hii i genuinely lov the way you write habit and i reread the stuff you write about him so much š„¹
I was wondering how toby and habit would react to reader liking both of themšš (in a polyamory way obviously). Cus i feel like as much as they could be jealous i wonder if they would compete to see who could be better if that makes sense? like leaving extra hickeys/marks, leaving their clothes in readerās room, bickering constantly..you get itšš (ive never sent an ask before if you cant tell but i guess you could consider ts a request)š„¹š„¹š„¹
Male reader possiblyyyy prefered but GN is still amazing š„ŗš„ŗš„ŗ
heyy. hey you. I love you. this is incredible and ive never considered thjs combo before. also mightve stolen these dividers from another fic writer... will update this with their user
tag list ~ @faunadorbs @flirtysnakes
Toby & Habit..want the same person??
tags for p1; love triangle, voyeurism from habit, toby is a laundry thief, I dont usually write for multiple characters LOL, a little dry humping, interrupted in the actš, lil vanilla for me .. no established relationship between characters (besides roommate), toby is just obsessive about you, confusing fwb situation w/toby, mutual pining, habit's an old friend from college, toby gets blueballed LOL, no real smutty smut yet!
-- ....
Toby loves like an old fighter dog.
A hard day leaves him feeling worse than he looks- even if he can't feel the pain of his sore muscles. There's a dull throb that knocks pain out of the park- enough discomfort to whine, but it doesn't hurt. Just.. obstructs from pleasure. He convinced himself that was just the way it was.
Until you, of course.
After the first day he fell asleep in your arms, a warm bed and a slow-cooked meal sitting in his shrunken stomach, he learned how to microdose retirement. It felt like your lips.
He allowed himself greedy indulgences without any shame from that point on. Coming home at hours late enough to make an owl cry, slumping next to your body in dryer-warm clothes that smell like the detergent you bought. You'd set a start delay so he'd come home to warm, dry clothing. He could (and would, later) cry at that alone. Chapped lips kissing at your knuckles while you're too drowsy to feel it, barely conscious as you run soft, unlabored hands through his dirty hair. And you don't mind.
You chose this. You chose him. He wouldn't want to live in any other world where this reality shifted- even a little. So.. it's easy to imagine his frustration when Habit moves in. An old friend, who, in your words, has "fallen on hard times".
-- The arrival ....
He is an attention whore.
That's what Toby says when you ask why he's been so standoffish since your new roommate moved in. He's been guarding your room like a hawk- keeping it's beak ready to snap at the circling vulture. In this case- stopping Habit from joining your solo movie night.
They've been talking to at eachother at a volume they believe to be quiet for almost an hour. You can hardly hear your crackly pirated version of The Princess Bride over their whining, and it takes a whispered, five minute long conversation before they settle on them both joining you, sandwiching you into your beaten full size mattress. There's a foot of snow out anyways.. even if it comes with pissy banter, who wouldn't welcome the warmth?
"This movie is shit. When does the old guy die?"
"Can you hold your hormones f---or one fucking second?"
"I like the life-suckin machine thing. Bunny, how d'ya figure he made that?"
When the arguing dies down, Habit pulls the old yawn-and-tug, making an exaggerated sound and stretching his thick arm out over your shoulder, subtly pulling you closer.
This is where the dick measuring contest starts. The first drop of water in a broken cup.
Toby puts a hand on your thigh, digging too close for comfort into the fat there. Habit's arm draws tighter on your neck. it's almost a chokehold, but not entirely. Yet.
-- 2 days later..
Toby has been hanging out with you.. an abnormal amount. If it weren't for how obvious he is about the issue being Habit, you'd think he'd gotten some terminal diagnosis.
They compete to wake up the quickest- Habit usually winning- to make you breakfast. It's usually inedible, too much flour, a random egg, salt over sugar. It's more the action than the quality. Lingering with his hand on your hip, head tucked in the crook of your neck from behind. He waits for a placating positive reaction that he definitely will not receive.
His voice is too close to your ear for comfort, volume not adjusted for proximity.
"Take a bite. Tell me what you think."
His hands tighten on your hips as you bring the fork to your mouth. Toby turns the corner into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe.
"Are you trying to poison them?" He huffs, hand running through sleep-matted hair.
"Toby, it's fine. It's just pancakes, I think I'll survive." You bite into a sizeable clump of flour and make a poor attempt not to wince at the taste.
"Yeah, Tobes." Habit leans a little further into you, grinning wide as he tilts his head towards Toby. "S'only breakfast. Not like you were gonna make it."
He stays quiet for the rest of the hour.
Another crack in the cup.
-- That night ..
You can't sleep.
Habit is out on the town, "getting groceries" with his hunting bag.
You don't have the time to think about what Toby's up to before you hear his knock on the door. A shave-and-a-haircut rhythm you're pretty sure he learned from an old movie.
He doesn't wait for a response, turning the doorknob and poking his head in. He moves slow, unsure, like a kicked dog.
"..you, uh.. you ggood?"
His voice is a tired rasp, his eyes a little red from rubbing too hard. You shift upwards, pressing your back against a chipped headboard.
"Yeah. Just can't sleep." You huff, wiping the exhaustion out of your eyes. "Are you good?"
He flinches a bit, eyes wandering around the room before he steps inside, leaving the door cracked behind him. Any other time, you might've noticed the sound of boots getting kicked off at the front door.
"I'm fine, it's ju-st-" He huffs in frustration as his neck twitches to the side. "You know. Late night j- jitt-" He stumbles with the word for a couple seconds before giving up on it entirely. "It's late."
"Toby, I've lived with you long enough to know when something's bothering you."
You pat the bed in front of you, and he slumps his weight down. Legs crossed, hands fidgeting in his lap. He's picked a hangnail so deep you're not sure how he's still finding skin to tug at.
"I'm not mad, but if you don't talk about it, one of us will be later." Your hand subconsciously reaches out for his, dragging his bloody, raw hand away from his picking nails. That gets him to focus.
"It's Habit." He huffs, scratching at his jaw with his free hand. "I can't stand the way he touch- touches you. Like you're a- an animal, or something." His voice is rough, stutter worsened by the growing anxiety sitting in his chest.
"He's just.. he means well. Probably." You pause. "He just needs somewhere to stay for a while, that's all. I think he's going through a rough patch."
Rough patch my ass. The past year of Evan Habit's life has been a rough patch. Hardly answering calls, being ominous when he does pick up. Sentiment is really the only thing that made you accept his request to crash here. It's been nice, in a way, seeing him around, but not entirely worth seeing Toby so antsy.
"You should hear the shit he says about you when you're not around." He scoffs, clearly agitated by your defense of him. His cheeks burn up, his eyes flickering around the room. "He talks like he's got a shot with you, and it-" A grin splits involuntarily across your face.
"Toby, are you jealous?"
He jolts, eyes widening and flicking back to yours. "You- what? No, no- that's not.. me? Jealous?" He laughs awkwardly, hand twitching in yours. "Why would I be jealous of that guy?"
You scoot even closer now, crawling into his lap. "Mm... I dunno, you sound kinda jealous. Definitely seemed that way at breakfast." You can feel him harden beneath you, uncharacteristically nervous tonight.
You've had sex before, once or twice. You were his first for practically everything. He's hardly any less nervous than he was the first time around.
"You're the worst," He groans, hands coming to rest on your hips, thumb smoothing up the bone there. He lets out a gentle whine as your hips settle against his, straddling him.
"Worse than Habit?" You hum, one hand behind his neck, the other trailing down his side.
"Just about." He mumbles, digging into your hips to push you against him. "You don't like him more than me, do you?" He sighs, burying his face in your neck, teeth gently feeling at each side of your collarbone.
Your hips grind down on his a little, illiciting a hitched gasp from the both of you as his denim crushes into your sleep shorts. An open belt buckle softly gleams from the cracked open door.
"You just have to-" A slip of gray pokes from his pocket. Your hand subconsciously tugs it out.
"-Toby, is this my underwear?"
The question comes out in a soft huff of laughter, hips slipping down harsher as you hold it just out of his reach. He reaches his hand out frantically, trying to snag it back from you.
"Come on, that's nnnot- not- fair, don't-"
He whines, leaning forward a little too quickly and sending you to your back, legs wrapped around his hips as he sits on top of you, still trying to reach for them as he folds you over. A slip of his toned stomach pokes out as he tugs them from your hands, awkwardly tossing them aside.
"I missed you, couldn't- couldn't do ssshit with that freak lurking."
A soft huff from outside the room. Another drop in the cup. Toby's head snaps up, blood rushing back up to his face.
Habit is lurking in the doorway, elbow propped up against the frame.
Hello everyone! I know it has been quite some time since I've last wrote about creepypasta, but I've had so many things happen in my private life that made me unable to write anything. Soon I will start up again and I will go through my inbox as soon as I can!
SUMMARY: BEN likes having control and driving people crazy, in more than one way, of course.
CW: Overstimulation, Edging, Vibrators, Erotic electrostimulation, Vaginal fingering, Face slapping, Implied multiple orgasms, authors first time finishing a smut so results may vary
WC: 1.1k
A/N: I was giggling and kicking my feet when writing this LMAO. I always thought the idea of BEN shocking yn a bit during sex was sooooo good but I could barely find fics with it??? That's what inspired this and I found the wip after a while and I decided to finish it. Nervous abt posting it but you only live once
If there was one thing anyone could say with certainty about BEN, it was that he loved control.
Not just in the casual, surface-level way most people did. Of course not, it's him after all. He savored the way people unraveled under him, how they squirmed, how their composure cracked piece by piece until there was nothing left but raw, visceral reaction. He liked being above them, liked knowing every tremor, every broken sound, every helpless glance was because of him. And, eventually, they became shells of what they were, pliant and mendable in his hands. What he always wanted out of all this was clear however, he wanted to see the life drain from their eyes eventually after all the fun.
That kind of power gave him a rush like nothing else quite could.
Wellā¦almost nothing.
