#x-virus

taking clothes from your partner<3

featuringgg: jeff, toby, ben, NINA, E. jack, X-virus.

x-virus has you calling urself his boyfriend, but u can ignore it if u want, everything else is pretty nonspecificx

"would you stop moving."

You'd been sitting here for over half an hour, what does he mean sit still!?

Anyway, Cody had been trying to finish writing down these chemical equations. Keyword, trying.

But like any other instruction he gave you before entering his lab, you ignored it. And sure his cock was sitting near your g-spot, and no he wasn't moving.

Why would he? He told you to stay out of his lab in the first place, but then you used those very persuading eyes and he let you in reluctantly , under one condition —you would sit still.

And it started off well, you sat on an empty clearing of his desk while he was wandering around, testing different liquids.

But it's like as soon as he sat down, you strikes. Going around and also tempering with his stuff which was exactly what he told you not to do.

So now you're cockwarming him as punishment, if you cant sit still, then he'll make you sit on something else, simple.

would appreciate if you added Jeff, Habit and Tim, otherwise feel free to add whoever you want ^^ ty! have a nice day!

Vii here, I'm going to be honest, this request has me giggling because of the ideas I can do...Anyways, on to the work!

Suggestive on some

next ->

        Jeffrey Woods was an outcast at school---not that he tried to be any different. The teenager had a boyish charm that girls loved, and he was so moody and "mysterious" that just about everyone was itching to be the one to get to know him. Jeffrey Woods, the quiet new kid on the block, who famously stood up for a stranger at a bus stop and was pummeled by Randy and his goons. He was practically a legend in the hallways. But he never let anyone in, sticking close only to his brother Liu.

        Except for one girl.

        Jeff wasn't the most talented artist. He was clumsy with his hands, which had always suffered from constant shaking and unsteadiness. While he did just fine in his other classes---passing with a B or high C---art was the one class he couldn't get up to a D. If he didn't pass it this year, he'd have to take it again over the summer, and he swore he'd rather die than take summer school. That's where you came in.

        You exceled in the class. One of the kids people immediately turned to when assigned a project that included drawing. You always had been that kid, and high school was no different. You didn't mind the attention, you even quite liked it. It felt good to be recognized for your talent, and you enjoyed being able to help others. Others like Jeff. He never asked for your help---you weren't even sure you'd ever heard him speak---but you noticed his struggle; how he always turned in assignments late, stayed a few minutes after class to finish a piece reminiscent of a kindergartener's work, the way the teacher sighed whenever handing him back his grades. You were fueled with passion to help a fellow classmate.

        So that's what you did.

"Hi!" You were supposed to be working like everyone else was, but the teacher had a soft spot for you that you frequently abused.

        Jeff didn't even look up at you. You cleared your throat, tapping on his drawing to steal his attention.

"Hellooo? Anyone home?"

        The black-haired boy snapped his head up to you, scarily blue eyes shooting knives at you.

"What?"

        You smiled at him. "My name's (Y/N). You're Jeffrey, right?"

"Jeff."

"Pardon?"

"Only my dad calls me Jeffrey. It's just Jeff."

        You playfully scoffed and took your place at the empty stool next to him, leaning over to get a better look at his artwork. It was barely noticeable, but he scooted away from you.

"I really like the concept you're going for, Jeff. It's neat. But your composition is a little off."

"My what?"

        You were practically beaming at him, a ray of artsy sunshine burning him alive. He felt the need to squint when he looked at you. "The composition! How everything mixes together, blends, fits. Your page is cluttered, everything looks like it's on one plane because..."

        You continued on for the rest of class, pointing out every flaw in his artwork. Usually, Jeff would have just gotten up and left by now. But for a reason he couldn't quite place, he didn't care to. Maybe it was your confidence sitting next to him, the way you didn't tip toe around him or treat him like he was different. He had noticed you helping others before, so your treatment didn't feel...special. It felt normal. He felt normal.

        Jack stayed away from loud, bustling cities at whatever cost. Along with a heightened sense of hunger, the ritual performed on him heightened his sense of hearing. Too loud a sound could send him into such a shock that he'd feel like a human again; a scared, helpless, vulnerable human man. So he avoided cities. He hunted in dense forestry, stalking in fields of wheat or corn, targeting farmers and recluses.

        Recluses like your family.

