someone in love with me!" he'd boast for the next months to anybody around. "Yeah yeah youre in love and getting laid we get it ughhhh" Velvette would say exasperatedly, having heard the same speal of excitment all throughout the building, once Vox highjacked her stream to play the song on loop and gloat.

Thank you for reading!

[fashionabletardigrade]

V x Female Vigilante Reader

Author's Rant: Omg chat the way I fangirled over this man. It's always the eccentric weirdo sighhhh. Anyways, heres something I've been thinking about for a while and a movie I can talk about for awhileee. If you haven't seen the movie, I'd recommend it, goes hard for all. Hopefully I'm able to continue writing for this because the concept seems like a good one. I hope its enjoyable

Thud…Thud…Thud. The gentle sound of boots clacking against the rooftops of English houses. The reflection of the moonlight bounces off a feminine porcelain mask and a quiet hum coming from her. A loud scream cuts through the silence of the night. ‘Its past curfew, nobody should be out’. Carefully scaling the houses towards the noise, she looks down and notices a woman, her blond hair pulled away from her face and trapped between at least 3 Fingermen. “Please, I don't want any-any trouble!” she pleads while the men proceed to pursue her, gradually stepping closer and closer, successfully leaving her in a corner. You hop down from the rooftop and land quietly behind the men, slowly closing the distance between yourself and the assailants, the woman’s eyes flickering behind them and resting on your porcelain face. One of the Fingermen notices and turns around confused “Now what the hell are you looking at-” A thud is heard. The two other Fingermen quickly turn to find the cause of silence for their friend, only to find his body lying lifeless in the dark alleyway, blood pooling out of the slit in his throat. Both theirs and the woman’s eyes widen in fear and disgust, the woman crumples to the ground in shock, covering her face with clenched hands. With a calm demeanor and slow breathing, you take a step forward, raising your mask barely above your mouth and blow a dark power into their faces. Violent coughs and heaves erupt from their throats as their vision becomes limited. gasping “Crazy bitch!” “I can't *cough* see anything *cough*!”. Your shoes push off against the ground, your knee coming into contact with the closest one’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs and causing him to stumble back against the opposite wall while thrusting your blade into his stomach, his still body collapses onto the dirty ground and you slowly turn back to face the last piece of shit. His eyes staring at the scene, stuck in shock he can't help but watch. You tilt your head menacingly, taking large strides towards him, his eyes soon meeting yours and attempting to step away, tripping over loose garbage haphazardly thrown away. 

You lean down and all that he hears through your mask is a grim voice, “You're all a message, a message of what will come to those whose only purpose in society is to make the good in this world suffer”, stomping your foot on his outstretched leg, a sickeningly loud crunch is heard and a blaring yell follows, quickly muffled by a hard gag shoved into his mouth. Hands finding his head and neck, all that is heard is a deafening snap….then silence. Turning to face the woman, cowering in the corner of the alley, eyes stricken with tears and face in frozen horror. You place your bloody blade back into the holster inside your flowing coat and calmly walk towards her, offering your hand and clearing your throat as she surprisingly takes it. “Since you're likely to call the brigade about what has happened, I leave you with one thing….a warning to the people of England and later the world, your faith will not save you from the truths you've try to keep hidden, the lives you've ruined or the mess you have created”, her blue eyes holding a shaky gaze and nervous sweat dripping down her forehead, “Now. Leave”. Without a moment of hesitation, she hurriedly stumbles out of the alley in the direction of the police station. 

A small echo of applause is heard from within the shadows of the alley, you crane your neck in the direction of the abrupt noise, seeing a tall figure: draped in a dark cloak, black hat and…a guy fawkes mask? “My my, so violent and harsh” he says in an amused voice while you swiftly pull out the blade from your holster: still gleaming with the blood from just a few minutes ago. Pointing it at him, he raises his gloved hands in a defensive manner. “I mean no harm, for I am just a simple man with a mission that just so happened to have beared witness to quiet the gruesome portrayal of justice”. You look at him, eyes narrowing behind the neutral expression of the mask, “And what of it? You don’t look like Fingermen” you say in a suspicious tone, grip tightening around your weapon. He chuckles, “I must say that message of yours was quite intriguing, commenting on their faith and practices while- excuse me, how utterly rude of me, I haven't introduced myself”. He took a confident step forward while introducing himself rather eccentrically, ironically your guard lowering as his voice rises, “For Vengeance for Vendetta, but you may call me V” as he dramatically takes off his hat and bows, long hair cascading over his masked face. “I see, well then iota get going then” you say, resheathing your blade and turning away at the sound of police sirens. Confused, he says “Aren't you going to introduce yourself?”. Barely glancing over your shoulder, “No need, everyone will know by tomorrow”, climbing up the fire escape of a nearby apartment building. 

