sydky devourer. @juwuniko - Tumblr Blog

Nov 1, 2025

( ♤ ) — 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓅𝓎 ⨾ 03

— ben drowned x afab! reader

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: college au · smut · stoner ben · mdni · kidnapping · digital haunting · cyber stalking · technomancy · situationship · sexual content · breath play · electric stimulation · forced orgasms · edging · pain kink · crying · praise · weird jokes · mentions of weed

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: It started with the stalking—texts at 3 a.m., your phone lighting up with his name you swore you’d blocked. Ben was supposed to be gone, just another ex who couldn’t take a hint. But when your screen started glitching and his voice bled through the speakers, it stopped feeling like a coincidence.

Stressed, exhausted, and done with his games, you decided to administer your own little “shock therapy”—a midnight experiment to jolt yourself out of thinking about him. simple. harmless. controlled. Except Ben had other plans.

𝓌𝒸: 11k

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒: happy kinktober, my lovely little masochists! first time dropping one of these into the void—let’s hope it’s as delightfully twisted as i think it is. buckle up, it’s gonna be a ride.

#YayaTreatsAndTeases ᓚᘏᗢ

Start of file.

You may or may not have an ex.

Correction—you definitely do. And if anyone ever asks about him, you always have to clarify: no, it’s not the normal “oh, we broke up and he moved on” situation. Most people with exes deal with one of two things: either their ex tries to get back at them, or tries to get back with them.

And unfortunately? You’re stuck with door number two.

See, your ex—Ben—has this… talent. A gift, really. He can show up in your life exactly when you least want him, and not in the classic “oops, we bumped into each other” kind of way. No. Ben has taken it upon himself to haunt you like a digital cockroach, crawling out of every screen you own.

Case in point: you’re on one of your rare breaks, sprawled across your dorm bed, half a textbook digging into your ribs, headphones on, pretending college isn’t slowly murdering you, when suddenly—ding ding ding.

Multiple notifications. From him. Again.

Yes, him. Ben. The blonde fuckboy nerd of the computer engineering department. Campus legend for wrecking Wi-Fi, wrecking hearts, and somehow still showing up to class in pajama pants like he owns the place. Charming, manipulative, and—though most people don’t know it—a shameless, perverted menace. He knew every embarrassing detail about you, and he wielded them like weapons, flashing that smug grin like it was his major.

You groaned, snatching your phone. Not that it mattered—you’d blocked him on literally everything. Instagram? Gone. Twitter? Erased. His primary number, his backup number, and the mysterious “Ben, why the hell do you even have a third phone?” number?

All blocked.

Email? Blocked. Discord? Blocked. Steam? Nuked.

You’d exorcised him from every corner of your digital existence.

And yet… there he was.

Not just on your phone, either. Oh no, Ben has range. You’d be chilling on your laptop, mid-essay, and suddenly a little pop-up box would appear: “miss me?” with a smiley face. You’d be mid-match on your gaming console, headphones on, fully zoned in—and boom, his gamer tag flashing across your screen like a cursed jumpscare.

Even your Bluetooth speaker wasn’t safe. You’d be blasting music to drown out midterm stress and suddenly his voice would cut through the bass, drawling, “Hey, babe.” Nearly gave you a heart attack.

The lowest point? Last weekend. You went home, to your parent’s house, away from campus, away from the chaos—just to breathe for at least for two days to yourself. And there he was. On your parents’ smart fridge. A smug little text box glowing on the LED screen, reading: “Out of almond milk. Also, you looked hot today.”

Which, one—how the hell did Ben find out where you lived? And two—why were you not even shocked anymore?

It had escalated so much past your nerves. At this point, every break from homework became a new episode of Ben’s Stalker Hour. And you were so tired. So close to hurling your phone, laptop, and possibly the fridge straight out the window.

Honestly, if he managed to beam himself directly into your microwave next, you weren’t even sure you’d scream. You’d just sigh, roll your eyes, and say, “Of course. Of course it’s Ben.”

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the bed with the kind of dramatic flair only midterms week could justify. Then, with the kind of desperation only caffeine-fueled misery produces, you hit FaceTime.

When your best friend’s face popped up on the screen, the first thing they did was squint. “Why the hell are you sitting in the dark? You look like you’re about to summon a demon.”

“I am,” you deadpanned, lifting your tiny desk flashlight like a campfire ghost story. “Except the demon is my ex, and apparently he already lives in my Wi-Fi.”

Your friend blinked. “...What’s the point of FaceTiming me if I can’t even see you?”

“So you can witness my breakdown live,” you shot back. “This is performance art.”

They snorted. “Okay, fine. What’s the issue this time?”

You flopped onto your pillow, holding the flashlight under your chin dramatically. “Ben.”

Immediately, they groaned. “Oh god. Again?”

“Yes, again. Forever, apparently. I feel like I never get to be alone anymore. I can’t use my phone, I can’t use my laptop, I can’t even log into my Switch without his blonde little gremlin ass popping up like, ‘Hey, remember me?’ Like—YES, BEN. HOW COULD I FORGET, YOU’RE HAUNTING MY ELECTRONICS.”

Your friend laugh, already covering their mouth. “Stop, you sound insane.”

“I am insane!” you yelled, then quickly lowered your voice because dorm walls are thin. “Tell me why last week I went home to my parents’ house for a break—and he somehow showed up on their smart fridge. Their. Fridge. Do you know how traumatizing it is to go get milk at midnight and see a glowing text box that says, ‘Out of almond milk, btw, you looked cute today’?!”

Your friend was wheezing now. “Wait, wait—he hacked your parents’ fridge?”

“Yes!” you said, throwing your arm over your face. “One, how the hell did he even find my parents’ address? And two, why am I not even shocked anymore? Like, it’s not scary at this point—it’s just exhausting. If he shows up in my microwave next, I’m not screaming, I’m just sighing and asking if he wants popcorn.”

Your friend had to put their phone down because they were laughing so hard. “No, because this is actually a comdey horror movie but you’re roasting the ghost instead of running.”

“Oh please,” you scoffed, sitting up. “He’s not even scary. He’s a fuckboy Casper with a Pornhub addiction. Like, the Situationship ended because he couldn’t stop being a pervert. Secretly. Which—how do you manage to be both the campus fuckboy and a lowkey creep on the side? Pick a struggle, Benjamin.”

Your friend wheezed louder, tears forming in their eyes.

“And the worst part?” you continued, jabbing your flashlight at the camera for emphasis. “He’s hot. Like… obnoxiously hot. And he knows it. Which makes it worse, because every time I get ready to block another one of his thirty backup accounts, I catch myself thinking, ‘Wow, maybe that jawline really is strong enough to break federal privacy laws.’”

“Jesus Christ,” your friend gasped between laughs. “You’re going to fail midterms, and it’s going to be Ben’s fault.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, collapsing back into bed. “Imagine explaining that in academic probation. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t focus on my essay because my ex decided to cyber-stalk me through my Bluetooth speaker.’”

Then suddenly, the laughter between you and your friend finally sputtered out into little aftershocks of chuckles. You rubbed your face with both hands, still grinning like an idiot, but the exhaustion was catching up.

“Okay, okay,” you breathed out. “But… I’ll admit it. Just a tiny bit—like, microscopic—I kinda miss him.”

Your friend raised their brows. “Ohhh, here it comes. Don’t tell me Stockholm Syndrome’s setting in.”