        Jack first met you as a baby. He had "evicted" the person previously living in the creaky home, allowing your parents to buy it for a cheap price. As he did with most human prey, he stalked your mom and dad for months. He quickly learned that they'd recently escaped from a cult, too paranoid to reenter the world while your mother was in her third trimester with you. They barely left their home, only for groceries and other necessities. Jack had planned to devour your mother and father while they were pregnant, intrigued at the idea of consuming a mom and an unborn child---he never had before, and if anything human stuck to him, it was his curiosity.

        But you were born early, which Jack hadn't planned for. Suddenly, your home was protected from the beast by your constant crying and screaming. He stayed miles from the yellow fields that surrounded your home, defeated by the simple cries of a newborn baby. He never actually saw you while you were an infant, staying too far away to see you. But as you grew, the forest grew quieter again, and he was able to return. You were about 10 years old by the time Jack felt able to be around your home again.

        As puberty began to show its signs in you, you didn't scream or cry as much as you had. You started to develop a mellow and attentive personality: sitting on the porch with your mom, helping your dad tend to the outdoors, obediently learning skills from them such as cooking and sewing. At first, Jack was curious about your development, but as all predators did, he grew bored. And hungry.

        You were orphaned at just at 18 years, old enough to legally live on your own and inherit the house. You were asleep when the "bear" attacked your parents as they were making their final rounds outside. For the past month, dead animals had been left around your home; mangled, torn to shreds, gutted. Scared of what this predator could mean for their family, your parents started nightly patrols in hopes of catching, and killing, the beast. But it didn't work out as planned. You were awoken by their screams, yet by the time you ran outside, the bear was already retreating into the woods. You held the only two people you had ever loved---ever known---as they took their last breaths, your wails shaking the whole forest.

        He was at the correctional facility for what felt like decades.

        Helen was sick, deathly so. His mind worked in a way that intrigued you, and horrified you. But your job was to solve it. You were to unwind the tangled threads of his childhood and disassemble the gears that made his twisted mind work, all in an attempt to solve the problem that was Helen Otis. You were hesitant, as you always were with a new patient, but determined.

        After all, Helen was a kid. And you were an adult. You had the upper hand by nature.

        Your first meeting with Helen was just a few days after he had been admitted. You'd heard of him before he was even your patient, seeing the tragic stories of the poor kids he'd killed at school. None of those children deserved the fate their classmate bestowed to them, but you had a feeling that, like most kids, there was a great disservice done to Helen that caused him to do these horrible things. And while that never excuses a murderer's actions, it was something to tackle.

        Which was what you aimed to do over the course of your sessions with him, for however long they would go on.

        Helen was reluctant to open up to you. He'd never known a kind or understanding adult, and he heavily doubted he'd find one in this padded-walls purgatory. But as the minutes ticked by in that first session, he felt the desire to tell you things he'd never spoken aloud before. How his parents abused him but never enough to attract social services, how kids at school shifted away whenever he walked past. How he felt lonely, how he never felt heard. Seen.

        The two of you would have more sessions, once a week---twice if he really needed it. And with each session, Helen began to open up more.

        One day, your supervisor called you in for a brief meeting.

"As I'm sure you know, Dr. (L/N), transference is when a patient redirects their feelings onto their therapist. This can be feelings they felt toward their parents or themself, such as anger or grief. Or, it can be feelings of affection. We're concerned that the latter is occurring with your patient, Helen Otis." 

        BEN didn't remember much, if anything, about his life before he died. It was all a blue blur, swirls of sky and ocean, a cacophony of laughter and screaming. He remembered the feeling of the sun on his skin, cool water chilling his toes, a woman lifting him into the air and holding him tight. He could never place a face to the woman though; the foggy memory of her was more of a feeling than a proper recall. He always figured she was his mother. He had no idea what she looked like, what she sounded like...but he knew how she felt holding her baby boy against her chest, shielding him from harm.

        She must have not held him close enough.

        BEN didn't bother to try to remember his past, he didn't see the point. Even if he did remember, his parents were long dead, and so was any trace of his living life. He was content with never knowing his mom, he wouldn't even know her if he saw her.

        But something about you.

        You bought his game for $5.00 at GameStop, the cashier eager to get rid of the four-times-returned Nintendo game. You loved the Legend of Zelda franchise, and your friends had piled together enough money to buy you a used 3DS for the holidays. Finally you would play the games yourself instead of watching other people on Twitch. You were practically shaking when you'd hopped into bed, the lights comfortably dimmed with your favorite drink sat on your nightstand. You were surrounded by your stuffed animals and wrapped in a blanket, ready to begin your playthrough of Majora's Mask.

