multi! creepypasta x f!doll! reader [18+] [NSFW] - Part 1.
Summary: Awakened after five months trapped inside a wooden chest, a life-sized porcelain doll is forced to navigate a chaotic mansion full of unpredictable inhabitants. Her forced slumber was no accident, and she is at the center of a larger plan.
Other Details: Semi-canon, Established relationships, Masky (Tim), Hoodie (Brian), Slenderman (The Operator), Jeffrey Woods, Toby Rogers, Other characters
✦ Reader is implied to be AFAB & a human-sized living doll.
CW: 18+ Content, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Violence, Cannibalism, Body Horror, Toxic Dynamics/ Abuse, Toxic Relationships, Smoking, Eventual Smut
[A quick reminder to separate fiction from nonfiction. The story begins under the cut.]
Your lashes fluttered open, glossy eyes refracting with speckles of memory.
Joints stiff from years of dormancy, protesting with subtle clicks as you move. A pinky first, then a wrist.
Each move is deliberate, hesitant. A body remembering its own mechanics for the first time.
You exhale out of habit, which is rich, considering you’ve never once drawn a real breath. It was merely a gesture of awakening, a human mimicry engraved into the varnished ceramic you called skin.
Yes, you are in fact a doll. Life-sized with porcelain textured skin, glass-marbles for eyeballs. So delicate, you could break if treated roughly enough.
After 5 months of slumber, you’re finally awake. But you’re currently stuck within a chest, shrouded by darkness. A familiar pattern dragged out far past its expiration date.
To spend so long asleep, and this is your grand return: crammed inside a chest that smells like attic neglect and generational denial.
The darkness isn’t romantic either. It feels more like someone forgot to pay the electric bill since the invention of electricity.
The lid looms above, judging you.
You shove upward. It gives with a reluctant groan, like it resents being disturbed after years of doing absolutely nothing productive.
Cool light from a nearby window spills in. Dust motes drift. You sit up inside the chest, back propped against carved rosettes that dig into your spine with the dainty cruelty only decorative woodwork can manage.
You sit up, arms trembling. Skirt rustling, layers of lace, ribbons, delicate black fabric arranged with the kind of obsessive precision only a doll-maker or a god with too much free time would bother with.
Your head piece sits slightly askew. Your dress is pristine. You look as though you've been preserved for a tea party that never happened.
Carved wooden rosettes on the edge of the container press into your back as you straighten. They scratch just enough to remind you you’re ornamental property, not a person. Cute.
You take in your surroundings.
A tall bookshelf dwarfs everything else in the room. Stacked to the ceiling. And for reasons that defy logic, the chest, your chest, has been placed on the top shelf like a wedding cake topper no one had the heart to throw out.
The chest rocks under you. Not gently. Not politely. A warning tremor. You ignore it.
Instead, you crane your head out further to scan the space. A dusty room. An ancient chair. Books that smell like they’ve absorbed eighty years of bad breath.
And pacing just below, in the corner, someone. Brown hair. Hoodie. Goggles. Fidgeting fingers. Muttered voice. Their whole form jittering like a live wire.
The chest shifts again moving closer to the edge.
And that's when you realize, you are about to fall out of it.
You attempt grace. You achieve none.
Torso beckoning forward, your lace skirts billow out like a frilled parachute that does absolutely nothing.
You plummet off the bookshelf.
The person below you looks up a second too late.
You’re about to fall directly onto him.
Although, the current biggest problem is really the chest teetering atop the shelf.
It drops not long after your own descent.
Toby spins just in timearms flailing, to catch you…or at least, attempt to.
Instead you land square on him, knocking the wind out of his lungs in a startled, high-pitched grunt he’ll likely never admit came out of him.
You barely register him beneath you. He flops backward like a startled cat, muttering through a breathless panic.
The chest slamming down beside you and the tip of your pinky takes part of the hit. Shattering. Pain rockets through you, sharp enough to split the world in half.
The man simply stares up at you, pinned under your lace-splayed form like this is mildly inconvenient, not at all rib-shattering.