“No, shut up.” You pointed your flashlight at them accusingly. “It’s just… he was funny, alright? Like, painfully funny. Being around him was chaos, but the good kind. The kind where you don’t notice hours pass because you’re too busy clowning on each other. He was just… a distraction. And, unfortunately, I’m in my serious academic weapon arc, so distractions are a no.”

Your friend tilted their head. “That’s fair, he’s hot. I mean, he is an idiot, but I get it.”

You nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Anyway, he’s gone, I’m over it, and this is me focusing on—”

And then your screen flickered.

Both you and your friend froze as the FaceTime glitched for half a second—your image warping, their face pixelating. And then, right there, bold as ever, another window popped up on your screen.

Incoming Call: Ben.

Your friend’s jaw dropped. “NO FUCKING WAY—”

“Oh, my god,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “Do you see this? Do you SEE THIS? I literally just said his name like Beetlejuice and here he is.”

Your friend was wheezing. “This man is haunting your FaceTime call. Like, he didn’t even wait for you to finish dragging him!”

Before you could even reject the call, Ben’s contact image—some stupid shirtless selfie he’d set on your phone ages ago—filled the screen. You hit “Decline.” Two seconds later, the call popped up again.

Incoming Call: Ben.

“Persistent little hellspawn,” you muttered, jabbing the decline button again.

Your friend was doubled over laughing. “You can’t make this up. He’s literally proving your whole rant in real time!”

You were about to defend yourself when, suddenly, the FaceTime glitched again, and instead of calling, Ben’s text bubble slid across the top of the screen.

— Ben: why are you talking about me 👀

You and your friend screamed in unison.

“Oh my GOD,” you shouted, holding the phone up like it was cursed. “Do you SEE THIS SHIT? Do you UNDERSTAND my suffering?!”

Your friend could barely breathe, laughing so hard they were wheezing. “Bro, he’s listening like the damn NSA! He’s in the walls!”

More texts started flooding in.

— Ben: miss me? — Ben: tell ur friend hi btw 👋 — Ben: why the flashlight lmao u look like u doing a hostage video

You stared at the screen, wide-eyed, as your friend dissolved into tears. “NO—he’s roasting you through the damn phone—”

“Alright. Nope. I’m done.” You jabbed your thumb against the red button, the call ending with a hollow click. The silence that followed wasn’t comforting—ugh. You let the phone fall face-down on the desk with a dull thud that seemed too loud in the stillness of your room.

You leaned back hard in your chair, spine curving until you were staring up at the ceiling. The old fixture above you blurred slightly as your breath left in uneven waves, chest rising and falling too fast for how still everything else was.

Your fingers twitched around the flashlight you’d forgotten you were even holding, its weight an anchor in your lap. You squeezed until the ridges dug into your palm, then let it slacken again.

Tired didn’t even begin to cover it. You were past tired. Hollowed out. The kind of drained that left your bones aching while your mind wouldn’t shut up.

Ben. Always Ben.

Not love. Not hate. Just a cycle you couldn’t claw out of, no matter how many times you told yourself this time would be different. He didn’t fade like everyone else eventually did. He clung. He lingered. He filled the silence you tried so desperately to create.

And somehow, he was... something.

“God,” you muttered, voice cracking as you pressed the heel of your hand to your eyes. A bitter laugh caught in your throat. “I should’ve dated a biology major.”

You stayed like that for a while, slouched in your chair with the flashlight still in your hand, staring at nothing. “Crazy,” you muttered under your breath. “I’m going crazy.” You tilted your head toward the ceiling, as though Ben might be hiding up there like some smug poltergeist. “And you can’t get to me, you glitchy bastard. Not tonight.”

Right.

Except you were still sitting in the dark, gripping a flashlight like a paranoid kid camping in their own room. Very convincing.

Totally sane.

Eventually, you pushed yourself forward and snapped your textbook shut, the pages collapsing with a muffled whump that felt like slamming a coffin. Enough of that. Your brain had wrung you dry already, and cramming another definition in would just make you start naming your hallucinations after biochemistry terms.

You stripped down into something lighter, soft fabric against skin a small mercy after the weight of the day. The room stayed dark, shadowed corners watching, but you ignored them, climbing straight into bed with your laptop hugged to your chest like contraband.

Stress relief. That’s what you needed.

Something mindless, something to reset the short-circuited wires sparking in your head. You swore you weren’t going to touch your electronics tonight, but there you were—back against your pillow, blue glow washing over your face.

And God, you needed it. Badly.

Sure, you could just use your thoughts. But let’s be honest—having a brain is dangerous. Thoughts weren’t reliable. They strayed. They wandered into the wrong territory at the worst possible times. You didn’t need Ben photobombing your private fantasies like some uninvited party guest.

The flashlight, still in your hand, rolled off your lap with a dull clatter.

You didn’t bother picking it up.

The silence in your dorm room was a physical weight, thick and suffocating. The frantic energy from the call with your friend had dissolved, leaving behind a hollow, restless ache. You needed… something. A release. A way to quiet the buzzing in your veins and the ghost of a name that kept echoing in your head.

With a sigh that felt like it came from your very bones, you pushed the textbook off your lap and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The cool floorboards were a shock against your bare feet. You padded over to your desk, retrieving your laptop before settling back against the mountain of pillows, propping the machine securely on your raised knees.

You navigated to the private browser, the icon a silent promise of anonymity. He couldn't get in here. You’d made sure of it. Firewalls, incognito mode, a password even you had to think twice about. This was your sanctuary, a digital confessional where you could be alone with your own body, your own desires, without the specter of a certain blonde hacker looming over you.

Or so you thought.

The first touch was almost hesitant.

You let your head fall back against the pillows on the headboard, eyes fluttering closed as your hands, palms flat, slid slowly down your sides. The soft, worn cotton of your t-shirt was a gentle friction against your skin. You traced the subtle curve of your waist, up the sensitive dip of your ribs, until your thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts. A shiver, delicate and warm, skated down your spine.

Driven by a need that was beginning to thrum in your blood, you tugged the soft fabric up and over your head, tossing it into the dimness of the room. The cool air kissed your skin, raising goosebumps.

Your nipples tightened instantly into sensitive peaks, and you couldn't resist. You brought your hands up, cupping the weight of your breasts, a soft sigh escaping your lips. Your thumbs found their targets, circling slowly at first, then with more purpose.

The sensation was a sharp, sweet jolt of electricity, each lazy circle sending a corresponding pulse of heat lower, coiling deep in your belly. You pinched one gently, then a little harder, the bright spark of pleasure-pain making your breath hitch, your hips giving an involuntary, subtle roll against the mattress.

God, this was pathetic.

Here you were, curled up in the dark of your dorm room, trying to chase off the lingering static of a Ben-induced panic attack with the most basic, biological stress relief known to humankind. The ache between your legs had gone from a background hum to a full-blown, persistent thrum, a demand your body was making that your brain was too fried to argue with.

Fine. Whatever. Just… shut everything up for five minutes.

Your hands slid down your own body, over the quivering plane of your stomach, the skin there hot to the touch. You slipped your fingers beneath the soft elastic of your sleep shorts and underwear. Letting your legs fall open a little wider against the cool sheets felt like a silent surrender.

An invitation to yourself, and only yourself.

The first touch of your own fingers to your clit was like completing a circuit you didn't know was live.

A sharp, gasping breath tore from your throat, sounding obscenely loud in the quiet. Jesus. You were already so sensitive, so ready. It was almost embarrassing. You began to rub in slow, careful circles, the pad of your finger already slick with your own arousal.