        On the other side of the screen was BEN. You would be just like any other victim: entertaining to spook, fun to harass, eventually predictable after a couple of months. And by then he would either kill you, let you do it yourself, or drive you off the edge of sanity. But when you booted up your 3DS, allowing him to see through to your side, he felt the wind knock out of him.

        If he had a stomach, it would've dropped. If he had a heart, it would've stopped beating. You looked so painfully familiar that, even without being able to identify you, he felt himself slipping. It was something about you. Your hair? Your nose? Your eyes? Your voice? Something was familiar. Something put the three-letter word on the tip of his tongue that made him feel...vulnerable.

Mom?

        Of course you weren't his mom. BEN had never seen you before this moment, and his parents were long dead. His mom didn't magically regress into a 19-year-old, surrounded by merch stuffies and lit up by a hot pink lava lamp. It was stupid. He felt stupid, he knew he was being stupid.

        But he let you play the game for two hours, unharmed, unbothered. He sat there, on the other end, watching you. Without ever seeing his mother, or hearing her voice, he was able to see her in you. The one person that, as far as he knew, cared about him. He couldn't lose that person again. That feeling of being seen, protected.

        He couldn't lose you.

        Brian was tired.

        It felt like he hadn't slept in years, and maybe that was true.

        But he could never sleep. Oh no. Because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were the faces of the people he was forced to tear apart, mutilate, ruin. The faces of the freaks he was forced to associate with, the face of that godforsaken creature that had fucked his life so hard that he-

        That he could never sleep again.

        So instead of sleeping, Brian drank at the same cheap bar every night. He ordered the same beer every night, saw the same people, ignored the same bartenders and tipped nothing.

        But you were new.

        It was a normal night for Brian. He felt like death and likely smelled of it, but it was just a matter of time before he was called for another mission, so he spent the free time at The Grouch. The bar's stench of alcohol and cleaning supplies---an attempt to mask the piss smell---managed to cover Brian's bloody musk. He took a seat at the same torn, faded red, leather barstool that he always did, and waited for his usual pitcher to be slid to him.

        But it never did. Instead, a perky, unfamiliar bartender stood in front of him. Smiling, back straight, looking like you chugged five cups of coffee.

"What can I get for ya, sir?"

        He stared at you for a second longer than appropriate. The places your hair fell out of your hair tie, where your makeup was a tad smudged, how your uniform was just a bit too big on you and your name was written in red Sharpie over the original. You were definitely new, because if you weren't, you would've known his order by now, and you probably would have a better fitting uniform.

        Brian's staring was interrupted by a snap in his face.

"You goin' to keep ogglin' me or answer the question? Keep at it and I'm waterin' down your order."

        You didn't look like you meant it. It was an empty threat, but it made Brian smile---just a little. You were cute.

        Cute.

        You were cute and fresh, in a world where every day dragged on and was covered in mud and blood. So Brian took a little longer to order, and kept staring at you a little longer than appropriate.

        Most humans don't know this, but ghosts are real. And Jonathan wasn't the only ghost. In fact, the young man was just one of many who fed off of the emotions of human beings. Humans throughout time had given these spirits different names. Ones such as Jonathan, who fed off of sadness and trauma, were most commonly known as demons. His kind would enter the homes of those whose auras called to them, and they would feed. Some were swift with this process, some cultivated a stronger negative aura in the target over the course of time. Jonathan was the latter.

        You, on the other hand, fed on joy. A concept so rare that the humans had yet to name your kind.

        Jonathan encountered you---much to his dismay---while stalking a target, James. He'd been following James for the past three weeks, starting after he attended his aunt's funeral and realized his own mortality. Since the feeling of doom wasn't too strong, Jonathan had been working real hard to get the specimen where he wanted them.

        So had you.

        You'd known of Jonathan much sooner than he'd ever heard of you. You knew that he was a powerful spirit, who had been tormenting humans for decades. And frankly, you were quite annoyed by it. So you decided you'd annoy him back, by taking one of his targets and turning them into yours.