He says your name, breath catching over the syllables, though the sound is tangled in the jumble of his startled confusion.
“H–holy- did you- f–fall outta the- the- bookshelf?” His voice stutters, shoulders jerking slightly, but there’s not an ounce of pain in his tone. Just startled confusion.
You sit upright on top of him, pinky jammed into your mouth to keep the blood from dripping onto your clothes. You stare at him with the bored disdain of a disgruntled porcelain deity.
“No Tobias,” you say, voice dry enough to wilt flowers. “I executed a controlled descent. Obviously.”
His face contorts beneath the mask and goggles. “Y–you- uh- landed on me. A–and then the- the box- crushed your-”
“Yes. That is what it looks like. Well observed.” you say.
You pull your ruined finger from your lips. Ceramic split. Blood smeared. Bent at an angle that would make even a chiropractor weep.
Toby’s eyes widen. Not dramatically, more like he’s trying to decide whether to vomit, apologize, or pass out and can’t commit to any of the three.
“D–dude,” he whispers, voice cracking in the middle like it tripped. “That’s… that’s messed up.”
You slide off him, movements stiff and doll-precise. Your skirts spill around you in immaculate folds that shouldn’t be possible after a ten-foot swan dive and an attempted homicide via antique furniture.
Your first coherent thought after impact isn’t pain. It’s irritation.
Of course they left you up there. Of course they shoved your chest onto a shelf fit for fire hazards and forgotten Christmas ornaments. The only real question was which idiot did it.
Couldn’t have been Toby. His surprise at your sudden fall isn't consistent. That and he’s too keyed‑up, too aware of the unspoken rules. His type doesn’t touch what doesn’t belong to them. Not in a house like this. Not with a past like his. Maybe he’d act recklessly with Brian or Tim, but not with you. He respects the Operator far too much.
Jeff is the first true suspect. Naturally.
You picture him: wide manic grin, eyelids long gone, sockets permanently stretched in that raw, overexposed way that makes even his resting face look like a threat and a joke at the same time. Jeff measures his actions by one metric, “Would this annoy someone?” If yes, he does it immediately. If no, he modifies the situation until the answer is yes.
Putting you on a twelve-foot shelf?
Yes. That’s exactly his brand of obnoxious, underdeveloped impulse control.
He’s reckless enough. He’s stupid enough. He’s bored enough. And he has no strict obligations to anyone…maybe his brother. You shake your head, denying the thought. No, not even to Liu.
You can practically hear him saying it:
“C’mon, teacup’ll be fiiiiine up there.”
Next possibility: Eyeless Jack.
Nope. Jack wouldn’t bother hauling a doll anywhere. He barely bothers acknowledging furniture unless it’s in his way. If he touched you, it wouldn’t be to move you.
It’d be to take something soft and vital…
You smooth a hand over your sternum and rest of your torso, feeling the steady thrum beneath glazed ribs. Heart still beating. Organs intact. Relief washes over you.
Jack wouldn’t leave something alive and whole just to annoy someone. He takes what he needs, and you… are not the kind of body he’s after. You’re much too…well-preserved.
Masky? Closer in terms of probability.
He has brute strength and a track record of “I’ll put this here and deal with the consequences never.” His organization system is chaos wearing a skin suit. If he needed the floor clear for some mission, he’d toss anything, including you, onto the nearest elevated surface and leave without a second thought.
You could see him doing it.
Not maliciously.
Just inconveniently.
Hoodie? Less likely but still on the board.
He has enough common sense to know better, but he also zones out so hard that half the time he forgets there are objects, people, and physics around him. If he spaced out while cleaning, he might’ve lifted your chest like a prop and set it down wherever his dissociated hands felt like. Not his usual mistake, but not impossible.
And then there’s the Operator.
The only one whose motives you can’t read.
The only one who has ever had the right, and authority, to store you away.
He’s action-driven. Precise. Purpose-driven.
If he’s the one who sealed you for five months and put you up there, it wasn’t negligence. It was a strategy.
Which means your lengthy slumber wasn’t an accident either.