You shifted restlessly on the bed, the sheets twisted beneath you from how long this had been going on ā minutes, maybe hours, you werenāt even sure anymore. Time had dissolved into pure sensation. Your thighs were slick, the evidence of it smeared against your skin and soaking faintly into the fabric beneath you. Every nerve felt exposed and raw, heightened to an unbearable degree.
You turned your head away, trying to escape the weight of BEN's gaze; the sharpness of it, the way it seemed to pin you in place more effectively than his hands ever could. It was too much. Too intense. Almost suffocating.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly, breaths catching between soft whimpers. Tears clung stubbornly to your lashes, blurring your vision, born from a confusing mix of pleasure and pain. You didnāt even know what you wanted anymore. More? Less? It all tangled together until it stopped making sense.
The moment you looked away, his hand was on you.
Firm fingers wrapped around your chin, forcing your face back toward him with little effort. At the same time, the vibration pressed against your clit intensified, just enough to make your entire body jolt.
āI thought I told you something about looking away?ā
His voice was calm, almost conversational.
A quiet ātskā left him when you didnāt respond immediately. His grip tightened.
āAnd Iām not hearing an apology either.ā
āIāahāā¦ Iām sorry,ā you stammered, your voice breaking under the strain. āIām sorry, BEN. Please, justāā¦lessā¦ I canātānghā!ā
The plea dissolved into a helpless sound as another wave of sensation crashed through you. Your thoughts were slipping, fraying at the edges.
He only smiled with amusement at your reaction.
BEN's hand left your jaw, but the absence of it didnāt feel like freedom, it just made you more aware of everything else. The build-up inside you was reaching a tipping point again, that familiar tightening coil threatening to snap. It hurt. It burned. Your body was trembling from it, overwhelmed and sensitive.
And just as it crestedā
He pulled the vibrator away.
The absence hit you like you got your head out from the water. A helpless, desperate whine tore from your throat before you could stop it, your hips twitching, trying to chase what was no longer there.
āI thought you didnāt want any more?ā he murmured, voice soft with mock sympathy. āYou know Iām only trying to please you. Even if that means stopping.ā
There was a quiet laugh beneath his words, the kind that made heat crawl up your spine whenever you heard it.
āLook at you,ā he added, tilting his head slightly. āYouāre crying.ā
Only then did you really register it; the warmth on your cheeks, the dampness trailing down toward your temples. Your breathing was uneven, your body still trembling as you weakly shook your head.
āYouāre anā¦ahhā¦asshole,ā you managed, the insult barely holding together.
āOh?ā
His brows lifted, interest piqued rather than offended.
Instead of responding verbally, his hand moved lower. Fingers brushed against your slick heat, deliberately slow as he gathered the evidence of your arousal, using it as lubricant. Then he pushed two fingers inside you.
You gasped sharply, your back arching off the bed as your body welcomed the intrusion far too easily. He didnāt rush it ā to your surprise ā instead he worked you open slowly. Each thrust drew out quiet, obscene wet sounds, accompanied by the broken rhythm of your moans.
When he curled his fingers in, your vision flickered, your breath catching as pleasure sparked through you like a fault line cracking open. It was too much. Too good.
He noticed. Of course he did. That bastard knows your way around your body so well it makes you embarrassed at times.
A low chuckle slipped from BEN, his thumb finding your clit again, but this time, instead of immediate pressure, there was something else. A sudden, sharp jolt.
You cried out, your body jerking involuntarily as the sensation shot through you. It wasnāt quite pain, not entirely ā but it wasnāt purely pleasure either. It was something in between, literal electricity that made your nerves light up in a way you couldnāt quite process.
āSensitive?ā BEN murmured, watching you carefully.
Before you could answer, it happened again.
This time you were ready for it ā or at least, more aware. The shock melted almost instantly into something else, something that twisted low in your stomach and spread outward in a wave of heat. Your moan came easier this time, trembling and unsteady.
His fingers resumed their rhythm, deeper now, more deliberate. His thumb switched with the fingers of his other hand, now that he rubbed your swollen clit with them, it was much more intense.
Ben watched you closely, drinking in every moan, every gasp, every little expression you've made.
He sped up his pace now, pumping into you. Occasionally sending another small jolt through your already oversensitive body. Each one pushed you closer to the edge, tightening everything inside you until you felt like you might snap.
āGood girl.ā
The praise sent a shiver through you, your hips lifting instinctively, chasing more friction, more sensation. You were aching for it now, desperate despite everything.
And this time he let you have it.
The climax hit hard, crashing through you like a breaking wave. Your voice dissolved into helpless, sobbing moans as your body clenched tightly around his fingers.
BEN didnāt stop immediately. He slowed, drawing it out, guiding you through every aftershock until your body finally began to come down from it.
Only then did he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth.
You were left limp against the bed, completely spent. Your chest rose and fell heavily, skin damp with sweat, tears still cooling on your cheeks.
For a brief moment, there was quiet and stillness. That was until he lightly slapped your cheek.
āCome on,ā he hummed, voice low, almost indulgent. āIām not done with you yet.ā
Your stomach dropped slightly, anticipation and dread twisting together again.
āI want you to beg me to stop.ā
And before you could gather the breath to protest, that familiar crackle sparked against your sensitive skin once more.
CW: implied violence, trauma/PTSD, dissociation, co-dependency, a really cute puppy, blood mention, references to abuse.
Word Count: 2514
Morning comes softly in the woods.
It doesnāt rush.
It just settles.
Light filters through the thin curtains in pale gold ribbons, stretching slowly across the bedroom floor. The air is cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth through the cracked window.
You wake before Toby, you always do.
For a moment, you donāt move.
His arm is draped over your waist, fingers grasping at the sleep shirt you wore. His breathing is slow, steady against your back.
Safe.
The air is still.
A small, fragile space between sleep and awareness.
And in that space, in that stillness, your body forgets where it is.
Your chest tightens.
Your breath catches.
Something inside you braces for hands that arenāt gentle. For a voice that doesnāt belong to you. For the weight of something you canāt escape.
It hits fast.
Sharp.
Stealing the breath from your lungs.
Then,
It passes.
Like a wave pulling back from shore.
You inhale slowly, a tremor rolling through your body.
The cabin comes back to you.
The quiet.
The warmth.
The absence of fear.
Youāre here.
Not there.
Not anymore.
You let your shoulders loosen, just slightly, before carefully slipping out from beneath Tobyās arm.
You watch for a moment as he shifts, letting out a groan as his fingers flex over the mattress where your warmth still lingers.
The floor is cool under your feet.
You make it all of three steps before something small barrels into your leg.
āāDakota,ā you whisper, catching yourself against the wall.
The puppy looks up at you, ears too big for her head, tail wagging so hard it throws off her balance.
āEasy,ā you murmur, crouching down.
She licks your hand immediately, insistent and clumsy.
You run your fingers through her fur.
Soft.
Warm.
Alive.
Toby found her months ago.
Just beyond the treeline. Alone.
You canāt understand how she survived on her own out here. She was so small pressed against Tobyās chest, half wrapped in his jacket.
You remember the way he looked when he came back that morning.
Quiet.
Focused.
Not shaken. Tobyās never shaken.
There had been dirt on his boots.
Something darker on his sleeve.
You hadnāt asked.
You still donāt.
Dakota presses closer to you, demanding attention.
You scratch behind her ears.
āCome on,ā you say softly.
She follows you downstairs like she always does.
ā
The kitchen feels like yours now.
Not unfamiliar. Not temporary.
Yours.
You move through it without thinking. Pulling a frying pan from the cabinets, setting a carton of eggs on the counter, carefully starting breakfast.
Routine.
Simple things.
Things that belong to you.
Dakota circles your legs, then grabs the edge of your pajama pants and tugs.
āHey,ā
You try to step away.
She refuses to let go.
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
āDakota.ā
You crouch, prying her teeth free.
āYouāre getting bold.ā
She just wags harder.
The eggs in the pan sizzle.
You stand, stirring them in the pan.
Behind you, the stairs creak.
You donāt turn.
You already know itās him.
āMorning,ā Toby says.
His voice is rough, still thick with sleep.
You glance over your shoulder.
His hair is messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep. Thereās something soft about him in the mornings. Something almost boyish.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, āMorning.ā
He trudges towards the coffee machine, clicking the buttons even though his eyes are barely open.
He yawns, taking a mug from the cabinet above him.
His movements are easy, relaxed.
Like itās always been like this.
Like it always will be.
He leans against the counter beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
Dakota immediately abandons you for him.
āYeah, I see how it is,ā you mutter.
Toby smiles faintly.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The quiet isnāt uncomfortable.
It never is.
ā
He leaves later that day.
You donāt ask where heās going.
You never do.
But you notice things.
You always notice.
The way he moves differently before he leaves.
More deliberate.
More focused.
The way he checks the truck.
The way his hands linger just a second longer on his hatchets.
You stand on the porch while he gets ready.
Dakota sits beside you, tail brushing lazily against your ankle.
The sun is low, stretching shadows across the yard.
Toby shuts the truck door and turns back toward you.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Like heās making sure youāre still here.
You tilt your head slightly.
āYouāll be back tonight?ā
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
āYeah.ā
Itās not a promise.
You know that.
Still, you nod.
āOkay.ā
He steps closer.
His hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
You lean into it without thinking.
āBe careful,ā you say.
He gives you a small, crooked smile.
āAlways am.ā
You donāt believe that.
But you let it stand.
He kisses your forehead.
Then heās gone.
The truck disappears down the dirt road, swallowed by trees.
You watch until you canāt hear the rumbling of the engine anymore.
Then you turn back inside.
ā
The quiet doesnāt bother you anymore.
Not like it used to.
Dakota keeps you company.
She follows you through the house, through the yard, out into the woods.
You walk the same path you always do.
The one just beyond the cabin.
The trees stretch tall and endless around you.
The air is cool.
Still.
You used to hate this kind of silence.
It left too much room for your mind to wander.
Now,
It feels different.
Not empty.
Justā¦ open.
Dakota runs ahead, then circles back, then runs ahead again.
You watch her for a moment.
The way she moves without hesitation.
Without fear.
You wonder what that feels like.
