Zombie Toby x s/o:D what would their be dynamic? Idk ima let u have the pick of what to do w the idea!
P.s. make sure to drink water and munch on food if you ever skip meals!
“Ughhhh,” - Toby, probably.
So, you have a zombie boyfriend:
Toby’s transformation wasn’t clean. It wasn’t a simple bite-and-turn situation. Whatever strain infected him corrupted his brain slowly, painfully. His body rots like any other, but his mind lingers somewhere between himself and something darker. And the worst part? He knows it. He’s aware of it all.
He’s still Toby deep down. Even when his skin turns an ugly gray color and his hair begins to thin and his bones crack with every movement. That’s still Toby Rogers, your boyfriend. It’s a slow transformation, a grueling decay. So for now, you still have him.
He doesn’t feel pain—thanks to his CIPA, that hasn’t changed. But now it’s even more dangerous. A rotting body can’t give you warning signs. He burns, festers, tears muscle, breaks bone… and never knows until you point it out. “Toby, your arm—”
“Ah. D-Damn. Must’ve been when I sh-shoved that guy into the fence.” Always casual. Always dismissive. It’s easier than admitting he’s falling apart.
But the hunger is new. It creeps in quiet. At first, he thought he could handle it. Then he started salivating at the smell of iron. Blood. Then he started dreaming about the taste of your skin.
Toby’s terrified of hurting you. He doesn’t feel the same kind of fear as before—not in the human way—but some sliver of his soul screams when your hand brushes his jaw and he has to bite back the instinct to sink his teeth into your wrist. Sometimes he’ll just… walk away mid-conversation.
“I’m gonna r-rip your throat out if I d-don’t leave.” And he does. He leaves. Slams a door. Rips a branch off a tree just to do something else with his hands.
When he returns, it’s always with a stitched-up wound or a re-fastened cloth. A new bandage wrapped around a rotting spot on his neck. He always looks like he’s been fighting the world. But really? He’s been fighting himself.
Showing love doesn’t really change after his turning, but it does grow more tedious.
Physical Affection is hard. He worries about hurting you with his decaying body, or worse—getting too close during a hunger spike. So he leans into acts of service: bringing you scavenged supplies, using his strength to fix things, standing guard at night.
But on rare, controlled nights, he allows small touches. His head in your lap. Your fingers threading through what’s left of his hair. He doesn’t say much, but he hums softly—like a rasping, dying engine—just to let you know he’s still there.
Don’t worry—he’s still stupidly funny. “I haven’t e-eaten anyone in weeks. That’s go-gotta mean something, right?”
He uses CIPA like a weapon. He’s reckless. He’ll throw himself into danger, letting bones break and skin tear if it means getting to you or protecting you.
But he does decay. You often patch him up, sometimes literally sewing him together. It’s intimate in a strange, macabre way. Your hands covered in flesh and black sludge, your voice quiet as you ask, “Still with me?”
He always nods. Even if his eyes have glazed, he finds a way to respond—even if it is just slowly turning into grunts and groans.
You become his anchor. The reason he doesn’t give in and feed. The reason he hasn’t let himself rot entirely. He needs you like he needs to breathe—except he doesn’t breathe anymore, and you know it.
You learn to read his tells: When his jaw clenches too long. When he stops blinking. When he stares at your neck or wrists for too long.
If you came into this thinking you were going to have sex? No dice. Toby’s body is fraying with every passing day—he’s literally dying actively. If you even thought about touching his dick it would fall off. He misses getting to touch you, no doubt, but it’s not worth the chance that he might also turn you if fluids get mixed wrong.
Dealing with him decaying:
At first, it’s subtle. Toby’s voice—already rough from years of misuse and damage—starts to crack more than usual. What was once a rasped mutter now becomes a strained whisper, words catching in his throat like they’re too heavy to climb out. You catch him coughing more, and when he tries to speak, it sometimes comes out as a low growl or broken syllable.
He notices it too. His brow furrows, frustration bleeding through his expression. His mouth moves like he wants to say more, but all he gets is static—garbled syllables or grunts. The first time it really happens, he throws his hands up and storms out of the room, fingers twitching, unable to express even that he’s angry with himself.
