𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıllı Jeffrey Woods x F!Reader ıılıı.lllııılı.
"Les - Childish Gambino ⋅" ★
𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻
W/C: 10.5k // Summary: Jeff’s never liked, let alone loved anything in his life, and you are no exception. He thinks you’re delusional, annoying, and dumb all in one. Matter of fact, he can barely stand being in the same room as you. So why in the world does he keep coming back?
Tags: Enemies to lovers, (It’s one sided. He is very stupid.) Angst/comfort, canon level violence and vague descriptions of gore, Jeff’s mommy issues mentioned once (1), and angry confession scenes.
A/N: PAPA IS BACK WITH MORE MOVIE!! This one is fat as hell icl. Vaguely emotionally intelligent Jeff is my guilty pleasure because he’s so blind and so dumb and then he literally just gives up. Bro stares out the window once and realizes he wants to be held and crashes out. Art and all that by me ^3^
➽──────────────❥
Jeff hated you.
Despised everything about you, actually; there was not a single thing you did that did not get on his nerves.
He remembers it as if it were yesterday.
The old gas station was run-down to hell and back, with paint chipping and walls stained with god knows what. Fluorescent lights humming loudly in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins from a fresh kill. The only reason he even stopped by was because the man he’d slaughtered carried cash, wallet falling out in the scuffle, the ID reading ‘Martin’ something. It wasn’t anything special, an assignment mundane and decently boring compared to others he’d completed, but free cash was free cash, and he wanted a snack.
Grimey boots clicking against the tile as he browsed, the lower half of his face tucked haphazardly into a black scarf. Hood up and hands tucked into his pocket, he looked shady. That’s why when a voice broke the silence, he ignored it, assuming (rightfully so in his defence) it wasn’t meant for him. Too cheery, too normal. Said too familiarly, like he was a friend, so his mouth stayed shut. Until the silhouette of a head popped into his periphery.
“I like your scarf! Where’d you get it?”
The slow turn of his head was fit for a sitcom. You, in your bundled-up homey clothes, fluffy winter boots and ear warmers to match. It looked out of place, like you were copied and pasted into a random background. Slightly leaning over to catch his attention, eyes bright with curiosity. See, the real answer was that he’d stolen it a while ago from another unsuspecting victim, casually tossing it on after the fact, but he thought that was a bit too on the nose for a first conversation.
“Found it.”
A short response, heavy with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. His gaze was sharp; from the way he stood to how he looked down at you, it should’ve been obvious that he was not the one to engage in small talk with.
You continued anyway.
Naive. You bantered with him, telling jokes as if he were the friendliest guy around. And he humoured you, in a good mood from the success, laughed at your bad puns and playful jabs. The air light when he bid you goodbye, you never knew how lucky you were that day. Just because he hadn’t put you on a missing persons list doesn’t mean it didn’t cross his mind. He framed you red, like he did everyone else. A snapshot filed into a messy array of folders. Maroon clouded his vision every time you spoke.
Jeff categorized things in a very particular way, world view bleak and muddled with violence and gore, for as long as he could remember, or care to remember. It was black, white, or red. Orders and routine, bystanders and blurred faces, then victims and dirtied hands. You were just another passerby, someone he’d let go on a whim, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. You fit.
Until you didn’t.
➽──────────────❥
He ran into you again.
Midnight walk to clear his head, the job had gone bad. No one escaped, but fuck if they didn’t test it. He liked the chase, the thrill of it; this was something else. The guy was a runner, stabbed four times, once in the stomach, twice in the leg and a slash across the chest. Yet he still somehow managed to wiggle away, sprinting through the trees with Jeff on his tail. It took two whole hours before the blood loss kicked in. Still squirming away like a fucking cockroach by the time he was found, it was irritating. Soaked from head to toe in guts, his energy for the day drained, and all he wanted to do was bash the man’s head in.
Unfortunately for him, people do not, in fact, have an endless supply of life force, and the victim died the second he pulled his knife out. An unsatisfying kill after all that work, he was livid. And hungry. The mansion had never been Michelin star when it came to food, but usually they had something. Once again, un-fucking-fortunately for him, no one had gone on a supply run in ages, and the proxies were left to fend for themselves.