V quietly watches as she climbs away, sirens growing closer and closer as he merges back into the shadows.  

A day passes as V sits on the small couch in the quiet room, soft hum of music playing from the record player across the room. He turns on his tiny, dust covered television, flipping through the channels before landing on a rather interesting news segment. The news anchor discusses the murders from the night before. “It appears that there is another terrorist amongst us! Previously thought of as a female version of the recent delinquent called V, she quickly cleared it up with a brief video sent to our station, take a look”. V watches as the news previews a video sent by you, “Good day England and soon the world. I am sending this brief video to inform you all about the glorious message I wish to send, specifically to the corrupt elites ruining this country! I am Justice, I am what you will see as the light leaves your eyes! How many lives will you take until your greed is satisfied? How many lives will you destroy and jeopardize before you receive any form of punishment? My name is (vigilante name) and I’ll be the enforcer of the consequences”. With a chuckle, V turns off his small tv, putting on his gloves and stands up getting ready to leave, “Hm, a woman after my own heart”. 

After a while of waiting for sunset, V watches as the people retire to their homes, not wanting to get caught up with the Fingermen or you. He slips in and out of the shadows, keeping a watchful eye out for just the person he was looking for.

Thank You for Reading <3

[fashionabletardigrade]

L Lawliet x Reader

Some Head canons of L x Bodyguard Reader, both SFW and NSFW <3

Warnings: Suggestive Nature + Language, Swears, Lights his own warning lol

SFW

I imagine L and Bodyguard reader being strictly boss and employee at first

Years of working under L have been interesting. Accompanying the stoic man to countless meetings and investigations. A surprising amount of which heavily needed your intervention. Stationed by his side, silently watching with an insightful eye.

Minimal casual contact is made in your first couple of years. Overtime, staying late at L's door led to pleasant chats with Watari, leading to simple conversation with your boss. Small talk really. "How's your morning?" "Any weekend plans?" "Sooo, sweets".

It wasn't until one meeting a couple years before the Kira case that L felt truly safe with you. A deal gone wrong you could say. A trade off where L had overanalyzed a suspect, out of exhaustion he had completely forgotten about the possibility of the suspect pulling out a weapon.

Bang rang through the building, L's eyes snapping shut awaiting a painful protrusion. Slowly opening one eye at s time, he looks straight, then up and sees a bullet hole pierced through the ceiling. Hearing struggled grunts, you have the gunman's arm in your hold, forced up towards the ceiling. Wrestling the gun, throwing it down far away, knocking him down the ground and securing his hands behind him with handcuffs.

Of course L trusted you, Watari highly recommended you and you had already worked for many high-status employers, but that event really opened his eyes.

After that, L gradually opened up more and more. Your post leaving his door and moving towards his chair, right by his side where he liked you. Late night talks left you both as close friends until it became too much for you both. A detective and his bodyguard. Once was there a hierarchy between you two, now a mutual respect and equality.

Now throughout this investigation, you've had to hide your relationship. Hide is a strong but correct word. L had hired Kira to solve the Kira case, of course the stakes were higher.

During the day, you either remained at the task forces office doors, watching silently or making your rounds around the general vicinity of the task forces' floor. While watching the group, your eyes rarely leave L and Light. Your job is to protect L, and Light is his biggest threat, and you'll be damned if anything happens to him.

During working hours with the task force, you try your hardest to prevent any hatred from leaking through your voice when addressing Light and Misa. Simultaneously needing to control your honey coated words when speaking to L.

NSFW

L is such a slut for your strength to put things frankly.

Feeling your strong hands linger on his waist, his thighs, his neck. He's strong on his own and trained in multiple types of combats but something about knowing that your strength is controlled and lessened around him makes him leak.

Knowing that if you chose to pin him down with one arm, he wouldn't be able to escape. His perverted mind is so conflicted. On one hand he loves the moments you're spoiling him with pleasure, letting him cum as much as he wants and taking such sweet care of him afterwards...but on the other hand, he can't get enough of that predator like gaze in your eyes, looking down at his exposed body like you're about to eat him alive.

He thinks about how you look after a harder day, tired, suit half coming off as you get ready to join him in bed. His red tip leaking in his hand imagining your heavy breathing that he knows so well, those same ragged breathes happening when you cum.

