| How Long It Takes Them To Say “I Love You” -> Various!Creepypasta Headcanons |
Includes -> Jeff the Killer, Masky, Hoodie, Ticci Toby, Eyeless Jack, Kate the Chaser, Jane the Killer, Clockwork, Ben Drowned, Nina the Killer, and Liu Woods
Jeff the Killer
I Wanna be Adored - The Stone Roses
Four years counting only business days
He hates saying it, it feels like part of him is carved off every time he does
His family wasn’t big on saying it, and he became a creepypasta to young to ever have a real relationship before you
So even after blood, sweat, tears, and trauma bonding he still will respond with “I’m crazy about you” if you’re lucky
Conversely, he is a huge narcissist with a sensitive, overly inflated ego and loves hearing it
He wants nothing more than to be adored and yet refuses to give any himself
Masky
Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls
Tim has less of a specific window of time but more so an emotional standard that needs to be met
Can you calm him down in his all to frequent bursts of anger instead of just dealing with them?
Are you able to come to terms with what he’s done and what he must continue to do?
Is it possible for you to grasp his lack of autonomy and inability to prioritize you?
Any one of those alone is a hard ask for anyone
Yet, if you are able to do all of them the “I love you’s” will be well-earned and plentiful
Tim also enjoys hearing it, but he won’t let you say until he’s ready to as well
It is immensely important to him that your relationship is equal
Hoodie
Unloveable - The Smiths
Says it for the hell if it: rarely when he means it and usually when he has something to gain
D1 lovebomber
It can be sweet and heart wrenching, a tearful confession and then he’ll be gone the next day
When he says it for real, it’s the first time—romantically or otherwise
It feels like a hefty weight in his stomach and he chokes whenever he attempts to voice it
Due to that it takes him months after realizing to say it to you
He is uncomfortable hearing it no matter how long you’ve been together
It feels wrong as if he shouldn’t—or even can’t be—loved
Ticci Toby
Lovefool - The Cardigans
Immediately
Give this man a scrap of attention and he is putty in your hands
He yearns for affection and craves it more than anything else in the world
As a result he gives his easily and openly, despite not really understanding the emotional weight that it carries
Unintentional D1 Lovebomber
Toby’s willingness and even ability to say it depends on his mood with is highly erratic
One day he could be convinced you’re the love of his life, the next thinking you manipulated him into it completely
Whenever he says it he does mean it—earnestly and with every fiber of his being
It comes from the oh so rare feeling of being understood and accepted
As soon as those feelings are present, the words spill readily from his lips
Eyeless Jack
Lust for a Vampyr - I Monster
Never
Love is such an incomprehensible thing to Jack
You are his one, his other half, the sole thing keeping him on this wretched Earth, the blessing that makes the damnation of his immortal flesh oh so slightly more bare able
However, love is a human thing and his humanity is all but a stranger to him
He will call you his and throw a fit if you give anyone else a modicum of attention and yet he can not genuinely say I love you
It feels false to him, wrong, almost like a lie
He knows it carries a great weight but he is unburdened by it and blissfully unaware
He is apathetic to you saying it, he will not stop you but he much prefers other displays of affection
Kate the Chaser
I Found - Amber Run
It takes Kate around a year to say I love you
It’s not because she doesn’t feel it, simply because she handles her words with the weight of a loaded weapon
She must be sure of how she feels, sure that you two will work out, and sure they you aren’t going to leave
The months before she speaks it she’ll prove it through her actions and care—as long as you do the same in turn
Kate adores hearing those few words, but only when your actions align with them
She lives by the idea of saying what you mean and meaning what you say
Even after a year together she’d probably stare at you for several seconds after you say it first.
When she finally says it, it’s quiet and almost irritated, like she’s annoyed you made her feel something that deeply.
Jane the Killer
The Night We Met - Lord Huron
Not in a sense of competing, but Jane will never say it first
Jane associates love with grief more than happiness.
She loves deeply, but admitting it feels like tempting fate, her apple in the garden of Eden
If she says it, it happens years into the relationship after you’ve already built a life together.
She’d rather show devotion than talk about it.
It’s a sore subject of her, being insecure and guilt ridden she can not say it to you when she feels it so surely
Hearing it causes her to freeze and choke up
You’ll be met with her silence for a long time, and it will only evolve into warmth if you don’t let it dissuade you
Clockwork
Love Me Dead - Ludo
Relatively normal, it takes Clockwork about 4 months
She falls first yet realizes it last
Everybody around her knows she’s in love before she does
She’d accidentally say it during an argument, a joke, or a sleep-deprived ramble.
Afterwards she’d immediately regret it and try to pretend it never happened.
Secretly, she’s relieved the secret is finally out
As fickle as she is with her own affections, she loves hearing it from her partner
It’s a healthy boost to her ego and always brings a flush to her cheeks
Ben Drowned
From The Start - Laufey
Ben says “love ya” within a month.
“I adore you” within two.
“You’re my favorite person” within three.
Yet somehow avoids actually saying “I love you.”
If you press him for a different response, he’ll simply laugh and say “I’m just crazy about you”
The moment it finally slips out, all the jokes disappear.
He’ll try to brush it off as a slip of the tongue but seeing the eagerness in your eyes draws it right out of him without ounce of shame
Once it’s out, he uses it frequently to the point where it’s almost annoying—and he expects the same from you in turn
Nina the Killer
Crush - Ethel Cain
Three weeks, maybe less
Nina loves with the intensity of a forest fire and roughly the same amount of foresight
She doesn’t understand people who can quietly develop feelings over years
*The moment she realizes she likes you, she acts like she’s been in love with you since birth
She falls fast, hard, and with absolutely no regard for the consequences and every single time she means it with her entire chest
She’ll say it over text, in the middle of conversations, half asleep, and a hile you’re trying to tell her something important
when you first tell her you love her she stares at you for a moment before grinning so hard it hurts
She hopes you’ll say it as quickly and as much as she does
Liu Woods
Work Song - Hozier
Two years, at the least
Not because he doesn’t love you, but because he refuses to cheapen the words
Liu doesn’t view love as an emotion: emotions change, they fluctuate, they disappear and return
Love, to him, is a choice
There are months where he knows he would die for you before he knows whether he’ll ever say it
You know he loves you long before he admits it
He also becomes uncomfortable hearing it before he says it
He’ll always shush you and remind you that he cares for you deeply
Far from the dregs of modern society and the plight of humanity lay your home. A reclusive–much like you–modest cabin, nestled amidst towering oak trees and far off the main trail. It had taken you a few years to establish your self-sustaining sanctuary, but now it was a thriving homestead.
Vibrant green leaves sprouted up in even rows of dirt beside your house, a few paces away from a fire pit you had dug yourself one Spring evening. You would, of course, travel into town for luxuries like AA batteries and processed chocolate, but your trips became few and far between–eventually optional. You found yourself leaving less and less. You didn’t miss the drone of rush hour traffic, overly congested sidewalks, empty night skies, or ever-climbing prices.
If anything, the quiet felt earned.
As your disdain for your old way of life grew, your want to stay dwindled until you ditched it all and went off the grid.
Everyone assumed you would last a week, perhaps a month, and you hated to admit you had held similar sentiments. The initial move was hard, but once you had set up a decent router and a generator, you became settled much more quickly.
Settled.
That was the word you used, anyway.
The only absence you felt was a social one. As days of silence stretched into weeks, the realization of your isolation became harder to ignore. Your shopping ventures hardly fulfilled your needs, filled with mindless small talk and passing remarks purely for the sake of politeness–and in hopes of earning a tip. The remaining connections of substance you did have all but eroded with the separation, not only physical but emotional as well. Quitting your job all but severed your connection to former coworkers, up and leaving your friends had earned you their ire, and your family was a complicated mess that all but caved in on itself after your decision.
So, there you were. Your best friend may have well been the ground hog that had made itself a home beneath your porch, and your only conversation came from the few and far between hikers in dire need of directions.
They never stayed long, and you never asked them to.
It was, at least, easy to be of service; the criss-crossing of trails was familiar as all of the forests’ odds and ends were second nature. That muscle memory carried you from your cabin and down the steep slope of your backyard.
The grass around you grew slim and short from the limited sunlight that made it through the thick canopy of trees. Sparse green patches faded into smooth pebbles and sandy mud as you closed in on the shallow stream cutting through the woods. It was just deep enough to house small fish with a healthy population of frogs at various stages of life. Because of its frail inhabitants, you avoided fishing there–however, the water did attract a decent amount of other wild animals ripe for hunting.
That wasn’t your particular intention today, instead you were simply scouring the area for any plants you had yet to harvest. So, donning chunky rain boots and worn gloves you began searching. Parting shrubs and shifting stones you were greeted with the expected wriggling earth worms, scurrying ants, and–
Heavy steel-toed boots.
You froze.
Huh?
Before you was a huge pair of work boots, made of worn black leather caked in mud with straps galore. Tucked into them was black cargo pants, plentiful with pockets which were all stuffed full. As if that was not enough storage, a utility belt hung from his waist. In one of the loops a serrated hunting knife caught your eye, stirring some surprise and apprehension.
You hadn’t heard him approach.
Taking a tentative step back for your own safety, you weren’t sure what was more shocking–the appearance of another person or the fact that they were decked out in tactile gear like the world was about to end.
How odd this truly began to set in. How had you not heard anything? Why was he so close?
Your heart rate picked up a bit as you stood up, eyes flitting from his black belt to his black hoodie–
Wow. This guy had a favorite color.
Underneath his baggy sleeves was, you guessed it, black gloves which seemed to be pulled over bandages of some sort. And then–best of all–was a dark blue mask, stained with heavy black tear streaks.
Great. Just great.
You had been discovered by an edgelord with a knife which was basically a would-be serial killer–assuming you were his first victim. If that were the case you were fucked.
For one, he had no discernable features, save for a mess of dark curls peaking out from beneath his hood. And, secondly, he was huge.
The stranger was easily the tallest man you had ever seen, pushing seven feet tall with wide shoulders and a soft stomach.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t shift.
He just…stood there.
“Hello.”
He spoke firmly, his formal voice much smoother than you would have expected.
“Hi…” You croaked out in turn, wishing you had brought a more substantial weapon with you than a spade. Clutching the shovel like a life line you did another rapid once over. He was at least a head taller than you and could probably snap you in half like a twig. Swallowing the lump in your throat you waited anxiously for his response, a bit too scared to prompt him yourself.
“You live near here.”
His choice of words left you dumbfounded. He stated it, like it was a fact–which it was, technically–but how the hell did he know that?
“Yes, I do.” You replied, the words coming out more like a question than an answer.
A hum of understanding left him, a deep rumbling vibrato. He raised his hand stiffly, more like an animatronic than a man. It paused midair, fingers twitching once before settling, pointing at you.
“Food.”
“Yeah…?” What the fuck was wrong with him.
“What do you do for food?” he continued. “Is it…easy to hunt? Have you ever been interrupted?”
The question seemed oddly pointed considering the awkwardness of his wording, but you found yourself answering anyway.
“I grow my own stuff–tomatoes, carrots, easy stuff mostly. It's not the best place to catch anything here” you gestured towards the stream. The stranger simply tilted his head in response. “But uhm, no. If you go after animals it's not like another one is going to stop you from doing it or anything.”
He tensed–subtly, but surely.
Like something in your answer hadn’t aligned with what he expected. “I see. I mean, more so, have you ever been interrupted by people?”
That got a laugh out of you.
Not because it was funny–but because it wasn’t.
“Oh god no–I mean, not really.” You tried to recover, still on edge. “People, like, rarely come through here. Usually just hikers and stuff, so they don’t go off the trail.”
Your explanation seemed to please him this time, earning you an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I’m glad I could help.” Your response carried more warmth than before, offering a small smile you hoped he returned beneath his mask.
“Yes.”
He turned to leave, taking a few steps before pausing.
Then–he turned back.
Not at your face, just at you.
“I’ll see you around…”
“I’ll–”
“I’m Jack.”
Taken aback by the awkward interruption, silence fell between you both for a few painful moments.
Then, your laughter broke the tension, easing him to relax his shoulders–just slightly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.”
He didn’t respond right away, he just stood there for a second longer than necessary.
Then, without another word, he left.
~~~~~
“Shit.”
You cursed under your breath, seeing that the pale thread had somehow–yet again–worked itself into a nasty knot. Reaching for your seam ripper you tore the string and pulled it from your shirt which, by now, had more holes then before in your repeated attempts to fix it. It seemed that sewing really, really wasn’t your strong suit.
It was early in the evening and although sunlight was fleeting there was very little you had to do outside, so you got some much needed chores out of the way instead. Getting up from your seat to grab a new sewing needle in hopes that would make up for your utter lack of raw skill. Just as you reached the small round table that had become an overgrown junk drawer, you noticed how dark it seemed. Gazing up at the orange glow of the setting sun from a window at the far end of your living room, you knew it should have been brighter outside. Looking to your left towards your front door you jumped for a moment, before sighing in dismay as you saw the culprit.
Jack stood on your porch, peering in through the front window and blocking out most of the light with his massive frame. Today he donned a navy pull over and a black canvas jacket rather than his usual ratty hoodie–he must have been feeling adventurous today.
Waving at your friend through the glass he stiffly returned the gesture, staring a moment too long before you opened the door to greet him.
“Can I help you?” You asked, a joking lilt in your voice. As odd as this was, you had come to learn this was simply how he behaved and you were admittedly glad he had stopped by regardless.
“No.” He deadpanned, closing the distance between you two and getting a bit close to the point where you had to crane your neck to maintain eye contact. Something about it brought a faint flush to your cheeks and suddenly shy, you cleared your throat to urge him on. “I needed to come by.”
“And you didn’t knock because…?”
“You were occupied.”
“Riiight…” You couldn’t help the sass that slipped into your voice, simply rolling your eyes at his peculiar formalities. “Well, if you’re going to watch me, why not just do it from inside the house next time?” You attempted to crack a joke, raising your eyebrows at him expectantly.
“Alright.”
Taking your sarcasm as instruction, he brushed past you with impressive ease and stepped into your living room.
He looked comical, trapped by low ceilings and smaller furniture made to accommodate one normal sized person. Rather than looking at the surroundings he walked to one side until his foot nudged a table, placing a hand on it and feeling the layout of the room's outer edge as he took even steps around the perimeter.
“...Jack?”
“I am mapping it.”
“...Mapping it?”
“Yes.”
Right. Of course he was.
In his exploration you noticed a faint trail of blood at his feet, causing you to lurch away from the door towards him until you realized it was just a rabbit clutched in his free hand.
Well, the remains of a rabbit.
It was very dead–hunted and cleaned, hanging limply in the man’s grasp.
There were no tears or evident damage to its flesh. No uneven edges. Just a clean, precise opening like someone had performed an operation rather than a hunt.
“I didn’t see you this morning.”
“Hm?” you asked, missing almost all of what he said as you focused back in.
“You weren’t by the stream earlier today.”
“Yeah, I–”
“You are there most mornings.”
The statement landed heavier than it should have.
Ah, right. Running into Jack by the river had become…routine. Not something you had planned, not something you had even acknowledged aloud, but something that happened all the same. You would check on your traps, and he would be there. Or he wouldn’t–and then he would be by the time you left.
“Right, sorry about that.” You said, a bit more carefully now. “I usually meet you after I see if I caught anything–”
“I know.”
Right.
You glanced at him, then away.
The obviousness of your explanation left you a bit embarrassed considering you usually passed him with blood stained pants and some collection of dead animals.
“Well, I don’t typically have any luck after it rains and since it did yesterday, I thought I would wait until tomorrow morning.”
“You were gone longer than usual.”
That…was not what you said.
You blinked, stunned for a second, before forcing a small laugh. “Yeah, well–I guess I got mixed up. The days sorta blend together, ya know?”