The day could not have possibly been worse, so when he saw you, he almost jumped for joy. Alone in the middle of the night, the streets are quiet, desolate to any nosy civilians who would call the police. Unassuming under the dimmed light of the bus stop, it was perfect.
He was going to give you a ten-second start, get you real scared, then, when he’d inevitably catch up, you’d scream like you meant it. Mouth twitching up with malice, stepping toward you. Reaching down into his jeans, the grip on his switchblade tightened. The frosted glass from the shelter reflected his looming form. He was eyeing you down like prey, teeth ready to snap. Slowly appearing from the darkness, the grim reaper itself at your doorstep. His barely contained excitement was making him antsy—
“Oh, hey, it’s you.”
Okay, so that was definitely not the reaction he was expecting or wanted. Still in those dumbass little earmuffs, blinking at him with a fucking tray of hot cocoa in your hands. He looked like the embodiment of death, a monster that had crawled its way out of someone’s nightmare. Black hair shadowing his eyes, face gaunt and pale, two jagged scars running from ear to ear. Dark splatters stained his sweater as he towered over you. And you were smiling at him. Actually smiling at him. Soft on your lips, while you turned to him.
It had to have been a solid thirty seconds of silence before he spoke, “I’m sorry?” Said with palpable offence. Squinting as he looked at you, maybe you were stupid? “Ah- I don’t know, this town’s so small I feel like I know everybody-“ sniffling, you rubbed your nose, “I never see you though, well- I mean aside from that one time. Are you new?” Your cluttered rambles made his jaw drop. Mouth agape and brows furrowed, was he- was he new here?
He had walked up to you, a strange man you did not know, in the middle of the fucking night. People picked up their pace even if he wasn’t planning to kill them, and you were acting like this was the most mundane thing that had happened today.
I mean, he had blood flicked across his sleeve for Christ’s sake, he literally could not look anymore like a threat if he tried.
And you had the dumbest expression on your face, like you were genuinely happy to see him. Giggling to yourself like an idiot, shifting weight from foot to foot.
“No- No I’m not fuckin’ new.”
“Oh, my bad. Well, what are you doing out so late?”
With the most deadpan stare he could muster, he sighed, “Walking.” You nodded, glancing over to the empty road. The snowfall was light, winter not fully settling in yet, smoke puffing out with each breath. Humming before meeting his gaze, you stopped dead in your tracks. Was this it? Were you realizing the danger you were in? The sight of him finally setting off alarms in your head, fear making you freeze- “It’s snowing, aren’t you cold?” Goddamnit, you were fucking stupid.
Concern painting your features, you had to have been dropped or something, because this was getting ridiculous. Apparently, his lack of a jacket was far more off-putting than the fact that he approached you with clear malicious intent. In all his years of being a seasoned killer, this was by far the most confusing and frustrating encounter he’s had. Never in his life had he been at a loss for words, but this was truly cutting it close, “No, I’m not cold.” tone flat with disbelief, cocking your head to the side, you gave him a once over.
“You look cold.”
“I’m not cold.”
Why the fuck were you arguing with him? Why the fuck was he going along with it? Bloodlust long gone and replaced with vague irritation and bafflement. You were aggravating. How did you even make it this far living this way? His subconscious hate train was interrupted, you were holding out a cup. Hot chocolate, snug in your mitt, as you pointed it towards him.
The steam wafting up in slow curls, “It was supposed to be for my friend, I think you’d like it more though.” Eyes switching between the drink and your face, you had to be the weirdest person he’d ever met. So willing to sacrifice something warm meant for someone who actually gave a shit about if you got home safe or not, in exchange for this. Some guy who started pestering you on the sidewalk. His hand unlatches from the handle, sliding out of his pocket and taking the cup. He had meant it when he said he wasn’t cold, but the heat of it contrasted more than he’d thought.
Sipping it slowly, ‘not half bad,’ the brew was sweet. A little nostalgic even, the taste was made to comfort he supposed. He doesn’t say thank you, yet you look satisfied. Coy grin with a snicker to boot, like you’d won. Placed gold in a race he didn’t know had started.
