valentines with the creepypastas
i wanted to do something cheesy for valentine’s day (very late) while still doing requests. how was ur guys valentine’s day? hope it was better than mine :)
some of the lines and places are reused throughout the blurbs. pls lmk if i have major grammar/spelling errors
gn reader (it may seem more feminine but i swear it’s gn)
jeff wakes you up by straddling your hips at 6:47 a.m., lidless eyes gleaming in the dark, a cheap heart-shaped box of drugstore chocolates balanced on your chest. half the candies are already gone. he ate them while watching you sleep. the other half have bite marks shaped like his teeth.
“happy fuckin’ valentine’s, doll,” he rasps, leaning down until his scarred lips brush your ear. “bought these so you’d have something sweet”
he spends the day like a feral shadow. follows you everywhere. kitchen, bathroom door, even stands outside while you shower, sharpening his knife like. every time you smile at your phone he growls “who’s texting you?” and yanks you into his lap, kissing you hard enough to bruise until you’re breathless and laughing.
evening: he drags you to the roof with a stolen bottle of cheap wine and a single red rose he definitely murdered a bush for. sits with his back against the chimney, pulls you between his legs so your back is to his chest.
“never had a valentine before,” he mutters into your hair. “didn’t want one. now i don’t want anything else.”
you turn your head; he kisses you messy, desperate, tasting like chocolate and blood. when he pulls back his carved smile is softer, almost shy.
“you’re stuck with me now. no take-backs.”
he doesn’t wait for nightfall or until you’re back in the mansion. he pinned you against the chimney, jeans yanked to your ankles, his cock already out and leaking. “been hard thinking about this all day,” he growls, spitting into his palm and slicking himself before pushing into you in one brutal thrust.
you’re still wearing his hoodie; he shoves it up to your neck so he can bite your chest while he fucks you standing, hips snapping so hard your back scrapes brick. “look at you dripping for me on valentine’s like a desperate little whore.”
he pulls out just to flip you around, bends you over the ledge so you’re looking down at the drop while he slams back in from behind. one hand fists your hair, yanking your head back; until you’re shaking and screaming his name into the night air.
“cum on my cock, baby. show me how much you love being my filthy valentine.”
you do..hard, gushing around him, thighs trembling. he follows with a broken groan, pumping you full until it drips down your legs. he stays buried, grinding slow, kissing the bite marks he left on your shoulder.
“best fuckin’ gift,” he pants against your neck. “gonna keep you stuffed all night, doll. happy valentine’s.”
masky doesn’t do grand gestures. valentine’s morning you wake up to him already dressed, standing over the bed with two black coffees and a single red rose he clearly stole from someone’s yard. a hallmark card. no speech’s just sets the cup on your nightstand, tucks the rose behind your ear, and mutters “don’t make a big deal out of it.”
he spends the day like it’s any other. close, always within arm’s reach. but every time you pass him he hooks a finger in your belt loop and pulls you back for a slow, deep kiss that tastes like nicotine and possession. when you’re cooking he stands behind you, chin on your shoulder, arms caging you against the counter, murmuring “you’re mine today” into your neck like it’s a mission objective.
evening comes. he drags you to the roof with a stolen bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes. sits with his back against the chimney, pulls you between his legs so your back is to his chest. lights two cigarettes, hands you one, and just… exists with you. stars overhead. wood noise far below. his free hand rests on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles through your shirt.
“didn’t think i’d ever have someone to spend this day with,” he says quietly, almost lost in the wind. “now I can’t imagine it without you.”
you turn your head; he kisses you slow, tasting like smoke and whiskey and something softer he’ll never name.