        When spirits of negativity fed, it often resulted in the brutal death of the human. The spirit would feed on the human just before they took their own life, when they were at their most tormented. Spirits of positivity, however, thrived off of living. They found the happiest, most fulfilled souls, and fed on that joy---the feeding process for spirits is more like photosynthesis, where it doesn't take away the bad or good emotion, it just absorbs into the ghoul. And just as negative spirits could make a target more depressed, a positive spirit could make a target more happy.

        So that's what you did.

        You stalked Jonathan, watching him mess with his target and get into their head, trying so pathetically hard to push the poor man over the edge. He'd wondered what was taking this human so long, oblivious to the fact you would step in whenever he left and uplift James. Make the flowers a little brighter on his daily commute, have someone shoot a passing smile or wave, make his toast come out perfect. Small things that were too minute for Jonathan to notice, but slowly built up into feelings of hopefulness.

        It was only a matter of time before you slipped up.

        Jonathan had started noticing that this process was taking too long. So one day, he left...but lingered. And within seconds, he saw your glowing yellow spirit fly out from behind a building, making a beeline for his target. Immediately, he dashed out and tackled you from your line of direction. The two of you went flying, passing through buildings, before coming to a stop in a random construction area.

"What do you think you're doing!? I have dibs!"

"Dibs don't count when the dibs are making people kill themself!"

        The two of you bickered like children fighting over a video game, over the life of a breathing human. Jonathan hated you, and you hated him. But whether either of you liked it or not, you'd be seeing a lot more of each other.

        You had only seen each other once before the fire.

        Toby wasn't in therapy for long. Both him and his therapist quickly decided after just a couple of meetings that they weren't suited for each other, and parted ways much to his mother's dismay. But those few sessions he did have were worth it, because he met you. The waiting room at the clinic was dull and gray, like everything else in Toby's life. His sister's tombstone was gray, his mother's hair was gray, the smoke from his dad's cigar was gray. But you stood out among the drab walls and minimalistic furniture.

        You were bright, literally and figuratively. You were wearing all of these neon-colored bracelets, and every nail on your hands was a different color. You had faded colored streaks in your hair, and your pierced ears---which looked infected---were decorated with plastic cups of boba tea. Toby couldn't help but stare. It could have had something to do with him being homeschooled, but he had never seen someone like you before. Without speaking a single word, you just appeared confident, expressive, bold. Not in the way most kids did; the kids who thought they were better than Toby and dawned on him his historic nickname.

        You quickly noticed Toby staring at you. How could you not? He practically had his whole body turned toward you.

        You awkwardly waved at him, attempting a small smile. You hoped, prayed, that he wasn't another bully. Someone staring at the "freak" who just liked to express themself a bit more loudly than most. He didn't wave back though, he just kept staring.

"Are...you okay?"

        That woke him up.

        Toby wasted no time making a fool of himself. Immediately the stress of someone his age talking to him attacked his system, creating a cacophony of whistles and clicking from the boy as he rapidly tapped his foot.

        You didn't react horribly, not by Toby's standards. You simply flinched and waited for him to finish, not staring but not looking away. Once he had calmed down enough to make words, he apologized.

"I- I- I'm sorry, I did- did no- didn't mean to stare." His eyes trailed down to your nails. You smiled.

"It's all good," you followed his gaze, "Like 'em? I did them myself. I couldn't pick just one color, so I figured I'd choose all of 'em, y'know?"

        Toby did not know. But he knew he wanted to keep talking to you, and was terrified of messing it up... He didn't get the chance to because your name was called to meet with your therapist. You stood up and grabbed a satchel covered in enamel pins from the floor.

"It was nice to meet yooouuu..." You waited for the boy to give you his name, but he just continued to blankly stare, so you prompted, "What's your name?"

"Oh! So- WHOOP!- Sorry. It's Toby."

"Alright, Toby. Hopefully I'll see you around."

        And with that, you were gone.

        He was just Timmy when he met you.

        You were neighbors, with mothers who quickly became best friends when they learned their children were the same age---at the time, this was just four years old. Mrs. (L/N) and Wright loved to gossip and sip wine, while their children ran around in the street and chased squirrels. You and Timmy---he quickly dropped this variation of his name once he entered middle school---grew up together on those homely streets. Despite not going to school together, you were each other's closest friend. "Thick as thieves," your mothers would say. "Dangerous," your fathers would remark. Rambunctious, ready to take on the world.

        Until Timmy became ill.