A sound snaps somewhere deeper in the woods.
You freeze.
Your body reacts before your mind does.
Muscles locking.
Breath catching.
Your heart starts to race.
It takes a second.
Maybe two.
Before logic catches up.
Before you remember where you are.
You exhale slowly.
āItās nothing,ā you murmur.
Dakota doesnāt even notice.
She just keeps moving.
You follow.
Slower now.
More aware.
ā
You stop when the trees thin.
The sky stretches out in soft color.
Pink.
Gold.
Fading into blue.
Dakota settles at your feet.
You stare out at it.
And your mind drifts.
It still does that.
Back to places you donāt always want to go.
The motel.
The rooms.
The way your body never felt like yours.
Crystal.
The weight of her.
The sound of your own breathing when it happened.
The way everything went quiet after.
You swallow.
Your hands curl slightly at your sides.
For a moment, it feels close again.
Too close.
Like it could swallow you if you let it.
You inhale.
Slow.
Measured.
Youāre here.
Not there.
You let the feeling pass.
It always passes.
Eventually.
You used to think that version of you would follow you forever.
That it would cling to you no matter where you went.
Something ugly.
Something permanent.
Something small.
Someone made to be used.
The kind of girl people imagine when they think of something disposable.
The kind of girl they name before they ever know her.
The kind of girl who doesnāt get to choose.
You look down at your hands.
At the faint scars.
At the way they donāt shake anymore.
Not like they used to.
You flex your fingers.
That girl existed.
She was real.
But she isnāt all you are.
She never was.
Youāre still here.
Still breathing.
Still choosing.
Dakota nudges your leg.
You blink, grounding yourself again.
āAlright,ā you murmur.
āLetās go home.ā
ā
Itās dark when you get back.
Not the soft kind of dark that lingers at sunset.
The deeper kind.
The kind that settles into the trees and stays there.
The cabin sits quiet at the edge of it.
Still.
Waiting.
A thin line of porch light cuts across the steps, left on from earlier. You remember flipping it on before you left with Dakota, more out of habit than necessity.
You pause at the bottom step.
The air is colder now.
Damp.
It clings to your skin, seeps through the fabric of your clothes. The woods smell stronger at nightāearth and pine and something faintly metallic underneath it all.
Dakota brushes past your leg, already bounding toward the door.
You glance toward the driveway.
Empty.
Toby isnāt back yet.
Your chest tightens.
Just slightly.
Itās not sharp anymore.
Not like it used to be.
Still,
Itās there.
A quiet, instinctive thing.
You tell yourself itās nothing.
Because most of the time, it is.
You step inside, locking the door behind you.
The click echoes a little too loudly in the quiet.
You flip the lights on one by one.
Kitchen.
Living room.
Hallway.
The cabin hums to life around you.
You move through it without thinking, checking the windows, pressing lightly against each lock. Your fingers trace the edges of the frames, testing, confirming.
Routine.
Not fear. Not anymore.
Exactly the way Toby taught you.
Exactly the way you chose to keep doing it.
Dakota circles once before collapsing near the couch with a soft huff, already settling in.
You shrug off your jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door.
The kitchen still smells faintly like this morningās coffee.
Grounds lingering in the air.
You move toward it automatically.
Fill the coffee machine.
Click it on.
The small, ordinary sounds fill the space. The rush of water, the soft click of the machine, the low hum of heat.
You lean against the counter while it warms.
For a moment, you just stand there.
Listening.
The clock ticks steadily on the wall.
Dakota shifts, her nails scraping softly against the wood as she resettles.
Outside, the woods hum.
Insects.
Wind through branches.
Something distant you donāt try to name.
Your shoulders loosen.
This is what your evenings look like now.
Not waiting.
Not pacing.
Not watching the door like something might come through it.
You cook.
You clean.
Some nights you read.
Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with Dakota curled against your legs.
Some nights, Toby comes back in time to help you make dinner.
Some nights, he doesnāt.
Either way,
You keep going.
The coffee pot hisses.
You pour the liquid slowly, watching the steam curl upward.
The mug warms your hands.
You take it with you to the couch, settling beside Dakota.
She lifts her head just long enough to acknowledge you before dropping it back down.
āLong day?ā you murmur.
Her tail thumps once.
Time stretches.
Not empty.
Just quiet.
You sip your coffee.
Let it sit warm in your chest.
Let the minutes pass without counting them.
ā
A while later, headlights cut through the dark.
It happens fast.
Light spilling through the windows.
Sharp.
Intrusive.
Your body reacts before your mind catches up.
You go still.
Your grip tightens slightly around the mug.
Your pulse spikes.
Then,
Recognition.
The shape of it.
The sound of the engine.
Familiar.
You exhale.
Relief follows close behind, softening the tension in your chest.
You set the mug down and sit up.
Dakota is already on her feet, ears perked, tail starting to wag.
The truck pulls in.
Gravel crunches beneath the tires.
The engine dies.
Silence rushes back in.
Then the door opens.
Toby steps inside.
He brings the cold in with him.
The smell of outside.
Dirt.
Night air.
Something sharper underneath.
He looks the same.
But not untouched.
Thereās something on his sleeve.
Dark.
Faint.
You notice.
Of course you do.
You always do.
Your gaze lingers for half a second.
Long enough to register it.
Not long enough to question it.
Then you look at his face.
āYouāre back.ā
He nods once.
āYeah.ā
Dakota scrambles toward him, nails clicking fast against the floor, nearly slipping in her excitement.
He crouches automatically, bracing himself as she throws her full weight against him.
āMiss me?ā he mutters, voice quieter now.
Her tail wags violently.
You watch them.
The way his shoulders loosen just slightly.
The way his hands move, steady, sure, as he scratches behind her ears.
Grounded.
Here.
Not wherever he just was.
Then you stand.
You donāt ask where heās been.
You donāt ask what heās done.
You already know enough.
Not details.
But enough.
Enough to understand that the world outside this cabin hasnāt changed.
It still takes.
Still hurts.
Still leaves marks.
Toby just meets it differently.
And somehow,
He always comes back to you.
Thatās what matters.
You step closer.
The floor creaks softly beneath your weight.
He looks up at you.
Thereās something searching in his expression.
Something quieter than before.
Something that only shows up when itās just the two of you.
You donāt answer it with words.
You never do.
You just close the distance and wrap your arms around him.
He stills.
For half a second.
Like he wasnāt sure you would.
Then his arms come around you.
Tight.
Immediate.
You press your face into his shoulder.
His jacket is cold beneath your cheek.
Damp at the edges.
He smells like outside.
Like metal.
Like something you donāt name.
Your fingers curl into the fabric anyway.
You donāt need to ask.
You could, heād probably tell you whatever you wanted to know.
But you donāt.
You donāt need to understand all of it.
Heās here.
Your body knows the difference now.
Between danger,
And this.
You exhale slowly, letting yourself settle into him.
He tightens his hold just slightly.
Grounding.
Present.
Real.
Heās here.
And that,
Thatās enough.
ā
Later, you lie in bed beside him.
Dakota is curled at your feet, warm and steady.
Tobyās arm is draped over your waist.
The same as this morning.
The same as every night.
You stare up at the ceiling.
Listening.
To the woods.
To his breathing.
To your own.
Your mind is quieter now.
Not silent.
It never will be.
There are still moments.
Still flashes.
Still nights where your body remembers things you wish it didnāt.
But itās different.
Youāre different.
Youāre not trapped anymore.
Youāre not something waiting to be used.
Youāre not something small.
You turn slightly, pressing back into him.
His arm tightens instinctively.
Holding you there.
Grounding.
You close your eyes.
For a long time, you thought survival was the end of the story.
That getting out would be enough.
But this,
This life.
This quiet.
This choice.
This is something more.
Something you built.
Something you chose.
Outside, the woods stretch endlessly into the dark.
Unbothered.
Steady.
And for the first time in your life,
Youāre not running.
Youāre not hiding.
Youāre not waiting for something to take you apart.
Youāre just here.
And thatās enough.
Whatever you were before,
Whatever shape the world tried to force you into,
It doesnāt belong to you anymore.
It never really did.
Wrapped in the quiet of the cabin, with Tobyās arms around you and Dakota breathing softly at your feet,
You let it go.
And this time, it stays gone.
A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has read this series! This was my first time writing a series for the creepypasta fandom, and I'm really proud that I was able to finish it.
Everything said about Toby so far just makes him sound like a pushy, desperate pervert, but he still carries a lot of negative aspects.
He has a twisted perception of love and dating. While he's not stupid to think everything he's sees is the truth, he is dumb enough to think that it doesn't influence his way of thinking.
Media he consumes does leave a mark in his mind and he subconsciously refers to it. From poorly acted romcoms to equally bad pornos, he believes that if he strong-arms pesters you into following his lead then he's guaranteed a girlfriend. He'll do things he thinks will make you like him and misinterpret your reactions into a narrative that'll suit whatever fantasy that he has in mind.
That awkward smile you give a stranger you encounter at the gas stationāthat must mean you like him, right? Oh, what about when you talked to him nicely soon after ("Sorry, do you mind if I grab that from in front of you? Thank you!")? You didn't react badly to his bandages or his quirksāyou'll give him a chance, right? Hey, you're not fighting back as much as beforeāyou must really like him now.
Toby will twist reality into whatever he sees fit. If you manage to break it (which isn't difficult, to be honest), he'll get in your face and argue with you. When you push him to his limits and his intimidation tactics aren't working, he'll explode with rage and stomp off for the night. He just wants whatever everyone else has. Why do you two have to argue and fight? This is nothing like the stuff he watches. He's really stumped on how to mitigate this bump in the road and speed run to the good stuff like hugs from behind and sex.
Why can't you accept his version of reality instead of whatever you think is okay?
NOW ITS ME AND YOU drug dealer!Cody and his new strain
Synopsis. . .Cody has a little surprise in the weed he gave you this time
TW!! - NSFW, drugged sex, drugged (aphrodisiac), cnc (with the drug, not the sex), slight peer pressure, dealer!Cody, smoker fem!reader, porn with some light plot ig?, college!au but everyone is a legal adult here!2!!1!