The sensation was immediate and dizzying—a building, tightening pleasure that started to successfully drown out the screaming chorus of midterms, existential dread, and the infuriating memory of a certain blonde hacker.

See? you thought, a little triumphantly.

This is all I need. No him. Just… this.

Your breathing hitched, growing ragged. Little pants that you were half-convinced were fogging the air in front of you. Your other hand fisted in the comforter, twisting the fabric as you chased the rhythm, the friction, the beautiful, mounting pressure coiling low in your gut. You were getting close, so close, the world narrowing to this single, pulsing point of feeling.

You were so lost in it, so focused on chasing that release, that you didn't register the subtle change in the room. The laptop screen, which had been a dead, black rectangle, didn't glitch or flash.

It simply… woke up?

The light from it shifted from pure black to a deep, dormant grey, and the quality of the silence from its speakers became somehow… attentive.

But you were past noticing. Your body was tensing, your back starting to arch off the mattress, a soft, needy sound catching in your throat. The name that had been haunting you all night was right there, on the tip of your tongue, a involuntary mantra fueled by pleasure and a deeply buried, irritating familiarity.

"Ah… Ben…" you moaned, the word a breathy, frustrated sigh. It was less a call for him and more a surrender to the feeling he used to inspire.

And that’s when it happened.

A low, familiar voice, laced with smug, undeniable amusement, cut through the sound of your ragged breathing, crystal clear from the laptop speakers.

"Need a hand?"

Your eyes snapped open so fast you saw stars, your entire body seizing up in a wave of ice-cold horror. Every bit of pleasurable tension shattered, replaced by a mortification so complete it felt like a physical blow. Ben’s face filled the entire screen. Not a call window. Not an app.

The fucking screen.

His dark, hungry stare pinned you where you sat, his grin curling at the edges like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Don’t stop on my account,” he purred, voice low and intimate, as if he were lying right beside you. “Looks like you were getting to the good part.”

The scream that tore out of you was jagged, half-strangled, more like static than sound. You scrambled backward so violently your laptop nearly skidded off the bed. Your t-shirt was halfway down before you even realized you were tugging at it, covering yourself like it might erase the last thirty seconds.

This wasn’t just a hack. This was a violation on a level you hadn’t even known existed. He hadn’t just been watching—he’d chosen to make you see him at your most private, your most unguarded, as if to say: You’re never alone.

“Whoa, easy there, babe,” he chuckled. The sound was too close, low enough that your stomach dropped. “Don’t freak out. I just got here. Pick me up.”

You stared at the laptop where it lay sideways on the blanket, his face still staring up at you with that signature smirk. Except it wasn’t quite right. The corners of his mouth were tight; his eyes, usually glittering with mockery, were flat and dark.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you muttered, rolling your eyes even as your hands trembled. “Of course. Of course you’d pull this shit.”

With a sigh, you reached down and flipped the laptop upright again, half expecting it to be cracked. It wasn’t. Ben was still there. Leaning in. Chin propped on one hand.

“Hey, you,” his voice slid out of the speakers, rich and clear, not even a hint of digital distortion. It was like he was right behind you, whispering in your ear.

“How…” you stammered, annoyance and dread fighting for space in your throat. “How is this even possible?”

Ben’s grin widened, flashing white in the dim glow of your room. “You know me. I’m full of surprises.” His gaze flicked away from your face, scanning the bed, the room, you. His smirk deepened. “Cute panties. Still wearing the ones I got you, huh?”

You instinctively yanked the blanket higher, your skin crawling. Every hair on your arms stood up as you realized he could see you.

He could see everything.

“Stop it,” you demanded, voice wobbling but growing sharper with every word. “Get out of my computer. Now.”

Ben tilted his head, almost boyish, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Or what?” he asked, tone light, teasing. “You’ll block me? Sweetheart, we’re way past that.”

He leaned closer, his pixelated face devouring the screen until it was all eyes, grin, and static. “You think a little firewall can keep me out? You invited me in.”

“I did no such thing!” you snapped, your pulse hammering.

“Oh, but you did.” His grin widened until it was more teeth than smile. “You said my name.” He said it slowly, savoring it. “You moaned it. You thought about me. You missed me. That’s all it takes.”

Your breath caught; your stomach dropped.

This wasn’t just hacking anymore.

This was something else. Something you couldn’t even name. And the not-knowing was the worst part. “Ben…” The plea slipped out before you could stop it. “Please.”

His eyes lit up at the sound of it. “There it is,” he murmured. “The little tremor in your voice. God, I’ve missed that. You still taste like fear, you know that? Or is that guilt?”

Something inside you snapped. The trembling in your hands hardened into a fist of pure anger. “You’re pathetic,” you spat, sitting up straighter, blanket falling away. “All this creep-show hacker crap, and you’re still just a fuck boy who can’t stand that someone doesn’t want him.”

Ben froze. Just for a second, then he chuckled, but it was lower now, forced. “Careful,” he warned softly. “You’re cute when you’re mad, but you’re playing with fire.”

“No,” you shot back, voice steadying with every word. “You’re playing with fire. And you don’t scare me anymore.” Your fingers hovered over the laptop lid, ready to slam it shut. His face glitched for a moment, static licking the edges of his grin like electricity.

“Don’t you dare hang up on me.”

You froze.

The grin faded, and for the first time his expression shifted, “There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the tone I was waiting for.” He leaned back a little, “Look, I heard your whole little rant to your friend. ‘Fuckboy Casper.’ ‘Perv.’ Really creative stuff, babe. I’m almost impressed.” His mouth curved. “Almost.”

You swallowed, the air in your room suddenly thicker, heavier.

Ben tilted his head, “But let’s cut the crap. You don’t hate this. You don’t hate me.” His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper, intimate enough to feel like it was slipping straight past your ears and into your skull. “You’re bored. You’re lonely. You’re stuck in your serious academic weapon arc, grinding yourself into dust, and it’s fucking miserable. Just admit it…” he leads off.

“You miss me.”

A tremor ran through your hands. “I miss the person I thought you were,” you said quietly. “Not… not this. Not whatever this is.”

He smiled at that—small, almost pitying. “Is there a difference?” he asked softly, head cocked like he was studying you. “This is me. The real me. The one who knows you don’t actually want to be left alone with your boring textbooks and your stress. You want a distraction. You want me.”

The screen flickered violently, his image breaking apart into blocks of static before a new feed blinked on. It was your own face. Your own room. Your own wide eyes staring back from your webcam, blinking at yourself like you were the ghost in his machine.

Then it switched back to him.

“See?” Ben murmured. “I’m right here. I’m always right here.”

For a long, breathless moment, you just stared at him. Your hand hovered over the laptop lid. You could slam it shut. You could throw it. You could scream. But a part of you—the exhausted, cornered part— already knew: he wouldn’t stop.

Closing the laptop wouldn’t make him vanish.

You shut your eyes and exhaled hard, pressing your palm over your face. “Fine,” you muttered. “Talk. Get it out of your system. You wanted my attention? You’ve got it. Use words, not… whatever this is.”

There was a pause on his end. The cocky smirk you knew so well flickered at the edges like a dying light bulb. For a moment, he didn’t look like the infamous blonde menace of campus—the golden boy who strutted like the well-known fuckboy computer engineering. He just looked like a guy in his room, hunched over a glowing screen, desperate for a reaction he wasn’t getting.