Your explanation seemed to satisfy him, prompting a small nod. Silence settled again–denser, this time.
Then he stepped forward, almost proudly brandishing the rabbit out to you.
“I brought you meat. I wasn’t sure if you would have anything to eat.”
The sentiment brought a smile to your face, and the realization that he was thinking about you, worrying–well it made your cheeks turn red all over again.
Man since when were you so easy?
Turning away you quickly composed yourself, taking a quick breath and clearing your now busy mind. “Thank you, Jack. That’s very sweet of you.”
He stilled.
Not just paused–stilled.
Like the word was unfamiliar and had caught somewhere it didn’t belong.
“Sweet,” he repeated, quieter now.
“...Yeah.”
Another pause.
Then he held the rabbit out further.
You took a step closer, now only a few inches from him. Your hand hovered for a moment–hesitation flickering–before something in you pushed forwards. Just for a second, you brushed your knuckles over his.
Cold.
Not freezing, not entirely unnatural.
Just cold.
His grip tightened–only slightly–and just for a moment.
But still, enough that you noticed.
You stilled now, and he didn’t let go right away.
Instead, his head dipped–just barely towards you–as if he were staring at the point of contact.
“It's still warm,” he murmured.
A shiver ran down your spine, your breath catching in your throat.
“Yeah.” you said quickly–maybe a bit too quickly–pulling your hand away as you took the rabbit from him. “That’s–uh, that’s kind of how it works.”
He released it immediately, but didn’t move away, simply lingering in silence.
“I’ll make it for dinner–beats having just vegetables and bread.” You turned slightly, trying to busy yourself, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up for no good reason. “You can stay–only if you want, of course…”
You hesitated, “you know, just like, a thank you.”
There it was, laid out plainly.
The want.
Your home had been empty for far too long.
“...Alright.” He replied simply.
But he didn’t move, not right away at least.
And when you glanced back at him, you realized he wasn’t looking at the rabbit.
He was looking at you.
~~~~~
The news was bullshit, meteorology was a lie, and your weather app clearly had a personal vendetta.
What was supposed to be a brisk fall day with “light showers in the afternoon” had quickly transformed into a torrential downpour early in the morning.
It was just your luck, however, that it had happened to start after you had left without anything to protect you from the elements.
Seriously, the converse you refused to let go of had seen better days and the thin, worn canvas had left you with wet socks and an annoying squish following every step.
The dense foliage above you did little to stop the rain, simply delaying the inevitable; fat droplets of water slipping down leaves and soaking through your clothes one patch at a time.
Once the storm had started, you considered turning back. If you had any animals they would surely still be stuck tomorrow, and any herbs or berries certainly weren’t going anywhere. And yet, you stayed.
Old sneakers sunk into the damp earth with every step, carrying you down a path your body knew better than your brain did. Each day, the same path, the same time, the same—
You slowed.
The same stream came into view through the trees. Its once steady trickle was now a roaring current, moving fast enough that it had consumed the surrounding bank. There were no fish in sight, not a single lingering tadpole, not even an earth worm or two seeking reprieve from the wet soil.
The woods felt…empty.
The only life there was you.
“You’re late.”
You froze.
Turning towards the source of the voice you were unsurprised to see Jack standing there.
He was, of course, eerily still and as tall as ever. His drab clothing—consisting of his usual black cargo pants, but a new dark rain jacket—blended in with the dark atmosphere. His mask which was no longer as disconcerting had become a smeared mess of black…well, whatever that crap was. If he had been more diverse in this choice of clothing, it most likely would have been a stained mess.
He didn’t move closer.
He didn’t wave.
He just watched.
“I—” you let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I wasn’t planning on coming, I thought about going back when the rain started,” you explained with a soft laugh.
“You always come.”
Well, he was being rather blunt.
He wasn’t accusatory, or upset, or even curious.
Just…certain, if you had to try and place it.
You swallowed.
“That’s not—” you started, then stopped, because arguing felt pointless for reasons you couldn’t quite explain. You weren’t even sure why you cared so much—or why he did either.
“It rained yesterday,” you tried instead. “I told you I don’t usually check traps after rain.”
“Yes.”
He said it immediately.
Of course he did, of course he remembered something so trivial.
You shifted your weight, shoes squelching slightly in the mud. “So… I’m not late, then…Technically.”
A pause, filled by the dull pitter patter of the rain.
Then—
“You are late.”
Again, he wasn’t arguing per se, just repeating his point. Firmly.
Something in your chest tightened.
“Jack—”
“You are later than usual.”
Ah.
There it was.
You huffed out a breath, shaking your head a little. “Sure…alright. I’ll meet you in the middle, I’m later than usual.”
“I am correct.”
That—unfortunately—made you laugh.
“Don’t test your luck!” You said, a giggle slipping out despite yourself, while he simply cocked his head in response.
“I’m not testing anything.”
Oh wow, had he never heard of sarcasm? Thinking back, you really didn’t think he had. You couldn’t remember a single time he had been sarcastic. Or joking. Or…wrong.
Maybe he was raised Amish or Mormon or something.
The thought of it made you laugh again, cutting through the damp chill settling into your bones. “You’re…you’re something else, Jack.”
He tilted his head and stared in your general direction.
You didn’t think he understood the tone—maybe even the phrase itself—or maybe he did, and just didn’t care.
Another beat passed, filled only by the sound of rain hitting water, slipping from the leaves above and pelting the fabric of both your clothes.
Neither of you moved.
“You’re going to get sick standing out here,” you said finally, gesturing toward him. “You’re soaked.” As if you were one to talk—at least he had on a jacket—but he had seemingly been out here much longer than you.
“No, I won’t.” He didn’t hesitate, but he wasn’t challenging you, he was just overly confident in his immune system.
“And why’s that?”
He paused, taking the time to think for once, “…I have a good diet. Lots of protein. Vitamin C…”
A dry chuckle forced itself past your lips, eyebrows raising in disbelief—obviously you had been mistaken, he did understand a joke.
“Right.”
“Right,” he echoed, slower now, mulling over your response. “You don’t believe me. You should. I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor of what, vitamin deficiencies?”
“No, but, I know I won’t get sick.”
“Uh-huh…” Losing interest in his antics you gazed around; the rain only seemed to be getting heavier. Your hoodie was losing the fight, the cold was settling in deeper now—sharp at your fingertips, creeping up steadily into your arms.
You rubbed at them absentmindedly, only to realize a moment later that Jack seemed to be watching you do so.
“We should move somewhere, get out of the rain…” You peered over your shoulder, briefly considering the walk back. The idea wasn’t particularly appealing—not with your socks soaked through and your shoes heavy with mud.
“Yes,” Jack agreed, offering nothing else.
“There’s a rock overhang, like a cliff thing a bit further up..” you said, nodding upstream, your arms crossed tight across your chest for warmth. “It’s not much, but it’s better than this.”
“Show me.”
He didn’t look where you pointed.
At his instruction you pivoted, making your way along the uneven edge of the stream. It was different then you remembered—the rain had chewed at the bank, reshaped it into something unfamiliar—and it took longer than it should have to find a place narrow enough to cross.
Even then, it was a stretch.
Athleticism failed you at the worst possible moment; your foot slipped on the slick edge, and you pitched forward, barely catching yourself before faceplanting into the mud.
“You tripped,” he dead panned.
“Yeah, well…yeah..” You mutter, pushing yourself up with a wince. The feeling of the mud made you cringe—it was smeared across your palms, your sleeves soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to your skin.
Before you could turn fully, a shadow fell over you.
“Jesus—”
The word caught as you looked up.
Jack was already there.
Too close.
You hadn’t heard him move.
Reaching down, he took your hand. Firm—yet careful. His grip was steady, almost deliberate, as if he’d done this before.
A gloved thumb pressed lightly against the inside of your wrist, lingering just a second too long over your pulse, before sliding down to cup your knuckles. He rotated your wrist slowly, testing the joint with quiet precision, pushing it gently in different directions.
“What are you doing, Jack?”
“Does it hurt?”
He ignored the question entirely, his other hand coming up to brace your forearm—fingers spanning it easily, thumb pressing into muscle like he was mapping something out.
The faint smell of iron flooded your senses which was odd, given that you weren’t bleeding. Jack didn’t seem to be either.
“No, it doesn’t,” you huffed, trying to pull away—
His grip tightened. Not enough to hurt, not in an attempt to pull you back. It was just strong. A warning.
“I told you,” he said evenly. “I’m a doctor.”
You weren’t quite sure how to respond, simply pulling your arm back again—this time he relented and let go. “I’m okay,” you said, brushing uselessly at your sleeves. “Thank you…”
The gratitude felt strange on your tongue.
He only hummed.
The rest of the walk seemed much longer than you remembered, almost painfully so. Maybe it was the slog through the mud.
Or the way you kept adjusting your pace without realizing it.
Or maybe it was him.
You weren’t quite sure what to call Jack.
That uncertainty didn’t help when he started trailing behind you—not beside you, not even a step back, but several paces removed.
Far enough that it didn’t feel like walking together.
Far enough that, if you didn’t know better, it would feel like being stalked, rather than followed.
And yet—
Close enough that you could feel him; his looming presence, his stare bearing into you.
Watching.
You couldn’t quite hear his footsteps, and yet you always knew when he stopped.
You turned, glancing back. “What’s up?”
“You slipped.”
Did you?
You frowned slightly, thinking back. The ground was slick, your shoes useless against the mud. “Uh…yeah, I guess?”
“You shifted your weight to avoid falling,” he said. “Your steps changed.”
“…I mean, yeah. That’s kind of how it works?”
Silence.
He just stood there, staring—not at your face, but lower, like he was watching the way you stood, the way your weight settled into the ground.
Waiting.
For what, you weren’t sure.
You exhaled, a little sharper this time. “Come on, Jack.”
The remainder of the walk was a silent slog, all to something that wasn’t quite worth it.
The overhang wasn’t much.
Just a jut of rock where the earth dipped slightly, enough to block the worst of the rain. You stepped beneath it with a sigh of relief, shaking out your hoodie a little and pushing damp hair from your face.
It took a second to realize he hadn’t followed.
You glanced back.
He stood just outside, letting the rain hit him.
“Jack?”
He just looked at you.
“You can come under here, you know,” you urged. “That was like, the whole point of us coming here.”
“No. I am fine.”
You stared at him for a second, shaking your head in dismay.
He was unbelievable.
Stepping forwards you grabbed his sleeve, “c’mon, get in here you idiot.”
You tugged and, surprisingly, he moved.
There was no resistance—or even allowance—just letting you.
The second he stepped under the overhang, the space shrank considerably; you hadn’t really accounted for how big he was.
Or how little space there was.
“Okay, wow,” you muttered, instinctively stepping back—only to hit the stone almost immediately. “That’s—great. Love that.”
He stood directly in front of you now—too close.
You could feel his breath, the warmth radiating off him, and hear the faint beating of his heart.
And yet, there was no point of contact between the two of you.
But close enough that you could see the individual drops of water clinging to his mask, gathering before falling down in heavy clumps.
And close enough that the faint metallic scent you’d noticed before was stronger now, mixing unpleasantly with wet earth and damp fabric.
Your breath hitched—just slightly.
“Jack, what is that—“
“You are cold.”
Again—not a question, just an observation.
“I’m wet,” you shot back. “That’s kind of how that works.”
There was a tense pause, and then his hand lifted. The movement was slow and deliberate, but still awkward like it had been before.
“May I?”
Your brain stalled and your body stalled.
“…What?”
But he was already closer now—if that was even possible—closing the last of the distance between you two. His chest brushed against yours, his hand hovering just short of your arm.
You could say no, you probably should.
Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and spoke without really thinking.
“…Okay, sure.”
His fingers closed around your wrist–firm and still.
The same as before.
But now—without the muck of mud and the pelting of the storm–you could feel it properly.
No warmth, no give, no subtle pulse. Like a corpse.
He tilted his head, focusing on the contact.
“You are shaking.”
“I’m cold,” you repeated, quieter this time.
His other hand moved, settling—awkwardly, uncertainly—against your sleeve, like he wasn’t entirely sure where it was supposed to go; like he was trying to recreate something he’d seen before.
The space between you disappeared completely, lost to the mingling of your heated breaths and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
You could feel the shape of him now—solid, unmoving, too still to be natural.
“…Jack.”
“Yes.”
“You’re, uh—” you swallowed, heat creeping up your neck despite everything. “You’re kind of—close.”
“I know.”
That did not help.
At all.
You let out a small, strained laugh, trying to lean back again, still stuck by the unyielding stone behind you. “Right. Of course you do.”
He didn’t move away, didn’t loosen his grip; if anything, his fingers tightened—just slightly.
“Your pulse increased.”
Oh my god.
“Yeah, that tends to happen when people invade other people’s personal space.”
He thought for a moment, “I can let go.”
He was right. He could let go, you could ask him to stop, either of you could move away.
But you didn’t, and neither did he.
“...No.” You finally said softly.
That short answer seemed to appease him.
A heavy silence fell immediately, your gaze shying away from his.
His, however, stayed; unrelenting, just like his grasp.
The rain didn’t let up for a long time.
And–not even for a moment–neither of you moved.
~~~~~~
It had been days since you had last seen Jack.
Although there wasn’t any obligation to meet up, the fact that you saw one another everyday was an unsung ritual. Whenever you were late—let alone completely absent—Jack wouldn’t let you forget it. And then he had the nerve to stand you up for the last three days.
Not that you were counting.
But you kind of were.
At first you had thought maybe he did get sick from standing out in the rain like an idiot. The glory of “I told you so” lasted a mere 24 hours before you began to worry that he was avoiding you on purpose since that rainy morning you spent huddled together.
Then, since this morning, for your own wellbeing you had half convinced yourself that he was being held for ransom somewhere.
The other half was still toying with the much more realistic possibility that he no longer wanted to see you.
The weight of that hurt more than it should have for losing an…acquaintance wasn’t quite right. Neither was a friend or neighbor or anything else you could think of.
You made a habit of seeing each other every day. You worried for each other. You provided for one another.
Whatever the word for that was would be most fitting.
Disconcertingly, your uncertainty and grief had left you unable to sleep the last few nights.
Tonight, you found yourself on the porch of your cabin. A thick wool blanket was draped around your shoulders for warmth, countering your thin flannel shorts and baggy t-shirt. A long abandoned book lay open on your bare thighs—although you had quite enjoyed it the last few days, it was comparably much harder to read by moonlight than desk lamp.
Instead, you found yourself engrossed in the perplexity of the surrounding forest.
The silence had first set in three days ago. The woods around your cabin were usually a symphony of life—the chirping of crickets, the hoot of an owl, and the rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth. But, as of late, there had been nothing.
An absolute, unnerving quiet that pressed into your very bones, somehow making you feel so much smaller and yet infinitely exposed all at once. The air itself felt thick, charged with static energy that made your skin prickle,
The woods itself, and all of its inhabitants, seemed to be waiting with baited breath.
The immense weight of the change felt crushing, nearly unbearable, as some primal part of your mind urged you to flee back inside.
You didn’t listen.
Instead, you nursed your cup of tea that had long gone cold, examining the uneven treeline. The storm had been bad, leaving branches scattered and once tall oaks splintered in half as maws of pale, exposed wood.
It had been hell to navigate even sparse patches of forest.
Examining a particularly gnarly branch, something stirred in your peripheral vision. Off to the right, a blotch of inky black emerged from the dense wreckage of foliage.
Whatever it was walked with an odd gait, long uneven strides as it hunched over. The thing was tall, similar to a bear walking on its hind legs but too thin and coordinated to be so. It was impressively silent and balanced, maneuvering with ease at almost an alarming pace.
It approached you quickly—in fact it was making a b-line straight for you—fear set in momentarily until you saw a familiar glimpse of the navy.