A/n: holy smokes dude, anyway I think the first pic on the left is someone licking a tip while smoking...also the title is a reference to that one Cassie song, would be so cool if you listened to It while reading thisāš¾
He does this every time.
All you needed was an eighth, college papers stacked up to your neck like an unwanted choker, not to mention you'd done enough socializing for the rest of the year considering how much you friends tried to drag you out to frats.
Yet all you wanted to do was relax, maybe get your rocks off, and just ignore society for a few hours.
And you knew just the person to go to, now if he was to respond āthat'd be a different story.
It wasn't really supposed to become a full time thing, just something to fund the nearly 100s of broken vials he had to go through which each of his experiments.
But turns out he had more of a green thumb than he thought, according to the first few customers, and some statistics, he grew the good shit. Not to mention what he adds to it, some mystery chemical that doesn't hit you too hard in the morning, and leaves you strung through the night.
So a new text was nothing new on that busted burner of his, whoever was on the other end of the line could wait. That is, until a certain ringtone that was only assigned to you range throughout his crowded dorm makeshift lab. Shout-out to having a roommate that's never here am I right?
He nearly dropped his goggles with how fast he scrambled to grab the phone on his other desk. Though with how bored he sounded over the phone, you wouldn't guess he nearly panicked that he might miss the call again.
"what"
"hello to you too, how was your day? Great? Me too!"
"uh-huh, now what"
"okay grouch, chill. I just need an eighth"
"yeah yeah, look uhh...."
Cody glances back at his desk, the nearly glowing plastic baggie sat right in the middle of the chemical mess
"I need you to try something for me"
"will it kill me?"
"hope not"
"you wouldn't do that to me anyway"
"mm. Don't jinx it. Doors unlocked"
"aye aye captain"
So you slid on some comfy shoes, making sure to lock your dorm door behind you, careful not to wake up your own roomie in the process.
You're not entirely sure why, but the whole 5 minut trio it takes up the elevator always make your heart beat kinda weird, I mean you and Toby are just friends, you see him casually, and it's definitely not like you've fucked before, so what was all the fuss about mentally?
Anyway, before you could realize your limbs knocked on his door, he swung it open, giving you his usual judgy-grump with a side of tired, look. A simple black tee and some slightly bleached grey sweats, letting you in with a little push so the a/c wouldn't be let out.
You routinely poke around the room, generally curious about what he does around here other than bully you and sell. Soon you spit the borderline glowing green lump wrapped in cellophane, weird pink shimmer in it, right beside your usual kush.
"uhh....you making life forms in here or what? Why is it..glowing?"
"right. That's what I want you to try, haven't named it yet."
You quirk a brow at him, looking between him and the bud
"it's not gonna kill you jackass"
"why haven't your tried it yourself anyway? You're the creator"
Cody goes quiet, mumbling as he looks at the drywall
"was waiting for you to get here...."
Safe to say your ego boosted quite high with that one
"awwwww you missed me!"
"I will literally kick you out"
"joking!"
After packing the gram neatly with with mystery green, a lighter was sparked and some casual one liners were said.
Smoking with Cody was probably the best company for sessions, he never pushed or made himself too loud. If you spoke, he did. And if you stared into space, he did too.
It had been around maybe half an hour, and life was Coasting. You swore you could hear through walls, along with some other things.
But soon the haze became..uncomfortable. urgent. Like your body just realized it had bones. You tried to shift, make yourself more comfortable, pushed a few pillows here and there, but the urgency just kept spreading until it mellowed out to warmth.
It felt like every a/c unit on the grounds had been cut off, your skin budding with sweat beads. You were going to ask him if he just decided to have the temperature set to hell, but it seemed like he had problems of his own.
Elbows resting on his knees as he sat in a roller chair, head down, a very obvious shape in his pants, and sweating too.
"cody..?"
"don't. Say it like that..."
To be fair, it came out more needy than you pinned for, and it did sound a little...persuasive to Cody's ears.
"what..was in that..?"
"I uh..mixed it."
"with?"
"sildenafil"
"which means???"
"Viagra."
"oh."
That definitely explained the uncomfortable stickiness between your legs, and why the air felt like it was sizzling and heavy. Not to mention the very obvious tent in his own pants.
It was borderline unbearable, a core neediness that you're almost positive that your fingers won't solve.
So, better to use your resources right?
His fingers were leaving oval bruises on your skin, the pressure of him grasping at your thighs and bouncing you on his cock causing them.
His abdomen was tight, coated in slick and sweat, his head thrown back with his brown hair damp with even more sweat.
His was panting and groaning underneath you, but you weren't much better.
Thick mushroom tip bruising your walls after multiple rounds of fucking like dogs, yet it wasn't really like you wanted to stop either.
"fuuckkk baby you feel so- ugh- god fuck..!"
His voice went in and out of octave as he tried to maintain some pieces of reality, other than your pussy wrapped around his cock and soaking his pubes.
you'd came around three different times, or at least that's when you stopped counting.
You can't really tell if he's helping the heat pooled in your stomach or making it worse, but what you do know is that you don't want it to stop.
Your cunt is soaked in a mix of his release and your juices, wet sounds echoing off of the cheap and thin drywall, for sure guaranteeing some angry neighbors.
"keep bouncing, just like that- yeah fuckfuckfuck m'gonna cum hah.."
The white cord in your tummy was bound to break soon too, Cody figured that out with how your nails dug into his shoulders and your head dropped to his shoulder, sweet moans in his ear fueling his orgasm further.
"keep it inside..yeah..dont move for a little..cant feel my fucking legs.."
If it wasn't for the sexual exhaustion, you would've huffed out a laugh or made fun of him, but you weren't really in the place to talk with how shiny your inner thighs were with slick.
Instead you just let him run his fingers up and down your thighs while you both tried to actually breathe something other than the smell of sex.
being skin to skin with your dealer was comforting in by far the most weirdest, what-are-we way possible. But you'll worry about relationship boundaries tomorrow.
Right now you have a very long nap to catch, on top of your best friend slash dealer, past midnight, and high out of your fucking mind.
Summary: Toby is pent up, and he wants to be good, but he just canāt take being ignored anymore.Ā
Content/Warnings: No explicit consent but not non/dubcon, Tobyās breaking the rules but Reader makes no move to stop him beyond just scolding him for being needy and they both enjoy it, degradation, just a bit of praise at the end, dry humping, mentions of punishment, mean dom reader but Toby likes it, needy sub Toby, whatever the term for controlling when your partner masturbates isĀ
[IF YOU LIKE THIS POST, PLEASE REBLOG. ITS THE BEST WAY TO SUPPORT MY WORK]
All week.Ā
Itās beenĀ all weekĀ with this.Ā
With you, sitting at your desk, hunched over your computer as though itās utterly captivated you with its cornea-searing rays and endless pings that constantly demand your attention, meanwhile your beloved pup has been practically thrown to the wayside without a care.Ā
Itās cruelty is what it is, complete neglect! No matter how much Toby whines or how loud he howls or how many of your shoes he threatens to tear to shreds, the mistreatment never ceases. How awful, how unfair, choosing your stupid job over him! He should be the must important thing in your life! Donāt you know he needs your attention to survive?! Heāll die like this!Ā
The worst part, though, is the fact that youāve keptĀ TheĀ RuleĀ enforced despite your preoccupation. You have set many rules for Toby to keep him from destroying the house or getting the police called, but the one he absolutely hates the most isĀ TheĀ Rule:
Under absolutely no circumstances is Toby allowed to masturbate unless under some sort of supervision.Ā
He had laughed in your face the first time you suggested that, only to choke on his mirth when he saw how deathly serious you were. Heād tried to argue, naturally, but you presented an awfully compelling case. He was messy and erratic, making complete filth of his bedsheets whichĀ youĀ would then have to wash because heās too scared of the noises the washing machine makes. Heād chew the pillows to bits and hump every piece of furniture in the house, and no matter how much you scrubbed or washed or sprayed his thick musk would be stuck on the fabric for weeks. Not to mention he had no idea when to stop, he was practically addicted to it; heād go and go and go until he made himself pass out. It was for the benefit of you both that he be reigned in.Ā
He doesnāt like it, not one bit, but he concedes to the rules you set nonetheless. Itās just one of the many things he had to give up when you took him off the street and gave him the cushy life of a human. It was a big adjustment, yes, and although for the most part every change has been for the better, itās times like these he wonders where heād be if he was still feral.Ā
Certainly not as frustrated, thatās for sure.Ā
Heās been watching you from your bed for a while now, staring at your back as youĀ click click clickĀ away at your keyboard with nary a fleeting glance at him. The first few days he whined, but gave up on that rather quickly when you didnāt budge. He barked a couple of times, but all that got him was a few coos and gentle shushes of pity. At this point, you donāt have the time or energy to keep explaining to him why you canāt play. Heās heard the same response enough times to know it by heart, anyways.Ā
The longer he sits here, the more restless he gets. The more restless he gets, the more his mind wanders, and his mind wanders to dirty places far too easily. When boredom seeps into his brain, he combats it with some rather lewd fantasies. His eyes flutter shut for just a moment, and in that split second an entire film of utter pornographic depravity plays on the back of his eyelids, memories of your bare body flashing through his mind.Ā
Ā It becomes far too much for him to bear rather quickly, and soon the full weight of Tobyās frustration is weighing heavy on him. He squirms on his back, nearly whimpering at just the slight friction of his boxers on his hardening member.Ā
He just canātĀ do thisĀ anymore!Ā
He practically throws himself off of the bed, hitting the ground with a hard thud. In the next moment heās over your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck and whining softly. He sighs with relief when you actually reach up to scratch his head, although your free hand never leaves the keyboard.Ā
āHey, puppy,ā you say softly, without looking at him. You take your hand away far too quickly, and Toby whines when you pull your fingers out of his messy hair. He nuzzles you again, with a bit more intensity this time.Ā
āCāmon, Toby, Iām busy right now,ā you say with a sigh. Toby huffs in annoyance.Ā
Dammit. So close.Ā
He can still feel the heat in his loins growing more and more by the second. This just wonāt do.Ā
The next thing he knows heās sitting between your legs, looking up at you from the floor. His heart flutters when you glance down at him with a soft smile, briefly tousling his hair in an almost condescending gesture, which earns another huff of irritation from Toby.Ā
āIām sorry, pup, really I am,ā you explain, ābut I just canāt right now. I promise, as soon as Iām done Iāll do whatever you want. I just need you to be patient for a bit longer.āĀ
That wasnāt anywhere near the answer he was hoping for.Ā
He grumbles and leans in, shamelessly burying his face in your groin. He inhales deeply, tail thumping against the ground as he makes a show of taking in your scent. He smirks to himself when he feels you jump.Ā
āToby, cāmon, donāt be like thatāā you start, but he cuts you off with a growl.Ā Ā ThatĀ makes you raise an eyebrow.Ā
Youāve seen him do this before. This is your cue.Ā
Thatās how he lets you know he wants to play rough, and heās ready to be treated like a brat.Ā
Of course, you oblige. Itās the least you could do, really.Ā
āOh, you dumb mutt,ā you hiss, and you can practically feel the smile heās holding back, ācanāt you behave for once in your life? You know damn well you arenāt supposed to be doing this.ā
You have to hold back a grin of your own when the incessant wagging of his tail only picks up the pace.Ā
You feign annoyance with a heavy sigh, sharply turning your head to look back up at your computer. You carry on with your typing, ignoring the feeling of Toby shifting against you.