“Ayy…” Ben said finally, but it came out weak, like even he knew he sounded ridiculous. “Look, all I wanted was to talk. Just to see you. I miss you.” He leaned in, elbows braced on something off-screen, voice dropping to that low, faux-intimate purr he always used when he wanted something.

“You make everything feel like a game worth playing,” Ben said. His voice had gone soft but not warm—more like a glitch smoothing itself out. “You’re the only one who ever—” He stopped, gave a little laugh, and grinned again, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I could fix this for you. Really. No more stress. No more panic attacks. Just me.”

You squinted at the screen, already rubbing your temple. “Keep talking,” you said flatly. “But drop the fuckboy TED Talk. I’m over it.”

For the first time since the call began, his smile cracked. Underneath the “fuck boy” act was just Ben—hoodie, dark circles, too much time on his hands. He gave a weak laugh, scratching at the back of his neck like a kid caught stealing snacks.

“Yeah… okay. No act. You’re right. I just…” He stared up at you, raw and unfiltered for the first time. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still there. You don’t answer me anymore. You’re just—gone. It’s been driving me crazy.”

You dragged a hand down your face. The exhaustion in your bones was heavier than your anger. You were tired of school, tired of the static, tired of Ben and his antics. But god, he’d been a good lay. Funny, too, when he wasn’t being an obsessive digital gremlin.

You hated yourself a little for even thinking it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m kind of pathetic, huh?” He smirked again, thin and shaky. “But you liked me anyway. You did. Right?”

You didn’t answer.

Ben’s grin faltered and then returned in a twitchy, manic way. “Look,” he said, leaning closer to the camera. “You’re stressed. You’re burned out. You’re basically fried. I’ve been reading about stuff—therapy hacks, brain resets, you know, like shock therapy.”

You blinked. “Shock therapy?”

He nodded like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Yeah, yeah. Not the old-school scary kind. Think of it like… a jump start for your brain. I can do it for you. Fast. Clean. You’d feel amazing. No more overthinking. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You stared at him, exhausted and mildly horrified. “Ben. You’re literally trying to pitch electrocuting me like it’s a spa package.”

His smile widened, desperate at the edges. “It’s not like that! I’d take care of you, okay? You wouldn’t even have to do anything. Just trust me. Let me fix it. Let me fix you.”

You let out a laugh, bitter and flat. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said softly, tilting his head. “But you’re tired. And you know I’m good with my hands.”

You shut your eyes for a moment, groaning.

He really was low-key a pathetic nerd… but the worst part?

You could feel the tiniest, ugliest part of you considering it.

For a seconds, you just stared at each other through the glow, your chin propped on your palm like this was just another one of late-night calls you and him had together. “Alright, so what time are you even coming over then?” you asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ben’s grin flickered back into place—faint, but with an edge that felt different now. “Seconds,” he said.

You blinked. “…What?” A laugh slipped out, short and incredulous. “What are you, Amazon Prime? Two-day shipping wasn’t fast enough?”

He didn’t laugh.

You tilted your head, about to throw another barb, when something shifted in the corner of your vision. The glow of the laptop screen pulsed—once, twice—like a heartbeat. Pixels warped and stretched, bending like liquid. Then fingers pressed against the inside of the screen. Pale, long, nails painted matte black. You saw them flex.

Your stomach dropped straight through the mattress. “What the hell…”

Ben’s voice went low, steady, almost reverent. “Told you,” he said. “Seconds.”

You shoved yourself backward on the bed so fast you almost knocked the laptop off. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. No—”

The hand pushed further out, slipping through the screen like it was water, not glass. The static of the speakers hissed, and for a moment you swore you could smell something—warm, metallic. You scrambled until your shoulders hit the headboard, heart beating a warning in your throat. You hadn’t taken anything. You hadn’t smoked, drunk, anything.

You were stone-cold sober. This was real.

“What the actual fuck,” you whispered, your voice filled with disbelief.

Ben’s fingers—solid, warm—curled into the blanket near your knee, tugging. “Relax,” his voice said, but now it was behind you and through the speakers at once, like an echo that didn’t line up. “I told you.”

You yanked your leg back, trying to scramble off the bed, but he caught your wrist this time—his hand sliding up out of the screen until it was fully there, gripping you. His nails bit into your skin with a too-real sting. “Let me go!” you gasped, panic flooding every nerve. “Ben—stop—let me go!”

His grin had vanished. In its place was a blank, focused intensity you’d never seen before. “No,” he said quietly, and it wasn’t a plea. It was a statement.

The screen went black with a soundless pop, plunging the room into utter darkness. The only thing you could feel was his grip tightening as the world tilted. Then, without a flash or any warning, you weren’t in your room anymore.

One second you were on your bed; the next, his fingers clamped around your wrist, warm and impossibly solid, and yanked.

The world folded. Pixels smeared into streaks, your stomach lurched, and your brain did that ‘are we high?’ check again, you do at 3 a.m. when you’re too tired to tell reality from a fever dream.

Then, impact.

You landed hard, your shoulder slamming against something soft-rough and faintly sticky. The smell of old coffee, code-sweat, and boy detergent hit you like a wall. For a heartbeat you couldn’t breathe. You opened your eyes—not your room.

You were on your side, cheek pressed against a mattress. Not a mattress. His mattress. The scratchy blue dorm sheet, covered in crumbs of God-knows-what, and the faint smell of Axe. Of course.

Your head was tilted awkwardly against the side of his bed frame, your neck aching from the angle. You blinked up and there he was: Ben, above you, knees planted on either side like he was anchoring himself to reality. His hoodie sleeves pushed up, static still clinging to his fingertips.

Your arms—well, you tried to move. They were tied. Not tightly, but enough. Cords? Ethernet cables? Wow. “What the actual fuck, Ben,” you croaked, twisting your wrists. “Is this your idea of a first fuck in a while? Kidnap-me-through-a-screen cosplay?”

He looked down at you, hair a mess, eyes bright and fevered. “You’re fine,” he said, like you were being dramatic about a papercut. “Just don’t fight. You’ll ruin the calibration.”

The word hung in the air, thick and strange. Calibration. It wasn't a word you associated with Ben. Pranks, yes. Chaos, absolutely. But not... calibration.

This wasn't a fucked-up joke anymore. It’s beyond.

You stopped fighting. The Ethernet cables around your wrists weren’t normal. They were looped with a programmer’s efficiency—the same ruthless neatness as a clean block of code. Not too tight to leave marks, not too loose to wriggle out. They even hummed faintly under your skin, like low-voltage current.

You flexed your hands once, subtly. Nothing. They didn’t give, not even a millimeter.

“Ben,” you said at last, your voice low, steady. Terror had become a live wire under your skin, but now it was cut with something colder — clarity. “What the hell is ‘calibration’?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was… fiddling. His eyes running over you like you were a corrupted file he was debugging. He reached out, fingers gliding just above your shoulder without touching, as though smoothing out an invisible crease. The faintest static buzzed under his fingertips.

“You’re still pixelated around the edges,” he muttered, distracted, not even talking to you. “Render’s not clean. Told you not to fight it. Transition corrupts the data stream.”

You froze.

Data stream. Render. Transition.

Your eyes flicked down to the scratchy blue dorm sheet under your body. It felt real. The stale coffee smell. The ache in your shoulder from hitting the floor. Real. But his words were drawing a completely different, horrifying picture.

“Wait,” you whispered. “You didn’t just pull me through a screen.”

You stared at him. “You digitized me?”

Finally, he looked up. His eyes were burning with the wild gleam of a guy who’d solved an impossible equation at 3 a.m.