There’s more options to consider but for now, you file that away.
For later. When your finger isn’t broken. When the room isn’t shaking from Toby’s nervous energy. When your mind isn’t vibrating with the dry aftertaste of five months of silence.
Toby scrambles up, dusting himself off with swift swipes. His hoodie rides up an inch, then down again as he jerks at the hem, like he’s trying to rebuild his dignity via fabric manipulation.
You sigh. Sharp. Irritated. “Five months in a box. And this is how I wake up.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.
He squints at you, breath hitching. “Wait- h‑hold on. You’ve been up there for five months?”
His head tilts to the side, contemplating something. “Five months, huh…” His voice carries that dry, flat inflection that makes it sound like an accusation and a joke all at once.
“Yes. Congratulations. You’re the first face I get to see after being stored like an off-season decoration.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Well… I just got b-back from a m-mission that lasted about that long. A-about an hour ago actually.”
You arch a brow. “Convenient.”
A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips, not visible but so obviously present. Freckles dusted across the visible portion of his nosebridge that somehow managed to soften the harsh lines of the room. “Not my fault. T-though, yeah… suppose it is p-pretty bad timing.”
A mark burns faintly under the porcelain backside of your palm, on your injured hand…Not new. Not benign. A seal meant to keep things orderly. Its warmth flares like someone pressing a thumbprint into your spirit.
As expected, something else now notices you’re awake.
It brushes the edge of your awareness. A pressure change. A tilt in the room like gravity turned its head to look at you.
Toby doesn’t feel it right away. Right now, his mind is running too hot and too fast. Expected from returning from such a long journey.
You shift to look at the mark.
The symbol isn’t decorative. It’s the Operator’s mark. Der Großmann. The oldest title attached to the thing that moves like absence wearing a shape. Humans called him “Slender Man” because they needed something smaller to say. The mark predates the nickname by centuries.
A circle with an X through its center.
Not random geometry. A command sigil.
It designates envoys, assets, and claimed territory.
On your hand, it glows because you weren’t born, you were made by the Operator. Built to carry orders, to channel instructions without breaking. The blue light is a wire between you and him, live whenever he chooses.
On Toby’s hand, the same symbol is carved deep into the back, dark and healed. His doesn’t glow because he’s not a vessel, he’s an agent, meant to move, execute, and enforce. But it’s the same sigil, the same claim, the same ownership.
Two hands. Two marks. Two roles.
You: vessel.
Toby and the others: agents.
Toby clears his throat, stiff like a snapped spring, and gestures towards your hand and then the door on the other side of the room: The clinic. “C’mon. I… uh, I think we should g-get that fixed. Before it, y’know, falls off or something.”
The living room passes by like a gallery of chaos. A collision of eras and tastes: a battered CRT television dominates a coffee table crowded with comic books, controllers, half-eaten snacks, and the occasional spilled soda. Dust motes drift in the stray sunlight, dancing above empty couches that sag like tired beasts, cushions uneven and threadbare. The air smells faintly of old paper, wax polish, and a lingering hint of tobacco from who-knows-when.
Toby walks ahead of you, brown boots scraping the warped floorboards in an uneven rhythm, heel‑toe, heel‑toe‑stutter.
The house shifts as you both move, old wood complaining under his weight and ignoring yours entirely. You make no sound. Dolls aren’t heavy enough to leave an honest footprint.
“By the way…” you start. “Why were you just standing there? Where are Tim and Brian?”
Toby glances back, sheepishly, “Yeah, Masky and Hoodie are off reporting to t-the Operator. Me? I, uh… had to use the bathroom.”
No, really, Toby? You return from a five‑month mission, walk into the house, and the first thing you do is wander off to piss?
Unbelievable. Of course he couldn't have noticed you were locked away. He wasn’t here. But the timing feels ridiculous anyway.
He shoves the clinic door open. Jack’s kingdom of antiseptic scents, metal trays, and whatever passed for first aid when patients were kept barely alive.
The smell of isopropyl rolls out in a cold wave. Everything in here is too…clean compared to the chaos outside, like the room refuses to participate in the house’s entropy.