You're soooo good at your job, making L feel so safe and protected. His favorite way you relax him is when he wakes up needy from a wet dream, only to feel a warm and wet pressure around him, eyes sleepily opening, glancing down and seeing your mouth greedily pleasuring his aching cock. Huh, so you caused his wet dream.

Food play is a must with L; you soon find out that his sugar cravings don't stop at pastries and candies

During Japan's late hours, you can find your stressed detective enjoying licking the whipped cream from your chest, down your navel, tongue making small circles around your stomach. You can feel yourself getting hotter hearing his quiet hums of enjoyment, soft dark eyes never leaving yours until they softly close when his teeth pull down your underwear, peppering small kisses on the inside of your thighs. You can feel his warm breath pick up once he gets closer to his favorite dessert <3

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Note: I really like the whole bodyguard reader take, personally I resonate more with strength focused readers, and this was a nice post to type up. I hope to write similar pieces in the future :)

Thanks For Reading <3

[adaki]

Hey anon from September 12th 2024 that wanted Huntsman!Masky 💀

[fashionabletardigrade]

Eyeless Jack x Reader

TW- Angsty, Y/N death, Blood, Gore, Visual+Onomatopoeia Sound Effects

Pant…Pant…Pant

What could he have done? How could he have done this? The pungent smell of iron wafting into his nostrils. Black claws now carrying a crimson tint. Jack's mind racing almost as fast as his dead heart. Your body lays lifeless in front of his shaking form.

"Fuck...I thought...FUCK!" he yelled "Wake Up!" quivering hands applying as much pressure as he could to your ripped apart body. This was all his fault; he should have just listened to you.

Twenty minutes prior, Jack had woken up from an eerie nightmare. Flashes of his past ever prevalent and his silent panic was only worsening, days of only this. If he wasn't awake for days on end worrying over both of your safeties, then he was pushed too far to the point of exhaustion. He never slept long, stirring in the night and waking up drenched in a sweat and fear. "Jack?" You yawn, sleepily rubbing your eyes, having been awoken by movement coming from your partner's side of the bed. "E-everything is fine, go back to bed hun, just a nightmare" he said quietly, a hesitant hand pulling the covers back over your tired body. Leaning back into your ruffled pillows, you question him "Another nightmare? Do you want to talk about it-" "No, I'm fine, sleep now please" A sigh releasing from you, "Please Jack, maybe it will help, you never want to talk about it, it's not healthy to bottle so much in" A hand rests on his shoulder, weight shifting on the bed, "I hate seeing you in so much pain, exhaustion consumes you and I am powerless. I want to help-" "You can help by getting rest" Frustration building in you both. Standing from the bed, you walk to the kitchen, throat dry and fists lightly clenched.

Left in the dark and quiet bedroom, a piercing ringing strikes through Jack's head, his clawed hands shooting to his temples and hissing in pain. Breathing growing heavy, foot hanging off the bed and thumping against the carpeted floor. Walking back to the bedroom, "Jack I brought you some- Jack!" You rush to his side, setting down the glass of water you brought; arms draped across his shoulders "Honey? What's wrong?" Worry evident in your voice. "Fuck, I don't fucking know everything hurts" He goes to grab your hand, black sharp nails dragging across your forearm, a yelp coming from your mouth as your eyes follow the beads of blood bubbling from your arm, yanking your arm away from his hand in pain. His breathing stuttered as he watched your eyes slowly tear up. "I'm sorry I-I didn't mean to-" "I-I know, its alright, e-everything is alright" Slowly inching towards him, he pulled back like a frightened animal, the ringing ache in his head growing to an ugly pulsing behind his empty eye sockets. He can feel your hesitance, your growing thoughts and fear of the monster in your bed. Tar oozing down his anxious face, composure leaving him as quickly as your hand withdrew. "Jack, I'm right here-" "You shouldn't be" his defeated mutter cutting you off. Quiet and rushed. "What?" "Leave, I can't-Fuck" he retreats further into the bed, as though wishing for the now cold bedsheets to swallow him whole. Head pounding like his brain is trying to escape from his thick skull. His 'sight' following the still dripping blood, creating a small puddle on the edge of the bed, the once white bedsheets turning a dark red. As you move closer, you feel like every movement is being judged. Like you're cornering a wild animal. Jack wasn't an animal though; sure, he's been through his fair share of traumatic events and every Sunday night you'd help him hunt, but that doesn't make your partner an animal.