“Not digitized,” he corrected automatically. “That’s crude. I translated you. Broke you down into packets, streamed you through the local network. Way cleaner protocol than the old creepypasta methods. No messy cartridge haunting.”

He said it like he was bragging about a hackathon. Not like he had just dismantled your body and reassembled it in his hermit cave.

“You absolute fucker,” you breathed. The full horror sank in. “You turned me into a code?”

“For like three seconds, tops.” He gave a casual shrug, as though that fixed everything. “You’re fully material now. Mostly. Just some residual artifacting.” His eyes flicked over you, clinical and proud. “Your hairline’s a little fuzzy. Don’t worry, it’ll settle.”

A hysterical laugh escaped you, sharp and ugly. “Oh, sure, yeah, don’t worry. You kidnapped me through Wi-Fi, but hey, at least my hair’s in 4K.”

“This is why you were infesting my electronics,” you realized out loud. “The fridge, the speaker, FaceTime—you weren’t just creeping. You were testing the connection. Mapping my house like a goddamn router. Using my devices as beacons.”

Finally, his smile returned — slow, smug, and terrifying. “Took you long enough. Yeah. I needed a stable entry point. Your phone’s signal was strong, but your laptop has the processing power for full-scale transfer. The other stuff was just latency tests.”

You wriggled your wrists, felt the faint buzz of the cables tightening slightly, like they knew you were trying to escape. “What are these?” you snapped. “Literal LAN chains?”

Ben smirked, crouching down until he was at eye level with you. “Ethernet. Keeps you stable. Prevents packet loss. Keeps you from glitching out of my realm.”

“My realm,” you repeated, deadpan. “Do you hear yourself? Fuck, Ben. This is like a bad gamer horror story.”

He tilted his head, still crouched, still terrifyingly close. “You always said you liked my projects.”

Then he reached out and brushed a strand of hair off your forehead. The touch was warm. Real. It made you flinch so hard the cables pulled taut around your wrists, humming in warning.

“Don’t,” you hissed.

He just smiled wider. “Shock therapy, babe. It’s gonna help you. You’ll feel much better after.”

You barked out a bitter laugh. “Shock therapy. In your crusty dorm room. With LAN cables. Wow, Ben. Revolutionary. Should I leave a Yelp review when we’re done here?”

His smile didn’t show this time. “You can joke,” he said softly, “but you’re not leaving until you’re rebooted.” His tone was calm in that way only unhinged people manage. “And stop fighting the process—you’re gonna cause a buffer overflow. And trust me…” he leaned in, eyes glinting, “…you do not want to see what that looks like on a human body.”

He didn’t flinch when you tried to tug free. Just reached for something lying on the bed—a folded green cloth. Held it up like he was about to wipe down a counter. A makeshift gag?

You eyed it, suspicious. “What is that even for?”

His grin tilted, desperate and cocky at once. “You’re gonna need it after I’m done with you,” he said.

You blinked. “That’s the corniest shit I’ve ever heard—and you’ve said a lot of corny shit.”

“Maybe,” he said lightly, bringing the cloth closer. “But you’ll thank me after.”

You squirmed against the cables, “Ben. I swear to God—”

He pressed the cloth just lightly against your lips, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Deep breaths, sweetheart.” Even tied up, even half-terrified, your sarcasm leaked out. “This is—” you muttered, “—the worst spa treatment ever.”

Ben sat back on his heels, watching you like a programmer eyeing a live system he’d just forced into safe mode. Except this wasn’t code review—this was a reboot. A patch. A hands-on repair. The shift was so absolute it didn’t even feel real. One moment, you were wrapped in the pixel-smear aftermath of an impossible journey, Ethernet cables biting into your wrists like restraints.

Next, his dorm was thick with heat and ozone, sharp with the scent of copper and skin. It smelled like him, like you, like an overclocked circuit burning hot.

You’d stopped fighting. Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was the absurdity, maybe it was that treacherous part of you that had whispered the truth on FaceTime: you missed the chaos. And Ben? Ben was chaos written in binary.

Now you were almost bare, sprawled on his crumpled sheets, cables still trailing like input cords across your body. His eyes weren’t just hungry—they were scanning.

Debugging. Cataloguing everything he’d missed.

“You see?” he murmured, voice a low thrum, the kind of bass that vibrated bones. “Told you not to fight the calibration. Now we can… interface properly.”

His hands slid up your thighs not like a lover but like a tech handling sensitive hardware—palms flat, thumbs tracing your skin with deliberate pressure. It didn’t feel like a caress; it felt like a reset. Static snapped under his fingers, a thousand micro sparks making your muscles twitch.

It wasn’t pain. It was activation. Every nerve ending he passed over flicked online like LEDs. A chorus of yeses, bright and involuntary. You gasped, your back arching. “Wh–what is that?”

Ben only smiled—smug, amused, like a coder who’d just exploited a vulnerability—and lowered his head. The first sweep of his tongue was a revelation and a memory. That cool metal of his piercing dragging an electric path through your slickness.

God, how much he had missed this.

Missed the taste of you against his tongue, how you always went sweet-sharp when you were turned on, like citrus under static. His thoughts flickered behind his half-lidded eyes: you tastes like a hard drive running hot, you always does, he could just eat you for hours.

And he did. Slow, precise flicks around your clit, mapping you like a circuit diagram. Every movement of his tongue felt amplified—like the nerve endings themselves were being pinged directly. The low current from his fingers spread out, a tiny shockwave radiating from where his mouth was.

You moaned and bit into the cloth gag he’d tied, the sound muffled and desperate. The cables bit at your wrists when you tried to move, hands itching to grab his hair, to pull him closer or push him away—you didn’t even know which.

Your vision went fuzzy; the messy dorm room blurred into static and color, like bad reception on a screen.

Ben chuckled against you, low and satisfied, like someone testing code and watching it execute flawlessly. He licked deeper, slower, playful now—tiny spirals, sudden pauses, then a hard flick just where you twitched. Debugging you. Messing with your system. “God, you’re still so good,” he thought, teeth grazing, tongue diving back in. “Still taste like the first time I crashed you.”

Ben pulled back, his lips slick and shining, his breathing a little ragged. That red-tinged glint in his eyes wasn't just a reflection; it was a system status light, and right now, it was blinking [TASK_IN_PROGRESS].

"The funniest part," he whispered, his voice a low, static-laced hum against your mouth, "is that your OS is still trying to run a 'this is impossible' subroutine in the background." He nipped at your bottom lip, a tiny, corruping bite of data. "Process it later. Right now, you're hogging all the CPU cycles."

As he spoke, his fingers—slim, efficient input devices—initiated a new protocol. Not a forceful push, but a slow, inevitable data transfer. You felt the breach, the system acknowledgment as he slipped two fingers into you, a perfect, seamless penetration that made you cry out into the kiss, the sound swallowed by his code.

They curled inside you, executing a specific command, and a fresh, more intense packet of that raw, compiled pleasure sparked deep in your core. Your entire body convulsed—a hard, system-wide interrupt. A kernel panic of pure sensation.

He withdrew them, the debug data glistening on his fingertips.

He used it to paint slow, maddening circles around your clit, establishing a persistent connection. Your hips bucked, a brute-force physical response overriding all higher-level motor functions. The fact that your own panties—a silly, lacy .tmp file—were perched on his head like a admin crown was irrelevant.

The system was responding. That was all that mattered. His free hand came up. His fingertips, which you now realized hummed with a low-level *[PWM]_ frequency, gently brushed against your nipple.

