iâm incapable of writing anything short. theyâre all long.
Contains: Teasing for the new post, nonhuman!gn!reader, nsfw content near the end!
Anyway:
EJ with a reader whoâs not quite⌠human.
Sure, you look normal, but thatâs about where the normalities end. You donât feel. You donât speak much. You stare blankly, not really looking at anything particular.
Ordinarily, he would avoid you.
But unfortunately for him, a certain set of cultists already robbed him of that choice.
You hide him from prying eyes while he adjusts to his new body. You feed him when heâs too disgusted to feed himself. He lets you question him about humans, about an existence you so badly want to mimic but canât quite get right. He teaches you about fear, about why youâre feeling it now, about how you can stop it.
And eventually, you both have to deal with the horrible realization that the relationship between to grow between you was not the neat dynamic youâd ever been accustomed to.
Jack thinks heâs too disgusting to be loved. You donât even know what love is, and Jack doesnât seem to be helpful at explaining what it is youâre feeling now.
Heâs so dense, in fact, it takes until his first rut to realize he canât keep running from his own feelings. He canât keep running when you keep knocking on his door, and he can always feel where you are.
Anywayâ you learn what love is as he whines the definition into your neck, trying not to bite you. He doesnât know what to do with himself, once he has a taste.
Lucky for him, you have far more stamina than any human, and far more tolerance for his desperate turing into you and bites across your shoulders.
iâm incapable of writing anything short. theyâre all long.
Contains: Teasing for the new post, nonhuman!gn!reader, nsfw content near the end!
Anyway:
EJ with a reader whoâs not quite⌠human.
Sure, you look normal, but thatâs about where the normalities end. You donât feel. You donât speak much. You stare blankly, not really looking at anything particular.
Ordinarily, he would avoid you.
But unfortunately for him, a certain set of cultists already robbed him of that choice.
You hide him from prying eyes while he adjusts to his new body. You feed him when heâs too disgusted to feed himself. He lets you question him about humans, about an existence you so badly want to mimic but canât quite get right. He teaches you about fear, about why youâre feeling it now, about how you can stop it.
And eventually, you both have to deal with the horrible realization that the relationship between to grow between you was not the neat dynamic youâd ever been accustomed to.
Jack thinks heâs too disgusting to be loved. You donât even know what love is, and Jack doesnât seem to be helpful at explaining what it is youâre feeling now.
Heâs so dense, in fact, it takes until his first rut to realize he canât keep running from his own feelings. He canât keep running when you keep knocking on his door, and he can always feel where you are.
Anywayâ you learn what love is as he whines the definition into your neck, trying not to bite you. He doesnât know what to do with himself, once he has a taste.
Lucky for him, you have far more stamina than any human, and far more tolerance for his desperate turing into you and bites across your shoulders.
Hear me out but Kate who does bite sometimes gets a taste of her own medicine when reader bites her back?? Not like in a bad way or a sexual way (at firstâŚ) but reader just gets her girlfriendâs arm and just bites at it
(Sorry if this is weird I do this sometimes so itâs kinda like a uh personal thing???)
The moonlight peaked through the blinds, painting the room in bars of silver and shadow. It was the kind of night where the silence felt heavy, almost electric, and Kate was clearly feeling the weight of it. She was a creature of impulse, a restless spirit, she was often trapped in her own mind trying to figure out if what she was experiencing daily was real or all in her head, and you, her sweet little girlfriend were usually a subject to it.
Her head had been gently on top of your shoulder for the last hour while you were sat on her lap, her presence a constant, grounding weight. Every few minutes, she would duck her head down, nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck, inhaling deeply before sinking her teeth into your shoulder. It wasn't painful, but it was possessiveâa sharp, stinging reminder that she was there, and that she demanded your attention.
"Kate, seriously," you giggled, though your voice lacked any real protest. You tried to nudge her away, your back pressing against her chest. "Youâre going to leave marks. People are going to think I got into a fight with a pack of wolves."
Kate didn't pull away. Instead, she hummed against your skin, a low, vibrating sound that traveled straight down your spine and you shivered. She finally pulled back, her eyes dark and heavy. That familiar, mischievous glint was there, you couldnât see it but you felt her stare on the nape of your neck. but beneath it, there was a hunger that went beyond simple playfulness. She leaned in again, her teeth grazing the back of your neck, dragging slowly across the skin in a way that made your breath hitch. It was her signature move a chaotic, sensory overload in hopes to make you whine.
But tonight, the dynamic felt different. The air in the room was thick, and for the first time, you didn't want to be the one being bitten.
As Kate pulled back you gently arose from her lap, cold air tickling the back of your thighs, you sat back down on her but rather face to face. her brows high with slight confusion. You ducked your head down to the pulse of her neck, and before she could process anything, You pressed your teeth into the soft, pale skin of her neck, gnawing with a deliberate, grounding pressure. You weren't just nipping; you were marking her, claiming your space in her game.
The effect was instantaneous.
Kate froze. The air in the room seemed to vanish, leaving a vacuum of silence. Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound, and the playful smirk that defined her features shattered, replaced by a look of genuine, wide-eyed shock. She stared down at the top of your head, her gaze tracking the way your hair gently fell, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard you could feel the vibration through her neck.
"Oh," she breathed, her voice dropping an octave, turning into a rough, breathless rasp.
You eventually let go, pulling back just enough to look up at her. You offered her a calm, satisfied smile, your eyes glinting with a newfound confidence. "Fair is fair, right?" you teased, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you, thinking to yourself hoping she wonât jump on top of you and eat you alive.
Kate sat there, stunned. Her neck tingled where you had bitten her, a pulsing heat radiating from the spot. A deep, dark blush crept up her neck, staining her ears a vibrant red. She looked at youâreally looked at youâas if she were seeing a side of you that had been hidden all along.
The power dynamic, which usually tilted heavily in her favor, had shifted. It wasn't that you had taken control, but rather that you had proven you were capable of matching her intensity.
"You..." Kate started, her voice trembling slightly. A slow, genuine grin spread across her faceânot the teasing smile, but the look of someone who had just found her worthy opponent. "Youâve been holding out on me."
"Just keeping things interesting," you replied, resting your cheek along her shoulder with a relaxed shrug that belied the racing of your own heart.
Kate didn't try to bite you again. Instead, she grabbed your hips pulling you in. Closing the gap until there was no space left between you. She reached out rubbing the small of your back. Head in your shoulder she lets out a breathy shake she didnât realize she was holding. She brings her hand up trembling slightly as she traced the spot on her neck where you had bitten her, her thumb lingering over the faint, bite mark youâd left behind.
"I think," Kate whispered, her voice dropping to a low, intimate hum that vibrated against your skin, "I like this game a lot better when you play, too."
The room felt smaller now, the air thick with a new kind of tensionâone that wasn't about chasing or being chased, but about standing toe-to-toe. Kate leaned in, not to nip or tease, but to take in her scent. She closed her eyes, a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment that the rules of the game had changed, and that she was more than happy to let you lead the way.
A/N - I kid you not I think I rewrote this like 4 times, and I proofread it like 9 times. I think Iâm okay with the outcome though. I actually didnât know if this was someone asking for a oneshot or just them agreeing with my biting Drabble but oh well!!! I hope you enjoy this :)
Also half way through I realized that you wanted the reader to bite her arm IM SORRY!! đ I got caught up in my own mind
toby is so djkajdjwd in your new series. i love the way u wrote how he thinks about reader and such áąáą ! i say fluster that man NOW!!
could i request the creeps + mh with them nd us after an argument ę°Ő ܸ. .ܸŐęą... i want to be comforted aah..
-đ!
ᴺᴟᾠᴞᴸᴏáľá´ľá´şá´ł : Rest and Recon
> Hi!! For one: thank you so much! Itâs been fun working out how to write Toby. Had to do him justice, yk? Also shameless excuse to write an over complicated dynamic, itâs my specialty. Two: thanks for the request!
> Warnings: No return on req.
> Contains: Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, Helen Otis, Jane Richardson
âť â II ⡠âş
Timothy Wright
Real âactions are louder than wordsâ type guy.
Not that he wonât apologizeâ heâs absolutely self aware enough to know when and what to apologize for. But youâre only getting it out of him once per mistake. Itâs sincere, thatâs what really matters.
There have been wedding vows uttered with less sincerity than his apologies.
He acknowledges the issues, the mistakes, and voices them to let them go. Tim, to me, is a profoundly guilty person. Thereâs something to be said on the topic that heâs not letting the argument go to rest over just an âiâm sorryâ especially not when itâs with or over something he cares deeply about. Heâs lost enough already he isnât taking chances with another good thing walking out on him.
Real house husband material after an argument. Dinner? Cooked. House? Clean. Chores? Done. Appliances? Checked and working. Work? What do you mean âworkâ, this is his job as far as heâs concerned.
Heâs already at your beck and call regularly, but thereâs something endearingly frantic about him trying to predict what you could possibly need and have it ready.
You werenât quite sure how to feel when you came home to a quiet house.
Usually, youâd be here by yourselfâ so the creeping unease at what used to be so common throws you. Some part of you is disappointed. That Tim could possibly be avoiding you.
You didnât peg him for the type, and the thought almost reignites the flash of hot anger from this morning before youâd left the house.
Almost.
The thought is tamped out by the perception that the house feels an awful lot different than when you left. The front door didnât shudder or screech when you opened it. That damn curtain rod in the living room was re-hung. Even the wood seemed to be relieved of the caked in stains of bloodied mud.
You prod carefully into the house. Your own house. Like some kind of intruder. Youâre beginning to feel like one.
The carpets smell of freshener. The buzzing lightbulb was replaced.The grout in between the kitchen tile was clean.
Timâs phone was left unattended on the counter.
So he was home. Just a matter of where.
You finally notice it thenâ the yellow paper folded semi-neatly beneath the device. So innocently taunting you to just pick it up. Well, if the context werenât enough, your name written across the lines would also probably be a good indicator you should read it.