        One day, your mother sat you down and told you that you couldn't see him anymore. "He's sick, and I don't want you around him until he's better. For your sake." You cried and screamed and fought all day and night, but your mom didn't budge. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wright wasn't on your side either. You had overheard the moms' phone calls, about how Timmy missed you so much, but Mrs. Wright didn't want whatever was wrong with him to affect you. You didn't know it at the time, but poor nine-year-old Tim was seeing ghouls, having night terrors, and began to suffer from mild amnesia.

        You didn't know that, but you knew you missed your best friend, and you knew he needed you. So one night, you snuck out your bedroom's window, and tapped on his. The two of you ran to the nearby school's playground before hugging each other and laughing, just happy to be together again. It quickly became a ritual. Every Friday night, you'd sneak out through your window and meet Tim at the playground. As children, you would play tag and hide-and-seek. As middle schoolers, you'd swing and talk to each other about how much you hated your parents and homework---despite Tim being homeschooled.

        As teenagers, before you moved away, you were lovers.

        Cody wasn't in the foster care system for long, but the short period of time he was, he hated it. The other children were distant and harsh, stealing pieces of his food and bedding. No one wanted to be his friend, and none of the adults provided any sense of love and care. Cody never had many friends or nurturing adults in his life, but he never felt as alone as he did in the foster home.

        Until you.

        You were older than all the other kids, just a year or two to getting out of that hell hole and going out into the real world. You were in and out of multiple homes, just getting back from the latest one that decided you were "too much". All of the kids were excited for you to come back, the one person who provided any real caretaking. You snuck candy from grocery stores to the kids, you tucked them in and told them stories, you stood up for them against the supervising adults and held them when they came back from a home.

        Cody had never met you before, so he was confused when all the kids who always seemed so depressed were suddenly jumping out of their seats to welcome you. He followed them all at a distance, and then there you were. The whole room was beaming around you, and in the center of the joy was your glowing face; smiling, picking up all the littles, ruffling hair and high-fiving the tweens. Suddenly, the drab pit of death Cody lived in was turned into a parade, celebrating you and your existence.

        He quietly followed you the whole day, watching you help all the kids clean up their messes and settle disputes. He was in awe of you. The way you talked, the way you walked, how you lit up everyone around you. You were fantastic. And he thought he would get away with silently following you, not being noticed...

"You know I know you're there, right?"

        Cody practically jumped to the roof. You laughed at him and knelt down to his height.

"Sorry! Didn't mean to scare ya! You're new, aren't you? I've never seen you before."

        Cody stared at you, eyes wide and jaw dropped. He couldn't find the right words, any words. He felt like his whole body was on fire as his hands shook profusely.

"No need to be scared, buddy. I don't bite, okay?" Cody just nodded. "My name's (Y/N). What's your name?"

"Uhm, Cody."

"Okay, uhm Cody. It's nice to meet you."

"It's, uh, nice to meet you too...ma'am."

        Your laughter made the poor body flinch. "Ma'am?! No one's ever called me that before! Just (Y/N), okay?"

"Uh, yes, okay. Okay, m- Uhm, okay."

The residents of the Slender Mansion.

little something about the proxy symbol in my au.

there's been a few iterations of it across the years. the image shows the years when they first sprang up and most used in.

the oldest iterations of it are a circle with either two X's or one giant X. the one with one giant X is still very much used today.

during the 90's and onward there's been renditions of it being an ellipse with a giant X.

and now recently in the 2020's some proxies have drawn a diamond with a giant X over it. the reason being is that some new proxies saw X-Virus' emblem for himself and thought it was a proxy symbol.

X-Virus was angry that proxies copied him and redesigned his logo. X-Virus' old symbol is a diamond with an X inside. his new one now has an X along with a cross inside. even though he is a proxy, the design was only supposed to be for himself.

-@she-needs-weed

(Creeps x Male! Reader)

Commissioned by @taboo-delusion tysm!! I really hope you enjoy 💖💞✨💖💓

Requests are closed but commissions are open!

Masterlist: x

BEN Drowned

When he first agrees to go for a snack run at the old abandoned gas station, he doesn’t expect it to be eventful

Despite being abandoned, the place is semi-regularly stocked by the proxies to use as a last-resort shelter and supply hoard in case anyone needs it

So it’s not like the building is used to seeing a lot of traffic, much less any kind of excitement

Which is why he never, ever in his undead life would have expected to walk in on what he does