It was a simple I/O request.

It shouldn't have caused a cascade failure.

But the moment contact was established, a concentrated sudo command—elevating pure, undiluted pleasure to root privileges—shot from the sensor node at your nipple straight to the central server in your core, completing the circuit in a flood of white-hot, executable bliss.

You came. Like Instantly.

It wasn't a graceful shutdown; it was a forced reboot. A blue screen of death for your nervous system. A silent scream locked behind the cloth as your body bowed off the bed.

You came so hard, so fast, it felt like a memory dump, your very molecules being defragged and rewritten. Stars burst behind your eyelids—a GPU rendering error—and for one clock cycle, you weren't in a body at all, just a raw, unstructured wave of sensation.

He laughed, a soft, wicked [SUCCESS] chime as he peeled the soaked cloth from your mouth. The taste of you was a familiar, perfect file type on his tongue—a flavor he'd cached and missed desperately. He dove back in, his tongue a searching, playful algorithm, letting you taste the sharp, metallic tang of your own compiled arousal on him.

The source code was always so much sweeter than the compiled output. You were boneless, utterly spent, your system idling in a post-orgasmic [SLEEP_MODE].

Then his hand landed a swift, open-palmed slap on your ass.

It wasn't just the impact. It was the same, sharp #define SHOCK_THERAPY macro, executed with precision. You jolted, a broken gasp escaping your lips—a new process violently spawned, your oversensitive nerves screaming in a confusing mix of [INTERRUPT_REQUEST] and renewed, tingling awareness.

He laughed again, a cheeky git commit of the moment, watching the stunned, hazy expression on your face—the GUI struggling to catch up with the core logic.

"See?" Ben murmured, his thumb stroking the spot he'd just patched, the touch now a soothing [SIGTERM], the current gone. "I told you I'd keep my word about the shock therapy." He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You just never asked what the function was for. It's a debugging tool. And you, babe, are full of bugs. Good thing I'm so good at... cleaning you up."

The realization didn’t come as a single, crashing wave. It was a slow, creeping tide of horror, cold and undeniable, seeping into the spaces between the exhilaration and the sheer, impossible shock of it all.

Calibration. It wasn’t just about locking you in.

It was about… tuning you.

You felt it then, a low, resonant hum under your skin, a frequency that wasn't your own. It was his. The same static that had clung to his fingertips when he pulled you through was now a part of your nervous system, a background process running in the deepest code of your flesh. Your body was no longer just your body. It was his instrument. And he was learning to play.

Your arrogant dismissal of his "perverted" talents echoed in your mind, a taunt that had now become your epitaph. You’d thought he was just a creep with a tech fetish. You never imagined he was a composer, and your very senses were his symphony.

He moved then, shifting off the bed. The Ethernet cables fell away from your wrists, not because he untied them, but because they simply dissolved into pixels, their purpose served. You were anchored now by something far more intimate.

You watched, numb and fascinated, as he pulled his hoodie over his head, then his t-shirt. His skin was pale in the dim light of his dorm, the same blue glow from multiple monitors painting his torso in stark relief. There was no hesitation, no performative seduction.

This was a system update. A necessary step.

He reached for you, his hands closing around your upper arms. He was stronger than he looked, all wiry tension and focused intent. He lifted you as if you weighed nothing, repositioning himself against the headboard with his back to it, and pulled you down to straddle his lap. Your knees sank into the mattress on either side of his hips.

His hands slid down to your thighs, his grip firm. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

"See?" he murmured, his voice a low thrum that seemed to vibrate in your bones. "The calibration is almost complete. The interface is… responsive."

Suddenly, a jolt, sharp and precise, arced from his thumbs directly into your nerves. It wasn't pain. It was a straight, electric signal of pleasure, so intense and sudden it ripped a choked gasp from your throat. Your back arched violently, your head falling back. It was a shockwave of sensation, overloading every circuit, bringing you to the very brink of climax in a single, devastating second. You saw stars, your vision whiting out at the edges.

As the aftershocks trembled through you, your gaze, blurry and unfocused, drifted down. And you saw them.

Green. Creeper boxes.

Pixelated, grinning faces from Minecraft.

A hysterical, breathless giggle escaped you. It was too absurd, too perfectly, ridiculously Ben. The world's most dangerous digital predator, the dude who could rewrite reality, wore dorky novelty boxers. He froze. The intense, focused expression on his face shattered into sheer, unadulterated annoyance. "Hey," he said, his voice tight. "Take this seriously."

But you couldn't.

The laugh bubbled up again, a weak, shaky thing. "You— you're gonna shock me but you can't pick a decent pair of boxers?" you managed to get out, your voice trembling with residual pleasure and insane mirth.

His jaw tightened. A flush crept up his neck. He was vulnerable here, in this one, stupid, human detail. And you had found the crack in his god-complex armor. Drunk on the power of that tiny discovery, on the electric buzz still humming in your veins, you did it.

You shifted your hips, a slow, carefully grind against the rough cotton covering his cock. He jolted as if you'd shocked him. A sharp, ragged moan was torn from his throat, his head thumping back against the headboard. His eyes, wide and stunned, locked with yours.

"Fuck," he breathed, his composure utterly broken. His hands tightened on your thighs, “Stop...” but it was a reflexive clutch, not a controlling one.

“You shouldn't—you shouldn't have done that."

He was begging. Low, desperate, and utterly genuine. A slow, wicked smile spread across your lips. The tables hadn't turned, not by a long shot. You were still his prisoner, his experiment, his instrument. But you had just found a key. His body, for all his digital mastery, was still just a body. And it responded to you.

"Oh, I shouldn't have?" you whispered, leaning forward until your lips were inches from his ear, your breath ghosting over his skin. You ground against him again, slower this time, more torturous.

He groaned, a low, helpless sound. His fingers dug into your flesh, his hips bucking up involuntarily to meet your movement. The all-powerful hacker, the boy who could pull you through screens, was being undone by a simple, physical grind. His eyes were glazed, his breath coming in short pants. "I'm serious," he gasped, but it lacked all conviction. "You have no idea what you're playing with. The system... it's not stable..."

"Then make it stable, Ben," you purred, your voice dropping to a challenge. "Or are you losing control of your own experiment?"

You saw the conflict warring in his eyes—who needed to maintain the integrity of his code, and the desperate, turned-on man who just wanted to feel you move.

If he saw you as a system to be calibrated, then you’d show him a virus. If he was a programmer, you’d be the glitch he couldn’t patch.

Your struggling stilled. The panicked tension in your body melted away, replaced by a deliberate, languid shift of your hips against the mattress. You let out a soft, slow breath. Ben’s eyes, which had been fixed on some invisible data stream over your shoulder, snapped back to your face. The focused intensity wavered, replaced by pure, unadulterated confusion.

You looked up at him from under your lashes, a slow, wicked smile playing on your lips. "So this is your big master plan, Benny? Tie me to your bed with Cat6 cables? A little cliché, even for you."

His brow furrowed. "What are you—"

You didn't let him finish. You arched your back, a deliberate, sinuous movement that pressed your chest against his knees. "You spent all this time hacking the fabric of reality," you purred, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Just to get me right where you could have had me any time you wanted with a simple 'you up?' text."

You saw his throat work as he swallowed.

The programmer was gone, replaced by the man you knew—the one who thought he was a god but folded when you looked at him a certain way. “What, you blocked—This isn't about that?!” he said, but his voice lacked its earlier conviction.