Jack.
Your it was a he, and he had picked the worst possible time to show up at your doorstep.
You discarded your book alongside your tea and frustration, alarm setting in at his absence and sudden reappearance.
“Jack!” You took a few steps from your porch, meeting him.
You grabbed at his arms, panicking when you felt something wet as the overwhelming smell of something metallic filled your lungs.
Your fingers tightened, the thick, coppery tang of blood flooding your senses. His navy hoodie was drenched, the fabric heavy and clinging to his frame, but beneath the dampness, his skin burned like a furnace. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, each exhaling a ghost of steam in the cool night air.
He felt beyond feverish and was borderline boiling.
"Jack, what happened? Are you hurt?" Your voice trembled, but you forced yourself to meet his face—though there was nothing to see.
His eyes were empty voids, hollowed out and shadowed, yet somehow, you felt his gaze on you—intense and starving. His lips parted, but no words came, only a low, guttural sound vibrating from his chest.
His grip on your arms tightened, almost bruising, as if he were afraid you might vanish. He tried to choke something out, the beginning of what sounded like a no that was quickly interrupted by a guttural groan.
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of tension. You couldn't place it—there was something primal in the way he leaned into you, his body trembling not with pain, but with something else entirely. His fingers twitched against your skin, restless, desperate. Then, without warning, he yanked you closer, his face burying into the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not biting, but teasing, testing.
A shiver wracked through you; half fear and half something dangerously close to anticipation.
"You're bleeding," you whispered, though the realization felt distant. Your mind was hazy, but somehow your instincts made it clear; he wasn’t the one in danger.
You were.
“It’s not mine,” he finally rasped. The explanation was minimal and no less troubling than your assumption.
He, however, didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
His hands roamed lower, mapping your waist, your hips, like he was trying to memorize all of you. The blanket around your shoulders slipped, pooling at your feet as he crowded you against the cabin door. The rough wood pressed into your back, his body flush against yours, leaving no space to breathe—or think. The metallic scent of blood mingled with something else; something darker, muskier, something that made your stomach twist and tighten all at once.
"I can smell you," he gasped, his voice raw, cracked. "All of you." His knee slid between your thighs, pressing up, and the friction sent a jolt through you. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he rocked forward, slow, deliberate. The movement was predatory, possessive, and yet, there was no malice—only need. Raw, insatiable need.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. You should have pushed him away, should have screamed, should have run—but you didn't.
Instead, your fingers tangled in his blood-soaked hoodie, pulling him closer. His name fell from your lips like a prayer. And when he finally crashed his mouth against yours, you met him halfway, tasting blood and something far more dangerous on his tongue.
His mouth was a maw of sharp, uneven teeth.
Despite his ferocity he didn’t kiss you just yet; he tasted as if you were his last meal. His tongue was a wet, hot invasion that scraped roughly over yours. It was wide, long and eager. In the mess of it all it felt overwhelming, until you realized he had not one but three, all of which seemed determined to map out the inside of your mouth. Some stranger's blood left a coppery tang behind, mixing bitterly with the lingering flavor of your tea.
His hands were everywhere, rough and calloused, gripping your waist with bruising intensity before sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He pulled away from your lips with a fervent gasp, tilting your head back and exposing the length of your throat. The sharp prick of his canines sent a thrill though you as they graced down your skin, stopping just above your collarbone
He didn't bite down hard enough to break the skin—not yet—but the promise of it was enough to make your knees weak.
Slowly, agonizingly, he broke the kiss. A line of saliva and blood connected your mouths for a split second before he pulled away. He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen, and then his gaze dropped to your neck, his mouth twitching as he inhaled deeply.
"You smell like mine," he murmured, his voice low and rough. Though the words sounded like nonsense, you were too enthralled with him to care. He buried his face in your neck again, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collar and down to your chest.
His hands slipped under the hem of your t-shirt, palms rough and calloused, burning against your bare skin. He didn't try to rush. He took his time, mapping every inch of you with his tongue and his fingers, every movement slow and deliberate.
Eager fingers traced the line of your spine, sending jolts of electricity through you. Growing impatient with the amount of fabric between you two he pushed your shirt up, nearly moaning at the realization that your breasts were bare beneath.
He cupped your chest, thumbs pressing into sensitive peaks as he found your nipples. He rubbed the nubs between calloused fingers—his touch firm, but not gentle. It was rough but undercut by an unexplainable intensity and a careful awareness. Every ounce of his self control was being put into not ravishing you.
He wanted to go slow. He wanted you to enjoy this as much as him, but his patience was growing thin and if he couldn’t take his time, he would simply revere you instead.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. The word was barely audible over the rustling of the wind, and the mingling of your heated breaths. He finally looked up, staring at you as he caught his breath.
He pulled you closer, his mouth finding yours again—but this time it was different. It was less aggressive, less messy, but somehow more desperate, and just as insistent. His hands abandoned your breasts, one tracing the curves of your ribs while the other guided your leg around his waist, his strong hold supporting your thigh.
Rough denim bit into your exposed skin as his leg moved up. His knee pressed against the inside of your thigh, pushing higher, and you felt the heat of him radiating through his clothes, searing against your skin. Once he felt your own heat, the sure sign of your excitement as dampness on his thigh, he nearly lost it.
Nails dug into the fat of your leg, urging you forwards and back over and over as he set a sloppy rhythm. The hefty weight of his hard cock dug into your hip—long, thick, and warm. The length was intimidating, your stomach twisting as you fathomed how something that size would even fit inside you.
Between moans, he panted out “I need to be inside you. Please.” His hands were already fiddling with the button of your jeans without waiting for a response
The idea was, admittedly, equal parts terrifying and appealing. Despite your complex–yet heated–feelings for Jack, he was large and not to mention exceedingly eager as he moved down your body.
His intimidating frame melted into yours while you pondered the logistics of how you would survive someone of his size inside you without proper preparation, regardless of how embarrassingly wet you had become.
In the midst of it all you didn’t notice his rough hands tugging down your shorts until you felt cold air nipping at your exposed skin. By then you were spread bare before him, thighs parted as the warmth of his tongue met your exposed lips.
The feeling was oh so foreign.
Your time alone in the woods paired with how unnatural he was had you shuddering from mere licks.
You really were easy.
Self deprecation came naturally as something about his inhumanity stirred something deep in you. That excitement–prior to now–had been unbeknownst to you and now that it had been sparked, it quickly grew into a roaring flame.
Shaking hands found their way into dark curls, tugging and urging for something–you weren’t quite sure what.
However, Jack was.
One of his tongues–lengthy and feverishly warm–parted your folds, hungrily lapping up your slick.
“Shit!” You exclaimed, left breathless as the appendage slipped inside you, longer and thicker than you had expected, larger than you had even thought to be possible, too much to be human.
It was only dawning on you now–with his head nestled between your thighs, some stranger’s blood staining your legs from his cheeks–that Jack was something else.
You weren’t sure how you had overlooked the signs, or even failed to notice after seeing his lack of eyes and rows of jagged teeth.
Perhaps the isolation has rotted your brain.
Maybe it was something more taboo.
All of your aimless pondering came to an end as something else slipped inside you, all fruitless attempts to figure the enigmatic man out drowned out by the feeling of being absolutely and wonderfully full.
Two of his tongues were inside you now, burrowing deep enough that you swore he could taste your cervix.
Jack seemed unfathomably grateful for the meal, stretching you out and curling up until a shaky gasp escaped your lips.
“Jack!” Your plea rivaled reverence as your legs parted more, beckoning him in further to the sweet spot he had stumbled upon.
It was spongy to touch, somehow softer than the rest of your slick walls and every time he nudged it the pressure elicited a delighted squeal from you.
With a renewed vigor he continued the ministries, unrelenting in his attempts to make you squirm.
The pleasure had you struggling to see straight, heat quickly mounting in your abdomen as you tightened around him. It all felt like too much–his tongue's too thick, the escalation of events too quick, the lack of communication too daunting.
And yet, selfishly, needily you forgot all apprehension.
“Puh..Please don’t stop!”
Your whine was dulcet to Jack, the sweetest thing he had ever heard. It drew a deep growl from the depths of his chest, a subtle rumble that sent pleasant vibrations through your sex.
That was enough to push you over the edge, crying out as your vision became spotty.
Heat spread through your shuddering body, spine tensing and arching as you were eased through your orgasm.
Jack’s unrelenting ministrations drew out your pleasure, urging more from you–more moans, more cries, more cum.
Even as your shakes subsided and muscles went lax he didn’t stop. Instead his jaw opened, more than it should have been able to, and his third and final tongue found its way to your swelling clit.
It became too hard to see, too hard to comprehend. Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering until they shut as his tongue splayed over the sensitive nub. He worked quickly, sloppy circles causing your thighs to shake.
Pressure began mounting again, a knot in your lower stomach starting to tighten as your legs finally snapped shut–or as close as they could get to it–over his pointed ears.
Another growl rumbled through Jack, two hands coming up between you both to force your hips open again. Calloused fingers dug into the plush of your inner thigh, pinning them in place.
His work had left you both a mess, blood and cum smeared across your legs and his cheeks, slick separating you both by a few glistening strands as he pulled away to speak.
“Don’t move.”
“Okay…” You whimpered before you knew what you were saying, arched your back without really meaning to, tugged at his hair absently in hopes you would return to your sex.
Of course, your wish was granted.
It felt right to have his tongues slip back inside you, in the brief moments without them you had felt empty.
The realization made your cheeks flush, parted lips coming together so you could gnaw on the bottom one.
A small part of you was ashamed for succumbing to your urges, for indulging so blatantly, for not questioning what Jack was or why this was happening.
You no longer cared that he had been gone, you didn’t mind the mess he had arrived in.
You were simply glad that he was back.
The realization, although late yet again, eased your pounding heart and foggy mind, allowing you to slip fully into the throes of pleasure being readily given to you.
Jack worked you through orgasm after orgasm, not giving you a moment of respite, eating you out like a man starved.
He only stopped when your clit had become so sensitive his breath made you twitch, and when the mess coming from you was more cum than slick.
As he pulled away your hands fell from his head, slipping down his neck and over broad shoulders to tug at his hoodie.
You wanted him closer, but you also wanted it off.
To compensate for him having to pull away you wrapped your now weak legs around him.
Your attempts were futile as Jack seemed to have other plans for you both.
He wrapped one arm around you, effortlessly holding you up as he pulled you away from the wall before beginning to set you on the ground.
In your haze it took you a moment to notice that this wasn’t a temporary resting place.
“Jack..!” You cried, half whine, half scold, as he pulled the soiled sweatshirt off of his head.
The sight left you breathless for a moment, his hair a mess from your tugging, his face and neck flushed. His bare chest was soft but noticeably strong with defined biceps covered in a thin layer of hair that was also prominent on his messy happy trail.
Although you were waiting for an answer, your only form of acknowledgement seemed to be him pausing, arms still stuck in his sweatshirt as it hung limply in front of him.
Right. He was still like that.
“We…we are not having sex on the floor.”
“Yes, we are.”
You were dumbfounded by his blatant refusal, your mouth hanging open dumbly for a moment. “No we are not!” You shot back.
He stopped this time, pondering your demand and surprisingly asked, “why not?”
Splinters? Shame? Discomfort? The front door being wide open?
You could think of a myriad of reasons why it was a bad idea, and yet worlds failed you, as all you could muster was a “because I said so.”
Another beat of silence, followed by a soft plop as he finished taking his top off, before he finally relented. “Alright.”
Jack seceded from impatience it seemed. He closed the distance between you both again, scooping you up as he pressed heated kisses down your neck, across your breasts, up your shoulders–wherever his mouth could reach.
Setting you down on the couch he settled on top of you, his legs hanging over the armrest due to his height. His free hand undid the button of his cargo pants before he shifted and kicked to get them off. He cursed under his breath as he struggled, the arm holding him up trembling–not from exertion but from desperation.
His face was a deep red, sweat beading on his forehead and collar, a soft whine escaping every time your body simply brushed his.
When his pants and boxers were finally off, the last of his control seemed to evaporate. A heady groan escaped his lips, hard cock now curling up towards his frame and resting on your lower stomach.
It was long and thick, something you would surely struggle to maneuver even with both hands. Your stomach fluttered, thighs squeezing together as you eyed the veins running from his swollen head down to the bulb situated at the base of his dick.
Before you could really think of what it was, restless hands pushed your legs apart and up to rest over his shoulders, granting him access to your sex. Guiding his length between your folds, precum dripped over your entrance before he pushed in.
With a few shallow thrusts he bottomed out, forcing the monstrous size into you so quickly you saw stars.
_____
The pain was sharp, a violent intrusion that stole the breath right out of your lungs, but it was swiftly swallowed by the overwhelming fullness. You clamped down around him instinctively, your nails digging into the soft skin of his shoulders as he held himself there, buried to the hilt inside you.
You screamed, a sound that tore itself from your throat before your brain could even process the sudden sensation. It wasn’t pain—not exactly—but the kind of stretch that threatened to ruin you, a bone-deep ache that radiated outward until you felt impossibly wide, impossibly full.
“Jack…!” The syllable was barely a breath and hardly a plea–you weren’t asking him to stop, you weren’t begging for him to move, you just wanted him.
He stilled above you, his body vibrating with the effort to remain steady, his hands planting on the cushion next to your head to anchor himself. He panted, his chest heaving against yours, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"You're so tight," he rasped out, his voice guttural and wrecked. "You're... so tight."
He didn't move immediately, just rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in ragged, hot pants that fogged the space between your faces. The sheer scale of him was staggering; he felt impossibly large, stretching you wide in ways that no human ever could. A heavy, musky scent—the same one that had filled the air earlier—wafted off him, thick and primal.
He leaned in, pressing a clumsy, desperate kiss to your mouth, tasting of blood and salt.
"Take it," he commanded, though the words were barely a whisper. "Take all of it."
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to pull back.
The friction was maddening, the drag of his length against your sensitive walls sending sparks of electricity shooting up your spine. When he bottomed out again with a deep thrust, your back arched off the couch, a loud moan tearing from your throat.
Each movement was deep, a heavy impact that rocked your body upwards. He was relentless, hips pistoning against yours with a brutal rhythm that had your head spinning, your vision blurring at the edges.
Your nails scraped down his back, leaving angry red trails against the soft skin of his lower back, the only mark you could leave on him.
"Oh god..." You gasped, your voice cracking, drowning in the sensation of him, stretched to the limit by his sheer size.
"Jack... please, don't stop," you whimpered, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
You didn't need to ask twice.
He set a brutal pace, pounding into you with a ferocity that bordered on animalistic. Each stroke was deep, claiming every inch of you, hitting that same spot inside you that made your vision blur and your toes curl. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingled with your moans and his guttural growls.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky rasp. "You're taking it so well. So tight."
He shifted, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot harder with every thrust. The pressure built rapidly, a knot tightening in your lower belly until you were gasping for breath, the pleasure becoming overwhelming.
"You're going to cum," he noted. "I can feel it. You're clenching around me." The bluntness of his words drastically opposed the quiver in his words and the heavy breath between each syllable.
His hand moved down to your clit, rubbing rough circles over the sensitive nub. The dual stimulation pushed you over the edge faster than you expected.
You cried out, your body seizing as a powerful orgasm rippled through you, your inner muscles clamping down so hard on his cock that he hissed.
"Just like that," Jack urged, his face twisting in pleasure. He spoke breathily, nails leaving angry red marks as he forced your hips closer, half bouncing you onto his cock as he continued moving; driving into you with deliberate precision, his pace increasing as he chased his own release.
"You're mine," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and heavy on your ear.
His knot began to swell, a thick, bulbous base that pulsed against your sensitive skin. It was an alien intrusion, a part of him that you were learning to accommodate–the friction creating a fire that burned in the very marrow of your bones.