"Jack-" "Leave" he grunted through clenched teeth. Gray hands gripping the sheets. "I can help, everything is okay", reaching out your none injured arm almost like a lifeline to him. An angry, almost pain-filled noise omits from his throat and a sudden feeling of dread building in your stomach.

"If you stay, I will kill you." Eyes widening, you step back, arm raising to your injury protectively. Were you pressuring him too much? Were you the reason for all his pain and stress? Your arm burning from his previous contact and your nervous thoughts distracted you from the shadow advancing forward. As though ready to pounce, Jack reared back, no longer conscious of his actions. The pain in his head spreading down his body, images flashing into vision. Maybe if he did open up more this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have lounged at you, pushing you off the bed and onto your bedroom floor. Your legs knocking into your dresser, the sounds of perfumes, the glass of water and trinkets cluttering to the floor. Jack's snarling face, mostly hidden by the dimly lit room. His hands pressing down on your chest forcing a pathetic wheeze from your lungs. Your palms pushing against his front, desperate to get out of the mess you started. Nails digging into him in an attempt to free yourself, fruitless except for the pressure moving to your neck, defenseless and bare as blood trickles down the area he used to kiss. His legs trapping yours, shins and thighs bruising under his weight. A hand leaving your blood covered throat, red fingerprints smearing down to your barely hidden stomach as you hear a harsh puncture. He's killing you. He's actually doing it. Blood staining his arms, grotesque squelches heard as your breathing slows to a nonexistent pace.

Here we are. Crimson liquid oozing from your open mouth as you spit it up, choking on the thick liquid. Jack's unrelenting hands continue digging into your abdomen, frantic and delirious. Ten more minutes of his huffing breath and the sounds of tearing flesh and muscle. Squelch..Squelch…....Squelch, the noises slowing down, Jack's mind clearing. Gasp "No", looking down at trembling hands. What did he do. This wasn't him, it couldn't be! Frantically he wiped his soiled hands on his pajama pants, his love's blood was covering him! Tar rapidly gathering on his body, collecting beneath him and on your legs, "Theres so much! Why is there so much!" Yanking the cover off the messy bed, putting pressure on the giant hole he made in your body, pink intestine and torn muscle visible, deep red almost black soaking the sheets. His silent pleas only met with your distant, lifeless eyes. Ones he remembered being filled with love and care. Now as cold as the rest of your soaked body. You were only trying to help; this wasn't your fault. Your adamancy was from months of seeing him stressed, coming home late injured and tired, never even finding an escape through sleep. "Honey, Y/N wake up, don't mess with me come on" palms against your chest, a fleeting attempt at chest compressions, the deafening sound of your ribs cracking. "It's okay, you said it'd be okay!" Voice going raw with anguish, "Wake Up! Wake Up!" Rising to his feet, the smashing of your shared mirror, hundreds of small pieces looking back at him. Crazed mutters leaving his mouth "...disgusting...monster...murderer..." Fingers tangling into his brown hair and yanking at the roots, a desperate try to ground himself. It's too late. Gathering himself in the corner nearest to your closet, your clothes peeking through the small gap. He stares at your mangled body. He's ruined you. Everything you two had built. All that's left is a damp stain on the carpet, trailing behind him and soaking into the house you both resided.

Nobody ever did find out what happened. Friends never received another call; neighbors could only watch as mail gathered on your porch and the dew-covered grass grew to new height. A distinct odor of decay wafted throughout the abandoned house.

Jack left as sirens closed in, the house next door calling 911 about heavy noise and animalistic sounds. Covered in a dark hoodie, hiding his face while struggling to ignore the smell of you on his body. Clutching his mask in one hand and a small, crumpled photo of you two in the other.

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Thanks for Reading <3

[fashionabletardigrade]

Rules:

Requests:

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Requests are open for fandoms outside of my masterlist, my asks are open and if I know the fandom ill most likely write for it. If I have no clue what it is I most likely won't write for it and will let the asker know.

Please be polite and respectful, this space is safe for all, I myself am Pansexual. Unless you're a terf or bigot or something, then you can go fuck yourself.

What/Who I Write For:

I write smut (as best I can), angst (once in a blue moon), fluff and dead dove do not eat (another once in a blue moon) for characters of all genders, sexes and species <3

I write for primarily female curvy readers but could write for male readers. Emphasis on curvy, muscular and chubby readers.

WON'T DO:

No bigots or terfs fuck off

No scat or piss

No vomit (in a sexual way)

No incest

Character x Character

No sub reader

[blanchebees]

Live drawing at the Giger exhibition in Turin, loved it!

Tip jar

[fashionabletardigrade]

OMG, this is so good wthhhhh