“happy valentine , proxy.”
he doesn’t rush. takes you back inside, locks the bedroom door, pushes you against it face-first. hands slide up under your shirt, rough palms cupping your chest, thumbs rolling your nipples until you’re whimpering. “been thinking about this all day,” he mutters, teeth grazing your ear.
he spins you, drops to his knees, yanks your pants down and buries his face between your thighs. mouth and all, licking long stripes while one hand grips your ass, spreading you wider. he growls like he’s angry about how good you taste. sucking and licking you hard, tongue fucking you until your knees buckle.
when you’re shaking he stands, spins you again, bends you over the desk. fucks you from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then harder, deeper, hand wrapped around your throat. “mine,” he growls with every thrust. “my little proxy.”
you cum first, trembling, crying his name. he fucks you through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until you’re shaking. when he finally cums it’s with a low groan against your shoulder, filling you until it leaks out. he stays inside, rocking gently, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips.
“happy valentine’s,” he whispers, still buried deep.
hoodie left roses and box chocolates. you wakeup to him already gone, but his hoodie is draped over the pillow instead of his usual one. still warm, still smells like him. tucked in the pocket is a single folded note: “roof. 8 p.m.”
the day passes normally. he’s always in your peripheral vision. he brushes past you in the kitchen and slips a piece of candy into your hand without looking. later he sits beside you on the couch, thigh pressed to yours, hand resting on your knee like an anchor.
8 p.m. sharp you climb to the roof. he’s already there, sitting against the chimney. a small battery lantern sits between his knees, casting soft yellow light. next to it: a bottle of white wine, two plastic cups.
you sit beside him. he pours you a cup without asking, clinks his against yours. no words. just the noise far below and the occasional drag of his shoes against the rooftop. after a while he pulls you into his lap, back to his chest, arms wrapped around your waist. you lean your head against his shoulder; he rests his chin on top of your head.
“i’m glad to have someone to celebrate with,” he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.
you turn your head, kiss the corner of his mouth through the hood. he kisses back. slow, gentle, tasting like smoke and him.
“happy balentine’s,” you whisper.
he squeezes you tighter. that’s his answer.
back in the room he doesn’t turn on the light. just pushes you against the door, hands sliding under your shirt, palms rough and warm on your skin. he kisses you slow, deep, like he’s memorizing your mouth.
clothes come off piece by piece. his hoodie first, then yours, pants shoved down just enough. he lifts you, legs around his waist, and carries you to the bed without breaking the kiss. lays you down gently, but the second your back hits the mattress he’s between your thighs, cock sliding against your hole, teasing without entering.
“been thinking about this all day,” he mutters against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse.
He pushes in slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every bit of him. you’re wet, needy, clenching around him the second he bottoms out. he groans low, hips rolling deep, steady, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back.
one hand wraps around your throat. not choking, just holding. while the other grips your hip, guiding you into his rhythm. “so fucking perfect,” he breathes. “my baby.”
you cum first, trembling, crying his name. he fucks you through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until you’re shaking. whe he finally cums it’s with a low groan against your shoulder, filling you until it leaks out. he stays inside, rocking gently, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips.
“i love you,” he whispers, while pulling out.
toby wakes you up at dawn by jumping on the bed like a golden retriever on caffeine, bells jingling from the valentines crown he stole from laughing jack. “HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!” he yells, tics making his whole body jerk. he’s holding a lumpy heart-shaped box wrapped in duct tape and newspaper comics. inside : a handful of mismatched candy canes (some bitten), a tiny hatchet charm he carved himself, and a crumpled note that says “ur my favorite person everrr <3” in his shaky handwriting.
he spends the day buzzing around you. tics make him bounce on his toes every time you smile at him. he drags you to the kitchen to “make breakfast” (burnt toast with heart-shaped jam smears), then to the roof to chill, then back inside to build a blanket fort that collapses every five minutes because he can’t stop moving.
evening: he pulls you into the fort (rebuilt for the third time), turns on the old portable dvd player, and queues up the notebook. sits cross-legged, pulls you into his lap, and wraps you in every blanket he could find. his tics slow when you lean against his chest; he rests his chin on your head and whispers “i-i never thought I’d have s-someone to do this with.”
you kiss his cheek. he blushes so hard.