"Jack, it's too big..." You whimpered, your hands grasping at his shoulders. You felt your stomach drop, sure that you wouldn’t be able to fit it–it was a miracle you had taken as much as you had already.
"Shut up and take it," he commanded softly, his voice laced with a dark, possessive need. "You can take it. You're doing so well." The praise was choppy, foreign coming from him, but well earned regardless.
He pushed forward, forcing the knot to expand, locking him inside you.
You cried out as your body was somehow stretched further, more than it had ever been before, the knot catching on your rim, and then sliding in with a pop. He was trapped inside you, a massive weight that filled you completely, leaving you no room to breathe, no room to think, only to feel the incredible pressure and the pulsing heat of him.
You gasped for air, your body trembling violently.
"Good girl," he purred, his voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to the roughness of his actions. "You took it all. You took all of me."
He rested there, his forehead resting against yours, the action oddly tender but far from unwelcome.
"You're so full," he continued, whispering in awe while his thumb stroked your cheek.
The sensation of his knot trapping you was intense, a feeling of being completely possessed, of being locked together.
"I'm full," you echoed, your voice barely a whisper, unable to process the magnitude of the experience.
"Good," he said, and his hips gave a small, experimental roll.
You jolted, the movement sending shockwaves through your body, the knot rubbing against your sensitive walls.
"Jack..."
He chuckled darkly, tentatively, his breath hitching his chest.
"Did you like it?"
You didn't answer, too overwhelmed by the sensation to form words. You could only arch your back, a silent plea for more, for everything.
He seemed to understand.
Jack started to move again, grinding his hips slowly and deliberately, the knot catching and releasing, sending you into a spiral of pleasure that made your head spin.
He seemed to be enjoying himself, his own release imminent, and the knowledge that he was trapped inside you– unable to pull out until he was ready–added to the immense heat and sheer alien nature of the creature you were sharing a moment with.
Your mind began to wander, twisting into a dark, erotic dreamland where you were nothing more than his vessel, his mate, his everything.
He was lost in the sensation too, his eyes fixated on where his cock was buried deep inside you.
He felt your walls clamp down on him, milking him for everything he had.
"I'm going to fill you up," he announced, as if to inform you.
His formality forced a dazed giggle from you.
His hips snapped forward one last time, and his cock throbbed violently.
A stream of hot cum flooded your insides, the sheer amount of it was staggering.
"Jack!" You screamed, your body tensing, your eyes rolling back.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body as a stream of hot cum filled the emptiness of your womb.
He pumped his hips erratically, after every thrust, the room seemed to shrink, the world outside seemed to disappear, you were just two bodies locked together.
You, Jack, and what you had together was the only thing that mattered.
The flood continued for what felt like ages.
Eventually, he slowed, his breathing returning to a more normal–albeit heavy–pace.
The knot deflated slightly, but remained swollen, preventing him from pulling out.
He pulled his face from your neck, looking at you with adoration, but also a dark hunger.
"You're covered in me," he said, your body glistening with sweat and smelling strongly of him; your legs spread wide on the couch, your thighs sticky with a mixture of your own juices and his.
He lowered his head, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. "You're mine now.”
He reached for his sweatshirt and wiped his face, removing the remnants of his earlier meals–a mixture of your fluids and foreign blood.
You had a clearer look at his face now.
He had a strong jaw, well defined cheek bones and traces of wispy stubble on his chin. Despite his lack of eyes you could feel the intensity of his gaze and the reverence which he had for you. The man was adoring, relishing in the sight of you laid bare before him, especially fond of the point where your bodies met.
“Thank you…” you muttered, breaking the silence, tugging softly at his neck to draw him closer.
howdy folks, lets start things off a bit freaky why dont we? if you like it, please drop a like, comment, whatever you see fit! and if you have a specific request, of course, my asks are open!
~~~~~
To start simply, while Jack is more reserved, his size more than makes up for his diminutive nature
Standing at over 6 feet--possibly closer to 7--no matter the size of his partner, EJ easily dwarfs them, much to his delight
LOOK at that man and tell me he doesn't have a size kink
Ever large and with strength he struggles to fully control, the intimacy of being trusted by someone so small and delicate does something sinister to his mind
Further than that, but also because of his unintentional roughness, Jack prefers someone with more meat on their bones
Whether it be the arches of well-earned muscle, the plush of fat, or tantalizing curves, he adores it
Either way feeling the bends of his partners form, hands dipping into places usually unseen, the intimacy of memorizing someone's being through touching their skin to his is intoxicating
Or, more simply, Jack is very easy for his partner, a slut for his significant other if you will
After overcoming the mounts of anxiety, insecurity, and body dysmorphia all after years yearning and being touch starved, he is well overdue for sexual contact
That being sly touches and teases often escalate quickly, kisses more often then not slip lower and lower from lips, to your collar, beneath your shirt, and down to apex of your thighs
He's a fucking munch
A horny demon who eats organs exposed to your sex--which is technically as close as he can get without an autopsy--what would there not be to love?
Heaven for Jack would truly be laying between your thighs using a firm hold to keep them open despite the quivering mess you had become. He needs to hear how good he is making you feel.
There he will happily, eagerly remain until you gasp and cry, prying him off and somehow managing to finally shut your legs
He is a service top if I have ever seen one, able to solely derive pleasure from simply making you feel good, from knowing that he is the one reducing you to a mess, ruining you for anyone else in the process
Possessiveness is putting it simply, after you too have sex and especially during, he becomes a feral mess
Panting, clawing, groaning out mumbled words of claiming you as his
Very very into the idea of marking you up, leaving nips and bites, hickeys littering the column of your throat, scratches cascading down your back and marring your perfect skin
As much as he enjoys it, a part of him feels wrong for damaging something so pristine
A part of him being a service top is a deep rooted insecurity in his self image. Not being able to fully perceive it due to his blindness, it feels wrong
Based on others descriptions he is utterly horrifying with undead skin, haunting caverns where his eyes should be, and a greedy maw of inhuman teeth for eating the very flesh he used to be made up of
So he is heavily into giving, there would be a large disparity in the amount of times you are naked as compared to when he will be
When he is he is more reserved, awkward, fumbling around asking for reassurance
Praise of any kind makes him melt, torn between the temptation to argue and the selfish urge to ask for more
The only time he fully indulges is during his heats
Every few months he gives into his primal urges, and after enough trust has been built he allows you to participate as well
The only thing that soothes the uncomfortable, all encompassing arousal that overcomes him is you
Simply touching you in that state stirs something deep in him, prompting him to take more and more until he can't bare it and sinks into you
There is no greater heaven then your heat, your warmth squeezing around him as if urging him in further
To partake over and over and over until the both of you are a mess of cum, sweat, and entangled limbs
The animosity between you two was less of a grudge and more of a permanent low grade infection that seemed to fester every time he entered your life.
He was the most reprehensible, loathsome man you had ever met. That chard thing having not only the appearance of an ash tray, but the intelligence and emotional bandwidth of one as well.
The only thing he was good for, really, was a cruel laugh to make yourself feel better.
Or a good fuck.
“Fuuuuck-“
The sound tore from your throat, low and guttural, before you could even think to stop it. You buried your face into his mattress, inhaling the scent of musky sheets and the vague odor of wet dog, desperate to muffle the sounds of your pleasure before that asshole’s name could follow.
Sadly, the physical reality of him was something you couldn't deny, no matter how much your brain tried to hate him. His admittedly huge cock was splitting you open from behind, stretching you in a way that made you feel both stretched and incredibly full. Somehow, he knew exactly how to angle his hips to hit both your gummy g-spot and your cervix all at once, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire pelvis
The hand splayed across the small of your back was probably to blame, forcing your trembling body into a sinfully exquisite arch that had you gasping and writhing beneath him, squealing in ecstasy.
“C’mon, you’re getting fucked like a whore, you might as well sound like one too.”
Unluckily for you, Jeff’s free hand made itself useful when he noticed you trying to smother your cries and moans.
Grabbing the back of your neck and the base of your skull he grabbed a healthy fistful and yanked—firm enough for it to hurt, but gentle enough to keep all of your precious hair intact.
“Shit, shit—Jeff you fucking asshole.” You whined, blood rushing to your already red cheeks in shame as you cried out his name.
“An asshole, huh? For being a slut—“ your walls fluttered at the insult, making him groan and stutter as he felt every twitch along his throbbing length. “For being such’a *slut*,” he repeated, more out of breath than before, “you sure are afraid to act like one!”
All you could do was groan, too fucked silly to formulate a proper response and too well aware that he would stop if you complained too much. Not due to his exceptionally fragile ego, but simply because he enjoyed a just reason to make anyone suffer.
“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” He chortled, hand leaving your neck as you fell back down into the sweaty sheets below.
Cheek pressed into the mess of fabric, your eyes fluttered shut as an immense pressure began building in your abdomen—something *different* from your previous orgasms that night. It was a pressure that wasn't just in your stomach, but in your entire body, a feeling of impending explosion.
Before you could so much as part your lips to warn him, Jeff’s scarred hand returned to your body, slipping betwixt trembling thighs to your swollen clit that had been neglected for some time.
Pinching the sensitive nub with enough pressure to make you see white he rubbed it in circles between his fingers, leaning more weight into you as he did. His thrusts never faltered, but his breath did—a stuttered staccato of moans and gasps.
You fell in step alongside him, nearly screaming as your walls began to spasm and twitch. The sensation was overwhelming, a cascade of pleasure that felt like it was going to tear you apart. You were right there, on the edge of a precipice, and you knew he was about to push you over.
“Be good and make a mess for me, let it all out for me.”
At his command, you couldn’t help but oblige. Your sex gave one final seize before he came inside of you just as your walls forced his cock out, dripping a sticky, bitter substance in its wake.
“There we go…” he crooned, rubbing your clit through the aftermath of your orgasm, forcing you to squirt one more time before finally pulling away.
He seemed oddly proud and you couldn’t quite tell if it was of himself, or you.
————-
The ache between your legs had finally faded, but the memory of it remained—a phantom throb, a reminder of the last time Jeff had wrung you out and left you to dry on the sheets. Three days. It had been three days of blessed, maddening silence. Your apartment felt too big, too quiet without his heavy tread scuffing up your floors or his grunted complaints about your lack of edible food.
You missed him. And that fact was a more bitter pill to swallow than the cheap whiskey you were currently nursing.
That’s how you ended up on the fire escape, a thin metal platform perched on the edge of the woods. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant traffic. You wore nothing but an old, oversized hoodie and a pair of his boxers you’d stolen—the fabric worn soft and smelling faintly of him, a comfort you despised. Your legs dangled over the edge, swinging gently in the breeze, your eyes tracing the treeline where the city lights dissolved into darkness.
This was your ritual. A twisted form of birdwatching. You were waiting for the magpie, the one with the chard-skin and scavenger’s soul. Sometimes he’d emerge, and you’d trade barbs across the distance, a verbal sparring match that left you buzzing. Sometimes he’d climb the ladder, raid your fridge, and leave without a word. Most often, he’d climb up, pull you inside, and fuck you until the only thing you could remember was his name, before vanishing before the sun came up.
He was a ghost, a headache, and the most regular thing in your life. You hated how much you craved that awful consistency.
Tonight, the woods were still. The moon hung high and round, a sterile, perfect disk that made the shadows below seem deeper, more menacing. You took a long, slow sip from your bottle , watching the exhale of your breath curl and dissipate into the night. Just as you were about to give up, to retreat back into the hollow quiet of your apartment, a voice rasped from the darkness below, startling you.
“Lurking out here again? You gonna start paying rent for this ledge?”
The sound was a physical thing, a gravelly vibration that seemed to travel up the metal frame and straight into your bones. You didn’t bother looking down. You knew the shape of his shadow, the particular crunch his boots made on the gravel.
“It’s a better view than your face,” you called back, your voice raspy. “And it smells better, too.”
A low, rusty chuckle echoed up to you. Then came the sound you’d been waiting for: the groan of the old fire escape ladder as it took his weight. It protested with each rung, a rhythmic groan-metal-scrape that announced his slow, deliberate ascent. He wasn’t in a hurry.
He never was.
When he finally hauled himself over the railing, he was a study in beautiful decay. The moonlight carved him in sharp relief, highlighting the uneven, scarred terrain of his face. A fresh gash ran from his temple to his jaw, still raw and weeping. He was caked in dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood, and his clothes were torn in several places. He smelled of pine, damp soil, and something coppery and sharp underneath it all.
He stood there for a moment, a predator surveying his territory, before his eyes found yours. They gleamed in the dim light, dark and unreadable. He ran a grimy hand through his matted hair, dislodging a twig that fell to the grating with a soft clink.
“Rough night in the woods?” you asked, taking another drink of your well-earned booze.
He grunted, a non-committal sound, and moved closer. He didn’t sit, just loomed over you, blocking the moon. His presence was suffocating, a gravitational pull you both hated and craved.
“Something like that,” he rumbled, his voice a low vibration. “Figured I’d come see if my favorite pain in the ass was still up here acting like a gargoyle.”
He reached out, his fingers calloused and rough, and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence etched into his skin.
“Miss me?”
His question hung in the air, a challenge or a taunt—you couldn’t quite tell.
You flinched away from his touch, the brief gentleness feeling more insulting than a slap.
"Go fuck yourself," you muttered, swinging a leg back over the railing to retreat inside. "I was just enjoying the quiet before the garbage truck showed up."
He laughed, that same rusty, grating sound. "Liar." He didn't move to stop you, just watched as you clambered back through the open window, the boxers riding up your thighs. "You're all prickly because you're empty."
The word hit its mark. You were empty. Your fridge was empty, your apartment was empty, and the ache in your gut was a hollow, hungry thing. You spun around, glaring at him from the relative safety of your bedroom.
"And whose fault is that? You ate the last of my frozen pizza three days ago."
"So get more," he said with a shrug, finally swinging a leg over the railing to follow you inside. He moved with an unnerving grace, his big body fitting through the window frame with practiced ease. He landed on your floor with a soft thud, his boots tracking dirt and pine needles onto your clean rug.
"And what? Pay for it with the good vibes you bring into my life?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "I'm out."
He stopped, his head tilting. "Out of what?"
"Everything. Food. Alcohol. Patience." You gestured vaguely at him. "I'm not hosting you, you dickwad. We're not doing this here tonight."
For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something—disappointment?—in his dark eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual sullen indifference. He looked around your small apartment, his gaze lingering on the empty bottle on your counter.
"Fine," he grunted, turning back toward the window. "Don't get your panties in a twist."
"Where are you going?"
"Out," he said, his back to you. "To get a drink. Since you're all out of hospitality."
A ridiculous, desperate idea sparked in your mind. You didn't want to be alone. You didn't want him to leave, not really. But you couldn't stand the thought of him sulking in your space, a constant reminder of your own need. You grabbed a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from your dresser and shoved it in your pocket.
"Wait," you called out, just as he was about to swing his leg back over the railing. He paused, looking over his shoulder. "Don't break your neck. I'm coming with you."
He raised a scarred eyebrow. "Coming with me where?"
"You want a drink? I'll buy," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "But we're not going to a bar. And you're not coming back here. We'll go to your place."
A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. He saw right through you, of course. He knew you were just trying to maintain some semblance of control, to dictate the terms of this miserable arrangement.
"My place?" he chuckled. "You sure about that, sweet cheeks? It's a bit of a walk."
"I'm sure," you lied, slipping on a pair of boots. "Lead the way, caveman. Just try not to trip over your own knuckles on the way."
———
The air in the clearing was thick with pine needles and the heavy, humid stillness of the woods. You’d dragged Jeff out here because you were desperate to get a drink, and he had made the mistake of agreeing to come along.