"No?" You leaned your head to the side, exposing your neck. "Then untie me. Let me go. Prove it."

He didn't move. His gaze was locked on the line of your throat.

"That's what I thought." You moved again, this time rolling your hips in a slow, circular grind against the bed beneath you. A soft, breathy moan escaped you—partly acted, partly very, very real. "You didn't bring me here to calibrate me, Ben. You brought me here because you missed this. You missed me." You saw the look in his eyes. You pressed your advantage.

"All this... and you're using it to be a gentleman?" You let your smile turn into a taunt. "I never took you for a coward."

That did it. A low growl rumbled in his chest. "You have no idea what you're playing with."

"Then show me," you challenged, your voice a dare. "Stop talking about data streams and show me what that... protocol... can really do."

In a movement too fast to track, you surged upward, ignoring the bite of the cables. He was still kneeling over you, off-balance. You didn't try to break free. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your face inches from his.

And you bit him.

Not hard. Not to hurt. You sank your teeth into the soft, pointed curve of his earlobe, a sharp, possessive nip that made him jolt as if you'd sent a thousand volts through him. A ragged gasp tore from his lips. His hands, which had been resting on his thighs, flew up and gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in.

"You're gonna break the—" he started, his voice a strangled gasp as you bit down on the sensitive juncture of his neck and shoulder.

"Fuck the calibration," you breathed against his ear, your tongue flicking out to soothe the stinging spot you'd just marked. You twisted in his grip, no longer trying to pull away, but to press closer. Your chest was flush against his back now, your bound hands trapped between your stomach and his spine. You could feel the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart through your own ribcage.

“Just fuck me, Ben.”

The last of his resolve shattered audibly.

A low, guttural sound ripped from his throat. His hands, which had been holding you by the shoulders, slid down your arms until they were gripping the Ethernet cables binding your wrists. He didn't untie you.

In one fluid, forceful motion, he pivoted, turning you away from him. Before you could process it, he’d pulled you back, down, until you were settled heavily in the space between his legs, your back pressed flush against his chest. Your bound hands were still trapped behind you. The position alone, forced your spine into a slight, vulnerable curve against him.

"Fine," he rasped, his voice raw against your ear. His breath was hot, his chest heaving against your back. "You want to play? We'll play."

His free hand snaked down, fumbling for a moment before he grabbed the waistband of his stupid boxers and shoved them down.

His cock sprang free, hard and thick and already leaking against your lower back. The feel of it, the intimate, shocking reality of it, sent a fresh, traitorous wave of slick heat pooling between your own thighs.

He didn't wait. He didn't tease. He kept one hand firmly over your bound ones, pinning them against your back, and with the other, he reached between your legs. His fingers, still buzzing with a faint, staticky energy, parted your folds. A sharp, startled gasp escaped you as the cool air—and then the hot, blunt tip of him—met your exposed, sensitive flesh.

He guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick, puffy heat. You were stretched taut, every nerve ending screaming, caught between the hard plane of his chest at your back and the insistent pressure at your core.

"Ben... please," you whimpered, the word half-protest, half-prayer. You were completely at his mercy, positioned perfectly for his use, your body arching back into his of its own volition.

"Please what?" he growled into your ear, his voice dripping with amusement. He didn't move, letting you feel the unbearable tension, the promise of violation and release. "You begged for it."

And he slammed you down onto him in one brutal, perfect thrust.

The air left your lungs in a shocked cry. The feeling of him filling you, stretching you, was overwhelming, as your body seizing around him as the world dissolved into a blinding, white-hot static—a glitch in your very soul, engineered by him.

The world had been reduced to a single, brutal feedback loop.

Your body was no longer your own; it was a terminal overwhelmed by a hostile input, a system crashing under a denial-of-service attack of pure sensation.

Ben didn't move for a moment, just let you feel the full, shocking length of him buried deep inside you. You could feel so much of him, a foreign process that had escalated its privileges and was now running at the kernel level, with direct access to all your core systems.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his teeth scraping your skin in a gentle bite that sent a corrupted packet of pain-pleasure straight to your brainstem. His breath came in harsh, syncopated pants against your neck.

"See?" he whispered, his voice raw with static and exertion.

"No glitches now. Perfect sync."

Then he began the compile cycle.

It wasn't a gentle rhythm. It was a relentless, pounding grind, a physical manifestation of his fucked-up, obsessive code. Each thrust was a forced system call, overwriting your own processes. He held you by the Ethernet cables—your physical I/O constraints—controlling your body, driving you down onto him again and again.

“S-So much…” you gasped, the protest a fragmented exception thrown by a consciousness on the verge of a full stack overflow.

A grin twisted your lips as you felt Ben writhe underneath you, his own system struggling to maintain stability under the load. You arched back against him, and more shocks—his finger-trails—raced down your chest, tiny fork bombs detonating across your skin, leaving trails of fire all the way down to your stomach and back up to your nipples.

Each touch sent ripples of electricity through you, forcing moans and whines from your lips, raw audio output you no longer cared to mute.

Who was going to hear you? You were on his localhost.

Ben spared a look at your face and couldn't help but snicker. You looked fucked dumb. A classic buffer underrun. Drool was escaping your lips—unhandled output overflow. Your cheeks were flushed with a system-wide heat warning. Your eyes were rolled back, the user interface completely unresponsive.

His cock was buried inside of you, balls deep, a root-level process consuming all available resources.

"Ben, please, more,” you moaned, the plea a corrupted system file begging for its own deletion. “Keep going…”

A fresh shock, a voltage spike, vibrated through you, and you stiffened up, your query dying in a segmentation fault. "You know, I always liked your compatibility compared to the others," he said casually, as if reading from a log file. "Your system architecture always handled my processes the best." His words were mild, a low-priority thread, and you could be mistaken for thinking he wasn't running a malicious kernel.

If it wasn't for the fact that his power activated again, surging through your head and causing your body to convulse in a full hardware interrupt. He didn't stop moving, simply fucking you through the convulsions and shaking as he moved the hand on your hip to your clit, initiating a new, parallel execution thread designed to maximize system load.

"How you doing, babe?" He chuckled maliciously as another shock, a core dump, ran through your body. You heard a noise in the distance, a high-pitched system alert, and it took a second to realize you were screaming.

He cooed at you, a mocking daemon process, as he rubbed tight, agonizingly perfect circles across your clit, compiling a new wave of pleasure-pain.

Ben hushed you, a command to suppress the alert, and slowly pushed you down again, sheathing his entire red, aching process back into you. As much of a short king as he was, he definitely had the meatiest cock you'd ever felt—a processor with overwhelming clock speed. You moaned as the feeling of his girth stretched you out, a filesystem being forcibly reformatted.

The feeling of your soft, fleshy walls was a sharp contrast to the tiny, sharp pinches arcoss your body, another forked process he was running simultaneously. He looked up at you, smirking, feeling your pussy tighten around him in a involuntary system lock, and you, specifically, were begging for read-write permissions you no longer possessed.

Your moans were successfully muffled but little could be said for the lewd squelching and grunts from the man below you. "Fuck," he moaned, his own voice thick with I/O block, "you feel so good, babe. Take my cock so—ah, fuck—well, hmm?"

The air in the room was thick, charged not just with the smell of sweat and ozone, but with the raw, terrifying power he wielded. He had rewritten your very existence, and the aftershocks of that violation were still vibrating through your cells.