Sug,
I know itâd probably be better if it were in person, but if thereâs anything youâre good at, it's making me nervous.
Iâm sorry. It was stupid of me to get so hung up on being right.
I know I hurt you, and I know it was my fault too. So I understand if you still donât wanna talk when you get back.
Just donât leave me waiting too long. I miss ya already
Yours, truly,
Tim
Brian Thomas
Big âdonât go to bed angryâ proponent. Doesnât matter how late heâll have to spend resolving the issue, you can bet heâll be there on his knees. Take that in whatever context you please.
It could be 3 in the morning when he comes in late âagainâ getting blood all over the floors âagainâ and trying to sneak into bed âagainâ after you told him not to, and he will still just quietly plead for forgiveness.
Getting sent to the couch is genuinely exile for him. Banishment from his own kingdom to wither away in the depths of the night cold and unloved.
Brianâs not really one to argue, so forgiveness is mostly in how much mercy you have. âWife is always rightâ is his motto, even if youâre not his wife. Heâs really just content to let sleeping dogs lie so long as youâre content. Lord knows he grazes with death often enough that grudges arenât a âluxuryâ heâs willing to entertainâ especially not with you waiting on him to get home.
Youâd be pissed if he died, and itâs like- eternal couch. He canât have that.
The only light in the forest was Brianâs phone as he stared at your texts. Real great if he were trying to see, but real bad when youâre actively trying to not be spotted.
The whole point of shooting long distances was to avoid being seen.
To Brian, however, this was less-than secondary priority. The bottom of his mental to-do list. Least of his concerns.
âIâm going to bed.â
âDonât wake meâ
âCrash on the couch or something, idcâ
He was in hell.
Sure, he was in the wrong. He could admit that. You were never in the wrong, were you? But was he wrong enough for the couch? Wrong enough to be deprived of love and left on his lonesome? Was your judgement truly so cruel?
His hands ran on autopilot the second he snapped out of it. His mind ran on one track. The track of redeeming himself.
He hardly looked through the scope and waited for the opening. He needed to be fast if he wanted to save his skin, afterall. He took the first shot available and didnât stay long enough to even deal with the body.
The speed limit was a minimum suggestion. For as beaten as his old pickup was, itâd still put in the work for the important stuff. Like getting him home before he misses his one chance at redemption.
His hands shake with buzzy euphoria seeing the kitchen light still on, letting him get a good look at the fact youâre awake. Awake and entirely unaware of him outside.
On any other night he wouldâve taken the time to sit and admire. To just watch you exist. To bask in it.
Unfortunately, he canât indulge in that tonight.
He doesnât bother with equipment. He doesnât even care to plan what it is heâs going to say to you once heâs actually met with you.
None of these things matter more than avoiding the dreaded couch.
You junk slightly as he opens the door and immediately be-lines for you.
âDarlinâ pleaseâ He mumbles, kneeling and hugging at your knees to keep you from walking away.
âB- Brian what?â You sputter, reasonably trying to understand why heâs home so early. Let alone why heâs knees to the kitchen floor.
âYer not that cruel. Thereâs mercy in your heart, cmonâ The words slip out between kisses to your knees and lower thighs, âMy dolly ainât gonna let me rot on the couchâ
âIâm still angry at you, Brianâ The stiffness melts halfway throughâ itâs hard to be mad at a man when heâs nuzzling against your thighs and whining that heâs sorry.
âI know, I know, Mâ so sorryâ He huffs in a deep breath before letting out a long sigh âGo tâ bed angry if yâ need to, jusâ let me hold yaâ
Itâs hard not to roll your eyes.
âFine. Get up.â
Helen Otis
Ok so iâm going to have to backtrack to what heâs like when heâs angry in order for this to make sense.
This isnât exactly my idea entirely, ive read it across a few different fics, but Helen is a great fan of the silent treatment.
Heâs not a real big speaker to begin with: at least, not with most people. But thereâs a clear and obvious difference between his usual keen perception for meaning versus his cold, bitter anger.
But this is supposed to be a fluff one shot! So once heâs gotten over whatever (not so) grave offence you'd made, heâs more chatty.
Heâd invite you to talk everywhere. In bed after youâd just woken, at breakfast, while he mixes his paints, around the house, while he paints you, all the way up until you fall asleep.
Heâs also an incredibly devoted listener. If heâs inviting you to chat, itâs more so he can hear your voice and less so he can speak. You could be speaking total and utter gibberish and he wouldnât really mind. Not if it were you.
Heâs been making a lot of exceptions for you, hasnât he?
Youâre a little confused in all honesty. Days of avoiding eye contact. Not a word uttered between you. And suddenly a note. Requesting your presence to model at the studio.
So now youâre here, even if you feel a little rocky. Out of love or desperation, youâre not entirely sure.
It comes easy to settle into your thoughts. To avoid the fact that after so long, Helenâs looking at you again. No, not looking.
Studying.
Keen and horribly perceptive. Seeing through your very bein-
âMon Amourâ He sets down his brush, standing and bypassing the easel to see you. As a person, not just the model youâd been called here to be.
âYouâre stiff.â He points out, running a hand along your shoulder. Tracing it down your back once he sees it only makes you draw up more.
âTell me,â He begins, trailing his fingertips all the way back up to your neck, drawing your face towards him.
Heâs not so intimidating like this. Still calculating, still taking you in like the air he needs to breathe, but with less of a conviction. Thereâs a gentleness there youâre not sure youâd renown him for if you werenât any closer to him.
âYou were telling me the other day, about that new girl someoneâs dragged up hereâ Ah. Youâd thought he hadnât been listening. Above the senseless gossip over people he couldnât care less about. âDo, remind me what she did?â His thumb unconsciously traces the line of your lips.
âYouâre just trying to get me to relaxâ You laugh with the words, having them come out airy. Itâs not the first time youâve been an anxious model.
âMaybe,â He shrugs, carding the hand unoccupied with your lips through your hair. âBut maybe I just like to hear you speakâ He forfeits, leaning down to kiss your forehead before returning to his canvas.
âYou canât fault me for that, can you? Wanting to hear my songbird sing?â He chuckles seeing you roll your eyes, laughing right along with you.
âSeriously though, I am curiousâ He picked up his brush again, ready to hopefully capture you in the state heâd been stuck in for months. That joy where youâre too enthralled to notice him staring. When youâre too caught up in life to be stiff and nervous.
Jane Richardson (âŚis that her last name?)
Communication queen over here.
For one, arguments are already few and far between when it comes to Jane. She has a talent for compromise and an even larger talent for picking her battles.
That said, the arguments you do have tend to lie more on larger issues. Contentions you canât clear up with a âSorry honeyâ and some cuddles.
Sheâs never belligerent. In fact, quite the opposite! Irritatingly calm no matter what arises.
But because the conflict lasts so much longer than ânormalâ (you live with a serial killer. Nothing is normal.) she tries her hardest to clear things up as best she can when she can. Small things wonât add on top of the big things on her watch.
At the end of it, her goal is to keep you around. Safe. By your own will.
So you best bet that sheâs doing absolutely everything she can to work through the issues you two have as a coupleâ together.
Things havenât been great for a week.
Sure, your nights are still shared by side and mornings are sleepy cups of coffee together, but the tension from your original argument still simmers in the back.
A pot of boiling water just waiting to simmer over.
It haunts you. Both of you. You can see it. For as much as you spend reading into every word and action, you can tell that Janeâs wearing herself thin.
That every day seems to run her more raw than the last. And you canât help but feel as if you werenât fairing any better.
Your only solace was sleep.
To sink into the background, to truly turn your brain off for a few hours. To pretend in your dreams that no argument occurred. That things were as they were.
So, rightfully, youâre horribly pissed to be shaken awake.
âCmon, please- pleaseâ Janeâs awake. The kind of awareness that only comes with adrenaline.
âWh-â You groan, trying to push her off half-heartedly âGo tâ sleepâ
âNo- No you canâtâ She whispers to you urgently, pulling you into her lap. Laid across her thighs like this, her hunched over you, lets you get a good look at the horror in her tear brimmed eyes.
âBaby, cmon, pleaseâ Your eyes can only manage to be half lidded, lips pursed. âIâm sorry I know youâre just trying to sleepâ Her voice shakes in a way deeply uncharacteristic of her. A chip in her otherwise unbothered persona. Not that you werenât already privy to far, far more than her persona.
One of her arms is wrapped around the far side of your head, while her other hand cups your closer cheek. âI know itâs beenââ Her voice breaks ââŚodd latelyâ Her eyes frantically roam over your face.
âI know and Iâm sorry, but you know I love you, right?â Her head tilts, begging for your answer âYou know Iâd be there? Even if I were mad? Iâd always be thereâ
You manage a nod. âJane, whatâs this about?â You try to sit up, only for her to reach down and wrap her arms around you proper.
âI just needed you to know that I love youâ She mumbles. âNo matter what. No matter anything.â
She only seemed to settle when your arms wrapped around her in turn. A heavy sigh leaves her, the tension sinking with it.
toby is so djkajdjwd in your new series. i love the way u wrote how he thinks about reader and such áąáą ! i say fluster that man NOW!!
could i request the creeps + mh with them nd us after an argument ę°Ő ܸ. .ܸŐęą... i want to be comforted aah..
-đ!
ᴺᴟᾠᴞᴸᴏáľá´ľá´şá´ł : Rest and Recon
> Hi!! For one: thank you so much! Itâs been fun working out how to write Toby. Had to do him justice, yk? Also shameless excuse to write an over complicated dynamic, itâs my specialty. Two: thanks for the request!
> Warnings: No return on req.
> Contains: Tim Wright, Brian Thomas, Helen Otis, Jane Richardson
âť â II ⡠âş
Timothy Wright
Real âactions are louder than wordsâ type guy.
Not that he wonât apologizeâ heâs absolutely self aware enough to know when and what to apologize for. But youâre only getting it out of him once per mistake. Itâs sincere, thatâs what really matters.