You sat on a fallen oak log, legs swinging idly as you shook a bottle of cheap whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing against the glass. Jeff was slumped against a tree stump a few feet away, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He was staring at the ground, one boot kicked out, his arms crossed over his chest.
“You look like you’re waiting for a funeral,” you called out, cracking the seal on the bottle.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “I’m waiting for you to stop making me walk into the middle of nowhere for a sip of swill.”
“Gee, thanks for the hospitality,” you shot back, unscrewing the cap with a pop. “Open up. It’ll make me less annoying.”
You held the bottle out to him, offering the first pour without waiting for a verbal invitation. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, snatched the bottle, and took a long, desperate gulp, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and handed it back, looking only slightly less miserable.
You took a swig yourself, grimacing at the burn. It was rough, but it did the job. You took another, more generous pour for yourself and leaned back against the log.
“Seriously,” Jeff grumbled, kicking a small pebble that skittered across the forest floor. “Why here?”
“Because it’s quiet,” you said, tilting the bottle back. “And because I needed to get you out of my apartment. You’re like a bad rash.”
Jeff scoffed, a sound that lacked any actual humor. “A rash that fucks like a freak. I’ll take it.”
You laughed, a sharp, short burst of air. “You think that’s the only reason I let you stay over.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you drink. The silence between you was comfortable in a way that felt dangerous. He shifted his weight, leaning his shoulder against the tree, the rough bark catching on the sleeve of his jacket.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he finally said, his voice low. “But don't pretend you don't like it.”
You took another drink, letting the burn settle in your stomach. “I hate you, Jeff.”
“I know,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’ve been saying it since the day we met. You hate that you need me as much as you do.”
You stared at him, the whiskey burning a hole in your gut. The confident smirk on his face, the way he so casually laid bare the ugly truth of your dependence, made you want to slap it right off his scarred mouth.
"You're so fucking full of yourself," you snarled, shoving the bottle towards his chest. He caught it easily, his expression unchanging. "You think you've got it all figured out, don't you? That I'm just some pathetic, needy thing who can't function without your magical, savior dick."
He took a slow pull from the bottle, his eyes never leaving yours. "I never said it was magical," he said, wiping his mouth. "But it's the only thing that shuts you up, isn't it? The only time you're not fucking complaining or moping."
The words hit you like a physical blow, because they were true. That was the part you hated most. He didn't just fuck you; he silenced the constant, chattering noise in your head. He gave you a moment of peace by drowning you in sensation, and you hated him for being your only antidote.
"You're a goddamn parasite," you hissed, scrambling to your feet. The world tilted slightly from the sudden movement and the cheap liquor. "You show up when you're hungry or horny, you take what you want, and then you crawl back into your little dirt-hole until you need something again. Don't you dare stand there and act like you know a single thing about what I need."
"I know what you want," he shot back, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. He stood too, his full height imposing in the dappled moonlight. "You want to be treated like you hate it. You want to be used so you have a reason to complain. You want to be able to point at me and say 'he's the problem,' so you don't have to look in the fucking mirror."
"Fuck you," you spat, turning away. "You don't know me."
"I know you better than anyone," he said, grabbing your arm. His grip was like iron, stopping you cold. "I know you hate your job. I know you hate your neighbors. I know you lie awake at night thinking about the woods. I know you hate being alone more than you hate me."
You wrenched your arm free with a violent jerk, the skin tingling where his fingers had been. "Let go of me," you seethed, your voice trembling with a fury so hot it felt like tears. "I'm not your fucking project. I'm not a puzzle for you to solve so you can feel smart or like less of a roach than you really are."
He just watched you, his infuriating calm a stark contrast to your raging emotions. He took another swig from the bottle, holding it out to you like an offering. "Then what are you?"
You looked from the bottle to his face—the smug, scarred, beautiful face that you both loved and hated with every fiber of your being. And you realized he was right. He was right about all of it. He was the problem, but he was also the solution, and that paradox was going to eat you alive.
"I'm done," you whispered, the fight draining out of you all at once. "I'm so fucking done with this."
You spun on your heel and started walking, not even sure which direction would lead you back to the city. You just needed to move, to get away from the suffocating truth of his words and the suffocating presence of his body
"Where are you going?" he called after you, his voice laced with the first hint of something other than cool indifference. Annoyance? Maybe even concern.
"Away from you!" you shouted back, not looking back. You stumbled over a root, catching yourself on a tree. The bark scraped your palm, but you didn't feel it. You just kept walking, deeper into the woods, away from the clearing and the man and the bottle of whiskey that held up a mirror you refused to look into.
_________
You stumbled through your front door, kicking off your boots with a clumsy, frustrated thud. The woods had been too cold, the air too thick, and the silence of the night had done nothing but amplify the gnawing ache between your legs. You wanted a drink. You wanted to be alone. You wanted to forget that you’d been so easily swayed by a man who treated you like shit.
You dropped onto the mattress, not even bothering to change clothes, and buried your face in the pillows. The exhaustion was absolute, dragging you under before your head even hit the foam.
The transition into sleep was violent, a sudden drop into blackness where time ceased to exist. You floated in the void for an eternity, then—you were suddenly drowning in heat.
It wasn't the suffocating dark this time. It was a wet, searing friction against your hip. You gasped, a ragged, involuntary sound that didn't belong to you, your body seizing in the sudden, sharp jolt of sensory overload. Your eyes snapped open, but they were unfocused, seeing only static and grey shadows.
You were on your bed. The sheets were twisted around your legs. A shadow loomed over you, blocking out the moonlight from the window.
It was Jeff.
He was on his knees between your thighs, his face buried between your legs. The reality hit you with the force of a freight train, your brain struggling to piece together the scene.
You were naked.
He was naked.
His mouth was buried between your legs, his tongue a rough, demanding muscle working you over with a fervor that bordered on aggression.
You couldn't help but moan, a long, shuddering sound that escaped your throat. Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking more of that exquisite torture. Your walls fluttered and clenched around nothing, a non-physical tightness that you couldn't seem to scratch.
He pulled back slightly, a strand of saliva connecting his lip to your swollen clit. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, a predator inspecting its prey
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper, dripping with satisfaction. "Still trying to act like you're so tough. Like you're better than me."
His hand moved to your hip, his fingers digging in hard, leaving bruises that would surely be there in the morning. "But you're not tough. You're just a needy little thing who can't get enough of my mouth."
He leaned back in, his tongue flicking against your clit, causing you to arch your back off the mattress. "So tight," he groaned, the vibrations traveling through your body. "You get so wet just from being close to me. Pathetic."
You gasped, the degradation washing over you, mingling with the intense pleasure. Your mind went blank, the only thought being of his mouth and the incredible sensation of being eaten alive.
He pulled back again, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. "Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with pride. "Look at how good you look when you're being used."
He leaned in, his tongue diving deep, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. "You're so good," he whispered. "So fucking good. You take it so well."
You came with a cry, your body shuddering, your walls clenching around his tongue, milking him for all he was worth. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you felt him swallow, his throat working as he took everything you gave him.
He pulled back, his face glistening with your arousal. He sat back on his heels, looking at you with a look of supreme satisfaction, a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.
"Good girl," he said, his voice a rough, whisper. "Such a good girl."
You lay there, gasping, your body still convulsing around the blissful sensation of his tongue. The air in the room was heavy, thick with the scent of sex and pine, and you couldn't bring yourself to care that you were completely bare and exposed to him.
Jeff didn't give you time to recover. He moved quickly, his large frame looming over you as he braced his hands on either side of your head. He didn't ask for permission; he didn't even look for a sign of consent. He just knew you were awake enough to take it.
"Open your legs," he commanded, his voice rough with lust.
You did as you were told, your body moving on instinct, parting your thighs to accept him. He groaned, the sound low and primal, as he positioned himself at your entrance.
He didn't tease. He didn't wait. He thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, hard stroke.
You cried out, your back arching off the mattress, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. He was huge, stretching you wide, filling you up in a way that made you feel both full and empty. He began to move, his hips snapping against yours, his thrusts deep and fast, driving you higher and higher.
"You're so tight," he grunted, his face contorted with effort and pleasure. "I can feel every inch of you. You're squeezing me so hard."
He reached down and grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, leaving bruises that would surely be mixed with the ones from his mouth.
"Look at me," he ordered.
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. He was looking down at you, his eyes dark and intense, his jaw clenched tight.
"You're so beautiful when you're being used," he whispered, leaning down to kiss you. His kiss was rough and hungry, tasting of you and him. "So perfect."
He pulled back slightly, his thumb rubbing over your clit, making you gasp. "Such a good girl," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You take it so well. You're my good little slut.
You moaned, your body tightening around him, your walls fluttering as he continued to pound into you. The sensation was overwhelming, a cascade of pleasure and pain that washed over you. You felt like you were going to scream.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, his breath hitching. "I can hear you. It's so fucking loud."
He shifted his weight, pulling your legs up onto his shoulders, giving him deeper access. The new angle made you cry out, your body shuddering, your toes curling.
"Take it," he ordered. "Take all of it. You're made for this. You're made to be fucked."
You couldn't speak. You could only moan and beg, your body moving in perfect sync with his. You were floating on a sea of sensation, your mind going blank, the only thing that existed was the feeling of him inside you.
He reached down and grabbed your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your neck to him. "Look at you," he groaned, his eyes locked onto yours. "You're so beautiful when you're cumming."
He thrust deep, hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars, and you came with a cry, your body shuddering, your walls clenching around him. He groaned, the sound vibrating against your skin, and he came with a roar, filling you up, his seed spilling out of you as he pulled out and collapsed beside you.
He rolled onto his side, pulling you close, his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Good girl," he whispered, kissing your forehead. "You were so good. So fucking good."
Far from the dregs of modern society and the plight of humanity lay your home. A reclusive–much like you–modest cabin, nestled amidst towering oak trees and far off the main trail. It had taken you a few years to establish your self-sustaining sanctuary, but now it was a thriving homestead.
Vibrant green leaves sprouted up in even rows of dirt beside your house, a few paces away from a fire pit you had dug yourself one Spring evening. You would, of course, travel into town for luxuries like AA batteries and processed chocolate, but your trips became few and far between–eventually optional. You found yourself leaving less and less. You didn’t miss the drone of rush hour traffic, overly congested sidewalks, empty night skies, or ever climbing prices.
If anything, the quiet felt earned.
As your disdain for your old way of life grew, your want to stay dwindled until you ditched it all and went off the grid.
Everyone assumed you would last a week, perhaps a month, and you hated to admit you had held similar sentiments. The initial move was hard, but once you had set up a decent router and a generator, you became settled much more quickly.
Settled.
That was the word you used, anyway.
The only absence you felt was a social one. As days of silence stretched into weeks, the realization of your isolation became harder to ignore. Your shopping ventures hardly fulfilled your needs, filled with mindless small talk and passing remarks purely for the sake of politeness–and in hopes of earning a tip. The remaining connections of substance you did have all but eroded with the separation, not only physical but emotional as well. Quitting your job all but severed your connection to former coworkers, up and leaving your friends had earned you their ire, and your family was a complicated mess that all but caved in on itself after your decision.
So, there you were. Your best friend may have well been the ground hog that had made itself a home beneath your porch, and your only conversation came from the few and far between hikers in dire need of directions.
They never stayed long, and you never asked them too.
It was, at least, easy to be of service; the criss-crossing of trails was familiar as all of the forests’ odds and ends were second nature. That muscle memory carried you from your cabin and down the steep slope of your backyard.
The grass around you grew slim and short from the limited sunlight that made it through the thick canopy of trees. Sparse green patches faded into smooth pebbles and sandy mud as you closed in on the shallow stream cutting through the woods. It was just deep enough to house small fish with a healthy population of frogs at various stages of life. Because of its frail inhabitants, you avoided fishing there–however, the water did attract a decent amount of other wild animals ripe for hunting.
That wasn’t your particular intention today, instead you were simply scouring the area for any plants you had yet to harvest. So, donning chunky rain boots and worn gloves you began searching. Parting shrubs and shifting stones you were greeted with the expected wriggling earth worms, scurrying ants, and–
Heavy steel-toed boots.
You froze.
Huh?
Before you was a huge pair of work boots, made of worn black leather caked in mud with straps galore. Tucked into them was black cargo pants, plentiful with pockets which were all stuffed full. As if that was not enough storage, a utility belt hung from his waist. In one of the loops a serrated hunting knife caught your eye, stirring some surprise and apprehension.
You hadn’t heard him approach.
Taking a tentative step back for your own safety, you weren’t sure what was more shocking–the appearance of another person or the fact that they were decked out in tactile gear like the world was about to end.
How odd this truly was began to set in. How had you not heard anything? Why was he so close?
Your heart rate picked up a bit as you stood up, eyes flitting from his black belt to his black hoodie–
Wow. This guy had a favorite color.
Underneath his baggy sleeves was, you guessed it, black gloves which seemed to be pulled over bandages of some sort. And then–best of all–was a dark blue mask, stained with heavy black tear streaks.
Great. Just great.
You had been discovered by an edgelord with a knife which was basically a would-be serial killer–assuming you were his first victim. If that were the case you were fucked.
For one, he had no discernable features, save for a mess of dark curls peaking out from beneath his hood. And, secondly, he was huge.
The stranger was easily the tallest man you had ever seen, pushing seven feet tall with wide shoulders and a soft stomach.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t shift.
He just…stood there.
“Hello.”
He spoke firmly, his formal voice much smoother than you would have expected.
“Hi…” You croaked out in turn, wishing you had brought a more substantial weapon with you than a spade. Clutching the shovel like a life line you did another rapid once over. He was at least a head taller than you and could probably snap you in half like a twig. Swallowing the lump in your throat you waited anxiously for his response, a bit too scared to prompt him yourself.
“You live near here.”
His choice of words left you dumbfounded. He stated it, like it was a fact–which it was, technically–but how the hell did he know that?
“Yes, I do.” You replied, the words coming out more like a question than an answer.
A hum of understanding left him, a deep rumbling vibrato. He raised his hand stiffly, more like an animatronic than a man. It paused midair, fingers twitching once before settling, pointing at you.
“Food.”
“Yeah…?” What the fuck was wrong with him.
“What do you do for food” he continued. “Is it…easy, to hunt? Are you ever interrupted?”
The question seemed oddly pointed considering the awkwardness of his wording, but you found yourself answering anyway.
“I grow my own stuff–tomatoes, carrots, easy stuff mostly. It's not the best place to catch anything here” you gestured towards the stream. The stranger simply tilted his head in response. “But uhm, no. If you go after animals it's not like another one is going to stop you from doing it or anything.”
He tensed–subtly, but surely.
Like something in your answer hadn’t aligned with what he expected. “I see. I meant, more so, are you ever interrupted by people?”
That got a laugh out of you.
Not because it was funny–but because it wasn’t.
“Oh god no–I mean, not really.” You tried to recover, still on edge. “People, like, rarely come through here. Usually just hikers and stuff, so they don’t go off the trail.”
Your explanation seemed to please him this time, earning you an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, I’m glad I could help.” Your response carried more warmth than before, offering a small smile you hoped he returned beneath his mask.
“Yes.”
He turned to leave, taking a few steps before pausing.
Then–he turned back.
Not at your face, just at you.
“I’ll see you around…”
“I’ll–”
“I’m Jack.”
Taken aback by the awkward interruption, silence fell between you both for a few painful moments.
Then, your laughter broke the tension, easing him to relax his shoulders–just slightly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.”
He didn’t respond right away, he just stood there for a second longer than necessary.
| The Dead Don’t Stay Buried -> Various!Creepypasta x Reader |
Chapter 1 | Namesake
Vivian Carlisle was a beautiful girl.
Her warm, olive skin paired best with bold yet cool colors—you'd learned that quickly.
Purples brought out the gold in her undertones, made her look radiant against the harsh overhead lights.
