John Doe⠀—⠀054

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⠀ The dim amber glow of the bedside lamp casts long, wavering shadows across the bedroom walls, bathing the room in a quiet, suffocating stillness.

Outside, the sprawling neon lights of Robloxia hum beneath a late-night moon, but inside, the only sound is the rustle of turning pages and the shallow, controlled rhythm of John’s breathing.

It has been far too long since the two of you shared this kind of fragile quiet. It isn’t just the endless pile of faulty code and administrative testing handed down by Roblox HQ that keeps you apart. It’s the quiet, terrifying reality taking over the man beside you.

The dark, jagged corruption clings to his right arm like poisoned obsidian, sharp and heavy, while the lower half of his legs hums with faint, erratic red binary code that leaves a faint burn against the carpet.

You don’t care—you’ve told him a thousand times that you don’t care if it takes you too, if his infection bleeds into your skin—but that exact fear is the ghost that keeps him locked in his own head, terrified to touch you, terrified to hurt what he loves most.

John sits propped up against the pillows, wearing a soft, worn sweater, a half-empty mug of tea resting in his left hand—the one not yet fully swallowed by the glitch, though three sharp claws flex instinctively against ceramic.

He’s trying to read, trying to pretend the heavy, palpable tension in the air isn't suffocating them both.

You don't beat around the bush. You look right at him, breaking the silence, and tell him straight: you want him. Tonight. No more waiting, no more sleeping on opposite sides of the mattress.

John freezes mid-sip.

A sharp cough tears from his throat as the hot tea goes down the wrong pipe, his broad shoulders jerking forward.

He scrambles to set the mug down on the nightstand, splashing a few dark droplets across the wood, and turns his head toward you. The side of his face framed by messy yellow-blond hair is instantly flushed deep crimson, a stark contrast to his pale skin and the glowing red glare of his mutated right eye.

"Wait— what...?"

His deep, slightly distorted voice cracks around the edges, slipping into that raw, nervous vulnerability he always gets when the topic turns to intimacy.

"Honey, look at me— please look at me. You know how unstable I've been. The code flares up when I lose my grip. What if I can't keep it together and I hurt you?"

You don't back down. You lean closer, your voice steady and firm, brushing away his frantic excuses and telling him you can take it, that you want all of him, corruption and all.

John stares at you, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady gasps.

For a long, agonizing moment, he looks like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting a war entirely inside his own skull. Then, with a heavy, defeated shudder that rattles his protruding spine, he lets out a long breath.

"...Okay,"

He whispers, his voice thick and rough with a sudden, desperate edge.

"God... okay. Just... tell me to stop if it gets too much..."

At first, everything is agonizingly gentle—almost painfully tender, as if he's handling spun glass. His left hand, warm and calloused despite the three sharp claws at the tips, cups the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that feels like worship.

His lips meet yours in a soft, lingering kiss, tasting faintly of sweet tea and lingering exhaustion. Every caress is slow, deliberate, filled with months of pent-up longing and the unspoken terror of what he is becoming.

You feel his chest press against yours, the steady, grounding thrum of his heartbeat wrapping around you.

And then, the shift happens.

It starts with a hitch in his breath—a sudden, violent tremor that shoots straight down his corrupted spine.

The fragile control he’s been holding onto by a thread snaps under the sheer weight of your skin against his, under the intoxicating heat of your scent filling his lungs.

The sweet, gentle man vanishes in a fraction of a second, swallowed whole by the feral, glitching parasite humming beneath his skin.

Before you can even draw a breath, John moves with terrifying, unnatural speed. His deformed right arm—coated in dead, jagged black corruption—reaches out, and with a single, brutal yank, he rips at the fabric of your clothes.

The sound of tearing cloth is deafening in the quiet room as your garments shred apart under his raw strength, exposing your bare skin to the cool night air. At the same time, his left hand drops lower, violently shoving his own sweatpants down his hips to free himself.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn't ask.

He surges forward, pinning you into the mattress with the heavy, immovable weight of his body.

Spilling out before you is his thick, heavy length, already weeping slick pre-cum, pulsing with a desperate, frantic heat. Without a second thought, he drives straight into you—hard, deep, and without an ounce of his usual hesitation.

"Ah— fuck—"

John chokes out a rough, broken groan that vibrates deep in his chest, the corrupted red light in his eye flaring wildly.

He’s never been like this.

There’s no slow buildup, no gentle rhythm left; it’s pure, unadulterated desperation, fueled by weeks of starvation and the glitching panic clawing at his mind.

He grips your hips with both hands—his left claws digging hard enough to leave faint, white-hot pressure points against your skin, while his heavy, monstrous right arm pins your shoulder firmly to the mattress.

He starts driving into you at a breakneck, relentless speed, his hips slamming against yours with a heavy, wet friction that echoes off the bedroom walls.

The bedframe creaks in violent protest beneath the force of his thrusts. Every pound is deep, desperate, and punishingly fast, stretching you to your absolute limits as he completely loses himself inside you.

The friction is intense, a searing wave of friction and heat that leaves you gasping, your entire body trembling and thrashing uncontrollably beneath him as wave after wave of overstimulating pleasure crashes over your nervous system.

You sob underneath him, your voice breaking as your body arches helplessly to meet his punishing pace. John is panting heavily, his breaths coming in ragged, distorted gasps that sound more like static than human air.

The corruption along his spine flares, sending hot, erratic jolts of red binary code cascading down his legs as he loses every remaining shred of his composure.

He can't stop.

He doesn't know how to stop. He buries his face deep into the crook of your neck, pressing his forehead against your hot skin as he drives into you harder, faster, his hips slamming home with a frantic, animalistic rhythm.

"I'm sorry— fuck, I'm sorry,"

He whimpers against your skin, his voice cracking into a desperate, broken sob as his hot tears mix with the sweat dripping down your neck.

"I can't— love, I'm losing it, I'm so sorry, please take it, please—"

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