There have been wedding vows uttered with less sincerity than his apologies.
He acknowledges the issues, the mistakes, and voices them to let them go. Tim, to me, is a profoundly guilty person. Thereâs something to be said on the topic that heâs not letting the argument go to rest over just an âiâm sorryâ especially not when itâs with or over something he cares deeply about. Heâs lost enough already he isnât taking chances with another good thing walking out on him.
Real house husband material after an argument. Dinner? Cooked. House? Clean. Chores? Done. Appliances? Checked and working. Work? What do you mean âworkâ, this is his job as far as heâs concerned.
Heâs already at your beck and call regularly, but thereâs something endearingly frantic about him trying to predict what you could possibly need and have it ready.
You werenât quite sure how to feel when you came home to a quiet house.
Usually, youâd be here by yourselfâ so the creeping unease at what used to be so common throws you. Some part of you is disappointed. That Tim could possibly be avoiding you.
You didnât peg him for the type, and the thought almost reignites the flash of hot anger from this morning before youâd left the house.
Almost.
The thought is tamped out by the perception that the house feels an awful lot different than when you left. The front door didnât shudder or screech when you opened it. That damn curtain rod in the living room was re-hung. Even the wood seemed to be relieved of the caked in stains of bloodied mud.
You prod carefully into the house. Your own house. Like some kind of intruder. Youâre beginning to feel like one.
The carpets smell of freshener. The buzzing lightbulb was replaced.The grout in between the kitchen tile was clean.
Timâs phone was left unattended on the counter.
So he was home. Just a matter of where.
You finally notice it thenâ the yellow paper folded semi-neatly beneath the device. So innocently taunting you to just pick it up. Well, if the context werenât enough, your name written across the lines would also probably be a good indicator you should read it.
Sug,
I know itâd probably be better if it were in person, but if thereâs anything youâre good at, it's making me nervous.
Iâm sorry. It was stupid of me to get so hung up on being right.
I know I hurt you, and I know it was my fault too. So I understand if you still donât wanna talk when you get back.
Just donât leave me waiting too long. I miss ya already
Yours, truly,
Tim
Brian Thomas
Big âdonât go to bed angryâ proponent. Doesnât matter how late heâll have to spend resolving the issue, you can bet heâll be there on his knees. Take that in whatever context you please.
It could be 3 in the morning when he comes in late âagainâ getting blood all over the floors âagainâ and trying to sneak into bed âagainâ after you told him not to, and he will still just quietly plead for forgiveness.
Getting sent to the couch is genuinely exile for him. Banishment from his own kingdom to wither away in the depths of the night cold and unloved.
Brianâs not really one to argue, so forgiveness is mostly in how much mercy you have. âWife is always rightâ is his motto, even if youâre not his wife. Heâs really just content to let sleeping dogs lie so long as youâre content. Lord knows he grazes with death often enough that grudges arenât a âluxuryâ heâs willing to entertainâ especially not with you waiting on him to get home.
Youâd be pissed if he died, and itâs like- eternal couch. He canât have that.
The only light in the forest was Brianâs phone as he stared at your texts. Real great if he were trying to see, but real bad when youâre actively trying to not be spotted.
The whole point of shooting long distances was to avoid being seen.
To Brian, however, this was less-than secondary priority. The bottom of his mental to-do list. Least of his concerns.
âIâm going to bed.â
âDonât wake meâ
âCrash on the couch or something, idcâ
He was in hell.
Sure, he was in the wrong. He could admit that. You were never in the wrong, were you? But was he wrong enough for the couch? Wrong enough to be deprived of love and left on his lonesome? Was your judgement truly so cruel?
His hands ran on autopilot the second he snapped out of it. His mind ran on one track. The track of redeeming himself.
He hardly looked through the scope and waited for the opening. He needed to be fast if he wanted to save his skin, afterall. He took the first shot available and didnât stay long enough to even deal with the body.
The speed limit was a minimum suggestion. For as beaten as his old pickup was, itâd still put in the work for the important stuff. Like getting him home before he misses his one chance at redemption.
His hands shake with buzzy euphoria seeing the kitchen light still on, letting him get a good look at the fact youâre awake. Awake and entirely unaware of him outside.
On any other night he wouldâve taken the time to sit and admire. To just watch you exist. To bask in it.
Unfortunately, he canât indulge in that tonight.
He doesnât bother with equipment. He doesnât even care to plan what it is heâs going to say to you once heâs actually met with you.
None of these things matter more than avoiding the dreaded couch.
You junk slightly as he opens the door and immediately be-lines for you.
âDarlinâ pleaseâ He mumbles, kneeling and hugging at your knees to keep you from walking away.
âB- Brian what?â You sputter, reasonably trying to understand why heâs home so early. Let alone why heâs knees to the kitchen floor.
âYer not that cruel. Thereâs mercy in your heart, cmonâ The words slip out between kisses to your knees and lower thighs, âMy dolly ainât gonna let me rot on the couchâ
âIâm still angry at you, Brianâ The stiffness melts halfway throughâ itâs hard to be mad at a man when heâs nuzzling against your thighs and whining that heâs sorry.
âI know, I know, Mâ so sorryâ He huffs in a deep breath before letting out a long sigh âGo tâ bed angry if yâ need to, jusâ let me hold yaâ
Itâs hard not to roll your eyes.
âFine. Get up.â
Helen Otis
Ok so iâm going to have to backtrack to what heâs like when heâs angry in order for this to make sense.
This isnât exactly my idea entirely, ive read it across a few different fics, but Helen is a great fan of the silent treatment.
Heâs not a real big speaker to begin with: at least, not with most people. But thereâs a clear and obvious difference between his usual keen perception for meaning versus his cold, bitter anger.
But this is supposed to be a fluff one shot! So once heâs gotten over whatever (not so) grave offence you'd made, heâs more chatty.
Heâd invite you to talk everywhere. In bed after youâd just woken, at breakfast, while he mixes his paints, around the house, while he paints you, all the way up until you fall asleep.
Heâs also an incredibly devoted listener. If heâs inviting you to chat, itâs more so he can hear your voice and less so he can speak. You could be speaking total and utter gibberish and he wouldnât really mind. Not if it were you.
Heâs been making a lot of exceptions for you, hasnât he?
Youâre a little confused in all honesty. Days of avoiding eye contact. Not a word uttered between you. And suddenly a note. Requesting your presence to model at the studio.
So now youâre here, even if you feel a little rocky. Out of love or desperation, youâre not entirely sure.
It comes easy to settle into your thoughts. To avoid the fact that after so long, Helenâs looking at you again. No, not looking.
Studying.
Keen and horribly perceptive. Seeing through your very bein-
âMon Amourâ He sets down his brush, standing and bypassing the easel to see you. As a person, not just the model youâd been called here to be.
âYouâre stiff.â He points out, running a hand along your shoulder. Tracing it down your back once he sees it only makes you draw up more.
âTell me,â He begins, trailing his fingertips all the way back up to your neck, drawing your face towards him.
Heâs not so intimidating like this. Still calculating, still taking you in like the air he needs to breathe, but with less of a conviction. Thereâs a gentleness there youâre not sure youâd renown him for if you werenât any closer to him.
âYou were telling me the other day, about that new girl someoneâs dragged up hereâ Ah. Youâd thought he hadnât been listening. Above the senseless gossip over people he couldnât care less about. âDo, remind me what she did?â His thumb unconsciously traces the line of your lips.
âYouâre just trying to get me to relaxâ You laugh with the words, having them come out airy. Itâs not the first time youâve been an anxious model.
âMaybe,â He shrugs, carding the hand unoccupied with your lips through your hair. âBut maybe I just like to hear you speakâ He forfeits, leaning down to kiss your forehead before returning to his canvas.
âYou canât fault me for that, can you? Wanting to hear my songbird sing?â He chuckles seeing you roll your eyes, laughing right along with you.
âSeriously though, I am curiousâ He picked up his brush again, ready to hopefully capture you in the state heâd been stuck in for months. That joy where youâre too enthralled to notice him staring. When youâre too caught up in life to be stiff and nervous.
Jane Richardson (âŚis that her last name?)
Communication queen over here.
For one, arguments are already few and far between when it comes to Jane. She has a talent for compromise and an even larger talent for picking her battles.
That said, the arguments you do have tend to lie more on larger issues. Contentions you canât clear up with a âSorry honeyâ and some cuddles.
Sheâs never belligerent. In fact, quite the opposite! Irritatingly calm no matter what arises.
But because the conflict lasts so much longer than ânormalâ (you live with a serial killer. Nothing is normal.) she tries her hardest to clear things up as best she can when she can. Small things wonât add on top of the big things on her watch.
At the end of it, her goal is to keep you around. Safe. By your own will.
So you best bet that sheâs doing absolutely everything she can to work through the issues you two have as a coupleâ together.
Things havenât been great for a week.
Sure, your nights are still shared by side and mornings are sleepy cups of coffee together, but the tension from your original argument still simmers in the back.
A pot of boiling water just waiting to simmer over.
It haunts you. Both of you. You can see it. For as much as you spend reading into every word and action, you can tell that Janeâs wearing herself thin.
That every day seems to run her more raw than the last. And you canât help but feel as if you werenât fairing any better.
Your only solace was sleep.
To sink into the background, to truly turn your brain off for a few hours. To pretend in your dreams that no argument occurred. That things were as they were.
So, rightfully, youâre horribly pissed to be shaken awake.
âCmon, please- pleaseâ Janeâs awake. The kind of awareness that only comes with adrenaline.
âWh-â You groan, trying to push her off half-heartedly âGo tâ sleepâ
âNo- No you canâtâ She whispers to you urgently, pulling you into her lap. Laid across her thighs like this, her hunched over you, lets you get a good look at the horror in her tear brimmed eyes.