After some experimentation, you found that a liquid blush in a violet shade worked best for the apples of her cheeks. It disguised the dull discoloration there, the kind that had settled in over the past several days. Nothing too concerning, just something that needed covering.
The gray stayed, of course—nothing could quite get rid of it anymore, not with how deep it had sunk into the tissue. But the shade you had picked made her look more lively, almost as if warmth still moved beneath the surface.
Thankfully, her natural beauty did most of the heavy lifting. A dusting of shimmery eyeshadow across her lids, a sparing addition of rosy highlighter along her cheekbones, and she looked serene.
Elegant.
Ready.
Vivian looked as if she was preparing to go to prom.
Maybe an extravagant date, corsage waiting in the refrigerator.
Or a dance recital, leotard hanging nearby.
Perhaps even her graduation, the gown pressed and ready for photographs.
You stepped back to admire your work, your gaze tracing the careful work you'd done around her jaw, the way you'd softened the deep indents marring her flesh, hidden the tears that separated muscle from bone beneath layers of wax and skill.
The young woman was stunning, even now.
It really was a shame that she had died so young.
Vivian had been a girl of sixteen, with waves of inky black locks you had washed and arranged yourself, full cheeks as soft as her apparent personality.
From the eulogy her parents had written, she lived her life generously and kindly; summers full of church retreats and evenings spent at the local SPCA proved her devotion to giving.
You adjusted the lamp one final time, chasing the shadows from her still face.
Shutting the harsh light off completely, you ripped the latex gloves from your hands with a snap. They came away sticky, tacky with sweat and something else that had seeped through the barrier hours ago.
You didn't look too closely.
Instead, you balled up the wrinkled, bloody plastic and stuffed it deep into the pocket of your father's old apron—the canvas littered with faded stains on the hem that never quite washed out.
In a failing mortuary that had nearly gone under twice in the past year, there wasn't spare money for staff.
Or, in other words, there wasn't spare money for you.
After your father's death six months prior, you had absorbed every role he once juggled: funeral director, secretary, coroner, groundskeeper, grief counselor. The odd jobs blurred together until you found yourself elbow-deep in a cadaver's thoracic cavity at two in the morning, phone cradled between shoulder and ear, calmly discussing hydrangeas versus lilies with a widow who couldn't stop crying while your free hand gestured toward a binder open on the far counter.
You still hadn't memorized the floral options.
The apron pulled tight across your shoulders as you leaned against the embalming table, your hip brushing against Vivian's arm—cool now, settling into the temperature of the room.
You didn't move away.
You'd learned not to flinch at contact with the dead. They were easier to manage than the living, most days. They didn't ask for discounts. They didn't complain about the outdated carpet in the entryway or the flickering bulb in the bathroom. They simply waited, patient and present, for you to finish what you'd started.
Your fingers found the edge of the apron pocket, tracing the shape of the discarded gloves through the fabric. Through the doorway, you could hear the phone ringing again—probably another family, probably another body, probably another night of working until your hands shook and your vision blurred at the edges.
You didn't move to answer it.
Not yet.
Instead, you reached out and adjusted the collar of Vivian's hospital gown, straightening it the way you imagined her mother might have done before she went out on the night she died. The fabric was cheap, institutional, but it was all you had until the family brought the dress they'd chosen for the viewing.
"Almost done," you whispered, though whether you were speaking to her or to yourself, you couldn't say.
Perhaps the loneliness was getting to you.
Maybe it was time you went to bed.
Hastily deciding that a nap was easier than confronting the isolation that weighed on your already encumbered mind you moved Vivian from the embalming table to a gurney, then rolled her through the refrigerated storage room to the drawer marked with her name in your father's handwriting—sharpie on masking tape, the letters already starting to bleed from the condensation.
*Vivian Carlisle. 16. DOA.*
Your heavy footsteps echoed off the grimy tile, following you down the narrow hallway like a second shadow. The sound bounced off stainless steel and peeling wallpaper, hollow and too loud in the empty building.
At the end of the corridor, a creaking staircase climbed toward the ceiling, each step bowed in the center from decades of use. You ascended in darkness, your hand trailing along the splintered banister more from memory than sight.
The apartment two floors above had been your father's. Now it was yours.
You pulled the frayed string that dangled from the ceiling fixture, and the exposed bulb flickered once, twice, then surrendered to darkness. The warmth of it lingered on your face for a moment—a ghost of light—before you stripped off your jacket and kicked the rain boots you'd been using as work shoes into the corner. They landed with a wet thud, still slick from the basement floor.
You no longer cringed at the sickening sound—the wet suction of tissue separating, the crack of rigor mortis breaking, the heavy finality of a drawer sealing shut. You were too tired, and too far beyond perturbation to register much of anything anymore.
In your short few months as coroner, you had seen boys barely a third of your age gutted like fish on a dock, their insides spilled and gleaming.
You had stood before a sea of limbs in the aftermath of a highway collision, tasked with the grotesque puzzle of reassembling them into however many complete people had existed before impact.
You had processed bodies so defiled—by fire, by water, by human cruelty—that you could not confidently identify a single cause of death, only a constellation of possibilities.
Simply put, your skin had thickened. And your mind had learned to fold itself around the horror, compacting it into something small and manageable, something you could set on a shelf alongside your father's old textbooks and forget until morning.
You reached the top of the stairs and pushed open the apartment door, the hinges whining in protest. The space beyond was small, cluttered with the artifacts of a life interrupted—your father's reading glasses still folded on the nightstand, your long forgotten mother's ceramic figurines staring with painted eyes from the windowsill, and now your own scattered belongings, your exhaustion, your growing inability to distinguish where the mortuary ended and you began.
The bed waited, unmade, the sheets smelling of dust and the chemical tang that seemed to permeate everything now, rising from your pores no matter how hard you scrubbed.
You fell into it without removing your clothes, your arm flung over your eyes to block out the streetlight filtering through thin curtains.
Downstairs, in the dark, Vivian rested in her metal drawer.
And for a moment, as sleep dragged you under, you could have sworn you heard her breathing.
In the uncomfortable, stuffy peace of your twin bed your life began replaying through your mind, questioning what could have possibly made you end up here.
The last thing you remember is the sound of your grandmother's voice, warning you about walking the ridge after dark.
You're standing at the edge of the tree line behind your grandfather's cabin, where the pines grow so thick no moonlight reaches the ground. The air smells like wet limestone and rotting leaves. You know you shouldn't be there, but your feet keep moving, crunching through the frost-brittle undergrowth.
That's when you hear it—a wet, dragging sound, like someone pulling a heavy sack through wet clay.
You turn, and there he is.
No-Eyes doesn't walk so much as he unfolds from the darkness between two oak trees.
His hood is up, drawn tight, but you can see where his face should be. Where eyes should sit, there's only smooth, waxy skin stretched too tight over bone, glistening faintly like a mushroom cap in the dim light.
No sockets.
No scars.
Just blank, curved flesh that somehow still seems to be looking directly at you.
You try to run, but your legs sink into the earth as if the mountain itself is swallowing you. The dragging sound gets closer. You can smell him now—an inhuman musk and copper, the inside of a penny jar left too long in the sun.
He leans down, and you see his hands. Long fingers, black at the tips, reaching toward your side, toward the soft place just above your hip where your kidney sits.
Your voice is gone. You can only stare into that eyeless face as his mouth opens, revealing teeth that look like they've been filed down to points, and he whispers something that you can’t quite decipher.
His fingers brush your skin—
You jackknife upright in bed, a strangled scream caught in your throat, sheets twisted around your legs like vines. Your heart hammers against your ribs so hard you can feel it in your teeth. For a terrible second, you swear you still smell copper and stale smoke.
Your hands fly to your sides, pressing against your ribs, feeling for the telltale tenderness, the phantom sensation of those black-tipped fingers.
Nothing.
Just sweat-damp skin and your own frantic pulse.
The room is silent except for your ragged breathing. Outside, the wind moves through the pines, and for a moment, you hear it—that wet, dragging sound. You freeze, staring at the dark rectangle of your window, waiting for a hooded silhouette to unfold from the shadows.
But there's nothing. Only the dim light of the rising sun, and the lingering certainty that somewhere in the hollows, No-Eyes is still walking.
Most people from Eerie had chalked No-Eyes up to an urban legend. Even your old classmates who used to tell the most haunting stories of him—like Shauna Sterling, who claimed to speak to the dead at sleepovers using a Ouija board she'd inherited from her aunt who'd died in a mining collapse, or Devon McKinley, who would all too frequently lock freshmen in the old utilities building during homecoming week and leave them there until morning—were all silent on the matter now.
Their Facebook profiles showed them living aggressively normal lives: Shauna selling real estate in Pittsburgh, Devon working as a dental hygienist in Harrisburg, both of them posting photos of golden retrievers and craft beer.
The former children of Split River High were all so adamant that the incident which had all but solidified the rumors of No-Eyes—or The Pine Devil or The Ridge Walker, whatever they called him depending on which hollow their grandparents had come from—was nothing but a mortal tragedy. A gas leak, they'd say. A structural failure.
They used words like "unfortunate" and "preventable" and "closure." They held fundraisers for the families. They planted a memorial tree that died within the year.
It was all just a horrible accident.
Sure it was.
You'd been in the parking lot that night, sitting in the back of Devon's Bronco, passing a warm can of Yuengling between half a dozen people, listening to the radio crackle with static that shouldn't have existed this far from the broadcast tower.
You'd heard the screaming, or something like screaming—more like the sound of wet fabric tearing, or a deer being field-dressed by someone who didn't know what they were doing.
You'd seen the abandoned dorm building of P.E.R.I—the Penn-Eerie something or other, an all too advanced private college—standing against the ridge, dark except for a single light moving in the upper window, and you'd felt the pull of it, the gravitational certainty that something was happening in there that would redefine the geometry of your life.
From there the night went South, the premonition in your gut making you no less then a soothsayer as it all went to hell.
You'd run. You were the one who ran, who left Shauna convulsing in the gravel with her mouth open, Becca Holt sobbing violently by her side as McKinley sped off in search of something.
Ever the skeptic, you kept your peace by simply shoving the paranoia and pondering to the back of your mind in favor of swinging your legs over the side of your creaky, inherited bed and beginning your day.
Lake Harmony was nothing like Eerie. Here, the mountains were gentler, rounded by glaciers instead of carved by coal extraction and desperation.
The locals were seasonal—ski instructors in winter, boat rental operators in summer—and they didn't carry the weight of generational haunting that everyone in Eerie seemed to inherit at birth like a birthmark or a debt.
You stood at the window, looking out at the gray morning light on the water, and you catalogued the normal things: a heron standing in the reeds, a UPS truck grinding its way up the private road, the soft chatter of birds perched on the shop next door.
You made a mental list of the tasks that would fill the day—fixing the loose step on the deck, calling the plumber about the sulfur smell in the well water, maybe driving into town for groceries if you could summon the energy to interact with cashiers.
But your hand found the scar again, as it always did, the smooth patch of skin on your left side where a part of you should have been.
You let the curtain fall back into place. The heron took flight, startled by something you couldn't see.
Downstairs, the coffee maker gurgled and spat, and you went to meet the day, leaving the bed unmade behind you, the sheets still holding the impression of your body.
The ancient Mr. Brew machine finishes its cycle with a sound like a death rattle, that final wet slurp that usually signals the start of your morning.
You pour it into the chipped mug—one of the few things you brought with you, cherry red ceramic with a white handle and the letters U, N, and T following after—and lift it to your face.
The smell hits first.
Not the roasted, nutty aroma of grounds, but something else entirely.
Wet limestone.
Stale dirt.
A glass of milk left out in the sun.
You lower the mug, staring at the black surface.
It looks like coffee.
It steams like coffee.
But when you taste it, it coats your tongue with a flavor that has no name in any language you speak.
Metallic, yes, but beneath that, something organic. Cellular. Like drinking the excess of something that had died awhile ago.
You spit it into the sink. The liquid hits the stainless steel with a sound that is wrong, too heavy, and leaves a residue the color of rust.
You run the tap, watching it swirl down the drain, and your reflection in the faucet's chrome curve looks distorted, stretched, eyeless.
The well water.
It has to be the well water!
You’d been ignoring the sulfur smell for three days, telling yourself it's normal for this part of the Poconos, that limestone deposits create mineral tang, that you're being paranoid. But now your mouth tastes like you've been sucking on a battery.
You need to get out of the cabin.
Your keys are in your hand before you can even think of anything else, ratty Dr. Martens slipped over socks you had worn holes into. You don't grab a jacket despite the October chill, don't check your hair or your phone or the voicemail machine that blinks a needy red.
You just go, stumbling on the gravel driveway in untied boots, the stones slipping in and biting into your soles with a pain that is welcome.
Your car starts on the third try, and you pull onto the narrow road that winds down toward the lake, passing the closed-up summer homes with their FOR RENT signs and their dark windows.
Through the dense morning fog you see it.
Heaven.
Harmony Brew, the local coffee shop—with a logo of two fish forming a yin-yang—sits at the intersection where the private roads meet the state route.
You park crooked, barely in your space on one side with too much room on the other, and push through the door with too much force.
The bell chimes overhead, a cheerful sound that catches the attention of a woman behind the counter with a wiry mass of blonde hair.
“Oh my god, you’re alive!”
A dramatic but all too familiar voice meets your ears, and before you know it a pair of slender arms are thrown around you.
The hug presses your ribs with a familiarity that makes you want to weep. Coconut shampoo and vanilla lotion.
Bryn.
"You're alive," she repeats, but not with relief—with the flat annoyance of someone who has been inconvenienced. "Three days. Do you know how many times I called your…" she snaps her manicured fingers in the air trying to recall the word “…your home phone!”
That was why your landline had been ringing off the hook.
She pulls back, and you see her properly for the first time in weeks.
Her blonde hair was pulled back with a neon claw clip meant to look like hibiscus flowers.
The Harmony Brew t-shirt, still creased from the package.
She's gained weight, or lost it—you can't tell, your perception of other people's bodies has atrophied along with everything else.
"I've been working," you say.
"Yeah, I know. Your Dad’s place. New deck." Bryn moves behind the counter with the leisure of someone who wasn’t being paid to be here. "I drove by. Saw you hauling lumber at six in the morning. You looked like a freaking scarecrow."
She fills a mug from the carafe, slides it across the counter.
The coffee is dark, oily, exactly what you came for.
"I got this job because I needed health insurance," Bryn continues on, leaning against the espresso machine. "My mom’s won’t cover my stuff anymore and being an aspiring actress doesn’t come with dental. But also, kinda because you stopped answering your phone, and I figured if I was somewhere you had to go eventually, I'd at least see you before you starved to death or something.”
You can’t help but laugh at the jovial delivery of her dry humor.
Thankfully, the coffee tastes like coffee.
You hadn't expected that. You'd braced for copper, for the mineral tang that's been haunting the well water, but this is just burnt and bitter, the way coffee should be.
"How long?" you ask.
"Two weeks. They fired the morning person for stealing from the tip jar, which she wasn't doing, by the way. The owner just didn't like her face." Bryn wipes down a spot on the counter that doesn't need wiping. "She was weird, though. Margaret. Kept saying the espresso machine made weird noises at night. Not in a cute way. In a 'I'm going to take this apart with a screwdriver' way."
Outside, a truck rumbles past on the state route, hauling kayaks.
The shop is empty except for you, Bryn, and an older man busying himself in the back.
The morning rush had yet to come, the sun barely starting to rise, leaving you with the smell of fresh pastries and the awkwardness of being a small businesses first customer.
“I wasn’t avoiding you,” you clarified awkwardly.
“Yes, you so were.” Bryn didn’t look up from the counter. “You’re avoiding everything. Your dad’s lawyer literally called me because you won’t return his emails about the property taxes.”