“happy valentine , toby.”
he squeezes you tighter, tics jerking happily. “h-happy valentine’s, best person ever.”
back in his room he doesn’t waste time. pushes you onto the bed, hoodie half-off, pants shoved down. “b-been hard all day thinking about you,” he stutters, already leaking. slides into you raw, tics making his thrusts erratic. deep one second, shallow the next, hitting every spot randomly until you’re seeing stars.
“f-fuck—so tight,” he gasps, biting your shoulder while he pounds you. his tics jerk him harder, faster; you claw his back, begging for more. he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and fucks you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other on your hip.
“cum for me-p-please, need to feel you-”
you do, screaming, clenching around him. he follows with a full-body spasm, cumming deep, hips stuttering as he fills you. stays inside, rocking gently, muttering “s-so good, s-so perfect” while you both catch your breath.
ben wakes you up by blasting the some song on loop until you throw a pillow at him. he laughs, dodges, then crawls under the covers and pulls you against his chest. “happy Valentine’s, babe”
you guys spend the day having co-op gaming marathons, trash-talking each other, stealing snacks from the kitchen while the others aren’t looking. every time you win he kisses you hard and says “that’s my baby”
evening he drags you to his room, lights off, screens glowing. he’s set up a private Minecraft world: a pixel heart made of redstone, a little house with your names above the door, a virtual picnic with pixel cake. you play for hours, building dumb things, laughing at each other’s terrible architecture.
at one point he pauses the game, pulls you into his lap, and kisses you slow, hands in your hair, voice soft. “never thought I’d have someone to share this with,” he murmurs. “now I can’t imagine it without you.”
you kiss him back, tasting like energy drinks and him.
“happy Valentine’s, ben.”
he smiles against your mouth. “happy valentine’s, best teammate ever.”
he doesn’t turn on the lights. just pushes you back on the bed, crawls over you, and kisses you deep while his hands slide under your shirt. palms rough, warm, mapping every inch of skin like he’s memorizing you.
strips you slow while kissing every new bit of skin he reveals. when you’re naked he settles between your thighs, cock hard and leaking against your stomach. “been thinking about this all day,” he mutters against your neck.
slides into you slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every bit of him. you’re wet, needy, clenching around him the second he bottoms out. he groans low, hips rolling deep, steady, hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back.
both hand grips your hip, guiding you into his rhythm. “so fucking perfect,” he breathes. “my player.”
you cum first, trembling, crying his name. he fucks you through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until you’re shaking. when he finally cums it’s with a low groan against your shoulder, filling you until it leaks out. he stays inside, rocking gently, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips.
jack doesn’t do valentine’s the way humans do. no flowers (they wither too fast), no chocolates (too basic). you wake up to him already by his medical area in the basement, gray fingers carefully arranging a small glass vial necklace filled with something dark and shimmering. “my blood,” he says simply when you blink at him. “so you can carry a piece of me.”
he spends the day close..closer than usual. his hands gripping you everytime he sees you or when you walk past him. when you sit on the couch he pulls you into his lap, arms looped around you, sockets fixed on whatever you’re watching pretending he is interested
evening he leads you to the roof (his favorite place when he wants quiet). no candles, no music, just a small battery lantern and a thermos of hot chocolate he made himself (it’s a little too salty but you drink it anyway). he sits with his back against the chimney, pulls you between his legs so your back is to his chest. one hand rests over your heart, the other strokes your hair in slow, rhythmic pulls.
“didn’t think i’d ever have someone to share silence with,” he murmurs, voice soft and clinical at the same time. “so glad i have you.”
you turn your head; he kisses you slow, tasting like chocolate and copper and something uniquely him.
“happy Valentine’s, specimen.”
back in the basement he doesn’t bother with lights. just lifts you onto the exam table, spreads your legs wide with cold hands, and buries his face between your thighs without preamble. tongue. long, forked, precise, drags through on your parts, tasting every inch like he’s cataloging you. he sucks hard, fangs grazing just enough to sting, while two fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot that makes your back arch.