The haze of… whatever it was, broken once you’d opened your mouth. Because of course you did, “You know, you look a little like the Joker.” Lips curling up in a snarl, he scoffed. The fucking joker? You might as well have spit in his face, forty days and forty nights of straight bullshit to be compared to a comic book super villain? He must have looked appalled, backtracking and stumbling over your words to try to explain. “No- like not in a bad way! Like ‘cause the scars and-“ Slapping a hand over your mouth, the hole you dug for yourself getting deeper by the minute. “Wait, oh my god- was that offensive? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
You genuinely looked like you were going to cry, and he could not hold it in any longer.
A snort, then a stifled snigger before he burst out laughing. Cackling and borderline folding in on himself. You swallowed, horrified, hand hovering awkwardly in an attempt to… console? him? Fuck, you were funny, he’d give you that. Straightening up, he leaned into your space. “Yeah? Then how’d you mean it?” The pout sat heavy, your bottom lip wobbling, “I- like, not in a bad way. I was just saying.” Words dying in your throat, cheeks flushed from the harsh chill and embarrassment. He breathed through his nose, a smirk pulling up. This was kind of fun. “Saying… what?” The question stretched out, teasing. You looked so sad,
it was hilarious.
Your gaze was glued to the cement, the tray of drinks depressingly limp and tilted down. “I don’t know.” Mumbled and pathetic, you reminded him of a wet cat. Surprising him when your head abruptly shoots up, “I am sorry, though. I just- I just say things sometimes, I really didn’t mean it in like, a weird way.” Said so earnestly that it almost threw him off. You were odd, and you cared too much, he huffed. Backing away, he took another swig, “It’s fine, s’not like you hurt my fuckin’ feelings or some shit.” He didn’t know why he comforted you; he didn’t think about it, didn’t care enough either, it just came out.
The hiss of an engine stark against the wind, bright headlights of the bus coming into view. Your awaited ride had arrived, a quick wave, and you were stepping onto the platform. You smiled at him when you caught his eye through the window. The once steaming cup in his hand had gone cold, as if you had taken the warmth with you.
Man, you were annoying.
Your picture had begun to tilt, slipping out and falling to the floor. Monochromatic with splatters of crimson.
➽──────────────❥
The third time he’d encountered you was the beginning of the end.
He wasn’t exactly religious, but if god was real, Jeff was his favourite clown.
His life was a sick joke; it had to be. Because as he lay there, broken and bruised, blood gushing from an open wound, a grating and familiar voice graced his ears. You. The red gleam of the stop lights silhouettes your figure from behind, baring that same forsaken expression. Brows furrowed, the corners of your lips taut with concern. Give him a fucking break, like Jesus can’t a guy bleed out in peace?
Fingers numb and his arms limp, the dumpster he leaned against didn’t help much. The metal was freezing, bitter frost seeping through his sweat-damp clothes; it was laughable. A badly timed fight, halfway drunk and one well-aimed gash later, he was here. In an alleyway with nothing to his name, he was counting the bricks on the wall adjacent to him. Eyes unfocused, vision blurring in between blinks. Everything hurt.
His head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as it lolled to the side. He wanted to curse you out, tell you to ‘fuck off,’ but the only sound that came out was a gurgly, weak mumble. You crouched down next to him, posture tense, you were talking, at least he assumed you were. Mouth opening and closing before you cradled his face, checking for a pulse, hearing muffled by thick cotton.
He could barely make out what you were saying. Something along the lines of “What happened?” and “We need to— … help stop the bleeding.” Yada yada. Fading in and out of consciousness, he doesn’t remember the rest. Didn’t remember you helping him up, the way his feet dragged up the stairs of your apartment. The way you eased him down onto your couch with a touch so gentle it made him ill, how your hands shook in desperation and fear when you stitched him together. Makeshift med kit emptied on his behalf.
He woke up confused as shit and on edge. A cozy living room greeted him instead of the dingy alley, sun flickering through the curtains. His body was tucked under a heavy blanket, the sharp pain now dulled to an ache. Mind racing a mile a minute until his sight lands on you, draped over the edge of the cushion. You were sitting on the floor, slumped by his feet, your plush carpet still stained with his blood. Softly snoring away, unaware of the literal serial killer you had invited into your home.