That is, until you feel his hips start to grind against your leg.Ā
Oh, fuck.Ā
It takes everything in you not to drop everything youāve been working on right then and there, andĀ Ā you even feel a slight pang of guilt when he whines that high pitched whine at you.Ā
You take in a deep breath. You exhale slowly.Ā
You have to stay strong. If you give in now, heāll never learn.Ā
And besides, itās so much more fun when youāre tough.Ā
āToby. You havenāt been given permission,ā you state firmly. This only earns an even more pitiful whimper from him. You resist the urge to bite your lip.Ā
āā¦Bad. Bad dog.āĀ
The words hold no weight. It only makes Toby hump your leg with more fervor.Ā
You shift your leg with intent, shuddering at the little yelp that Toby lets out when it rubs against his bulge. Heās already soaking the front of his sweatpants.Ā
āGod, canāt you go ten minutes without begging to get your cock wet?ā you growl.Ā
A shaky giggle manages to make its way through his gritted teeth. He nuzzles against your knee, and you can feel him looking up at you with those big, hazel eyes despite the fact that your gaze is fixed firmly on your monitor. Heās getting exactly what he wants, and you canāt even be mad.Ā
You do your best not to show how much this is affecting you. You force yourself to not look down at him, to keep your shoulders relaxed and your typing at its regular pace.Ā
āā¦Youāre breaking the rules, and you know it.āĀ
For just a moment you feel Tobyās hips stutter at that. Then theyāre only moving faster, his bulge desperately rubbing against your leg as endless whines fall from his lips.Ā
Oh, heās just begging for more.Ā
āStupid dog,ā you spit, and you could swear his cock twitches at that, āDonāt you have any self control? I can feel you leaving a stain on my pant leg. Whereās your dignity?āĀ
He moans in response, and you feel him rest his chin on your knee. Heās panting heavily now.Ā
āI really should keep you on a leash,ā you muse aloud, feigning thought, āIf you keep acting like an animal, Iāll chain you up and treat you like one. You canāt get into any trouble if youāre stuck in the backyard, can you?āĀ
He growls, but itās not aggressive; itāsĀ desperate.Ā Itās a needy rumbling in his throat that wants more.Ā
You shift your leg again, making a subtle effort to aid him in his release.Ā
Heās huffing and puffing like a freight train. Just hearing the sound makes you miss feeling his warm breath on your neck.Ā
āā¦Pā¦P-Please,ā Toby stammers, and your eyes widen a bit.Ā
Itās rare for him to use real words when he can growl and whine to get his point across, but now heās using his voice toĀ plead.Ā
Oh, Godā¦
You inhale deeply once again, your breath shakier than before.Ā
You finally give in.Ā
You take your hands off the keyboard, resting them on the arms of your chair instead as you lean back. The way Toby lights up the moment you make eye contact, that dumb little smile that crosses his face and makes his entire expression go lopsided with a lust-drunk haze.Ā
āGo on then,ā you order with a nod, your voice a bit more gentle than you meant for it to be, āmake a mess. Youāll take the consequences for this, wonāt you?ā
He nods eagerly, and youāre not even bothered by the pool of drool heās leaving on your pant leg.Ā
Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you watch him. His desperation is evident on his face, eyes nearly rolling back in his head as he loses himself to the feeling of an impending (and much needed) release.Ā
āOh, youāre just a dumb little pup, arenāt you?ā you tease, only to be met with a slurred chant ofĀ āYes, yes yes.āĀ Ā Youāre surprised he can speak at all with the way his tongue hangs limply out of his mouth like a useless appendage.Ā
Heās losing the slight semblance of a steady pace he once had. Heās getting close, and all that matters now is getting to the end.Ā Ā HeĀ needsĀ this.Ā
He canāt control his voice anymore. Each whine or moan is louder than the last, until heās practically screaming. Heās nearly sobbing, both from the pleasure and the overwhelming relief of finally getting what heās craved all week. Heās so close, soĀ damn close.Ā
Thereās just one thing thatāll push him over the edge.Ā
āā¦Go on.Ā Ā Cum for me like aĀ good boy.ā
Toby nearly chokes on his breath.Ā
A tremor rocks his body as he releases without warning, his sticky release shooting through the fabric keeping his cock contained and leaving a warm sensation on your leg. The last moan that leaves him is completely pathetic, and soon his voice melts into nothing but barely audible whimpers. Slowly but surely his erratic grinding comes to a stop, and the only sound is his chest heaving as he catches his breath. He rests his head on your knee, now leaning against you completely since he canāt support himself.Ā
You take a moment to appreciate the sight of your puppy; all tuckered out, brunette hair flicking out in all directions, and barely conscious.Ā
Adorable.Ā
You reach out and gently pet his head, scratching his scalp right on that spot that makes his leg twitch.Ā
āLook at me, pup,ā you order, and he obeys. His eyes are lidded, but he still has the energy to give you a tired smile. You return the gesture.Ā
āMmā¦I hope you know youāre in big,Ā bigĀ trouble.ā
Toby nods, his grin only widening. He doesnāt regretĀ anything.Ā
Like my writing? I take requests! NSFW or SFW for any fandoms in my bio (request rules + masterlist in pinned post)!
Also, please reblog! itās free, takes two seconds, and really helps me out.Ā
BABSSSS!! The EJ brainrot is soo real, the way you write him as both super technical yet super unhinged just feels so right.
Since itās that time of year, what kind of gifts do you think the creeps would want for the holidays? What about the types of gifts they get for the reader?
THIS IS SOOO LATE IM SORRY <\\3 but YAYY FLUFF !! If youāre going to read any of my drabbles please let it be this one <\\3 itās so cute and it was so much fun to write T3T
!? HOLI- WHAT ?! The Creeps x GN! Reader !! ^3^ ā- ->
Itās the holiday season- things are getting festive and your lovers are in desperate need of a shopping trip !! Suggestive in some :pp
Ft. J. Woods, J. Nyras, T. Rogers, B. Thomas, T. Wright, One Jack In The Box & A Bad Habit <3
ā ^ ^ ā
Jeff isā¦ hard to shop for, to say the least.
He hates anything thatās too āfestive.ā It makes him feel stupid and soft. (He is, he just lies a lot.) So give him something practical, something he can use.
It doesnāt even have to be a knife or of the weapon variety at all. It can just be a scarf, some knitted mitts you made yourself. Heāll grumble, maybe sulk a little about being doted on- but heāll wear it.
However, if you do get him something sharp- heāll love it just as much. Heāll get in your face about it, kiss you with tongue become heās a bastard, and a pervert. Gropes your ass for far too long as a āThanks.ā But youāll know he likes it.
Jeff would also become very touchy with whatever you gave him. I mean like concerningly territorial.
Heās already aggressive enough about his knives, and existing possessions. Knowing you chose to make it? Chose to go out of your way and give it to him? Yeah, heās straight up screaming if someone tries to touch it.
Itās not in a teasing way either. He doesnāt have much, hasnāt really owned anything āmade with loveā in a very, very long time. It genuinely pisses him the fuck off if his shit gets moved around. To him, itās basically an extension of you- and we all know how he is about you.
Youāre the only thing thatās āhisā in a sense. Not even in a toxic boyfriend way, youāre his because you choose to be. Thatās what sticks with him.
He didnāt have to force you to stay, scare you into being with him. It wasnāt like that. You liked him- loved him, dearly actually.
Thereās weird paranoid thing he has, he feels like if he fucks with the shit you give him, the universe will take it as a sign. And then something will happen to you. Heāll never tell you that of course, but it gets to him sometimes.
Itās as if every handmade thing youāve ever given him carried a bit of your heart. Pieces to a whole, if he lost one, heād be losing a part of you. Itās why heās so quick to strike when someone gets too close.
Giving wise? A D1 Panicker. Itās not that he doesnāt know what you like, he does. Itās how the hell heās gonna get it is the problem.
Sure, he could half-ass it, but this is you weāre talking about. Jeffās self aware enough to realize heās put you through more than enough bullshit. Like give the man some credit, you know?
If you like clothes? Heās waiting for a job to come along with a victim that clearly has money, and a big closet. Heāll rummage around, taking anything that fits your style.
Put it in a trash bag and clean any blood stains he got on it. Then, heāll stop by the corner store and buy those cheesy gift bags.
BOOM Christmas haul.
Heāll sit in front of the pile with the biggest shit eating grin, saying things like-
āAm I the fuckinā best or what, babe?ā And āI know, I know- you donāt fucking deserve me, but I accept gratitude in all formsā¦ You wearinā underwear or?ā
If you like stuffed animals, collectables, and things like that? Robbery. Robbery and theft. He gets Ben to hack into the security and goes insane.