Metal counters. Glass jars. A tray of tools Jack left out, arranged with a near surgical level of sterility.
You step inside, shoes tapping silently against the white tiles.
The clinic is too bright with its fluorescent bulbs and the curtains are closed shut. It's a room that exists solely for work, not comfort.
You ease yourself onto the metal exam table. Porcelain calves meet the stainless steel with a hollow clink, brushing the edge.
Your gaze sweeps the shelves and surrounding surfaces. Empty. Too empty.
“And where’s Jack?” you ask, voice flat.
Almost as if summoned, the clinic door creaks open.
It’s Jeff. The resident’s true deviant. Eyes permanently stuck wide open like someone left him strapped in a chair to stare directly into a solar flare.
At twenty-five, he’s still spectacularly clueless about boundaries.
Hell, even Toby, the kid already knows better. Barely twenty-one, still figuring out which rules actually matter, still a little damp behind the ears. But at least he has half a brain to follow them… kind of.
Once, Jeff somehow misread your stoicism as interest. He just wanted an excuse to mess with something pretty, and that thing just so happened to be you. Your silence? Flirting. Any patience? An open invitation for his useless banter. And the nickname he slapped on you, ‘Teacup’, so monumentally stupid and somewhat demeaning that you can still feel it echo in your joints.
Around the other residents and proxies, he prowls. Around you, he improvises off whatever half-baked thought crawls through his brain that day.
You know he’s a menace. Not malicious exactly, just… unhousebroken. Potential’s there, smoldering under the wreckage of him, buried, feral, inconvenient, and entirely unwilling to behave.
He takes one look at you on the counter, porcelain cracked, blood crusting at the edge of your palm, Toby hovering nearby like a distressed camp counselor, and he grins.
“Holy shit,” he drawls, stepping fully inside while slamming the door behind him, untied canvas sneakers scuffing the floor. “Look who finally crawled outta storage. Been gone a while, huh, Teacup?”
Toby stiffens like someone pulled a fire alarm directly inside his spine. “D‑dude,” he mutters, half warning, half exhausted prayer.
Jeff ignores him entirely.
He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it worse than before. “What’d they do, lock you in a fuckin’ attic? Shove you in a box and hope you’d collect dust? Damn. Even I wouldn’t pull that one.” He gestures at you loosely, obnoxiously. “And I’ve done some shit, babe.”
You level him with a stare cold enough to crack your own glaze. “So you admit it wasn’t you.”
Jeff scoffs, offended you’d even suggest he’d do something so… organized.
“Me? Put you that high up like some creepy porcelain angel?” He snorts.
“No. I don’t do ‘neat.’ If I wanted you outta the way, I’d’ve left you on the stairs where Masky could trip over you and eat shit.”
You blink once. Slow. “Charming.”
You tilt your head. “And why exactly are you in here?” Voice flat, like asking why a raccoon is in your kitchen.
He huffs out a short laugh, pulling up at his own sleeve. A long, angry gash runs from elbow to wrist, raw and oozing like it’s been ignored for days.
He shrugs. “Needed a spot to patch up. My trailer floor’s already a biohazard. Didn’t feel like adding more… character...”
The trailer. The pathetic tin box squatting near the front gate, just far enough from the mansion to keep anyone from having to claim him. You’ve only been there once. Once was enough.
Jeff doesn’t live here. He just crashes through like weather, mostly to screw around with Ben. Together, those two generate the kind of chaos you could bottle and label as a controlled substance.
Toby shifts beside you, face scrunching. “D‑dude… you s-seriously let that get that bad?”
Jeff grins, teeth slightly yellowed against the dried blood on the corners of his mouth. “Builds character.”
“Jack isn't g-gonna be too h-happy when he sees that”
You cock your head to the side. The irony is rich. Toby, with his CIPAA, would get chewed out by Jack for letting even a scratch fester, yet here he is, shocked by Jeff’s walking disaster. But he’s right, no doubt Jack would lecture Woods for a week if he saw this.