âBaby, cmon, pleaseâ Your eyes can only manage to be half lidded, lips pursed. âIâm sorry I know youâre just trying to sleepâ Her voice shakes in a way deeply uncharacteristic of her. A chip in her otherwise unbothered persona. Not that you werenât already privy to far, far more than her persona.
One of her arms is wrapped around the far side of your head, while her other hand cups your closer cheek. âI know itâs beenââ Her voice breaks ââŚodd latelyâ Her eyes frantically roam over your face.
âI know and Iâm sorry, but you know I love you, right?â Her head tilts, begging for your answer âYou know Iâd be there? Even if I were mad? Iâd always be thereâ
You manage a nod. âJane, whatâs this about?â You try to sit up, only for her to reach down and wrap her arms around you proper.
âI just needed you to know that I love youâ She mumbles. âNo matter what. No matter anything.â
She only seemed to settle when your arms wrapped around her in turn. A heavy sigh leaves her, the tension sinking with it.
anyone else dying for a fivesome fic of all the girls? no? just me?
too bad this is my blog youâre gonna hear my opinion about it
mdni below cut â fem reader
Thereâs 100% a power struggle between Kate and Nat.
Kate technically holds the highest position out of everyone. Sheâs the default for everyone to listen to. Taking orders from her, listening to her, appeasing her, itâs second nature. Even if sheâs not real loud about it, she doesnât have to be.
Nat on the other hand is vocal. She knows just how to phrase things in a way to tease. Exactly how to touch every nerve and push every button. Listening to her is more a matter of there being nothing else to listen to.
During that, Janeâs already filled that power vacuum and started prepping you while Nina just feels up your body.
By the time Janeâs done with your face and youâve soaked Ninaâs the quiet bickering between Nat and Kate has transitioned to one messy make out.
Thereâs also the alternative option of everyone ganging up on you. Nina biting you all over, kneading and worshipping every inch of skin until itâs covered in whatever lip product she had on.
Kate taking her time to kiss you silly, dizzying you even more as Nat throws your thighs over your shoulders. The contrast between their paces immediately frying your brain until all you can do is whine all pretty for them.
Jane never works on one place too long, trailing a nail (or maybe a knife edge) faintly along your skin. So faint you never tell where sheâs gonna appear next. Sheâll tag-team with Nina to really make you whine, or guide your hands to someoneâs head if she sees whereâs something you really want.
brianâs a big fan of eating you out as an apology.
heâs a big fan of apologizing in generalâ he has no clue how he bagged you. he intends on keeping you around.
but ESPECIALLY on late nights where youâre both just a little too cranky to talk things out and the couch is looking like itâs the grave heâll be sleeping in: he will 100% be in favor of spending the rest of the night on his knees, hands keeping you pried open, if it means avoiding the couch.
ᴺᴟᾠᴞᴸᴏáľá´ľá´şá´ł : The desert night is changing my destiny
> Or, you finally let yourself be sure of this new life. A way of life. Not just a job.
> Warnings: smut. everyone is pervy damn near all of the time. canon typical description of violence and murder.
Grinding, Car sex, fingering (f! rec.), Oral (f! rec), Spit
> Includes: sub!Toby Rodgers x dom!smart!reader. Reader has fem biology and no pronouns.
> Additional: Thank you to @portraitofalinkonfyre for helping me write this one (I donât know how to write smut âźď¸)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (here)
âť â II ⡠âş
The morning starts late. The kind of way it always does when youâre always staying up until 4am.
It was just the way of life you had to become accustomed to in order to live as a proxy. Most, if not all, work was done in the evening and night. Not that they couldnât operate during the day âas they were certainly capable enough to do soâ just that the cover of a setting sun and the stars gave more forgiveness than the blinding light. The vagueness of the shadows allowed the very delicate house of cards that you were now stacked within to stay just out of reach in the minds of normal people. Normal people like the person you once were.
This new way of life was a right of passage for every sorry soul under the employment of the operatorâ the adaptation to a life spent in murkiness. That you will no longer exist in certain, tangible terms. You are no longer the person you once were, no longer a name. You were an extension, a means to the ends.
It begins as just work. The one or two hits you had to handle, but eats into the hours you can afford to exist in. You realize that itâs not just aesthetics or ego that makes the majority of work take place past 7pm. Itâs practicalityâ if you wanted to keep living in this life, as there was no past life to return to, then youâd just have to suck it up. Eventually, the once normal life spent within daylight is as foreign to you as being nocturnal once was.
You get used to looking out of your black-out curtains to an already pitch black forest.
You get used to shying away from the sun, the last sense of genuine warmth you had left.
You get used to the uncertainty âthe vagueness of intention and of what exactly you were seeingâ especially as it weaves into your entire experience living.
You wake up before Toby does. Not unusual.
Sunlight still diffuses out from the edges of the curtains, golden and slinking away. The room as just as jostled as you left it last night, haphazardly tripped through after the gas station run.
Itâs not at all surprising. That is, if you ignored for a moment that you were pinned to the mattress by the fact he was sprawled out over you.
This wasnât so normal. At least not in the sense that it happened often. Often, of course, meaning more than this one time.
While Toby certainly was affectionate to some stretch of the word âmoreso than the others you could compare him toâ heâd always slink off to sleep on his own. Even those first few nights you were kept tied up and observed, he never took a day shift. Youâd never really seen him asleep.
So having him now: face stubbornly burrowed into your neck, body pinning you between the small spring mattress and a wall, was incredibly confusing to awake to.
It was a dull surprise to you. Like finding that, after hours working at a problem, youâd given the wrong answer. Youâd mistaken him. That although he showed more of himself to you than any other of your coworkers, and had begun to foster something akin to a friendship, he was still to be forever kept at a distance. A coworker. One of the men whoâd kidnapped you.
You almost chuckled that it was âcoworkerâ that came first.
You suppose it was normal in the senseâ that this was simply another undefined part of your relationship to agonize over. Another instance for you to wonder what it meant, why he decided to drop his guards for you, only to settle on âprobably nothingâ while simultaneously ignoring that so many ânothingsâ surely had to be something.
This wasnât a normal friendship activity because you werenât normal friends. That was all.
It meant nothing that heâd pull you out of the holes youâd dug for yourself, or that heâd memorized what you wanted without being asked like the back of his hand, or that in moments like these you can feel that domestic life you once hoped for coming back to you. It meant nothing that, right about now, maybe you still hope for them with him.
It meant nothing because at the end of the night, neither of you could afford the clarity. That even if you could break away from your new life spent in code, crouched in the darkness, the two of you would never be free.
For some reason, you were here. And whatever reason that was, you were sure that your boss wouldnât allow nor care for any silly mortal feelings to come between it and its goals.
He shudders against you, trying to find you for comfort, moving to pin you further. There are less efficient therapy dogs, youâre sure. Still, you canât help but sigh, tangling a hand into his hair and returning him to the spot of your neck heâd claimed. A heavy sigh leaves him, coming out more as a long groan. How you envy his ability to sleep so well, to ignore the world outside. To ignore the fact he was drooling all over your neck.
Your fingers fiddle with his hair out of habit. Youâre not even sure if he can feel it. Youâre not even sure to what extent he can really feel at all.
Regardless, it provided some relief. That despite your eyes tracing the water damage and the cracks on the textured ceiling, you werenât so alone anymore. Even if neither of you could be free, you felt free enough here.
Damn him, constantly inspiring hope for a fulfilling life. How dare he. Heâs not even awake this time.
You actually laugh now, trying your hardest to not awake Toby as he sleeps, silently shuddering. He protests, shoving his forehead further down to be closer still, and hands practically strangling you wherever they could grab.
You think you hear him mumble something about five more minutes.
If only you could give them to him.
The door rattles when itâs knocked on, old past its use. Thereâs hardly even a second before the light from the hallway spills into the dim room, Brian taking up the doorway. He takes a step in, preoccupied with his keys, fiddling with the ring.
He stops dead in his tracks, literally and youâre sure mentally.
You canât see his face. But you donât really need to in order to understand the thoughts running through his head. The sarcastic greeting he had now dead on his tongue, trailing off and mangled.
âIâm just as confused as you areâ The assurance is met with a defeated exhale, mixing with a humour equally as exhausted.
âSure. What- Whatever floats your boat. I donât-â He pinches his nose overtop the mask, far past the point of reckoning with the odd sight in front of him. Toby starfished over you, covers kicked off, your own absolute âI-donât-know-what-this-is-so-donât-ask-meâ look on your face.
ââŚAre we waking him up?â You pose it less of a question of if he needs to be awake and more of if heâs even able to be awoken.
âWellâ Brian shifts his weight onto one foot and occupies himself with his truck keys again, missing the flash of guilt that overcomes you for a brief moment. âItâs for both of yaâ really. I donât careâ
âOh?â You try to sit up. Itâs pretty impossible with the effort Toby puts up against it. âIâll⌠pass on the message?â
âWhatever,â he grumbles. âThereâs a group a guys on the edge of town tryna figure this shit out. Persistent bastards. Boss wants em goneâ
You nod, not that another option is available to you.
âDrive out whenever you want. Just get em gone however ya canâ He loosely chucks his keys at you, missing your chin in favor of hitting Toby on the top of his head.
âWeâre- driving your truck?â You glance at the keys and then to a still sleeping Toby.
âYou are driving my truck.â He clarifies, jabbing a finger at you in finality, âIâve been up through the last two mornings. Iâd sooner drive us into a treeâ
âHuhâ You hum, without being able to stop yourself. He just stares at you, eating at you to go on âWhoâdâve thought you cared about our safetyâ
âI donât. I donât wanna crash my truck.â Yeah so much about warm and fuzzy.
âYeah whatever, go to bed old manâ He scoffs, leaving and shutting the door behind him. You wait for the doorframe to fall dramatically, but it never does.
âWhat-t j-just happened?â Toby doesnât even lift his head, instead opting to mumble incoherently into your skin. His hands trace over you closely, checking that youâre still there as he remembers.
âDonât worry about it.â Your voice is short, choked as he settles down again, the palm of his hand rested against the curve of your chest.