He leaves the mall with eight different bags, lugging them into the (Hoodieās) truck that he stole. The thrill of it gets him festive, what he can say?
Stays up chain smoking to āwrapā the things. Itās bad, like really, really bad. Itād probably be better if he hadnāt in all honesty. But at sunrise, heās done.
And donāt turn on the TV that morning because youāll see multiple reports of random heists thatād somehow been pulled off overnight.
If you want something stupid and sappy heāll buckle down and do that, too. Shocking, I know. But heāll do it- at a price. That price being your sanity because his sappy is not the same as your sappy.
Youāll open his handmade card thatās clearly just lined paper, but inside? Polaroids.
A small collection of pictures- unfortunately for you, they are all taken after or before a murder.
Multiple cases, multiple bodies. He used the blood leaking from the carcasses to draw out letters. If you put all of the photos in order it spells out āI LV U :)ā
While itās demented and itāll probably haunt you. You can tell he put a lot of effort into it, even if he pretends he doesnāt care. And he WILL sulk if you donāt cherish them.
He also expects head for it. (Depraved and pale)
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
Jack, on the other hand, is very easy to shop for.
You could literally give him a dollar store mug that said happy birthday on it, and heād use it until it crumbled to ash.
Knowing itās from you, knowing you thought of him and bought it with him in mind is genuinely what does it for him. He likes being remembered.
Heās always the odd one out, the scary bogey man even amongst monsters. So having you gift him something silly like gloves or earmuffs would literally stop his heart.
He doesnāt need any of these things, technically. But if you come up to him with bright eyes and big smile. Telling him you donāt want his ears to get cold, or his fingers to get numb- heāll melt.
Scoop you up and press the softest kiss to you hair, muttering āThank you, my dove.ā In that deep rumble youāve come to adore.
Jack likes cozy things, mundane things with practical uses. Things that he could have on the day to day. A good dark crew neck, a pair of thick socks, a cool notebook that reminded you of him.
Or it could be something so uniquely you. Maybe you like key charms, maybe you make them for fun. If you give him a matching one, youāll see it hanging off his hip the next day. EJās quiet obsession is vast, warm and drowning.
He doesnāt think about how it looks to others, knowing you held it up and thought heād like it is enough. He loves being loved by you. Likes being able to see it when he grabs a pen out of the cup you bought him.
Sometimes it feels like he has no humanity left, and on those days he needs the reminders the most. Being cooped up in a dark lab doesnāt do wonders for someones mental health, after all.
Heās organizing, heās been organizing for hours. The same scent of stale antiseptic reeks through out the whole med bay. Heās tired, drained from the repetition, and heād fed today.
Thereās always so much blood. It always takes so much to be full. The terrible gnawing guilt that comes and goes has returned with a vengeance.
He hates reminders of what he used to be. How it was stolen from him, how he now has to steal in order to keep up with his own damnation. Itās wretched, he thinks.
Then he spots your gift. A silly cat mug youād gotten him, itās stark against the bleak background. Too bright, too endeared to be in a place like this- and all of a sudden heās somewhere else.
Where he is not a shadow under someoneās bed, but a lover instead. And there is a voice that sounds like yours, telling him how safe he makes you feel.
You are the light at the end of the tunnel for him, and Jack is nothing if not detail oriented when it comes to giving.
He is running that Christmas shopping trip like the fucking navy. Do not play in his face, this shit is serious.
Brian knows about you because heās Brian, and if heās Brian, heās telling Tim.
Toby knows about you because heās nosey (eavesdropping) and likes being a part of things.
This is the one and only time he asks for assistance. If you wanted something thatās buyable- theyāre all packing into that goddamn truck and driving into town.
Brian is there because itās his car, Tim is there because he obviously has to see this. Toby is there because he begged to go, and Jack is there because theyāre shopping for his baby.
Masky, Hoodie and Toby donāt need disguises aside from the usual hat/glasses and hood up trick. Jack, however, oh itās uhā¦ yeah itās not breezy, Iāll tell you that much.
A whole seven-foot-something of straight mass. If people begin to stare, Toby starts very enthusiastically talking about how good at basketball Jack is.
What? Itās a small town, if heās from the city and famous for basketball (allegedly) then it makes sense to why heās so covered up.
Your gift arrives flawlessly wrapped. Nearly pristine, with the most unreadable doctors handwriting youāve ever seen on the tag. It makes you swoon all the same though.
He is very cute about it, sits crisscross on the ground with his hands folded in his lap. Politely waiting for you to open it, his favourite part is always hearing you gasp. The āItās exactly what I wanted-ā is like a drug to him.
If youāre wondering where he got the money- it was actually pretty easy. Jack has all the supplies and knowledge of the medical field you could possibly possess. On top of that, people need organs.
Black market sites, shady deals- heās seen it all. And itās not like heās at risk dropping these things off, have you seen him? I mean, my god. I can promise you no one wants to catch that fade.
In a dingy corner on the edge of the tree line, some poor soul is gonna think he hallucinated because his dealer was over 7ft tall with no eyes.
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
Toby āIām down if youāre downā Erin Rogers.
No matter what, he will out-do you. In energy, anyway. See, his home life was heart achingly bleak. When his stomach would constantly hurt from hunger cramps, and he never knew if he was going to wake up tomorrow.
Now, he was here and your home was warm. Comfy and decorated with all the pretty lights he could ever dream of- and the best part? It had you in it.
He also likes cozy things- but they lean more to the side of clutter than practical. Anything handmade, things with character that look well loved.
Give him a funky hat you found at the thrift, or a scarf you made thatās uneven in seven different places. Heāll wear it until the piece falls back into thread. Even then, heāll probably keep the strings in his jacket pocket.
Rocks. Give him rocks. Draw faces on them, doodle his goggles and mask on a stone. Make yourself and give them to him as a pair. Having matching ācoupleā things with you is his favourite thing in the world.
Toby wasnāt well liked growing up. Isolated and abandoned by his peers, it left him with a void. So he loves seeing physical proof that he was chosen over everyone else- loved by you specifically because he was special. It makes him feel like heās worth something, worth the time and effort of a gift made with care.
It is so incredibly lonely living the way he does, and the only time heās free of that is when heās with you.
He likes showing you off, telling everyone on the mission that he āHas t-to get home soon!ā And that heās āGot someone w-waiting up, you know h-how it is-ā They swear they hear more about you than they hear slenderās voice in their heads.
Unfortunately for them, they will not be getting a break any time soon. He is way too much of a lover boy for that. Youāre literally his whole personality, but itās not his fault that youāre perfect. Itās just how the world spins, and the masses have to hear about it.
And god forbid you write a sappy card. The crazy thing about Toby is that he is aggressively emotional- but so defensive if you point it out.
You give him the card and he gets quiet for a bit, rereading the words over and over to himself. Itās reassurance he can hold, your fondness for him on paper. He stays silent a little longer than he wants to because his throat gets tight.
Please donāt acknowledge that his eyes are glassy. He is begging you.
But later, when he thinks youāre not paying attention. Youāll catch him sitting alone just staring at the letter. Tracing your writing with his thumb, you can hear him sniffle, too.
That night, heāll crawl over you and bury his face into your neck. Full body lock down, with his arms tucked under your back. And if you play with his hair, heās a goner.
Cuddling into the crook of your shoulder, heāll sigh softly. āYouāre everything to me, yāknow t-that, right angel?ā
Toby calls you angel when heās sappy. Itās what you feel like to him. A blessing.
When itās your turn to receive the gifts- the affection is dialled up to eleven. Like Iām talking from sunrise to sunset, dusk to dawn. The day before will be spent with him all over you constantly. There is no escape, he will hunt you down.
To kiss you. Obviously.
And before that? Heāll ask ādiscreetā questions about anything youāve been wanting. He thinks heās so slick, too. Walking past you like āS-suh-soā¦ look at any uh- sweaters lately. Or s-something.ā
Wink wink, nudge nudge, the good stuff.
When he does find out what you want, itās game time. Off he goes on his journey to search for his angels perfect gift. And a journey it is indeed.
If itās something you can make, heāll make it. If not, heās locking in and throwing on a disguise. Pick pocketing someone on the way there, he takes the cash, leaves the cards.
He even talks to the sales associate, like it is, in fact, that serious. Because how else is he going to get it in the colour you wanted?
The worker is very weirded out the entire time. Standing there with clammy palms as they watch Toby ramble about wrapping paper like a serial killer. (Well, Iāll be damned.)
Itās the way he talks about it. Heās not rude or anything. Itās just that from their point of view, some guy with eye-bags who smelled like blood, and smoke had come in past midnight. Talking to himself until approaching and asking if they had āA-anything cute? It-itās for my baby. It has t-to be good quality.ā
The smile doesnāt reach his eyes behind the mask, and thereās an unspoken āOr else.ā That hangs a little too heavy in the air.
Though it works, and heās skipping back home with a pep in his step.
Heāll basically vibrate in place watching you open it. So excited that if you squint, you can see his tail wagging behind him. Itās as endearing as it is overwhelming on your behalf.
Trust and believe that man is pouncing on you the second the words āThank you-ā or āI love you-ā come out of your mouth.
Tobyās weight nearly suffocates you, but itās worth it.
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
Brian is a liar and far more sentimental than he lets on.
That being saidā
Him and that goddamn rifle are practically blood brothers. If you looked at his DNA test results heād be 15% Sniper.
If you give him anything gun related, especially if itās an accessory of some sort, heāll start getting hot flashes of a wedding bells and stained glass.
It feels personal to him, makes him feel like you pay attention. That thing is a second heart at this point, and if you go out of your way to acknowledge that- it hits him right in the chest.
And it doesnāt have to be anything stereotypically āmasculineā either. Get him a charm for the holster, a fun little belt loop to brighten his gear. Give him something to remember you by.
Something to keep him sane when heās buried in bodies and hard labour. Heāll fidget with the charm, run his fingers over the add ons to his tools when it gets too much.