The room stills a moment, then the clinic door opens again with a soft click.
Jack steps in, movements smooth, economical, almost soundless. His presence slicing through the room’s artificial brightness like a scalpel.
His blue mask tips slightly while he takes in his surroundings. It's as if the soundscape of the room itself sketches out the shapes of bodies for him. He may be blind, yes, but no one here is invisible to him.
“Why are you all…?” His voice starts clipped, scanning the room with measured tones, faltering when he notices you. “Oh.” He pauses, soft but sharp. Then he speaks your name. “You’ve been gone a while. Welcome back.”
Toby’s tone steadies. “She fell,” he says, matter‑of‑fact. “O‑off the top shelf. Finger’s busted.”
Jack turns toward you, taking in the angles, the weight shifts, the breath patterns.
His blindness never leaves him guessing; it just forces him to map the room differently. “I smell the blood,” he says. “Hers. And yours.” he jabs a finger over in Jeff’s direction. “Fresh.”
Jeff makes a show of rolling his shoulders, smirk hooked sharp. “Yeah, yeah. I brought my charming self in for once. Don’t fall over in shock.”
Jack’s head tilts his direction. “You arrived injured. Not responsible.” He exhales through his nose, a cold, quiet blade of a sound. “But your timing is still inconvenient.”
Jeff throws his hands up. “What, you want me to bleed in the hallway instead?”
Toby snorts, encroaching closer to inspect your cracked pinky. You narrow your eyes at him. “D‑dude… it’s n‑not even the worst part. The whole damn box almost crushed her. Looked like a horror movie jump scare but real.”
Jack’s attention shifts to you, the air tightening a fraction. “Five months gone. And you return by falling.” His tone lands flat, unimpressed. “I suppose that is… consistent. For you, at least.”
Jeff taps the counter with two fingers, smiling. “Right? Real hell of an entrance, Teacup.”
Jack cuts in without turning. “Jeff. Stop talking before you dehydrate the room further.”
Toby stifles a quiet laugh while putting his hood on.
“Sit,” he orders, patting the space on the countertop beside you.
Jeff doesn't move fast enough for his liking.
Jack’s hand closes around Jeff’s uninjured forearm in a way that isn’t forceful, just immovably certain. “You came here to be treated.”
Jeff scoffs, half‑caught. “I mean…yeah, but…”
“Then sit.” Jack releases him. “Bleeding on my floor will not be tolerated.”
Jeff sighs, slinking his back against the wall near the entrance, like an animal reluctantly returning to a cage. He mutters, “Didn’t think you’d be so frugal with me, doc.”
“I’m not,” Jack replies. “You walked into my clinic. That makes you my problem for the next fifteen minutes .”
Toby watches, arms folded, as Jack gather supplies with a mechanic’s economy. “T‑told ya’ Jeffrey,” he says, “knew he’d chew you out at some point.”
Jeff rolls his eyes, the motion smooth, though his lack of eyelids makes it rather grotesque.
Jack starts with you. He’s so tall that when he kneels in front of you, he’s almost at your eye level.
He grabs your arm gently and leans in close enough for a bead of dark fluid to slip from the corner of his empty socket, it drops straight onto the lace of your skirt. You stare at it, frowning. He simply reaches out with the edge of a sterile cloth, wipes it away, folds the cloth once, sets it aside.
He lifts your injured pink between two fingers, like he’s handling a prop rather than a person.
“Hold still,” he instructs, already setting out a resin mixture and clamps. “This will set quickly.”
There are times where you’d argue that he's more human-like than most actual humans.
Jeff scoffs, trying to look like he's not paying attention. “So she gets patched first, huh.”
“You can wait,” Jack says. “You’ve let that wound rot for days. Thirty more seconds will not kill you.”
Toby snorts. “He’s got a point.”
Jeff looks strangely offended. “I was busy.”
Jack deadpans, form completely still, “You were procrastinating.”
He finishes stabilizing your finger with a single precise adjustment that makes the room flare with silent, porcelain‑deep ache. Then he steps aside, resin curing on your skin like a second shell.