The scent of cigarettes and horrible relationship choices hangs heavy in the front bench seat of Brianâs shuddering truck.
The road, lined with trees that occasionally fork outward into thin gravel paths, stretches on like a promise, down to the last cratered pothole and roadside animal corpse. Nicklebackâs âIf Everyone Caredâ filters softly through the crackling speakers.
Itâs been silent for approximately two hours, seven minutes, and twelve seconds. Not that youâre counting; or using the tactical-grade watch strapped to your wrist to watch as time ticks by without you, halfheartedly swallowing against the dryness settling in your throat.
If youâre quiet; really quiet, deathly quiet, you can hear Toby. Hear his breath, scraggly through that cringe rendition of a dog muzzle, and see the subtle taps of rough fingers against an even rougher gearshift. Godâ for how much Brian loved the truck it really was beaten.
He goes quiet, too, as if listening in turn. As if feeling that heaviness of your attention and finally stared back down the barrel of the gun. As if memorizing the frantic beat in your chest that simply refuses to calm. As if he can hear your apprehension and smell the slick between your thighs as your eyes covertly track the corded muscles of those damn forearms.
You really ought to be paying attention to the road.
Or the poor poor souls youâre about to be confronted with, to kill.
But no. Another flash of heat races over you, despite the old ac whirring on blast, settling low in your stomach.
He had to know what he was doing. His hands wandering after he woke up, whining like that when you had to go, watching you change into his clothes when you caved. It was like heâd realized that you werenât going to question himâ if he got greedy.
And greedy he was.
The gum in your mouth doesnât taste like anything anymore. It doesnât even serve to be a distraction. His leg juts out and immediately, your eyes are drawn to just below the belt towards the worn denim.
God, you feel like such a pervert.
Just to be clearâ it wasnât as if Toby were exactly any better. He woke up, hips flush against yours, face damn near at your breast, while his hands actually occupied themselves with it.
Heâs not sure what he expected. To be kicked out of his own room? To never to see you again? He wouldnât have judged you.
Especially not with the tent that was already forming in his pants.
But no. You didnât even acknowledge it. Not in embarrassment, but truly at peace with the fact that he âyour closest friendâ was a dirty fucking pervert. You humored his whines to keep you close, down to the ten ish minutes itâd take for you to put on fresh clothes and gather your stuff. You even pretended not to notice that heâd been sneaking looks as youâd changed.
But of course you noticed. You always did.
He was uniquely thankful there was such a stretch of road for you to pay attention to, such that you couldnât see he was already hard again. That there was music on the radio and new scenery to draw your notice. Covering you from his obvious⌠situation. Oblivious even to the sweat trailing down your jaw, along your neck and into your shirt âhis shirtâ as you chewed on your gum.
Surely you knew. Surely you knew what a horrible person you were temping him to be.
He was already the type of person that jerked off to his best friend. Who he kidnapped, mind you.
He was already the type of person that would hump at his pillow when the thought of your hands didnât work, whining in embarrassment, as if that keen judgement of yours was always watching.
Surely you knew, that if you didnât quit it, he might actually let himself be yours.
Neither of you were used to just: sitting in silence. Neither of you were ever good at acknowledging the tension that slowly built between you. Neither of you were even particularly talented at hiding the fact you were only getting more and more tense by the second.
By the time the truck rolled into its spot nestled between two large pines, both of you needed to let off some steam.
It was immediately hard to tell what was ground and what was sky once you got out. Even the world around you was disoriented, adding to the conflict that only barely joined the arousal. The sky was already dark and angry, ready to break with that heavy summer rain. The humidity swallowed you, suffocating you on all sides with the energy of what was to come, filling your lungs.
You had never been so immersed in a job. Youâd never let it be anything more than thatâ a job. A biding of your time.
The feeling sat unsteady in your chest, settling atop the still burning heat in your gut. Brewing the dangerously impulsive urge to act on something other than logic for once in this new life.
Your âvictimsâ werenât exactly making it an easy affair either. The type of man-children that took the night to get piss-drunk before they were to start investigating the woods. It was laughable. They knew these woods were dangerous. The danger was staring them down. Yet still here they were, making sloppy work of themselves in their last moments, lounging around a makeshift bonfire.
Houses this close to the woods normally donât have anything to inspire sitting outsideâ the owners know better than to invite attention to themselves. Itâs already bad enough to live out here, itâs better not to go about showing your face every night.
This particular house shared this feature: notably lacking any overhang, patio, or even a grill.
Still, these bozos decided to trample the grass and gather enough rocks and wood to make a decently sized fire. As the night settled their gathering roared, the orange light lapping at the surrounding wood, being the only distinguishing factor from the dark clouds looming above.
You look over to Toby, who stands amid the light while you try your best to hug the shadows. The light was half-dying by the time it reached him, but still illuminated enough.
Enough to see that he didnât even spare a glance for the fools not even 50 feet away.
Instead, his one track mind was zeroed in on you. If you didnât know better, youâd assume Brian gave you this mission so you two could just fuck already.
If he didnât quit looking at you like that, the thought passes your mind that you just might. The thought sits intoxicating, running on loop, while you feel that familiar dull burning of desire return. All that observation, the notes youâd made about the glorified frat-bros who were about to meet their end was thrown away.
âWhat- am I supposed to be making a plan?â You prompt him to do anything else, looking back towards the 8 men lounging. Begging him to give up the hold on each of your senses. For just how much you wanted to hear and taste and touch him again. A hand grasps at your neck, thumb trailing along the curve of the tense muscles.
You almost feel pathetic for how wet it makes you.
His hands are rough, of course. Years of mostly wielding hatchets does do that, one would assume. You fail at shoving down the well-treaded thought of how theyâd feel, pulling you apart from the inside out.
His fingers individually test applying pressure, testing what brings your attention back to him. And ohâ what a sight it is when you do. The look of devotion is the type you only see of someone whoâs on their knees. His chin is tilted, forcing him to look up at you, lips pursed in some sense of awe.
As far as Toby was concerned, heâd been forgiven of his sins. God had looked past his transgressions and blessed him with this moment. You, in his clothes, both so dialed in and so unable to focus. Your attention was so keen, so sharp already, that youâd bend the world to your willâ him with it.
Maybe you were god.
Itâd make an awful lot of sense. He wouldnât mind being religious, not so long as he had your attention.
That heavy attention that never failed to find him. To put him back in his place.
Your lips turn to a grin, satisfied. That someone you know for a fact to be so dangerous looks ready to grovel at your feet for approval.
The thrum of your watch stays steady. That look in your eyes returns, steady as ever.
God, his knees feel weak.
âWhoever gets the most wins?â You pose, breaking whatever odd stupor Toby had gotten himself into. Youâre so occupied with his eyes you miss the effect your challenge had on him.
âThereâs an-an even nuh-number?â He argues, only if to see you find some way to correct him.
âGuess weâll just try harder then, wonât we?â He laughs, leaning into his hand and stumbling forward, his elbow now at your shoulder.
âA-and what wou-would I win?â He tilts his head to hide the rough jerk of his neck.
âGuess thatâs something the winner gets to pick then, hm?â You tilt your head to match, readying yourself to face the target practice.
You take a step into the light, accepting the job. The challenge. The surety of something more for once.
A mission has never gone so fast. Man after man.
Ducking under arms jabbing broken bear bottles and shitty hunting knives.
The satisfying spurt of muddy red covering their makeshift camp site.
The distant roar of thunder joining in on the chorus of your own blood rushing past your ears.
The work is messy and loud and competitiveâ almost akin to a high: settling in your head, blocking each fine tuned calculation youâd normally make in favor of your single goal of winning.
Giddiness settles beneath your sternum, setting alight the nerves and leaving behind hunger. To win. To finally get an answer out of Toby.
The men, despite their number, donât pose much a difficult challenge. By the time you finish, youâre both on opposite sides of their camp, gasping for more of the thick humid air to choke you from the inside.
You donât notice it until you need to pause and breathe properly that youâre laughing. Head bared to the sky and giggling manically.
5 men. Youâd killed 5 of the 8 men.
The sky finally breaks, a stay fat drop of water sizzling on their fire.
A few more diluting the sticky blood that seeps into the ground.
A sprinkling beginning to draw trails in the red splattering that wonât drip off your skin.
By the time it starts raining in earnest, you both are running back to the truck in a euphoric high of laughing. The doors slam, but you donât turn on the car.
In weather like this, no oneâs going to come for them. Too much of a hassle for the drive, and with the heavy rain your tracks are sure to be covered with the mud. By the time the storm is sure to clear itâll have been like you were never there.
There was no harm in sticking around a little while more.
Tobyâs in no better condition than you areâ soaked through with the blood, rain trails and dirt breaking up the splatter. Heâs similarly loopy off the kills and the challenge, not even noting that heâs lost.
All there was in this moment was the stuffy beaten truck and the keen awareness of the other across the console. Sneaking looks and pretending that neither care.
The laughter fades off into intermittent giggling, like youâd both gotten away with the best inside joke of your lives. It sure felt like it.
Afterall, you got to see him in a soaked through t-shirt that clung to his frame.
You truly were a criminal mastermind.
Once the fit of giggling wears off, it hits him that he actually lost. You see it in real time, the small widening of his eyes, the bob in his throat. The idea settled on top of that giddy excitement.
That youâd have your way with him.
The thought is immediately too exciting, given that he doesnât even know what passes through your divine judgement. But the immediate squirm of his hips once the idea passes his mind is enough to know heâs actually excited to have lost. That you knew now you had him at your mercy, at your beck and call, practically grinding at your leg.
Literally, if that were your desire too.
âS-so, thenâ He shoves down the thought, ignoring the immediate flooding of heat to- âWhatâre y-you goin t-to claim then? Wh-Whatâd yâ win?â
You look back at him, immediately making him double check the existence of mind reading.