“pulse elevated,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating through you. “perfect.”
you’re shaking, thighs clamping around his head, gushing over his chin. he doesn’t stop. keeps licking, sucking, with his tongue until you’re sobbing “too much-j-jack”
he pulls back just enough to slide his cock in. thick, ridged, cold at first then warming inside you. fucks you slow, deep, clinical, one hand around your throat monitoring your pulse while the other rubs tight circles on your clit. “cum for me again,” he orders. "let me feel that perfect little hole milk me.”
when you do, you're screaming, clenching so tight he groans low and floods you with hot cum. he stays buried, grinding slow, kissing the bite marks he left on your inner thigh.
“happy Valentine’s, my favorite patient,” he whispers, still inside you. “gonna keep you full all night.”
jack wakes you up by dumping a pile of candy hearts on your chest at 7 a.m. half say normal things (“be Mine,” “kiss Me”). The other half he wrote on himself with edible marker: “choke me,” “ruin me.”
“pick your favorite,” he grins, as he leans over you. you pick the dirtiest one. he laughs like you just told the best joke in the world and kisses you until your lips are swollen and sticky.
he spends the day clingy in the most chaotic way. following you everywhere, draping long arms over your shoulders, spinning you randomly just to hear you laugh. he made you a “Valentine crown” out of pipe cleaners and candy wrappers; you wear it all day while he beams like he hung the moon.
evening: he drags you to the basement. fairy lights he stole from the attic and a picnic blanket covered in every candy. he sits cross-legged, pulls you into his lap, and feeds you gummy worms while humming off-key love songs.
“never had a valentine,” he says quietly, twirling a strand of your hair around his claw. “never wanted one. but then you came along”
you kiss him slow, tasting sugar and him. he melts into it, arms wrapping around you multiple times like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“happy Valentine’s, gumdrop,” he whispers against your lips.
you smile. “happy valentine’s.”
he doesn’t bother with slow. pushes you back on the floor , rips your bottoms down, and drops to his knees. long tongue flicks out. hot, dripping, and drags up and down your parts in one filthy stripe. you moan. he growls, claws sinking into your thighs to hold you open, and licks you.
tongue flat, forked tips teasing you, lips sucking hard enough to bruise. he hums against you, vibration ripping through your core. one claw on your throat, while his tongue fucks deeper, pressing hard against that spot that makes your vision white out.
“cum for me, poppet,” he growls against your pussy. “like a good little toy.”
you cum harder than you ever have but he doesn’t stop. keeps licking, sucking, fucking you with that endless tongue until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. when he finally pulls back his face is a mess. spit smeared, chin dripping, eyes happy. he licks his lips slow, deliberate.
“sweetest thing i’ve tasted all year,” he rasps.
he stands, lifts you like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. lays you down, spreads your legs wide, and slides two long fingers inside you while his tongue returns to your genitalia . fucks you with both until you cum again, screaming, soaking his hand.
“happy Valentine’s, my favorite treat,” he whispers, kissing your inner thigh.
jason wakes you with a soft kiss to your forehead and a small velvet box on your pillow. inside is a delicate silver bracelet with tiny porcelain charms: a heart, a rose, a miniature version of his mask. “for my favorite doll,” he murmurs, fastening it around your wrist.
he spends the day like it’s any other. always in his workshop, but always watching you closely.
evening he leads you to his workshop. the lights are low, candles flickering (real ones...he trusts you not to burn the place down). on the workbench is a single perfect porcelain rose, petals so thin they’re almost translucent. he picks it up, tucks it behind your ear, and pulls you into a slow dance to music only he can hear.