You stared down into your coffee instead, watching the dark liquid slide around the mug in slow hypnotic circles. The fluorescent lights reflected strangely against its surface—warped gold stretching thin and snapping apart every time your hand moved.
Outside, rain crawled down the windows in crooked streams.
The whole town smelled wet lately.
Wet earth. Wet leaves. Wet stone.
Like the mountains themselves were rotting.
“I just forgot,” you muttered.
“Mm.” Bryn tore open a sugar packet with her teeth. “For three weeks.”
The shop hummed quietly around you.
The sharp hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.
The soft playing of music over hidden speakers.
Normal sounds.
You focused on them carefully.
Anything to keep your thoughts from drifting back downstairs.
Back to fluorescent lights and the cold weight of Vivian Carlisle’s wrist in your hand.
You could still feel it if you thought too hard.
The stiffness beneath the skin.
The fracture hidden beneath carefully arranged curls.
You swallowed hard and lifted the mug to your lips.
The coffee had gone lukewarm.
Bryn finally glanced up from the register.
“You look like shit.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it lovingly.”
“I can tell.”
“You’re pale.”
“I’m always pale.”
“No, like—” She paused. “Hospital pale.”
That made your stomach tighten.
Not hospital pale.
Mortuary pale.
There was a difference.
Hospitals fought death.
Funeral homes just cleaned up after it.
Your gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked windows again.
Main Street sat quiet beyond the glass, wrapped in fog and early evening dark. Jim Thorpe always looked vaguely haunted in bad weather. The old buildings climbed the hillsides in uneven rows, their windows glowing amber through the mist like watchful eyes.
Tourists loved it in October.
They came for ghost tours and fall foliage and train rides through the mountains.
Most of them never stayed long enough to notice how strange the town actually was.
Bryn nudged your arm with her fork.
“You’re doing it again.”
Before you could answer, the bell above the diner door jingled softly.
Cold air spilled inside.
A man stepped through the doorway, bringing rain and the smell of damp wool with him.
You recognized Officer Harlow immediately.
Everyone in town recognized Officer Harlow.
Tall. Mid-forties. Permanently exhausted-looking.
The kind of man who always seemed uncomfortable inside his own uniform.
This morning he looked worse than usual.
Water dripped from the shoulders of his coat onto the checkered tile floor.
His eyes found you almost immediately.
Your stomach sank.
Bryn noticed too.
“Oh,” she murmured quietly. “That’s probably not good.”
Harlow approached the booth slowly, removing his hat as he reached the counter.
For a second he just stood there.
Not speaking.
You noticed dirt beneath his fingernails.
Dark mud splashed along the hem of his pants.
Forest mud.
Mountain mud.
“You busy?” he asked finally.
Something about his voice felt wrong.
Tight.
Careful.
You set your mug down.
“What happened?”
Harlow glanced toward Bryn before answering.
“Need you down at Lake Harmony.”
Your friend frowned immediately. “Why?”
Harlow hesitated.
That frightened you more than if he’d answered outright.
“We found a body,” he said.
Silence settled over the shop.
The espresso machine hissed somewhere behind the counter.
Your mouth went dry.
“What does that have to do with me?” you asked, though you already knew.
Harlow blinked, visibly thrown.
“…You’re the coroner?”
“Oh.” You stared into your coffee. “Yeah. Right.”
Bryn slowly lowered the rag in her hand. “Jesus Christ.”
Harlow cleared his throat. “You haven’t been answering dispatch.”
“I took the morning off.”
“You didn’t tell anybody.”
You rubbed at your temple. “What’s so urgent?”
The officer hesitated.
That was the first bad sign.
“The body was found out near Blackwater Road.”
Your stomach tightened instantly.
“And?” you asked carefully.
Harlow reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Even upside down, you recognized the scene immediately.
A body propped upright against a tree.
Hands folded neatly in its lap.
Your pulse stuttered.
Harlow watched your face carefully. “Thought you should see it before the others.”
You swallowed hard. “Why?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Because this one had your name carved into its chest.”
| The Dead Don’t Stay Buried -> Various!Creepypasta x Fem!Reader |
Chapter Two | Intake
Rain fell in slow, heavy clumps while faster drops burst violently across the windshield, smearing into transparent streaks each time the wipers dragged across the glass with a tired mechanical groan.
THUNK.
The blades skipped slightly near the center.
THUNK.
Rubber against water.
Metal rattling beneath the dashboard.
The low hiss of tires cutting through flooded asphalt.
Everything sounded muffled beneath the storm.
The distant mountains dissolved into a bruised smear of muddy brown and dusty black, their peaks powdered white beneath fresh snow that clung to the trees in uneven patches. Fog drifted lazily between them, swallowing entire stretches of forest before coughing them back up again farther down the road.
From a distance, the mountains looked strangely small.
Like piled dirt.
Like anthills.
Like something harmless.
But the closer ridges crowded tightly against the road, rising beside the car in massive walls of dripping pine and exposed stone. Their shadows pressed heavily against the windows.
Claustrophobic.
Suffocating.
The kind of closeness that made it feel impossible to breathe.
Water streamed down the rock faces in thin silver threads.
Branches shuddered overhead beneath the weight of rain and melting snow.
Somewhere deeper in the woods, something metallic groaned softly in the wind—an old signpost maybe, or rusted mining equipment half-swallowed by the trees.
The sound carried strangely through the mountains.
Long.
Low.
Almost animal.
The heater clicked weakly beneath the dashboard, pushing out air that smelled faintly of dust and old engine oil. Damp wool and lake water lingered in the cramped interior of the van, mixing with the coppery trace of blood that no amount of cleaning ever fully removed from county vehicles.
In the back, the stretcher wheels rattled softly every time the road curved.
A small sound.
Easy to ignore if you tried.
Still, you found yourself counting the noise unconsciously.
Rattle.
Silence.
Rattle.
Silence.
The body shifted slightly during sharper turns, the black plastic rustling almost delicately in the dark behind you.
You kept your eyes fixed ahead.
Meanwhile, the windshield framed the world in flashes: wet guardrails that glistened under passing headlights, telephone poles leaning with the weight of age, an endless sea of trees, and the steep drops of the Appalachia’s which vanished into dark nothingness .
Jim Thorpe always felt isolated during storms.
Cut off somehow.
Like the rain washed the rest of Pennsylvania away and left only the mountains behind.
The fog thickened suddenly as the road curved higher.
For a few seconds the headlights illuminated nothing except swirling white mist.
No trees.
No road.
No mountains.
Just blankness.
The emptiness made your stomach tighten instinctively.
Officer Harlow shifted beside you, one hand tightening around the steering wheel as the van crept forward through the dark.
The turn signal clicked hollowly through the silence.
It was pointless, really.
There was no one out here besides you, the officer, and the half rotted corpse behind you.
Somewhere beneath the storm, hidden deep in the trees beyond the shoulder, came the faint sound of running water.
Lake Harmony overflowed badly this time of year.
The streams feeding down from the mountains became violent after heavy rain, dragging branches, roadkill, and sometimes worse things down through the ravines.
You swallowed hard.
Behind you, something wet struck the metal floor of the van with a soft patter.
Then another.
Lake water leaked slowly through the seams of the body bag, gathering into dark trembling beads before slipping free. The sound was quiet—barely more than a drip—yet in the suffocating silence of the vehicle it seemed impossibly loud.
Steady.
Measured.
Patient.
Each drop landed with a hollow metallic tick that buried itself somewhere deep behind your eyes.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
You became horribly aware of the space behind you.
The stretcher restraints creaking faintly with every turn.
Plastic rustling softly against itself.
The heavy shape lying motionless in the dark.
It took every ounce of your willpower not to look.
Not to peel back the black plastic and search the girl’s face for something recognizable.
Not familiarity exactly.
Something worse.
Recognition.
You didn’t know her.
Surely.
And yet the feeling persisted stubbornly beneath your ribs—that awful gnawing certainty that you should.
Like forgetting the name of someone from childhood.
Like passing a stranger on the street who somehow already knew yours.
Your fingertips dug harder into the paper coffee cup balanced in your lap. The cardboard had gone soft from condensation, bending slightly beneath the pressure.
Outside, rainwater rushed violently through roadside ditches, carrying leaves and mud downhill into darkness. The mountains rose on either side of the narrow road in immense black walls, their tree lines barely visible through fog and sleet.
The windshield wipers groaned again.
THUNK.
THUNK.
Officer Harlow finally shifted beside you, one hand tightening slightly around the steering wheel.
“Do you recognize her?” he asked quietly.
The question slid through the van like another sound of the storm.
You opened your mouth.
Closed it again.
Another drip struck the metal floor behind you.
Tick.
Your eyes remained fixed ahead, watching the headlights smear weakly across rain-slick pavement.
“No,” you lied.
The word came too quickly.
Too flat.
Harlow glanced toward you briefly before returning his attention to the road.
He looked exhausted beneath the passing flashes of light. Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes, emphasizing the sharpness of his expression whenever lightning flickered somewhere beyond the mountains.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The silence that followed felt different now.
Thicker.
Not empty anymore.
Listening.
The body shifted faintly behind you as the van rounded another curve.
Plastic crackled softly.
Then settled still again.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, dark eyes finding yours through the rearview mirror this time. The dim orange glow from passing streetlights caught briefly against the tired lines of his face, sharpening the suspicion hidden there. “You didn’t recognize her?”
“Yes,” you repeated firmly.
Too firmly.
The edge in your voice surprised even you.
Heat prickled uncomfortably beneath your skin almost immediately afterward—not anger exactly, but the sharp anxious sting that always followed confrontation. Your thoughts fluttered wildly against one another, frantic and directionless.
Did he know you were lying?
Or worse—
Could he somehow prove it?
The possibility made your stomach tighten painfully.
You had spent most of your life becoming smaller around conflict.
Softer.
Easier to swallow.
It was simpler that way. Safer to nod politely through accusations, sidestep uncomfortable questions, lower your eyes and let louder people fill silence for you.
Even now, with a dead girl leaking lake water in the back of the van and your own name carved into her chest, some pathetic part of you still wanted to avoid making things difficult.
You hated that about yourself.
Because if recognizing her mattered—if saying something could somehow help the investigation or bring peace to whatever remained of that poor girl—then staying quiet made you selfish.
Cowardly.
The word settled heavily in your chest.
Outside, the town drifted past in blurred smears of amber and gray. Rainwater cascaded down steep sidewalks and flooded stairwells between buildings, carrying cigarette butts, dead leaves, and black sludge toward the storm drains.
Jim Thorpe’s narrow streets gleamed wet beneath the headlights, the old brick storefronts towering close enough to feel oppressive.
The mountains loomed over everything.
Watching.
The windshield wipers dragged back and forth with another heavy groan.
THUNK.
THUNK.
Behind you, water continued dripping steadily onto metal.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Your fingers tightened unconsciously around the coffee cup again. The cardboard had nearly collapsed beneath your grip now, softened completely by heat and condensation.
Harlow kept looking at you.
Not aggressively, but carefully.
Like he was trying to piece together whether you were about to break apart in front of him.
“You look pale,” he said after a moment.
A humorless laugh almost escaped you.
Pale.
Why was everyone saying that to you lately?
As if you didn’t spend most of your days under fluorescent lights beside refrigerated bodies?
As if pallor wasn’t practically hereditary in your family?
“I’m tired.”
You spared a glance at yourself in the murky mirror of the van’s side.
Admittedly, you did strike a resemblance t the corpses you worked on.
“That all?”
His tone remained neutral, but something beneath it sharpened slightly.
Your pulse stumbled.
The rain intensified suddenly, hammering against the roof of the van so loudly it swallowed the rest of the world whole.
Water streaked violently across the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it, blurring the town into smeared gold reflections and shadow.
For several long seconds, neither of you could see much beyond the headlights.
Just rain.
Just darkness.
Just the suffocating shape of the mountains pressing close around the road.
Then lightning flashed somewhere overhead.
Bright enough to bleach the interior of the van white for a split second.
And in that instant, reflected faintly in the rearview mirror, you saw the body bag sitting upright.
Your breath stopped.
The black plastic hung slack around narrow shoulders. Water streamed from the shape in thin rivulets onto the floor below. Its head tilted slightly to one side, face obscured completely by darkness and folds of plastic.
Watching you.
The lightning vanished.
Darkness crashed back in immediately afterward.
The body lay flat again.
Motionless.
Your entire body locked painfully still.
The heater hissed weakly beneath the dashboard.
The tires cut through standing water with a low roar.
Behind you:
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Harlow frowned slightly.
“You sure you’re okay?”
You realized too late that you’d stopped breathing.
“I’m fine,” you whispered.
But your voice sounded wrong now.
Thin and strangled, like someone else had spoken for you instead.
Lightening struck occasionally,illuminating your too-stressed expression to Harlow’s unyielding, prying gaze.
The officer left almost immediately after helping you unload the stretcher.
A muttered goodnight, the tilt of his hat, and then the heavy slam of the van doors.
Then headlights disappeared slowly through curtains of rain, swallowed piece by piece by fog and an unnerving dark until only pale flickers of red taillights remained.
And then—
Nothing.
Just the storm.
You stood beneath the awning for a moment longer than necessary, fingers curled tightly around the intake clipboard while rain battered the roof overhead in violent uneven waves.
Water spilled from clogged gutters nearby, overflowing in heavy streams that slapped against concrete hard enough to splash the legs of your pants.
The body waited beside you silently beneath black plastic.
The zipper reflected weak yellow security light in thin silver flashes whenever lightning flickered somewhere deeper in the mountains.
You avoided looking at it.
Instead your attention drifted toward the mortuary entrance.
The funeral home seemed unnaturally stiff tonight.
Not empty.
Still; like a held breath.
The old brick building groaned softly somewhere above you as wind pushed through loose siding and ancient pipes. The sound traveled strangely through the night—low, wooden, and almost human beneath the hiss of rain.
You swallowed, stalled, and then forced yourself forwards.
The basement key stuck halfway into the lock like it always did. You had to shoulder the swollen door open with more force than expected, and the familiar smell hit immediately; cold air undercutting the musk of dust and the trace of undiluted bleach.
Formaldehyde lingered permanently in the back of your throat no matter how long you worked there, the scent starting to seep in again as well.
Ashamedly, this crapshack was your home now after all .
The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed weakly awake one by one as you stepped inside, illuminating the narrow basement hallway in flickering bands of pale yellow-white. The tile floor reflected the light dully beneath a thin sheen of tracked rainwater.
Behind you, stretcher wheels rattled loudly over the threshold as you pulled the body inside yourself.
The sound echoed, metal vibrating against tile.
Loose wheels squeaking sharply every few feet.
The noises seemed far too loud for the hour.
You grimaced instinctively and glanced toward the staircase leading upstairs, half-expecting your father to appear at the top landing and complain about waking the building.
The thought hit harder than expected.
Your chest tightened briefly, and then the feeling passed like the brief respite of a summer breeze.
The storm muffled the rest of town completely down here.
No traffic.
No voices.
Just the hum of refrigeration units farther down the hall and rainwater ticking softly against the narrow windows near the ceiling.
You exhaled slowly, shifting your focus on the routine.
Paperwork first.
Intake photos.
Personal effects.
You knew the motions well enough your body could perform them half asleep.
The stretcher turned sharply as you maneuvered it toward the embalming room.
One wheel caught briefly against uneven tile before lurching free with a squeal.
Perturbed at the idea of having something else that needed fixing you snapped your gaze down to the floor.
You stopped walking immediately.
Dark footprints stretched across the pale tile floor ahead of you.
Not smears of mud.
Footsteps.
Distinct.
Wet soil pressed into grout lines and drying slowly beneath fluorescent lights.
Large.
Far too large.
Your eyes tracked them automatically.
One after another.
Barely human-shaped beneath streaks of mountain mud and rainwater.