You try to make it easier—offering him a notebook, then a whiteboard, even just holding your phone between you two for him to type. But with every passing week, the decline worsens. His ability to spell, to remember simple words, even to focus long enough to form coherent sentences—it all slips through his fingers.
The CIPA doesn’t help. He doesn’t register when he chews the inside of his cheek raw or grinds his molars down. He doesn’t notice the cracked skin in his throat, or the torn vocal cords scraping like wire. He’ll try to hum, to grunt out noises when you say something funny, but it’s off. Wrong. Almost feral.
And then one night, he stops trying entirely.
Instead, he just looks at you with those pale, unfocused eyes. His posture is more animal now—head tilted, mouth slightly ajar, always drooling a little. He grips your wrist too tight, even when he’s trying to be gentle. His breathing is heavier, less controlled, and sometimes you catch him sniffing at you like he’s trying to recognize your scent, even if he can’t say your name anymore.
But he remembers you’re important.
His hands shake as he cups your cheek. A low rumble builds in his chest—not quite a purr, but not a growl either. His body remembers love even when his mind forgets language. You’ll say, “It’s okay. I’m here,” and he’ll nod, burying his face in your shoulder like a scared animal seeking warmth.
And in the quiet hours, when he can no longer speak, he still finds ways to communicate—tapping rhythms on your arm, nudging his head into your lap, tracing letters he can no longer write onto your skin with trembling fingers.
You never get a “goodnight” again. But you get the weight of him curled against you, limbs tangled with yours, undead heart still trying to beat in time with yours.
Even in his rot, he tries to love you. As much as he remembers how.
Toby stops reacting to his name unless it’s said loud, sharp. He doesn’t look at you the way he used to; not with recognition, not even with confusion. His eyes go glassy, his jaw slack more often than not. You find him standing in corners, swaying ever so slightly, like the wind in him has nowhere to go.
He doesn’t pick up his hatchets anymore. Doesn’t grunt in response when you speak. The twitching worsens—violent, jerky spasms that roll through his limbs, like the last pieces of a dying machine still trying to run.
The only time he seems alert is when he smells blood.
You learn quickly: a paper cut, a nosebleed, even a bitten lip will draw him close, too close. He’ll sniff, hover, pupils blown wide. Sometimes his teeth chatter and his hands flex like he’s starving—and some part of him is. Something deeper than hunger. Something inhuman. His mouth opens like he wants to beg you for something—but he doesn’t know the words. He’s forgotten how.
One night, he tries to bite you. It’s not hard. Not brutal. He latches onto your forearm with just enough pressure that you feel the sting, the dull scrape of decaying teeth. But when you pull back—scared, bleeding—he doesn’t recoil in shame.
You don’t sleep that night. You sit in the hallway with your back to the door, sobbing quietly, hearing him drag himself back and forth inside the room like a caged animal. You want to believe he’s still in there somewhere. That the boy who used to giggle under his breath and mouth “I love you” from across the room hasn’t been completely devoured by the thing he’s become.
But you’re not sure anymore.
The final straw is when you catch him crouched over a rabbit. Not just eating—tearing, ripping, blood soaked across his hoodie, coating his chin, pupils wild. When he sees you, he doesn’t speak. He only licks his lips and lets out a sound that rattles in his throat—somewhere between a growl and a whimper.
You run. He doesn’t chase. But later that night, he knocks on your door.
And you know. You just know—this is it. What’s left of his soul has gone quiet. He stands on the other side of the door, swaying, breathing heavy, maybe not even aware of what he’s doing. You open it, and his eyes meet yours—not in love, not in grief, but in hunger.
Let him turn you—feel those infected teeth tear into your shoulder, let the rot take your veins, the decay creep into your mind until all that’s left is the echo of what you used to be. Be with him. Be like him.
You raise the shotgun from under your bed. His head tilts, almost curious. There’s no fear in him anymore. No anger. Just need. And even now, as your hand shakes and tears stream down your cheeks, he reaches out—not to hurt you, not quite. He just wants to touch. To hold. The way he used to.
But you know what will happen the moment he gets close enough.
Just the soft, wet sound of breath, and the twitch of decaying fingers reaching for you again.
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