“never thought I’d have someone to share this day with,” he says softly, swaying with you. “now I can’t imagine it without you.”
you kiss him slow, tasting like rose and him. he melts into it, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "happy valentine’s, darling,” he whispers against your lips.
you smile. “happy valentine’s, jason.”
he doesn’t rush. lays you on the bench like you’re fragile, kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach, worshipping every inch. when he reaches your underwear he hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls them down slow, eyes locked on yours.
spreads your legs wide, settles between them, and licks a slow stripe. tongue hot, precise, curling around your genitalia while his gloved fingers slide inside you, curling against that spot that makes your back arch. “so beautiful,” he murmurs against your cunt. “my perfect doll.”
he sucks you like slow, deliberate, savoring every taste, every shiver. fingers thrusting deep, until you’re shaking, begging. “cum for me, darling,” he whispers. “let me taste how much you love me.”
you cum with thighs trembling. he keeps going, drawing it out until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. When he finally pulls back his lips are shiny, eyes dark with want.
he slides into you slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge. fucks you deep, steady, hands gripping your hips, whispering “mine” with every thrust. cums inside, hot and thick, staying buried while he kisses you sloppy and desperate.
“happy valentine’s, my doll” he breathes against your
dark link doesn’t do valentine’s the way humans but more in a possessive way.
you wake up to him already in bed, red eyes glowing faintly in the dark, one arm slung over your waist like he’s anchoring you to the mattress. “happy valentine’s,” he mutters, voice rough from sleep. “you’re not allowed to leave this bed today.”
he spends the day like a shadow, always close, always touching. follows you to the kitchen, stands behind you while you make coffee, chin on your shoulder, hands on your hips. when you sit on the couch he pulls you into his lap, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid someone will try to take you.
evening he takes you to the roof. pretty candles, lofi music and just the forest noise and a stolen bottle of champagne. he sits with his back against the chimney, pulls you between his legs so your back is to his chest. hands rest on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles through your shirt.
“never thought I’d have someone to spend this day with,” he says quietly. “now I can’t imagine it without you.”
you turn your head; he kisses you slow, tasting like fruit and him.
“happy valentine’s, shadow boy.”
he squeezes you tighter. that’s his answer.
he pushes you against the door, hands sliding under your shirt, palms rough on your skin. kisses you deep, possessive, teeth grazing your lip until you whimper.
lifts you, legs around his waist, carries you to the bed without breaking the kiss. lays you down, strips you slow, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. when you’re naked he spreads your legs wide, settles between them, and slides into you raw. slow, deep, letting you feel every inch.
fucks you steady, possessive, one hand wrapped around your throat not choking, just holding. while the other grips your hip, guiding you into his rhythm. “mine,” he growls with every thrust. “my pretty little shadow.”
you cum first, trembling, crying his name. he fucks you through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until you’re shaking. when he finally cums it’s with a low groan against your shoulder, filling you until it leaks out. he stays inside, rocking gently, kissing your neck, your jaw, your lips.
“happy valentine’s,” he whispers, still buried deep.
kagekao wakes you by dropping from the ceiling onto your bed, mask tilted, claws tapping your cheek. “wake up, little demon. it’s valentine’s.” he’s holding a single black rose (thorns intact) and a small velvet box. inside: a thin silver chain with a tiny claw pendant, fastening it around your neck.
he spends the day mostly on the ceiling while following you. dropping down occasionally to touch you or stand behind you while you’re occupied.
evening he takes you to the roof. tiny candles, no music. the only noise was the candles cackling and the woods, along with a bottle of red wine. he sits with his back against the chimney, pulls you between his legs so your back is to his chest. claws trace lazy patterns on your stomach through your shirt.
“never thought i’d have someone to spend this day with,” he says quietly. “now i can’t imagine it without you.”
you turn your head; he kisses you slow, tasting like wine and him.
“happy valentine’s, demon boy.”
he squeezes you tighter. that’s his answer.
back in the room he pins you to the door, claws digging into your hips, mouth on your neck. “been hard thinking about this all day,” he growls, ripping your bottoms down. drops to his knees, spreads your legs wide, and buries his face. tongue long, hot, plunging deep while curling, flicking, sucking, rolling.
you scream his name, hands in his hair, hips bucking. he growls against you, vibration ripping through. claws sink into your thighs, holding you open while he sucks like he’s starving, you’re shaking, gushing over his chin.
he doesn’t stop. keeps going faster, harder, until you cum again, sobbing from overstimulation. when he finally pulls back his mouth is dripping, eyes darkening.
he stands, lifts you, legs around his waist, and slides into you raw. deep, brutal, claws digging into your ass. fucks you against the door, hard and fast, whispering filth in your ear until you’re screaming again. cums deep, flooding you, staying buried while you shake.