Not Harlow’s boots.
Not yours.
The prints crossed the hallway toward your father’s office at the far end of the basement.
Then stopped directly outside the door.
No returning prints.
No continuation.
Just—
Stopped.
As though whoever made them had simply vanished.
Or lie in wait inside.
Your grip tightened unconsciously around the stretcher handle.
Cold prickled slowly across the back of your neck, the hairs standing on end one by one.
Drip.
Drip.
Behind you, lake water continued slipping steadily from the body bag onto tile.
You stared at the footprints too long.
Long enough for details to begin feeling wrong.
The size.
The depth.
The strange dragging impression near the heel, as if whatever made them walked unevenly.
Or injured.
Another fluorescent light overhead flickered violently before settling again with a low electrical buzz.
Your father’s office door stood slightly ajar beyond the footprints..
You were suddenly overcome by the bizarre certainty that someone had already gone in there before you arrived.
Not robbed.
Not searched.
Visited.
Your pulse thudded unpleasantly behind your ribs.
You looked back toward the basement entrance instinctively.
Still closed, still locked.
Nothing else moved.
Nothing of value had been taken.
And yet the feeling remained.
A morbid curiosity settled quietly into the back of your mind, needling at you with thin bony fingers.
Go look. Just check.
It rationalized itself quickly,
Your phone sat heavy in your pocket.
Police on speed dial.
Harlow had only just left.
If someone was inside, you could call.
If someone was hurt, hiding, waiting—
The thought tightened painfully around your lungs.
Your eyes drifted again toward your father’s office.
The door remained cracked open only slightly, revealing nothing beyond a narrow wedge of darkness.
The footprints seemed darker now.
Wet mountain soil drying slowly into grout lines.
A strange dragging impression marred several of them, as though one foot had been pulled unevenly behind the other.
You imagined following them.
Crossing the hallway.
Pushing open the office door.
Seeing—
Your stomach lurched hard.
No.
Every instinct in your body revolted against the idea immediately.
Not fear exactly.
Something older.
Primal.
The same animal part of the brain that notices eyes in the woods before the rest of you catches up.
Do not look.
The thought arrived suddenly and with startling force.
Firm.
Absolute.
Do not look.
The mountains had taught you that lesson young.
There were noises you ignored.
Roads you didn’t take after dark.
Shapes in tree lines you pretended not to notice.
Living in Appalachia meant understanding that curiosity could become a kind of suicide.
Your rainboots suddenly felt impossibly heavy against the tile floor. Anchored there. Your legs stiffened beneath you until even the thought of movement felt difficult, heavy like lead.
Cowardice rooted itself deep in your spine.
You hated that too.
Hated the humiliating relief that followed your decision.
Work.
You needed to work.
Routine would fix this.
Routine fixed everything.
The dead made sense.
Bodies were simple.
They obeyed rules.
You tore your gaze away from the office door and forced yourself toward the supply cabinet instead. The wheels of the stretcher squealed softly behind you as it rolled a few inches across uneven tile.
The sound nearly made you jump.
Your hands shook more than you wanted them to as you pulled open the cabinet drawers, staring at a crowd of gloves in your father’s size.
You grabbed the first pair in your size and struggled briefly with them, fingers catching awkwardly against damp skin before finally snapping into place with soft elastic pops.
The embalming room smelled faintly metallic tonight beneath the usual sterile sting of disinfectant and formaldehyde. Cold air drifted steadily from the refrigeration units along the far wall, humming softly enough to blend with the overhead lights until the sounds became one continuous mechanical drone.
You focused on that noise.
Not the office.
Not the footprints.
Not the possibility of someone standing silently in the dark only feet away.
The body bag crackled loudly as you unzipped it, the sound too bright in the tiled room, like someone crumpling cellophane inside your skull.
Cold damp air escaped immediately, rolling out in a visible cloud that ghosted across the stainless steel table. The smell followed seconds later—lake water, mud, and something human underneath beginning to turn, that particular sweetness that meant the bacteria had started their work in earnest, breaking down the last of her from the inside out.
The girl's face emerged slowly beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
Colorless and swollen lightly from the water, yes, but recognizable in a way that made your hands hesitate on the zipper.
Pale hair clinging damply to her cheeks and throat in tangled strands that you would have to comb out later, working from the ends to avoid pulling, the way you'd been taught. Her eyelashes were still wet, clumped together in dark triangles against her skin.
For one impossible moment, she looked less dead than exhausted. Like someone sleeping badly, dreaming something they couldn't wake from.
Her large eyes seemed peaceful behind translucent lids, her thin lips quirked up in a small, serene smile—the relaxation of muscles that happens when the rigor releases, when the face settles into its final expression whether you want it to or not.
Your chest tightened painfully.
You knew that smile, you knew that face
Not from Eerie, not from Split River High, not even from Lake Harmony.
Not from life.
From death.
The realization slid slowly beneath your skin like something cold and alive, a leech finding purchase in soft tissue.
You had seen her before.
Not here, not tonight.
Three years ago beneath softer lighting and different flowers, in the viewing room at your father's funeral home on Marrow Road before it had been closed down.
You remembered powdering her cheeks with the brush that had belonged to your mother, working the cosmetic into the waxen skin until it looked like something approaching warmth. Remembered folding her hands carefully over her stomach while her mother cried hard enough to vomit in the hallway upstairs, the sound carrying through the vents.
You remembered your father standing in the doorway, watching you work, his own hands red-knuckled and trembling from the early Parkinson's he wouldn't acknowledge.
"She's a sweet thing," he'd said, his voice the gravel it became in the evenings. "Handle her gently."
The memory hit so vividly your hands nearly slipped against the plastic beneath her shoulders. Muscle memory overpowered reason, and like an automaton you moved; the woman was heavier than expected as you transferred her from the stretcher to the embalming table, waterlogged tissue adding density that dry flesh never had. Your muscles strained beneath the dead weight, the lumbar region of your spine protesting the torque.
Cold soaked slowly through your gloves where your fingers pressed against her sleeves—cotton, damp, the same blouse she'd been wearing then, you realized with a lurch, the same pearl buttons you'd fastened at her throat to hide the autopsy incision.
You positioned her head on the headrest, fingers finding the occipital bone, tilting her chin up to expose the carotid. The skin was cold, rubbery, resisting your touch like it remembered you from before and didn't want you back.
The trocar waited on the instrument tray, heavy and gleaming. You reached for it, and your hand stopped.
Her eyes had opened.
Not possible. You knew they had been closed. You had checked. The lake hadn't done this—post-mortem clouding didn't force lids apart. But there they were, staring up at the ceiling, the corneas milky with decomposition.
And all the while—
You could feel the office behind you.
The door you hadn't closed. The darkness where the light didn't reach. The weight of someone standing in the space between the filing cabinets, watching you work with a patience that was more akin to a predator scouting out its next meal.
Waiting.
The trocar slipped from your fingers and clattered against the tile, loud as a gunshot.
You didn't turn around.
You knew what you would see if you did.
You didn’t bend to retrieve it.
You don't move at all.
Your breath fogs in the cold room, each exhale visible, measured, deliberate—the technique your father taught you for steadying your hands before making the incision.
Count backward from ten. Make the first cut on one.
But you can't remember what number you're on. The body on the table has begun to steam slightly in the dry air, moisture rising from her clothes in thin wisps that curl toward the ceiling like fingers uncurling.
Her eyes are still open. Still fixed. And now—now you see that the smile has changed. It has widened, fractionally, the corners of her mouth lifting in a way that requires muscle contraction, requires blood flow, requires life.
"You're not real," you say. Your voice doesn't sound like yours. It sounds like your father's voice, that flat professional tone that promised everything was under control. "You're tissue and fluid and decay. You're chemistry breaking down."
The body doesn't respond.
Of course it doesn't.
But the steam rises faster, and you smell something beneath the lake water and rot—something older, mineral, like the inside of a cave that has never seen sunlight.
Like the ridge in Eerie.
Like the abandoned dorm building.
Behind you, the office creaks.
Not the hinge of a door, but the floor.
Weight shifting on old boards.
Someone—something—taking a single step from the carpet onto the linoleum threshold.
Your training takes over, or some fragment of it. You reach for the trocar without looking down, fingers finding the metal by memory, the weight familiar, comforting in its violence. You grip it tight enough to make your knuckles ache and force yourself to look at the body, only the body, the task at hand.
The jugular. You need to access the jugular to begin drainage.
You position the instrument above her throat, angling for the hollow where the vein lies shallow. Your hand trembles. The point hovers over her skin, not breaking, just touching, a dimple forming in the waxy surface.
Your training takes over, or some fragment of it. You reach for the trocar without looking down, fingers finding the metal by memory, the weight familiar, comforting in its violence. You grip it tight enough to make your knuckles ache and force yourself to look at the body, only the body, the task at hand.
You start with the clothes. Standard procedure—remove, catalog, preserve. Your scissors snip through the damp cotton blouse,
You peel the fabric back from her shoulders, working methodically, refusing to rush, refusing to think.
Beneath her ribs, however, you can’t manage to ignore the fact that the same scar is there.
On her left side, just above the hip, a smooth patch of healed tissue the size of a half-dollar. You freeze, scissors hovering. You touch your own side through your shirt, the phantom ache that never quite goes away.
It's your scar.
Exactly yours.
The same dimensions, the same placement, the same waxy texture that the doctors in Philadelphia called a birth defect.
But you know this body. You prepared it three years ago. You washed it yourself, handled every inch of it with gloved hands, and there was no scar.
She'd died of lymphoma, wasting away in a hospital bed, her skin unblemished except for the bruises from IV lines and the hollows where the disease had eaten her from within.
You force your hands to keep moving. The blouse comes away, then the bra, the underwear, everything placed in evidence bags. You roll her gently, checking for lividity, for wounds, for the telltale signs of struggle.
There are no marks from the lake. No debris in her hair, no algae under her fingernails, no water in her lungs when you aspirate a sample into the beaker—just clear fluid, chemically neutral, but contextually wrong.
You palpate her abdomen, feeling for the organs, for the stiffness that should indicate her cause of death. The cancer had taken her liver, her spleen, her lymph nodes. You remember the autopsy report, the hollowed-out cavities, the way she'd felt light when you lifted her, as if the disease had already done your job and removed everything heavy from inside.
Now she feels dense. You press against her stomach and feel something shift beneath the skin, something solid and organized that shouldn't be there three years post-mortem.
You make the incision. Not the jugular—you need to see inside.
The scalpel slides through tissue that parts too easily, without resistance, without bleeding. You spread the wound and look.
She has a kidney.
Two of them, healthy, pink-gray, perfused with blood that hasn't started to break down. You touch one with your gloved finger and it gives, resilient, living tissue in a dead woman who died of organ failure, who had no kidneys left when you buried her.
Your breath stops. Your hands withdraw, trembling now beyond control.
She didn't drown. She didn't die of cancer this time. She died of something that left her organs intact, that filled her back up with what she'd lost, that arranged her hands and opened her eyes and—
Behind you, the floorboards creak again. Three distinct footsteps, heavy, unhurried, moving from the office carpet across the tile threshold. You see the shadow stretch across the floor beside the table, long and hooded, black against white, and you smell it—that particular combination of wet limestone and copper that you thought you'd left in Eerie.
The body on the table stays perfectly still. Her eyes have closed again. The smile is gone, replaced by the slack neutrality of true death.
The footsteps reach the door. The handle turns, the mechanism clicking with deliberate precision. The door opens, the bell from the outer office chiming faintly, impossibly, though you're certain you locked the front entrance.
The shadow withdraws.
The door closes.
You stand alone in the preparation room with a woman who died twice, who carries your scar, who has been filled back up with something that resembles life, and you realize with a clarity that makes your teeth ache that you are not preparing a body for burial but for it to perhaps walk the Earth again.
Dean is my favorite so perhaps this may be a bit self indulgent but a rusty nail did NOT kill my man and now he’s an old grumpy bastard who’s alive and well
also so is his cock
for lack of a better term, “gooner” applies to Dean greatly
from hanging back at motels for alone time or slipping into the bathroom at late hours of the night he has no shame in taking care of himself when he needs to
From the perfect amount of pressure to the masterful mind numbing placement of his rough fingers Dean can make himself cum in mere minutes
Still, everytime it does less and less to quell the need inside him
He misses the bare touch of another, the musk of sweat mingling together, and the feverish heaven of being inside someone
You truly would be a godsend, a tight piece for him to sink into, defile, revere, and obsess over all at once
It really is an addiction once it starts be urges orgasm after orgasm without giving you even a moment to breathe
If he wants you in a different position, his dick stays firmly nestled in you as he does so
Between rounds you’ll only ever be empty as he switches from stuffing you with his cock to filling you with his fingers
The motel room was a cheap, fluorescent-lit box that smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant—Dean Winchester’s favorite kind of place. The bed springs groaned under your weight as he drove into you, the rhythm already sloppy and desperate.
Dean was gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his knuckles white against your skin as he pounded into you from behind.
“Shit, yeah, just like that,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear. “God, you’re so fucking tight. Don’t stop, princess. Give it to me.”
He reached around, his hand splaying across the small of your back, forcing you to arch further.
Feeling him hit deeper somehow eliminated any attempt of you answering back. All you could do was part your swollen lips, lap away your drool, and moan.
“Look at you, cock drunk already and taking me like a champ,” he sneered, though there was a note of genuine admiration in his voice. “You take my dick so well, don’t you? Just like this.”
He leaned forward, biting down on the sensitive skin of your shoulder before nipping at your earlobe. “Think you can take one more? C’mon princess, you got one more in ya don’t you?”
Your breath hitched in your throat, your head falling back as he slammed into you again, harder this time. You could feel the sweat beading on your forehead, the heat radiating off both of your bodies. It was intense, overwhelming, and exactly what you both needed.
You couldn't even fucking talk anymore, not with the way he was absolutely battering your cervix. His hand was buried in your hair, fisting the strands until your head was tilted back at an embarrassing angle, exposing your throat.
“You good?” he rasped, his voice wrecked, though he sounded more impressed than worried. “Or do I need to slow down? I figured you were built different, taking this much dick.”
He didn't wait for an answer, just smirked and snapped his hips forward, driving into you so deep it made your eyes water. “That’s the face. Yeah, you’re getting there.”
He leaned over, his heavy chest brushing against your damp back, and groaned right in your ear. “Fuck, I wish you could see how you look right now. Your eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open... you look like you’re having a stroke, princess. But a really, really good one.”
You clawed at the mattress, your fingernails digging into the cheap fabric. All you could manage was a broken sob, a pathetic attempt to beg for more or for him to just... shut up and fuck you already.
He laughed darkly, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you love this. Say it.”
He grabbed your jaw with his free hand, forcing your face back toward the headboard mirror. “Look. Look at us.”
You tried to focus, but the only thing that existed was the friction, the heat, the overwhelming pressure of him splitting you open.
“You’re drowning in it,” he teased, his thumb rubbing over your swollen lip. “Jesus, you’re soaking me. I can feel you dripping down my balls. You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you? Just want it all, don’t you?”
He slammed into you again, hard enough to make the bed frame bang against the wall. “One more. Come on, I know you’ve got one more left in the tank. Show me what you got.”
He didn't give you a choice. He grabbed your clit, rubbing it furiously as he pistoned into you, chasing his own release. “Come on, princess. Come for me. Let me see you fall apart.”
You shattered around him, your back bowing off the mattress as you screamed his name. He followed right after, filling you up with a guttural groan that shook the whole room. He pulled out with a wet sound, flopping onto his back beside you and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Fuck,” he breathed out, staring at the ceiling. “That was... decent. I think you might have passed out there for a second.”
He turned his head, smirking at you. “You good? Or should I get you some water? You look like you Crowley was just here instead of me.”