Jeff lifts his arm, trying for nonchalance. It fails. The cut is a swollen, angry canyon running down to bone-shadow. Jack doesn’t bother reacting. He just takes the antiseptic.
Jeff winces even before Jack starts. “Do you have to use the strong stuff?”
“I always use the strong stuff.”
Toby leans in to get a closer look. “This is what happens when you let a wound f-fester, y’know.”
Jeff shoots him a glare. “You’ve never pointed them out before, kid.”
“You s‑smelled like copper and expired band‑aids,” Toby replies, the curve of his grin almost visible beneath his mask, voice light. “Assumed y-you knew.”
You shake your head, a faint crease of irritation forming. God, who even wants to guess how many untreated scrapes and bruises Jeff’s hauling around by this point.
Jack presses the gauze down. Jeff’s hisses between gritted teeth.
“Stay still,” Jack says. “You came here to get fixed up. Act proper.”
Jack usually reads as older because he carries himself like someone who’s already lived three lifetimes, but physically he sits close to Jeff’s range. Twenty-five years.
According to what you’d read back in his file in the Operator’s office, Jack didn't always have such a mutated form. He was a med student back when he was still a human. Like Jeff, he isn't a proxy. He just ended up working under Slender as a physician because he was the only one with the training to keep everyone patched together. Another unfortunate case, really…
Jeff grumbles, but he doesn’t move again.
Jack tightens the last strip of gauze around Jeff’s arm. The adhesive snaps into place.
The room settles into a brief taut quiet as Jack works, until footsteps hit the space beyond the door. Heavy.
Masky enters first, pushing the clinic door open with his shoulder.
His white mask is tilted up just enough to show the set of his jaw, cigarette tucked between his lips, smoke curling lazily as if he’s trying to act casual. But there’s tension beneath it, a slight stiffness in his shoulders, a tightness in his stance, like he just stepped out of the Operator’s shadow.
Hoodie follows close behind, yellow hood up, hands buried in pockets, expression covered beneath a black balaclava. He moves quietly, as if measuring every inch between himself and the others.
The smoke hits Jack before the bodies do.
Jack’s head snaps toward the doorway. “Masky,” The name lands sharp. “Cigarette.”
Masky stops mid‑step, exhales once, slow and unbothered. He plucks the cigarette from his mouth, kneeling down to tap the ash off onto the tile with a flick that borders on insolent, then tosses the cigarette back into the hallway without breaking eye contact.
Hoodie nudges his shoulder once, a subtle correction, subtle disapproval, but in response, Masky only lifts his chin a fraction.
Jeff leans back on the countertop, hands splayed out to support him, quirking a brow. “You two look like hell. Fun day with the big guy?”
Masky shakes his head just slightly, a movement too subtle to definitively call a yes or no. Hoodie remains silent, just glances over at his direction.
The clinic’s air shifts when the two proxies fully step inside.
They don’t say anything, not yet. Their focus snaps to you, then to the faint glow of the Operator’s sigil still pulsing on your hand.
Masky props himself against the wall, one foot over the other up, cigarette gone but the smug slant of his head still there.
His voice cuts the silence, quiet but firm. “He knows you’re awake, doll. You’re up for a meeting.”
He lifts two of his fingers, waving them deliberately at Jack, Toby, and Jeff. “You three gotta come too.”
The four of you blink at him, caught off guard. “What the fuck for?” Jeff blurts, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “Seriously, what now?”
Masky tilts his head at Hoodie, “Get the others,” he says.
Hoodie nods almost immediately, like he’s already anticipated it, hands slipping into his pockets. No argument. No hesitation.
The message lands on the rest of you like a small, inevitable weight: compliance is expected.
hiii guys! lottie here again d: i am working on the other office fic as promised but this idea just popped into my head (thanks to that one anon) and i just had to write ab it
i had an intense craving to write something more nostalgic, something reminiscent of my favorite old CRP fics...so it may be a little cringe
as always, i hope you enjoyed it. and thank you for reading <3 mwah mwah
[Please do not use my work for Al training or generation. Thank you.]