It makes him feel closer to you. Reminds him that there is someone waiting for him at home. Someone worth fighting for. The gifts act as motivation for him, giving him a boost of energy mid assignment.
Or you can tap into his mushier side. The part of him only you get to see.
Greet him with a kiss sweeter than powdered sugar, tell him you cooked a feast for the night. If the affection is genuine, real, he eats it up. All the sappy things one would assume heād hate- he actually enjoys a decent amount. Loves it even.
Absolutely basks in the dramatics. Loves it when you fawn over him, dote on him while he stands there pretending his ears arenāt pink. It fuels his tough guy act real bad, and itās lowkey his favourite part of the post-mission routine. It gets him soft, warm in the heart if you kiss the bandages after youāre done.
Heās so affected by it but he refuses to acknowledge the fact. If you patch him up, telling him how worried you were, how much you missed him- heāll hum with a barely suppressed grin.
āYāmissed me? Then prove it, darlinā- show me how much.ā And heāll pull you close. āMm, canāt feel a thing, promise yaā.ā And heās easing the furrow in your brow with a kiss to your knuckles.
To Brian, the best gift you could give him is your time.
He doesnāt need much, he just likes enjoying the moment. Appreciating the intimacy he has with you because he doesnāt know if itāll be there by tomorrow.
Thereās a risk every time he steps foot outside your home. A danger that he might not see coming- he wants to enjoy it while it lasts. He likes knowing he means something to you. That heās not failing you as your lover, not useless aside from his violence. So really all heād want is a hot meal, maybe a shared bath and some slow kissing.
Though if you did want to go through with the whole ordeal- get him something heād actually use. His preference is practical with a bit of your personality mixed in.
Things like a new pair of steel toed boots. The laces are customized, a nicer material and your favourite colour. Or a hunting knife with a decorated handle. Put stickers on the thing- he doesnāt care. As long as itās from you and itās meant for him, heāll guard it with his life. Use it until he physically canāt anymore.
Not much of a jewelry guy, but if you get him matching rings heāll wear it. You canāt legally get married with hisā¦ occupation. But you can still hold the sentiment in a classic way.
He canāt wear it on his finger due to the constant action- so he hangs it on the chain around his neck. The one with a cross that he never got rid of.
Brian grew up in a very religious household. And it definitely wasnāt loving, far from it actually. The scriptures were used as a fear tactic, a punishment or reward.
Always too extreme one way or another, bordering on psychosis. Bad memories mixed with the blind hope that if he prayed hard enough, heād prove it to himself that this was worth it.
That somehow, all the cruelty and isolation was for a grand purpose. Something he couldnāt understand, not yet at least. And while that obviously didnāt really work out- he keeps the chain anyway.
Even now, he canāt force himself to take it off. Itās a weird attachment. He isnāt devout or anything, but a part of him still clings onto that old faith. He runs his thumb over the cross when heās stressed, and he doesnāt notice he does it either. Itās more just a lingering after image of who he used to be.
The ring you give him would clink against the metal pendant, a union of the past and present. Brian likes to think itās fate that you ended up falling for him the way you did. That the stars gave him one wish and gifted him you in return. He wears it under his clothes, letting it swing over his heart when he moves.
What he gifts you? : Whatever you want.
He is not sneaky about it- he will ask straight to you face. Heās not risking you not liking it even if he knows what you like.
Then heās back in that god forsaken truck. Itās just that Brianās car is the only mode of transportation, and apparently everyoneās needing a ride this holiday season. At this rate, they might actually clear the shelves.
Gives it to you in bed when youāre cuddled up against him. Heāll slip the box out from under the frame, and shake it in front of you. That crooked grin of his distracts you for a second before you snap out of it. Heāll laugh at you for it, but you know heās giddy.
You stay up way later than you intend to. Talking about how much you love someone can make time fly, and his reactions are way too cute too miss.
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
Tim wants whatever your dad wants.
The walking epitome of āI got socks for Christmas, it was my favourite gift.ā Like his need for a recliner in the living room to judge teenagers on is concerning.
He wants things like thick socks, a good solid glass pint to use, gun oil. A new belt. The entirety of Home Depots tool isle.
All things to make a man very happy, Iām sure. And Iām sorry to say, he is so annoying about it. Like if you went to look for the definition of āSouthern White Manā his face would be next to the paragraph.
Irritatingly stereotypical. Not in a toxic or overwhelming way- itās just the fact that you know itās genuine that makes it worse. If someoneās car breaks down, heās standing near the window. Arms behind his back and shaking his head like-
āSee that? The posture of a bastard who aināt know how taā change a tire. Mm, shame.ā Or āBack in the day integrity meant somethinā. Look at āim, strugglinā like a fish outtaā water.ā
The disappointment in his voice is so heavy it makes you pause. So gift wise, get him anything a vintage outlaw would enjoy. That, or something you think a very disgruntled father of two would like.
A good bottle of whiskey, a well-loved but sturdy leather jacket. And if you get him one of those really fancy packs of cigars- his pants are dropping on the spot.
He loves the bitters, the bourbons that make you cringe from just the smell. Smokes that taste like nothing but tobacco and ash. Or a shiny, brand new pistol.
Something classic. A Beretta 92FS, reliable, fits in his waistband. And if itās a blade, make sure it has a serrated edge.
Though, believe it or not, heās not completely rough at all angles.
Gloves. Cozy, cable knit, fuzzy mittens. Thatās his thing.
See, Timās line of work requires constant aggression, constant brutality to survive. His hands have been used for terrible things. Scarred and heavily calloused, theyāre even rough to the touch.
Itās in everything he does. The heaviness of what heās done doesnāt leave him, never fully fades from his palms. Itās weight is a constant reminder of all the blood heās shed. All the lives heās taken.
Based off their appearance alone, you can tell his hands have been far too cold for far too long. And all heās ever done with them is hurt, steal and slaughter.
But you donāt see that, now do you? He couldnāt convince you to even if he tried. And trust me, he has.
Tried telling you that he wasnāt good- not like you were. That no matter what he does, he will never be clean. The wrath has seeped past the grooves of his skin, festering in his DNA. Itās how he is, who he is.
You had laughed in his face.
Not because you didnāt believe him or you were mocking him in any way- but because it was funny that he thought you could ever hate him. Ever fear him like you did in his nightmares.
His touch was coarse until it wasnāt. Oppressive until you laced your fingers together, telling him how much you loved his hands. They were bigger than yours, stronger than yours, they made you feel safe.
You talked about them like they were made for protecting you. You trusted him more than he trusted himself, and that fact runs through his mind when shit goes south. If anything ever happened, if everything was falling a part- heād still be yours. And thatās all that mattered.
So call him sentimental, but fuck if he doesnāt appreciate a good pair of mitts. Bonus points if you made them. Itās like youāre holding his hand when he wears them, and he swears it makes his whole body warmer.
Tim gets you something smaller with impact. A gift that youād mentioned like five months ago, something that you had told him about in passing.
Heāll give it to you super bluntly, too. No funny business, this is for you. And he wants you to know that this is real. That you mean something to him. That he cares so deeply it follows him into his dreams.
The mood will be set, and heāll pull it out from wherever- setting it in front of you with a smirk. He knows youāll like it.
Then, when you inevitably get emotional, heāll pretend like this wasnāt his plan all along. As if your heart was simply just too big.
Heās played you like a cheap kazoo, is what Iām saying.
Youāll get him back next year. (Probably)
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
LJ is a bottomless pit that begs to be fed.
He would sacrifice five babies and a half for a bag of cotton candy on a good day. He wants sweets.
Candies, pastries, cakes, ice-cream, literally any of it- all of it, even. Stuff that makes your teeth want to ache from just looking. Those are his favourite.
Or typical clown things. Stupid prank kits, the retractable knives that look real, flowers that squirt water. They all fit into his niche. And yes, he can already do these things- but these ones are from you. And that makes them special. Obviously.
Also a giant sucker for anything arts and crafts related. He doesnāt care how ābadā you are at drawing, if you doodle him itās going straight on the fridge. Heāll frame it and everything. It will literally become a centre piece in a pocket dimension somewhere.
Paint him something, use paper machete and make him a stupid hat. It doesnāt matter if itās lopsided or falling apart- he will be wearing it. And he will be making it everyone elseās problem.
You can buy him things of course, but honestly? Heād much rather you make it.
When itās personally drawn, illustrated or crafted by you, it has meaning. There is heart in the lines, in the paint strokes on the canvas. No matter how flawed or perfect they may be, the first thing he seeās is you in the art.
It makes him feel special. Like heās real and not a figment of someoneās imagination. He is immortalized through your hands, your vision put onto paper. Into pastels and chalk.
He can tell when something has effort, he knows when youāve stayed up all night. Hunched over your desk trying to get his nose right- itās what he loves about it. The fact that you care enough to fix details that donāt technically need the attention. Yet you fix them anyway. Just because.
You tell him to close his eyes and he does. Jack slaps both claws over his face, giggling manically as he hears you shuffle over with paper in your arms. Then when he blinks, youāre holding up a picture.
A sketch of you and him. With all his funky stripes and patterns, right next to you. His one and only. His little lover, smiling brightly by his side.
When I tell you he nearly explodes on the spot. The cuteness aggression gets to him and he almost starts crying. Like itās bad.
He also almost starts crying because youāve drawn him in colour.
Not in muted greys and blacks- but in neons and iridescence. It strikes him right in the heart he claims he lost long ago. Something about realizing that you see him so vibrantly has him collapsing onto you before you know it.
You borderline suffocate in that feather cloak of his, literally sinking into him. LJ is large- like comically lanky. So youāre basically smothered the second he wants affection.
Your unbalanced and discombobulated. Utterly slathered in his face paint after heās done. Like youāre held hostage for at least ten minutes straight while he kisses you dizzy.
All over your face, your neck, hands- heāll lift up your shirt and kiss up your stomach, too. Youāre a walking Picasso piece by the end. It makes him so giddy he physically canāt stay still. Bouncing off the walls saying things that donāt even make sense.