Okay, maybe you weren’t stupid, you were just insane. Who the fuck, brings a ragged stranger into their house, patches them up and then doesn’t call the cops? Sitting up, he grunted, the noise startling you awake. He stared at you, and you stared back, “Did you fucking sleep here?” The question blurted out, voice raspy from lack of use, “Um, yeah? You lost a lot of blood, I was worried.” You said it like it was obvious, and he looked at you like you were crazy. “Are you hungry?” Collecting the scattered bandages and wraps on the floor as you stood, you looked back at him, expectant. He didn’t like you, hardly tolerated you, let alone trust you, but this was an opportunity.
Jeff was a tactical guy; if you were dumb enough to offer, then he’d have to be even dumber not to take it. He could read you like a book, someone who cared too much, probably believed in some stupid shit like ‘seeing the best in everyone.’
You were an easy target. He’d use you until he got bored or you got nosy. Maybe you’d come to your senses down the line, but for now, he’d drain you of everything you had. Chew you up and spit you out, “Sure, what d’ya got?” His sudden cheery mood should’ve made you suspicious; the grin on his lips resembled a wolf who had stumbled upon an injured deer—hunger and sharp teeth, thinly veiled by a sheep’s mask.
The look that flashed across your face made him pause, so brief you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. It wasn’t malicious, dangerous, or premeditated. Just different, knowing. Gone as fast as it came, you hummed, “I have eggs, toast, and I think I have bacon?” Tittering to yourself as you stepped towards the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow.
The morning was decently eventful, the man you’d first talked to in that gas station reappearing. Bouncing mundane questions off one another and eating in comfortable silence, it was strangely domestic. He looked as out of place in your quaint cookery as you did in that petrol stop. Dark and brooding, with bloodied knuckles and faint scars lining almost every inch of his skin. Finishing your food and borderline licking the plate clean, you even packed him a snack to go.
How stupid could you get? He walked out of your apartment with a pep in his step. You were the perfect outlet. He could come and go as he pleased; he doubted that you’d even blink if he disappeared for weeks just to show up asking for dinner and to use your emenities. Your naivety filled his freeloader soul with joy; you hadn’t even really asked why he got stabbed in the first place. Nodded along when he told you it was a bar fight, didn’t press or freeze up either. However, just because it should have been easy doesn’t mean it will be easy.
Jeff’s pride would be the death of him.
➽──────────────❥
The months were flying by, and he was co-existing. Barely.
More like the shadow rather than a roommate. He’d slip into your home in the dead of night, be gone by sunrise and so on. Sometimes the only trace he’d stopped by was an unwashed mug in your sink, a welcome mat left with the heavy imprints of boots too big to be yours. He moved like someone who didn’t exist. You were almost always asleep when he climbed in through your fire escape, bundled up under your covers without a care in the world. You had started doing this thing, though. The first instance occurred two weeks ago.
You’d left him a note. The colourful square was taped right on top of a Tupperware box.
“I tried a new recipe today !! It’s a little spicy, I think it’s pretty good :)”
Huh, interesting. Well, he didn’t care that much; he ate it as he’d eat anything else in your pantry. I mean, it was nice, home-cooked food, far and few in between. And if it was home-cooked, it certainly wasn’t good, edible at most and toxic waste at worst. So yeah, it was nice, he fucking supposed. But you still freaked him out— you and your weird little habits, especially tonight.
The digital clock reads 1:00 AM. Your bedroom door was closed, signalling that you were dead to the world. His socked feet padded across the floor, opening the fridge and coming face to face with another multicoloured sticky note. It states that you had yet again tried a new recipe, wow, how exhilarating.
Scoffing under his breath, he grabs the container and pops it into the microwave, the smell making his mouth water. He’d been gone for a couple of days, stalking another subject stickman didn’t trust; therefore, he was tired. Which meant he was hungry. Starved, even, the only time he ate full meals or had access to them was when he was at yours.
Beep Beep Beep-
Quickly opening the toaster-oven door, it was truly a sight to behold. Some kind of stew, hearty with a side of rice. The dish came out steaming, and he handled it like it was made of gold. Shovelling a spoonful into his mouth, he hummed around the bite. It was good, tasted like it was made with love or whatever the fuck people say. If he had to pick one of your meals to eat for the rest of his life, it’d be this one. Not that he’d tell you that.