“happy valentines, my little demon,” he rasps against your neck.
helen wakes you with a soft kiss to your forehead and a small canvas on your pillow: you, sleeping, painted in soft golds and reds. “happy Valentine’s,” he murmurs, voice quiet. “you looked peaceful.”
He spends the day close—quiet, calm, always touching you in small ways. Fingers brushing yours when you pass in the hallway, hand resting on your lower back while you make coffee, chin on your shoulder when you read.
evening he leads you to his studio. the lights are low, candles flickering. on the easel is a new painting: you, wearing nothing but his shirt, smiling. he sits you on the stool, stands behind you, arms wrapped around your waist.
“never thought i’d have someone to share this day with,” he says softly. “now i can’t imagine it without you.”
you turn your head; he kisses you slow, tasting like chocolate and him.
“happy Valentine’s, muse.”
you smile. “happy valentine’s, helen.”
he doesn’t rush. lays you on the floor like you’re fragile, kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach, worshipping every inch. when he reaches your underwear he hooks his fingers under the waistband and pulls them down slow, eyes locked on yours.
spreads your legs wide, settles between them, and licks a slow stripe. tongue precise, hot around you while his fingers slide inside you, curling against that spot that makes your back arch. “so angelic,” he murmurs against your cunt. “my perfect little muse.”
he is slow, deliberate, savoring every taste, every shiver. fingers thrusting deep, tongue flicking your genitalia in tight circles until you’re shaking, begging. “cum for me, darling,” he whispers. “let me taste how much you love me.”
you’re gushing over his tongue, thighs trembling. he keeps going, drawing it out until you’re sobbing from overstimulation. when he finally pulls back his face is wet, eyes light with love
he slides into you slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every inch. fucks you deep, steady, hands gripping your hips, whispering “mine” with every thrust. cums inside, hot and thick, staying buried while he kisses you sloppy and desperate.
“happy valentine’s, my perfect muse,” he breathes against your mouth.
you wake to the softest static hum, almost like a lullaby. a pretty little note, flowers on the nightstand. and him standing at the foot of the bed, suit pristine, tendrils swaying gently. one reaches out, brushes your cheek. cool, careful.
He spends the day with tendrils curl around your wrist when you walk through the halls, a silent tether. when you sit on the couch he stands behind you, one tendril draped over your shoulder like an arm, another brushing your hair in slow, soothing strokes.
evening he leads you to the roof. he sits with you against the chimney, tendrils wrapped around your waist, holding you close.
you lean back against him; a tendril brushes your cheek like a kiss.
“happy Valentine’s,” you whisper.
the static pulses, warm and pleased.
back in the bedroom. he doesn’t speak. tendrils lift you, strip you slow, spread you open on the bed. he stands over you, suit pristine, tendrils moving like they have minds of their own. one slides to your chest, teasing your nipple with feather-light pressure while another circles your entrance, slick and thick.
he enters you slow. tendril thick and ridged, stretching you wide while another wraps around your throat, gentle but firm. a third teases your genitalia, a fourth circles your other nipple, a fifth presses against your mouth. every hole claimed, every nerve stimulated at once.
you’re trembling, sobbing from the overload, but he keeps going. slow, deep, relentless. tendrils fuck you in perfect rhythm, filling you until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can only feel.
“mine,” the static hums in your mind. “my perfect one.”
he doesn’t stop when you cum. keeps fucking you through it, drawing out every aftershock until you’re limp and boneless. when he finally floods you with thick inky cum it’s so much it pours out, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.
he lowers you gently, tendrils cradling you like a cocoon, still plugged so nothing escapes. the static softens to a gentle hum that vibrates through your bones.
“happy valentine’s, little one,” he whispers in your mind. “gonna keep you full all night.”
(me and my bf lowkey broke up on valentines day)