In that one moment of you finally, finally looking at him. Heâs convinced you knew everything. Every night heâd whined your name into an empty room, begging that maybe youâd know and take pity. But he doesnât feel you have pity now, looking at him like the loser he is.
You hum and haw, drawing it outâ considering your options while he tried to ignore the increasingly difficult urge to try and get off without you noticing.
âBack of the truckâ Heâs sure he looks comically disappointed. Pouting, puppy-eyed, and ready to beg you to stay near. That the small distance was already killing him, donât send him even further.
Right up until you get out to hop in the back too.
He makes eager work of the door to get in. You meet him on the other side, clawing off his mouth guard to get access. His mouth is hardly free for a second before youâre there. Snuffing out his senses and filling them back up with you. Immediately heâs hit with the addictive taste of you in his mouth, the scent of you beneath the irony blood crowding his space, and the one hand that isnât on his jaw eagerly finding the bone of his hip.
His back is shoved against the door he just got in on, kneeling, head tilted back to the angle you desire from him. Itâs difficult to miss his shameful desire like this, hips shoved out and back pressed against a wallâ not to mention the downright pathetic whine he lets out.
Well, all of that that on top of the raging hard-on beneath his pants.
Spit leaks out the gash on his cheek, adding to the already messy affair. You separate only to gasp for air, hands keeping him where you wanted himâ hands either side his jaw.
âPl-lease-â You hardly let him get the word out, already moving to shut him back up by the time he gasps a breath âPleasepleaseplease- I I n-need you-â
Heâs so pretty like this, flushed and without a single thought running through his head that isnât you.
You tilt his head to catch what little and dim light youâre left with, admiring the trial of spit leading down to his chin and now finding his neck. You lean down before you can stop yourself.
Your tongue traces the trail, picking up the frothy spit alongside the blood and salt of his skin.
Immediately, as soon as your tongue meets his skin, he jolts. His hands press you closer, begging you to just stay there.A strangled whine leaves his throat, long and high pitched. Mixing in with his desperate begging. Itâs as if the only words he knew were âpleaseâ and your name.
His hips buck upward, trying to find any friction they could with your own being so close. You move to keep him just far enough away, enjoying the furrow in his brow as he looks up at you.
âWh-what- I,â You continue, lathing up the side of his neck before returning to his cheek. âMâ sorry, I-Iâll be good- Iâll be good! I wonât be gr-greedyâ
His eyes are wild and crazed, brows cinched in a beg. Your tongue follows the trail up and up and up, along his neck and over his jaw. Finally finding his cheek, covered in a mix of your saliva and his.
You donât make him utter the words, opting to hold his eye contact as you trace your tongue along the jagged scar.
Those pretty wide eyes roll back, fluttering with another buck of those hips. His breaths are ragged, shallow and unable to focus. You admire him, chewing on your long dead gum as he finally gives into finality. This wasnât nothing, this couldnât be nothing. Not when he nearly came to your tongue on his scar.
His eyes return to you, trying to distract you as he humps against the air for any sort of relief. You kiss him again, brief, leaving him chasing you with a whimper still lodged in his throat.
âCan you do me a favor?â You know you don't need to ask. But thereâs still some satisfaction to be gained in his immediate fast nods.
âOpen upâ And he does,eyes still begging for your approval.
You lift up on your knees, kneeling over him as he desperately tries to offer his mouth up to you. You stick out your tongue letting you gum fall from your mouth to his.
The excitement is immediate, a half gasp followed by his zero-in on worshipping your gift.
âThank-k you- G-godâ He chokes, half occupied with you being so close and the other half occupied on your gum.
Heâs so occupied, in fact, he doesnât even realise your hand shaking down. It's as soon as your hand actually cups his cock over the jeans, that he shudders. A full body shudder as his body doesnât know what else to do. His hips immediately and desperately try to fuck into your hand. His eyes were shut, lids fluttering still as desperate curses and moans left from his chest. Every shaky exhale was a plead to stay. A begging to let him live out the moment that had only played in his head until now.
His hand removes yours, shaky and just barely coming in time to stop himself from cumming again.
âNo-not me f-firstâ He barely managed to get out, eyes still watering and hips still jerking at the empty air, begging for your hand. âPlea-se- Please, p-pretty ya got-gotta let-t me,â You place yours behind you on the seat and he immediately advances, shoving his face in your neck.
He lathes and sucks and licks and nips like itâll be his last chance to ever mark you up.
His hands roam, grabbing there he pleases before finally getting to business. You only hear him quietly begging for you against your skin, the taste of him still clear in your head.
He struggles off your belt and pants, but pauses at the sight of you, only in underwear and his shirt, exposed before him.
Youâve seen people less praising in churches.
His hands work gently to spread your thighs so he can get a better view. Panties stuck to your skin, soaked with slick. He trails a hand inward from your knee, following up your thigh and finally up to your gushing heat. He tests you, pushing at the damp gusset, pushing it slightly aside to feel the warm slick.
Thereâs no other thoughts, no other intent. Just the dedication to finding what will make you feel good.
He revels in the jolt of your hips, in your own whines as they bubble up from your chest. He enjoys coaxing them out as those rough pads of his fingers circle your clit. It feels better than you imagined, only serving to make you more and more wet. He gathers up a decent amount, lifting it to his face to admire.
And admire he does, in the feeling of it, and the taste once he shoves his fingers in his mouth.
He couldâve sworn in that moment he was born again.
âFu-ck, h-hunâ The words are absent minded, unfiltered. âb-better than an-an-anything elseâ
He looks at you, eyes wide and pleading. âPluh-please let m-me, I just wan-na have a a t-tasteâ He hangs on your breath, heaving and still dizzy from his teasing.
You can only manage a nod.
He hardly even thinks before throwing your legs over his shoulders and ridding you of your underwear too. He begs for you approval, your permission, and finds it in the form of your hand in his hair. You pull closer: and closer he got.
His nose nudges at your clit while he lathes away at every new gush of slick. He was exactly where he wanted to be. He could die like this, suffocating between your thighsâ drowning in you and heâd be happy.
But even your breathy whines werenât enough for him. Greedy as ever.
He brings up a hand to aid, easing in one finger to your cunt. He trails in across your thighs and through your folds, gathering up enough wetness to ease you to the sensation. He pauses once his finger catches your hole, clenching desperately on nothing. It slipped in easy, already loose from his tongue, aided by his spit and the slick. He prods gently, finding what motions stir you up most off reaction alone.
A second joins the first, just as easy. He reaches so much deeper and takes up so much more space its dizzying. The pressure has you raising your hips into the air, aiding him.
A third joins. The fit stretches out your walls, making you whine as he tries to slip it in alongside the others. He shushes you gently, âJu-juust relax, baby. I g-got y-ya, Just-t relax f-fâ me.â the words alone summon a gush of hot slick from your pussy, helping distract you long enough for him to slip in.
Your words had tickled off into heady moans that let him know when he was doing something right. That each curl of his finger and suckle at your clit was exactly what the both of you had been needing for weeks at this point. Your hands pulled his face closer, hips raised and rocking in time with his curling fingers.
âPleaseâ You manage, even though heâs far beyond being concerned about manners when heâs eating, âJust a little more-â
âYes m-maâamâ His voice shook, head burrowing his face in deeper, working his fingers faster, and ignoring the burning knees for oxygen as your thighs clamped around his head. He couldnât even hear your warning.
The gush of fresh hot slick is immediately clinging to his tongue as he works to clean you up. No regards to the overstimulation as you squirm in his hands. All heâs concerned about his the pretty hole in front of him and his new favorite meal. His hips ground against the seats, rocking as he kept going and going and going to sate himself.
âS-shit- please do-donnât look a-awayâ He whines, eyes looking up for yours, hands on the outside of either thigh.
âIâm notâ You assure, leaning back against the door, letting him work at himself desperately.
âFu-uck, please-â His eyes rolled back, busting himself again with cleaning you up.
âGo ahead, Hunâ You tug at his hair, just barely shuffling your hips closer. He locks up, whining against you as heâs finally relieved.
He doesnât even need his hands, just some of your slick and disapproving stare. It was enough to make him cum in his pants.
be glad iâm too busy moving rn to write. because if i acted on my impulses to write the Tim fic i just came up with, i fear that the masses would not recover. Like doxxable angst. Like suing me for emotional damages angst.
ᴺᴟᾠᴞᴸᴏáľá´ľá´şá´ł : Iâm lookinâ for a new dimension, new life to live
or, you werenât dead. But youâre not sure if thatâs better than being kidnapped on behalf of a faceless eldritch creature. At least you have a friend to get you through it, right?
Warnings: Cannon typical depictions of violence, stalking, psychological distress. Toby is kinda perv. Kinda. As a treat.
Includes: Toby Rodgers x smart!gn! reader, yall match eachothers freak, idiots in love
Part 1 | Part 2 (here) | Part 3
âť â II ⡠âş
Youâve been missing for two months.
Just long enough for your face to stop cycling on local news and for people to start forgetting why they knew your name.
Itâs still not long enough for you to settle, though.
Your brain has been stuck, constantly trying to define and label what exactly you were forced into. Itâs a good way to pass the time, once you got over memorizing all the different types of peeling wallpaper across the old house they kept you in, which paintings felt like theyâd look back at night, whoâs rooms to avoid entirely. But your favorite activity of all was staring at the popcorn ceiling, sifting through each minute detail, hoping something would finally come up. Something that would let you think âyes. thatâs it. this is what this is.â and finally lay your conflictions to rest.
You got over the work easilyâ easier than others theyâd pulled from their lives. From the sounds of it, from the many names theyâve mentioned by now, it seemed like most donât make it through the work. You canât blame them, you supposed. Itâs hard to stop seeing people as, well⌠people. At the end of the day it truly was what Brian had said on your first official job. Methodic.
You had no choice in the matter, after all. Youâd get a manila envelope, some details about some sorry soul that got a bit too ballsy, head out, and kill them. No more and no less, the same every time. It was simple. It had reason. It had parts you could pick apart to understand.