Foot tapping to an unheard tune, basking in the warmth of your kitchen, he liked it here more than he was willing to admit. It was quieter, softer; people didn’t expect anything of him here. Didn’t flinch when they walked past him in the halls, challenge him to prove a point, shout in his face just to see him bite back. It was just you. In your dweeby little pyjamas, shirt three sizes too big for you, and puns that didn’t even make sense half the time. You were a stupid civilian, but you weren’t intolerable.
He wasn’t dense; he knew you were kind, caring, even if it’d kill you. It wasn’t on you that you, of all people, had run into him. And perhaps if he were a better man, he’d leave, disappear one day and never look back. But he wasn’t, so he stays, intruding on your peaceful life. He didn’t deserve any of it, your efforts, your food, your fondness. It was never meant to be his; he knew that. In the end, it didn’t matter to him either way; this was nothing, you were nothing.
He was just using you. Down to how you acted, you looked at him that way because he curated you to. Your endearment, the joy that seemed to radiate off of you like a second skin whenever he’d tease back. Your eyes lighting up like he was the funniest person in the world. None of it was real. It was all meaningless, futile. He’d still play pretend, though, even if just for a little while. Enjoy it while it lasts.
“Do you like it? I broiled the beef before I stewed it so-“
“JesusFUCK—“
He might as well have jumped ten feet in the air. Jolting so violently, his spoon clatters against the glass plate, tailbone hitting the counter behind him. Self-deprecating inner monologue interrupted, you worked a 9-5, there was zero fucking reason for you to be that quiet. “What the fuck is your problem?” Said with such venom that you’re taken aback. His gaze accusatory, you had never been more confused in your life. “Why are you even- like. Here?” You raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in thought, “I live... here?” Question marks filling your head, is he high?
“No- fuck- like why the hell are you up?”
“I needed to pee.”
Glancing down like your bladder had offended him, face scrunched up in irritation. You scratched your head. He was so weird sometimes. Coughing into your fist once, “Well, is it good?” He stared at you blankly in return.
“The food, like did you like it?—“
“I heard you the fuckin’ first time.”
He sneered at you as if this wasn’t your home and he wasn’t eating your food. The realization hits him mid-insult, and he ducks his head to the side. Stance slightly riddled with guilt. He clears his throat, eyes averted. “It was good.” Nodding, you clasp your hands in front of you, “Okay, there’s cut fruit in the fridge if you want. I’m going back to bed.” You turn on your heel, two steps from exiting the room, before you call over your shoulder. “Jeff?” With the way his head whipped up, he looked more oversized and awkward dog than man.
“Goodnight.” Your head tilted to the side, peering at him with a tenderness that made his throat tight. He hated that about you. “Night.” The word tense, grunted out stifly.
There were moments when he wished he had died in that fire.
The frame is sharp, but not indestructible. The wood is splintered and frayed, glass dissolved into powder.
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: Don’t Wanna Fall In Love - KYLE
0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47
And then there were days when he took life in stride.
Shutter, click, boom.
You were relentless with your new camera and started terrorizing him with it the second you woke up. Last night he sat his tired, dirty ass down on your beloved pristine couch; maroon suede. Your pick. Shutting his eyes and breathing in, he could rest. That peace lasted for about five whole seconds before you almost blinded him with flash.
Saying how you had made “The greatest investment of all time!” The photo was completely unusable because you couldn’t develop it correctly, due to someone’s… misdeeds; but the sentiment remains.
“Jeff?” Waving a hand in his face to get his attention, you snort. Head on his shoulder and mid movie, all of a sudden, he’s spaced out and blankly staring at the coffee table. Blinking like he’s coming back to life, he finally meets your eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Where’d you go?”
And there it was. The reason he second-guesses every motive he’s ever had. It wasn’t even a choice. It’s like you could see into him, stare at the inner workings of his brain. Pick him apart and put him back together; he thinks you’re weirdly good at knowing him without really knowing him. It scares him sometimes. But only if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. “Was thinking about you, idiot, don’t worry about it.” Stretching up dramatically to throw his arm around you, the atmosphere was lighter than usual.
He doesn’t remember when you’d both become so touchy; it just kind of happened. Somewhere between the quick late-night stops, turning into annoying you in your kitchen before he left. That drifting into crashing on your sofa in a sweater you’d bought for him.