Your earlier struggles, your pleas, your terror—it had all melted away, replaced by a need so profound it felt like a system error you couldn't correct. The Ethernet cables were still looped around your wrists, a reminder of your captivity, but they felt different now. Not like restraints, but like anchors holding you to the epicenter of the storm.

He was above you, his body a solid, sweating weight.

The focused intensity was back in his eyes, but it was fractured, glitching with a hunger that mirrored your own. He drove into you, each thrust a brutal, perfect calibration of pleasure and pain. It wasn't gentle. It was a forcible rewrite of your senses, his thick cock spearing into you, stretching you, claiming a space that was now, by his design, part of his domain.

Your fingers, tangled in the scratchy sheets, found their way to his back, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie, then into his skin. You were clutching him, pulling him deeper, your body arching to meet his punishing rhythm.

"Ben,” you gasped, the name a broken prayer. Your head fell back, exposing your throat. He didn't hesitate. He lowered his head, his teeth sinking into the tender junction of your neck and shoulder.

It wasn't a love bite. It was a claim. A jolt of white-hot pain, sharp and clean as a corrupted file, shot through you, syncing perfectly with the deep, internal friction of him filling you. The dual sensations—the brutal pleasure and the electric sting—short-circuited your higher brain functions.

You weren't just a person anymore.

You were data, and he was the virus overwriting everything.

"Please," you choked out, your voice ragged. "Don't you dare stop."

You could feel him starting to lose his own control. The smug, calculating programmer was gone, replaced by a raw, glitching animal. His thrusts became more frantic, less precise. You saw it in his eyes—the flicker of panic, the realization that he wasn't just corrupting you; you were corrupting him right back.

"Fuck," he snarled, his voice thick and strained. "You're—you're gonna—“

You felt it then, the telltale twitch deep inside you, the pulsing throb of his release building. A final, devastating piece of code. "No," you begged, your eyes flying open to lock with his. You clutched him tighter, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him so deep you felt you might break.

"Inside. Ben, please. I want it all. Fill me up." The plea, so raw and greedy, so different from your earlier cries for freedom, seemed to scare him. It was a variable he hadn't accounted for. His eyes widened, the digital flatness in them replaced by a flash of pure, human fear. You were begging for the ultimate integration, for his essence to become a permanent, inseparable part of your system.

It was the final shock to his system.

With a guttural sound that was half-groan, half-scream, he slammed into you one last time, his body locking up. His fists clenched in the sheets on either side of your head, his entire frame trembling as he emptied himself inside you in hot, pulsing waves.

The sensation was cataclysmic.

It wasn’t an orgasm; it was a full system crash. A catastrophic buffer overflow of pleasure and pain surging from your core out to every nerve, every cell, every byte of you. Your vision went white—true static, not metaphorical.

Your back arched one last time, muscles rigid, a silent scream caught mid-process as the world simply… blue-screened.

You went slack, collapsing against the mattress like a bricked device, limbs heavy and unresponsive. The last flicker of awareness was the warmth between your thighs and the faint, almost sheepish whisper near your ear:

“…oh, shit.”

Ben froze, still above you, panting. His hair stuck damply to his forehead. He stared down at you, wide-eyed, as you lay there like an unplugged console. “…sweet dreams, babe?” he tried weakly, giving your cheek a poke with his index finger. No response.

“Okay. That’s—” He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. “—that’s probably not good. Did I just… overclock you into sleep mode?” He leaned down again, snapping his fingers near your face. “Hey. Hey. Don’t crash on me now, I just finished the install.”

You didn’t stir. You were gone, floating somewhere far beyond his dorm, your system wiped clean, your body still warm and twitching faintly from residual current.

Ben exhaled through his nose, somewhere between exasperated and impressed. “Damn,” he muttered, glancing at the slick mess between your thighs. “I missed this, but—yeah, okay, maybe I underestimated my own throughput. Patch notes for next time: less voltage, more pacing.”

He reached over for a towel with one hand, the other lightly brushing your hair off your face, softer now. “You’re fine,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You just… rebooted. That’s all. Little power nap, we’ll run diagnostics after.”

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he cleaned you up. “Shock therapy, huh? Guess I really did wipe your cache.”

Boot-up was slow.

Not sleep. Not dreaming. Not even the hazy slide of exhaustion. This was structured, patterned—like your brain was scrolling through BIOS checks.

First came sound: the low, steady hum of something mechanical. Not the usual white noise of campus, but the deep vibration of servers thrumming in sync. Then came touch: the rough scratch of sheets against your cheek, cool against skin that still burned. Your eyes open.

The world didn’t look real anymore. Not entirely. His dorm was the same—the messy desk, the towers of Monster cans, the glowing monitors—but everything had edges that glitched when you stared too long. The posters on the wall rippled like corrupted textures, their colors bleeding into pixels before snapping back into place. Even your own hand, when you lifted it, shimmered faintly before re-solidifying.

You sat up too fast, your head swimming with static.

“Easy there, champ,” Ben’s voice came lazily from your right.

You turned and found him slouched back in his chair, hoodie wrinkled, hair sticking up in all directions. He had the audacity to look smug and casual, like he’d just finished troubleshooting someone’s Wi-Fi, not… whatever the hell he had done to you.

His lips quirked into a grin as his eyes met yours. “Congrats. System reboot successful. No blue screen this time.”

You glared, throat dry. “…Did you seriously just tech support my orgasm-induced coma?”

“Correction,” he said, wagging a finger, “your orgasm-induced firmware update. You’re running on a way more stable build now.”

You stared. “…You’re so weird.”

“Yeah,” he admitted without hesitation, “but tell me I’m wrong.”

You dragged a hand down your face, realizing—too late—that even your own skin felt wrong. Softer. Hyperreal. Like someone had upped your resolution but turned the saturation way too high. The warmth in your veins pulsed in time with the server hum, every beat an echo of him.

“…Why does everything look like Minecraft shaders gone wrong?” you muttered.

Ben leaned forward, elbows on knees, grinning like the devil himself. “That’s just residual artifacting. Don’t worry, it’ll settle. You’re basically synced now. All your drivers updated. Cache wiped. Stress purged. You’re welcome.”

You gave him a flat look. “You kidnapped me through a laptop, tied me up with Ethernet cables, and—” you broke off, cheeks heating. “—whatever the hell that was. And now you’re acting like Geek Squad?”

Ben spread his hands like it was obvious. “Exactly. Except Geek Squad won’t eat you out mid-diagnostic.” He leaned forward, his hands dangling between his knees, studying you like he’d solved the hardest coding problem of his life.

His grin softened, but that feverish gleam in his eyes didn’t fade. “You’re stable now,” he murmured, as if reassuring himself more than you. “Synced. No more bugs. No more lag.”

You swallowed, forcing words through the dryness of your throat. “So what now? You keep me here? Make me your… your fucked-up patch update?”

He chuckled, quiet but sharp. “No. You’re not a patch.” His gaze held yours, unflinching. “You’re the system I’ve been building for. Everything else was just test code.”

That should’ve terrified you more than it did.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the lingering, treacherous heat curling low in your belly. Or maybe it was the simple, horrifying truth: part of you liked being wanted this much, even if it meant being devoured. Ben tilted his head like a customer service rep about to hang up. “So,” he said softly, “ready to run the next program?”

Your heart stuttered, the hum of the servers pulsing like a countdown.

End of file.

₍^. .^₎⟆ yaya’s kinktober masterlist

#my honest to god genuine type i fear.....#if any of my situationships were like that i wld also not let go bro #dude is so ball and chain core LMAO #nikos favs

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