And yet still, you couldnât find your own reason for being here.
No matter how long you sat, back against the wooden floor boards, eyes searching your small room, nothing ever came. You werenât more or less cut out for this life than anyone else. Sure, you had moments in your life that shunted you from âaverageâ but it wasnât as if there was no one else like you. It wasnât like you were especially remarkable enough that warranted you above all others.
You simply settled that your⌠boss worked in mysterious ways. That eldritch beings that lurked in the forest didnât have to make sense. That they had no human senses or sensibilities they needed to appeal to. Rather, they just existed and did as they pleased. It wasnât as if there was anything to stop them, after all.
It was enough, some nights. To accept that there was no sense in the decision to employ you. That it was beyond your comprehensionâ a level of reasoning and understanding youâd never be able to reach, no matter how long you tried to.
But for tonight, it wasnât.
You hadnât earned the reputation of being a social butterfly. Partially because the people your boss employed were scattered about the forest in such a way it was difficult to ever meet anyone âlet alone everyoneâ but it was conjoined to the fact you hardly ever spent a significant amount of time in the large rotting house they called their home base.
Sure, you had a room, just as everyone else did, but you didnât live there. You shadowed, trained, assisted, and lived with Tim and Brian. And if you werenât the most social, then they were reclusive. You guessed you couldnât blame them, though. In the odd few times where you had to stay the night âone or two nights per month, if evenâ they never passed peacefully. A man crawling through your phone, a clown appearing in your closet, being chased and threatened down every hallway, what have you.
It was usually easy enough to get away with just sitting in your room. No one had a reason to bother you, not now the job was finished. You were entirely free to spend the night reliving the last two months. Treading over the same ground youâve been going over since they occurred. And there was plenty to go over.
That you were âperforming to the expectationâ set by your boss. That you were âmore useful than the lastâ that he âfound great amusement in watching you make senseâ of this new life.
You tried not to dig into it. You did. You knew, in the pit of your chest, that nothing good would ever come of what you found. Despite yourself, the words ran on loop: over and over and over again until you could finally separate the substance.
The boss had expectations, ones that varied proxy to proxy. Ones based entirely on your own potential. It proved, or at least suggested, that you were being watched before your abduction. That someone or something had kept tabs on you, enough to know that youâd last longer than whoever was before you. That Youâd be better in different areas than the last. As if they were trying to tinker the personalities of their recruits to get the best possible⌠candidate.
It was shown in other ways too.
You werenât allowed to pick a weapon. It was picked for you. Not that you wouldâve chosen differently, just that the decision was preemptively made according to your previous inclinations.
Your room was stocked with books and trinkets that would only make sense to buy if someone knew you. They were so personal that they werenât even items youâd get as gifts, only the small purchases youâd make when you had enough room in your budget.
It was even down to who plucked you from your normal life.
You didnât hear the discussion well. Not with the heavy oak door in the way and static in your head, but the muffled back and forth was enough to confirm your suspicions. As sane as you were able to stay, they knew that there was a limit. That if they wanted to make the most use out of you, then you couldnât be lumped in with the rest.
You didnât know anyone and no one knew you.
And they knew that it would be the case no matter where you were.
You flinch as the warm light of the hall spills into the room, the band let in running across your face from where you lay on the floor.
Almost no one knew you.
âKn-new I could find y-ou hereâ Toby was the exception.
Maybe it was intentional, maybe it was chance, but the two of you got on like a house on fire.
Where youâd easily spend your day far too into the details, he could never stay on one thing for too long. It only seemed that the more familiar with each other you got, the more comfortable heâd become to pull you from your spirals.
He shuffled into your room, still undecorated, and sat behind your head. His face is upside down to your perspective, hunched over with his elbows on his knees as he looks down at you.
âIsnât like I ever do much else when weâre here,â You concede, breaking his intense eye contact as you tilt your head back over toward the door left ajar ânot like thereâs much to doâ
He jolts, face suddenly pressed far closer to your own with only an inch of clearance between you.
âEasy there, you still owe me a dinnerâ You laugh as he groans, the both of you sitting up.
âYou ser-seriously need t-to let that d-dieâ He pinches his brow, desperately trying to push out the memory of the night youâd met.
âHow can I, when it keeps getting a reaction out of you?â You lean forward, tilting your head in the intent to mock him, âAfterall, first impressions are importantâ As usual for the gag, his face flushes the same pretty red as it did the first time.
âYou-youâre impos-sible.â He scoffs, leaning back on his palms to gain back some distance
âYou love me.â
âIâm l-leaving you for-for dead the next-t missionâ
You roll your eyes, knowing that it meant nothing. No matter how mean the taunting or how intimate the flirting, it meant nothing. The type of nothingness that kept you up even longer than your place in this new works. The type of dull acceptance that your mind couldnât even grapple with when you could accept that youâre working for a faceless being in the woods.
âS-soooooo,â As always, youâre dragged out of your spiral. That stupid crooked grin cutting your thoughts short. His chewed hand rifles through the pocket of his beaten jacket until he got a grip of what he was searching for, lifting it for you to see.
Brianâs keys.
It was a horrible decision. To take them, for one. He wasnât the type of person to give grace where itâs not deserved, especially not to thieves. But to actually follow through with it and, you know, steal his car.
âC-cmon, we b-both know youâre naw-not lasting the nightâ He swings them around on his finger, watching them shake on the ring and settle with the force.
You know heâs not wrong. Heâs never really wrong when it comes to you. The job only finished a few hours ago and youâre already on high alert, no peace to be found.
The only thing that could fix you right now was getting out of this damn house, basking in the last of the summer while itâs still here.
âItâs not like we can stay in a hotelâ You argue, weak. Youâve slept in the truck before. Itâs not comfortable, but itâs not as if youâre above it when necessary.
âTha-thatâs the th-thing,â He begins, whirling the keys around once more âWeâll c-come backâ The joy in his voice is palpable, like his ingenious plan was impenetrableâ âB-besides, wha-tâs he gonna d-do? Call th-e police?â
âLike Brian would never even think to check for his keys.
âWhere would we even go? He just filled up the gas itâs not like he wonât notice itâs goneâ
He pauses at that, causing the keys to fling off his fingers and skitter across the uneven floor boards.
âW-we just⌠st-stop at the same gas station on the wuh-way backâ He settles, stretching awkwardly across the floor to grab for the precious stolen gateway to your freedom.
Itâs fair, too.
Assuming Brian just doesnât check for his keys, itâs relatively full proof. Itâs late enough no one would need the truck, and if you stopped at the same place on the way back the tank would be the exact same as you found it.
You pause if a while before sighing, long and heavy, âWe could get some snacks tooâ
Itâs like a bolt of electricity goes through him, seeing that you agree.
âWe cou-could have a m-movie night?â He suggests, following close behind as you slip on your socks and shoes again.
âWith what? Iâm not sitting in that living room.â For good reason too, the was always sticky with something or other. It was perpetually cluttered with crumbs and trash.
âM-my laptop?â He sassed, with more than what was necessary to convey it shouldâve been obvious.
ââŚYou donât have a laptopâ
âI d-do nowâ Heâs proud of himself, you can tell.
Just to be clear: Toby knew this was a bad idea. A horrible one, in fact.
He knew that youâd probably dismiss the whole thing, call him stupid like youâd usually do, and opt to spend the night doing anything else. Anything safe.
He didnât mind it, at all. Really, there was something he rather enjoyed in letting you lead him out of his own poor choices. He just chose to ignore exactly how much he liked it when you insulted himâ that it was obvious he was doing something wrong.
What he wasnât expecting was for you to go along with it.
Precisely why heâd sat: half stiff, and half unable to stop moving, once heâd realised he had forgotten his wallet.
It really wasnât often he felt shame. He had no reason to nowadays, not when half the people he knew were more deranged than himself. But there was a special kind of mental torment that you always seemed to put him through. Seriously, though, who invites their best friend on a totally-not-a-date via grand theft auto and neglects to pay.
Him, apparently.
Even the thought made him squirm in his seat. He may not have socialised much, but he knew at the very least that you deserved better. After all the things he done the least he could do would be to pay for your snacks. Even if it was stolen money.
âDude are you ok?â He canât help himself but to perk up. Itâs instinct at this point. The sound of your voice could raise him from the dead.
âYea-yeah Iâm tot-totally f-fine I have no cl-clue what you m-mean.â Great. Yes. Totally normal, you wonât suspect a thing.
âOk, yeah, just keep staring at me like you have been for the last 10 minutesâ Youâre grinning, that snide grin that tugs on his heart like you have him on a leash. You do, but thatâs aside the point. Itâs like you have him all figured out, cut and splayed open under your careful eyeâ just waiting to see what he does next.
As perverse as it is, he likes the idea.
The idea that he humors you. That even though youâre worlds smarter than him, and would ordinarily look right through him, that you keep him around. To toy with him. To test and see what makes him tick, what makes him squirm most in his seat. To simply let him amuse you, even if you donât realize what youâre doing to him.
He rips his eyes back to the roads, hoping that itâll stop that train of thought. Thank God your eyes were on the road, otherwise you might discover why heâs suddenly so interested in literally anything else.
Logically, he knows you see more to him than that. That you do care in a way he doesnât really understand. That maybe, just maybe, you needed him just as much as he needed you.
The road signs and sparse cars pass him by, and the silence that returns to him feeds his soul. Thereâs hardly ever time to just exist anymore. Thereâs always wood to be cut or tools to be maintained or someone to slaughter. Such was the life he agreed to. It seemed, though, that ever since youâd shown up, time suddenly began to free itself up. Days that wouldâve ordinarily slipped by, phased past him like the world does now, suddenly began to stick around. He found a reason to be present.
Light breaks through the dense trees, dim and green. The gas station is the only light thing around for miles, attracting the few people out like moths. Thereâs 3 other cars parked at the pumps, the straggling people huddled about. Itâs not what someone would consider a reassuring sight considering itâs the middle of the night.