The intimacy trickled in like a leaky tap.
Maybe it was because he was in a good mood from a satisfying kill, tired and not caring enough to bully you (that much), or maybe you were… enjoyable to be around, your company comforting in a way that made him unguarded.
It was definitely not the last thing, absolutely not. Obviously.
He sighs. He knew it was coming. Just a matter of time before he feels your divine wrath upon his undeserving soul. “Right. Now, I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest, okay?” Nodding at you with a huff, he rolls his eyes, looking away.
Really innocent of him. Truly.
“Did you-“ before you could even get it out, he jumped to defend himself, you know, like the true man he was. “Listen- listen, sweetheart. I… I was attacked.” Amazing. The cover-up of a century, you honestly wished to god it was the truth. Your companion in shambles before you, silver tongue falling short in your presence. “Attacked.” The way the word rolled out of your mouth was an accusation on its own. “Yep.” He popped the P like it was absolute. “In your very own home, too, so sad.”
Brushing back his bangs, he sags deeper into the cushions. As if that would somehow hide him from your harsh gaze. “So let me get this straight,” sitting up to really dig into him,
“Someone broke into my apartment-“
“Uh huh.”
“Overpowered you-“
“Yup.”
“Only to turn on the lights in the only room with my photos, knock over the bins holding said photos-“
“Yeah.”
“And got away without a trace in the two minutes you went to the bathroom last night?”
“That’s exactly what happened. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Lord Almighty, did you like him, really, really like him, but nature balances itself out in the strangest ways, you suppose. Jeff was tall and brooding, all spikey-haired and quick one-liners. Handsome to boot, yet when he opened his mouth at times like these, it had you really questioning your decisions. “Wow, some fighter you are.” You snark, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “Ouch.” He pats his chest like he’s genuinely hurt, pouting at you. “S’not my fault- missed you too much on the job, threw me off my game.”
Oh. Inhale, exhale, you remind yourself. You wanted to be annoyed, your scarred friend and his obnoxiously dumb flirting. However, very, very unfortunately, your stern facade started to crack. He can see it too, feel it almost. The joy bubbling up your throat like lemon soda on a hot summer’s day, he liked this version of himself with you. The witty jokes, his dry, sarcastic humour that had you sighing every time. The stupid boyish grin he gave you when he knew he’d won. The same one breaking across his face right now, lopsided and goofy. It makes him look younger, like he’s a teenager who finally scored with the pretty girl in his class.
Your soft laugh rings through the house. Bouncing off the halls and lighting the way with it. Oddly enough, it reminded him of his childhood, the constant stomachache and cracked knuckles. Bleak walls and ruined floor, empty. Reminds him to be grateful. Whatever.
He was a proxy. A name marked with blood. Malice followed him by lineage, who he was as a man. But with you? He was just, “Jeff.” spoken like a hushed prayer. Distrust clouded your stare; yet curiosity laced your tone. A cautious stranger, an acquaintance. Then he was “Jeffrey,” a friend, your overconfident, almost roommate with a penchant for street brawls and baked goods. Someone to come home to, a constant in a life of fleeting moments. Chuckling, he slides his hand from your shoulder to your cheek. Tracing your collarbone and your jaw along the way, pretty. You were pretty.
“Whatever corny compliment you’re about to use isn’t going to work.”
You say, leaning into his palm. His thumb running against your bottom lip, “wasn’t gonna’ say nothing, sweets.” Your anger long forgotten, his sugary, tooth-rotting pet names wiping your mind completely. “Whatever, you’re making it up to me by the way.”
Rolling his eyes as you card your fingers through his hair. “Yeah? What do I hafta do to make you love me again, huh?” Mocking with something just a tad too genuine.
He had fallen right into your trap. Your long, incredibly convoluted plan was now in the works, and this is how he found himself covered in your stupid, mismatched stickers at nine pm on a Thursday. Scattered across his face and neck as you make him pose for the camera. You pinch his cheek as you snap a photo. The supposedly big, bad, scary killer sitting on your sofa, with a half smile and faint blush to match.
Somewhere, a red Polaroid of you starts to weep. The corners are fading just a tad.
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: No One Noticed - The Marias
0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47
Indulgence.