āYouāre the sweetest sugar cane of the bunch, you know-ā and āOh, look at you! Like a perfect little stamp- I could eat you up, really, I could.ā With hearts in his eyes.
Heāll show it to everybody he possibly can- anyone who has the misfortune of coming across him that week is getting bombarded immediately.
Jack canāt hold it back, itās genuinely a problem. And best believe heās making it a couples activity next time.
And his gift is more of an experience.
While there is a physical present, most of the magic comes from- well, his actual magic.
Heāll construct circuses, rides and food stalls with life sized puppets working the machines. Theyāll take you all over the world, show the skyās and seas till youāre breathless.
Itās a night to remember, and he enjoys it just as much as you. These moments are crucial to him, itās the only time he feels right in a sense. All the illusions, the skills and trades heād originally came with are being put to use. Spreading wonder and joy like they were meant to.
And for a second, a fractured pocket in time- itās as if heād always been filled with starlight. With colours and confetti exploding from his finger tips, something made for comfort. Well loved like a childhood memory from someone who went to bed laughing.
Date nights that involve bad pottery and crayons are now mandatory.
He makes little clown versions of the both of you, displays them in his clown void. And yes, his victims have seen them.
Rest in peace to the ones whose last sight was a sketch of the demon hunting them being fed a warm meal in a bowtie.
ā½āāāāāāāāāāāāāāā„
Habit wants whatever the hell your local serial killer has on his wish-list.
Iām sorry to say but heās not exactly the sentimental type. Get him a new machete, a laughably violent looking bat. The ones covered in rusty nails with duct tape at the handle. In fact, find something niche. Like a sword of some kind, anything sharp.
He doesnāt mind a cliche here and there. Heās open to pretty much any weapon- especially if itās meant to hurt. Though heāll still accept anything āromanticā or āsappyā if thatās what you had. Just donāt expect a big reaction.
If you gift him a stupid bracelet, heāll wear it. He doesnāt give a shit about looking weak or anything moronic like that- if anyone has a problem with it, itāll simply make the chase more fun.
Another option is just offering yourself.
Super simple and cheap. Effective in satiating him, thereās nothing better than coming home and seeing you in ribbons. Make it real pornographic and maybe heāll even wipe your tears after making you choke.
And I mean really pornographic. Wear absolutely nothing and have the bow framed between your spread legs. And if youāre already prepped, ready to go the second he lays eyes on you- thatās when heāll smile and mean it.
Heās a pervert, lustful, wicked and he knows it. The least you can do is love him enough to cater to that, right?
Itās fun if you theme it, too. Shit, heāll fuck you in a dumb Santa hat if you want. Fill you up good and lick whipped cream off your thighs if you ask.
āIf you wannaā be on my nice list, yaā gottaā work for it, bonbon.ā And heāll make you crawl on all fours. Pat his lap and watch you mouth at his cock through the stupid bright-red costume.
āSuch a good girl all year, think you deserve a reward?ā With his boot shoved between your thighs. Tugging roughly on the belled leash heād so lovingly gifted you.
Heās easy to please, in his opinion. And if you keep pouting at him like that heāll show you a real white Christmas. With extra icing on your hypothetical gingerbread house, because he cares.
Celebration and giving wise? Habit might be biologically related to the grinch.
Itās not even because of trauma or anything deep- he straight up just doesnāt care.
However.
Unfortunately for him, you are very human. And very festive. Easily entertained by flashing colours and bright lights, youāll obviously expect something of him. Therefore, he must act.
As surprising as it is, he actually seeās the dumb celebrations you like so much as a necessity. It always comes down to one thing, your longevity.
If he constantly neglects you, ruins your mood for a certain holiday even two years in a row- that will permanently alter your view of him. And then heād be fucked.
Youāre his pet rabbit, his stupid, naive little bunny. Your brain is irritatingly fragile, and even events far and few in between can change your overall psyche. Itād make him a bad owner if he lost you over something so effortlessly avoidable.
That, in turn, would make him dumb. Because why the fuck couldnāt he see the problem before it was too late? Fix the issue like any competent, walking, talking motherfucker.
He knows you, knows what you like, what you enjoy and want. Theyāre just basic facts to him. The same as knowing that dog canāt stomach certain proteins or medications.
Your dislikes, anything that would make you sad or unresponsive to him, are viewed as allergens.
If your hamster was allergic to peanut butter, then donāt fucking feed it peanut butter- itās that kind of thing.
Habit needs you in tip-top shape. That way, when he does do shit just to get your tears flowing, it has affect. Otherwise heād be left unsatisfied, itās not fun to pick on you when youāre already mopey. The same way itās not fun to catch already dead prey, to slaughter something already decaying.
If youāre amazed and glowing from how well he takes care of you. Youāll blubber and pout when heās mean. When he pinches you harshly, when he trips you mid walk. The crash in your emotions is like liquid gold to him.
Itās better explained in my hcās about him, but he needs balance with you. Needs the bad to be evened out by the good.
And the holidays are perfect for that.
Leading up to Christmas, heāll get a littleā¦ meaner than usual. Pretend heās not paying attention when you ramble on about your plans, telling him all the things you want to do with him. Heāll even push you off when you go to kiss him the prior weekend.
Your expression is so pathetic it almost makes him feel bad. Almost, because he keeps up the facade flawlessly. Heāll milk the act, ignoring your clear frustration and upset pout through out the day.
Then, when itās the night before Christmas, and youāre on the brink of tears. I mean, just absolutely devastated. Youād thought that he had at least planned dinner, literally anything. Yet it seemed your hope had been for nothing.
You texted him asking to come over and heād given you a noncommittal āsure.ā The text alone making your heart sink. Youād go to his house, just to find the place barren of decor.
Once youāre about to give up, ready to call the whole thing off- heāll throw you like a bag of flour over his shoulder. Hauling you to the bedroom where youāll find a small tree. Set up with the silly lights you love so much.
Under the branches will be all the things youād mentioned over the past couple months. He remembered. Because of course he did. Like did you think he was brain dead? Itās honestly offensive that youād think so lowly of your boyfriend.
Habit sits there and gaslights/guilt trips you into feeling bad for assuming he doesnāt give a shit about you. Which, to him, is fair. Because he does, youāre like the only person heās given a fuck about ever.
You shouldāve known this was a ruse. Shouldāve guessed it was a bluff from the start. Like really? Whatād you expect, huh? That heād bomb the entire thing? Disappoint you on the big day- spit on your hopes and dreams, and wait for some waste of air to charm you on the street?
Telling you that you deserved better or whatever else the idiot pulled out of his ass. Promising to treat you better while Habit justā what? Letās you go? As fucking if.
Good luck trying to get a better lover (escape him). He dares you.
ā ^ ^ ā
I got progressively hornier as I wrote habitās. Sorry guysā¦
ą¹ Warning: Dog symbolism, cunnilingus, sex, pathetic Toby lol
āā .ā¦
Toby Rogers, the devoted mutt.
When he falls, he falls all the way down, straight to his hands and knees. Once he decides youāre his person, there is no halfway. He is yours the way a stray is suddenly, violently someoneās. Collar or no collar, leash or no leash, he will heel.
He steals for you, bringing whatever you want. A necklace he swiped from a pawn shop, his favorite hoodie that he knows youād enjoy more, the last box of cereal from the pantry before anyone else can touch it. He drops them in your hands with that lopsided grin, pupils blown wide, waiting for the scratch behind the ear, the soft āthank you, sweet boyā that makes his whole body light up.
Every spare second is spent pressed to your side, head in your lap, cheek on your thigh, following the scent of you from room to room like heās terrified the trail will go cold. If you leave the mansion for too long, he paces the doorway, fingers drumming against his thighs until you come back and he can bury his face in your stomach and breathe again.
And if someone raises a voice to you, looks at you too long, makes you shrink even an inchāTobyās in their face before you finish forming the thought. He will kill for you with the same uncomplicated loyalty a dog tears out a coyoteās throat to protect his lamb. Thereās no hesitation, no regret, just bared teeth and the horrid sound of devotion doing its job. He comes home blood-spattered, drops to his knees, and kisses your knuckles like itās the most natural order of things.
He will tear himself to shambles for you.
At night he crawls.
Youāll be sliding under the covers and hear the soft drag of knees on hardwood, the drag of his belt buckle sliding open. He doesnāt walk to bed anymore, not when he knows that youāre waiting for him, so warm and inviting. When he reaches the mattress he rests his chin on the edge and whines, looking up at you until you let him up.
But sometimes you donāt. Sometimes you let him stay there, kneeling, begging with those cracked, pleading sounds while he noses your thighs apart. He slips trembling fingers under the fabric and drags your panties down with his teeth. He buries his face between your legs like a starving thing, tongue lapping up everything you give him, the gash in his cheek splitting wider with every hungry lick. Drool and tears mix, streaking down his chin, soaking the sheets, but he doesnāt care. He whimpers into you, muffled and so pathetic, hips rutting air because the only thing that matters is the taste of you on his tongue and the way your hand tightens in his hair like a leash.
Heāll stay there until his jaw locks, until his face is a shining mess, until you finally drag him up by the collar of his hoodie and let him curl against your chest, panting and shaking, licking the salt from your neck like gratitude.
He fucks like a whipped dog, too, belly-down, hips snapping hard and frantic the second you let him mount. Every thrust is a plea, begging to go deeper, harder, anything to hear you gasp his name. He bends to every shift of your body, every tug of your fingers in his hair, chasing the angle that makes you clench around him and scream your praises. Nothing exists except the wet heat of you dragging him in, the slap of skin, the broken whine in his throat when you finally shatter and he spills in hot, grateful pulses. Heās a good boy, still kissing your lips while heās moaning and trembling, terrified the moment will end and heāll never have it again.
But you always make sure to reward him. Again, and again, and again.
Toby Rogers is a lot of thingsāscrappy, trauma-ridden, fractured, half-feral and living off of fumes. But when he loves you, he is simply, violently, yours.
A good dog.
The best dog.
Waiting forever at your feet for the next command, the next ounce of affection, the next chance to prove he belongs to you and only you.