âYou p-pump the gas, I'll get-t you some-somethingâ He slides out of the passenger side. He was banned for driving on the account that the last time he did, he crashed the truck. He hadnât even left the house yet.
âYou sure? I know itâs not ideal given the, uhâ You trail off, not quite sure how to bring it up.
âFor tha-that, my d-dear,â He stretches awkwardly through the open window of the truck, popping the glove compartment and pulling out a generic dental mask. âthere a-are solutions-s.â He gets to feel smug for once, savouring the impressed look on your face.
âI stand correctedâ
âS-see I t-told you I w-â
âAaand there it goes againâ You turn your back to him, immediately occupying yourself with the gas pump. He feels like a dog, constantly begging for your attention, your approval, giddy to get it even if itâs at his expense. He hates just how much life the thought brings into him.
The gas station was eye-offendingly lit, compared to the darkness of the roads. What lights that werenât broken were the cool led that only existed to trick the human brain into believing it was midday.
Toby guessed that he really couldnât complain, though. There wasnât really anyone else in the store with him. In fact, there were 3 others. A trucker picking up a case of beer and two scrawny looking college kids bartering with the cashier over a pack of cigarettes. A good enough distraction. Enough, at least, to get the attention off himself for a moment.
Heâd been to this exact store enough times that the layout was memorized. He didnât even need to scan the isles before slipping the snacks and drinks into the appropriate pockets. Two in the inside of his jacket, a few items up the sleeves, the two external pockets, and one thing in his jean pockets if necessary. By the time the kids had left and the trucker was checking out, heâd left undetected.
He emptied his pockets for your stuff, cradling them in his arm so he could get back in the truck.
âOh good youâre- I didnât even tell you what to get holy-â Now you were impressed. Taking note of what youâd gotten the last times youâve gone with him, he picked up every single item youâd normally get.
âDude I gotta pay you back-â He preens under your attention as you grab your stuff out of his arm, cracking into your drink before putting it in the cup holder.
âYo-you got th-the gasâ He placated, leaning out the window as you began to pull out of the lot.
âHow did you even know?â You trade your focus from the road and back to him.
âIâve g-gone with you be-before?â He shrugs, pretending as if it were nothing. As if he didnât start buying the same things to see what they were like, trying to understand you.
âInsane work.â You pause âI take it all back, you would 100% kidnap meâ
âYuh-you need to-to let that-t die.â
You laugh, amused at his frustration. Immediately it simmers away.
âNow why would I do that?â And why would you? He thinks heâd die the day youâd stopped making fun of him.
He huffs, nearly jumping out of his seat when he looks over to see you already picking him apart.
âWhat? Just gonna let me have that one?â Yes. Obviously.
âI r-really donât guh-get why this i-is s-so amusing t-to youâ He tries to swallow down the anticipation in his throat, he does. But the longer you keep staring at him, the more nervous he gets.
âYouâre fun to tease.â Heâs done plenty bad things in his life but heâs not sure what exactly qualified him for this level of torture. The tone of your voice replays in his head on loop as he desperately prays you donât look down.
âI hav-e no cl-clue why Iâm fruh-friends with y-youâ He mumbles, keeping his eyes locked on the road.
âWeâve been over this already. Iâm smart and amazing and youâd be dead without me.â
âUh-uh huh. Wha-tever helps you s-sleep at nightâ He crumples up the mask he had on, shoving it back into the glove compartment. He doesnât need to look over to feel you glaring at him.
The hum of the road returns again, that blissful silence that his brain wants to fill. That silence that he needs to fill before his brain fills it for him.
âWh-what movie are w-we watching?â He blurts, entirely out of the blue. Your eyes flicker as you take in the new information, humming.
âNot like we have any movie servicesâ You hum, tilting your head as you think of your answers.
âPir-rating, D-Duh.â
âOh true, I forgot weâre criminals nowâ You laugh, exhausted at last. All that thinking had finally tired you out. It was rare for you. But on the occasions where he could exhaust you past the point of thinking things through, it was always precious.
He wasnât very good at the reasoning you did. He was good at following orders, at doing what he was told. But you always seemed so keenly aware of everything around you. And he saw how badly it wore at you. The nights without sleeping, the days spent paranoid and jumpy.
It was only on nights like this that you really seemed the same as you did before you joined him. It was only on nights like this that he sees you as you were, as he once only saw you through your window.
It was something only for him.
âGuess weâll just see what they haveâ You shrug, forfeiting your control to fate.
âB-bet.â
Nearly 40 minutes later you pull back up to the large, dilapidated house. You park the truck where you last found it and smuggle your snacks up to Tobyâs room.
In the meantime, he slips Brianâs keys back into his coat pocket, relieved to see it still on the coat hanger. With the mission entirely in the clear, he prods back up to his room to join you.
Youâre spread out already over his bed, having made yourself as comfortable as you pleased. Already it was rare to see you actually willing to claim space when you werenât at the small cabin youâd come to call home. He stops on the doorway, shuffling awkwardly. Thereâs something about you, only so comfortable with him and only so willing to share his space that makes him forget that anything else was happening. His brain just latched onto the fact that someone like you, someone he still thought to be unreachable to the likes of himself, actually sought out his company.
âDude. Quit standing like that. Itâs creepy.â You mumble, shuffling some of your stuff over to make room for his. He heels, immediately pushing off and closing the door behind him to join you.
His room was more lived in. Not quite as nice as his room in the cabin, a little cleaner since he spent less time there, but not nearly as plain as your own. The walls werenât so offensively empty, and the ceiling didnât watch you back. He digs through the bag heâd taken back from the mission, pulling out what used to be the vicâs laptop.
âNe-needed tâ get it through BEN f-for it tâ workâ His fingers type in a pass, opening up to a very blank home page.
You both pause, realizing that despite your plan to pirate some shitty movie, you didnât actually know any websites.
âWell shitâ You chuckle, âSeems like our luck finally ran out, geezâ You sigh, leaning over his shoulder.
ââŚY-you good-d with YouTube?â He suggests after a while, accepting defeat
âProbably wouldnât have been much better than the move to begin withâ You shrug, settling in for the watch.
The algorithm fights, suggesting stream after stream of clickbait. Not that it usually does better, but the feeling of being so close and so tired makes each moment drag on and on. It almost feels normal for you, watching the colors flash across his pale skin as he scrolls. Just trying to relax with your totally-just-friend after a long day, trying to watch a video as you ate. Trying your best to ignore what it meant when heâd stop to stare. Or when heâd buy you the snacks you liked without even asking what you wanted. Small things. Small things that made it easy to forget why youâd met. Small things dragging you to admit that maybe you did like him.
Or maybe, it was entirely nothing at all.
Small things that couldâve just been because he was weird, or lonely, or awkward, or just nice. Because, y'know, heâs a good friend.
âTh-this good?â He looks back at you, head tilted so his eyes are wide, practically begging for your opinion. He was, but you didnât know that.
Itâs decently long, over an hour. Interesting enough without overselling itself on the âreal 100% not clickbait!!â front.
âYeah, yeah itâs goodâ Your eyes flick from the screen back to his wide eyes and follow down to where he grins. That lopsided, boyish grin. He almost felt like yours.
You fell asleep not too long into the video. Unsurprisingly, getting up at the ass crack of dawn with no sleep the night before and running until nearly 4am wasnât a battle your body was willing to fight. And you probably wouldâve gone unnoticed, given Tobyâs attention to the screen. If it werenât for the fact you were slumped over him.
Awkwardly, you were spread out, taking up the bottom half of the twin bed and the entire right side of his body. He shouldâve woken you up. Shouldâve taken you back to your room. He really shouldâve.
But it wouldnât be the first bad decision Toby had made that night.
You were so at rest, for the first time since heâd officially met you, he couldnât pass up seeing it in person. To sit there and watch over you, to hold you, to soothe you when youâd mumble or twitch in your sleep.
He really shouldâve done something, anything.
Then again, he was the type to profile you for months before actually meeting you.
He was the type to follow through with plucking you from your life.
He was the type to not give up on watching you.
And he was certainly the type to wait at your beck and call, night and day.
soft launching this headcannon before i post it in episode two of the toby fic:
he is 100% a klepto. bro has the stickiest fingers.
heâs out just butchering some guy and sees that heâs got something you want? thatâs yours now wdym.
heâd really really try not to if you didnât like it. lord knows he wouldnât be able to live with himself if he actually disappointed you.
But that said, heâd rather beg for your forgiveness than ask for your permission. So between the two of us, just enjoy being spoiled. Itâs gonna happen either way
Do you know candy pop and Jason the toy maker? đŤŚ
ik OF them but not really read anything. iâve actually been waiting for this question đ
âŚlemme research (read some fics) iâll be back
ââ
my eyes have been opened to a whole world of new possibilities i hadnât before considered.
so for one, jason may or may not become standard on my page depending on where i can fit him. but HOLLLYY iâve learned new things about myself đđ
iâll admit i was less keen on candypop, but the fics were definitely interesting. kinda like jeff for me, i donât personally find him attractive but i like seeing how different authors characterize him!
ty for the rec now iâm gonna go read more jason fics đ
I mostly prefer women but Tim is so hot I have nothing appropriate about him. I love when he's included in oneshots/fics etc..
I am new, just found this blog. Let me say, you're quickly becoming a favorite. The way you write is just.. Mm.. So good. 10/10. I thought the creepypasta Fandom was dead. I was re-reading wattpad creepypasta fics last night.
I miss it so much.
no fr like i love women. in general and in the fandom (happy pride month) but thereâs something about that man that makes me wanna scale him like a tree.
Heâs not a âhear me outâ mostly because heâs just straight attractive, but heâs a HOLD ME BACK. Call me feral the way iâm foaming at the mouth đ
iâve been hoping i could capture some of that old whattpad/quotev style that made the fics so memorable and it means a lot to see itâs come through! I used to write on quotev so itâs full circle lmao-
amandla
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
2087
yousharknotpass
discoholicmusic