That was the word. He was splitting at the seams, your hands undoing him with the precision of a tailor. Graceful as you snipped at the sutures, careful, fond.
And he let you.
The moon crescented above the clouds, light coming in with every breeze that blew past your curtains. He rarely stayed till morning, gone by the time you stepped out of bed, but today felt quieter. Something unspoken hanging in the air, you had curled up next to him on the sofa, linking your pinky with his. Never acknowledging it, just sharing warmth between hushed laughter and looks when the other wasn’t paying attention. Jeff was supposed to have left hours ago, unbothered in his ways, the plan crumbling when you’d pulled him into your bedroom.
Distracted by your touch, the delicate balance of your space, it made him feel normal. Pretending this was routine, simply sneaking in through your window, maybe your friends and peers disapproved, saying he was a bad influence. Jeff was playing house, choosing a role to slip into, acting his part and burying the voice that told him he wished it were more.
Your ongoing conversation had slowly faded into placid mumbles with noncommittal grunts in response. He lay rigid atop your covers, arms crossed and tucked under him. Propped on his side, he felt out of place.
The safety of your room was jarring, your trinkets and decorations terribly personal, and you’d let him in. Let him see you when all your shields have dropped. Bundled under your blankets, you extend a hand. The comforter pushed down, you traced patterns against exposed skin, his sweater rolled up to the elbow. Fingers trailing until you reach his wrist, tugging his arm out, and hugging it closer. Your face pressed against him, content.
There’s this space between you, a gap in the linen, a line he refused to cross. Because it felt wrong. Intimate where he was undeserving. Your sanctuary, a heart hidden behind the plush ribs of your bedroom doors. He thought you looked good like this, reminded him of a painting in some distant memory. The brushstrokes are purposeful, illustrating you blameless and adored. You walked the border of consciousness and slumber, lids growing heavy as sleep fought to take you. He planned to wait, linger long enough for you to leave him completely, before silently detangling his limbs.
Your drowsy mumur surprises him,
“Are you gonna leave?”
Said so softly, it made his chest ache with guilt. He glanced down at you, doe-eyed and looking at him like he was a saint. It made his skin crawl; your trust violated, made him itch from his bones out. Bringing up his free hand, he brushed an eyelash from your cheek. It stuck to the pad of his thumb, and for a moment, he selfishly hoped it’d stay. For when he was somewhere far and missed you just a little. “I’m right here, ain’t I?” Huffed with fake nonchalance, he knew what you meant. Always close enough to touch but never enough to feel.
Staying meant giving in; it meant falling more than he already had. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, can’t.
“Besides, s’too stuffy in here. Gonna suffocate me to death. Warm and all that.” The baritone muffled by the pillow, gaze focused on the wall. You sighed, nuzzling deeper into his sleeve, “And what’s wrong with being warm?” You always make things so difficult, his jaw flexing, “I wasn’t-“ he closes his eyes, searching for words that wouldn’t fit either way. “I just can’t.” The excuse is hollow, pathetic.
“Why? You can tell me, I won’t be sad, I promise.”
Your request was fragile, carrying an innocence that had him breathing hard out his nose.
“Because-“
What the hell did you want him to say? That he can’t because he couldn’t stand the way you look at him, that sometimes his hands shake when he reaches for you, because he knows they’ll never be clean. Jeff was scummy, sleazy and marred. He slept on stained mattresses with no sheets, concrete when he’d fucked himself over again, doing dumb shit he had no business doing. Couldn’t stay, no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t stay because the person you trusted didn’t even exist. Couldn’t stay because of all the times he’d maimed and slaughtered for the fuck of it. Just because.
“I can’t.”
Shrugging and defeated, his lips pressed into a thin line when you leaned up. Nose nudging his, you grasped at his hoodie, pressing yourself flush. As close as you could be with your blanket in the way. His defiance faltering, you lace your arms around his neck. You had trapped him in your magnetic little bubble, “Please?” It was cruel, cocooned in your embrace, he thinks you could convince him to do anything if you held him like this in return.
Jeff was weak, and you knew it. Freezing as if he’d just made a life-or-death decision, his body fully sinks into the bed. “Okay.” And you giggled, he wanted to keep the sound. Too tired to keep his tough guy act going, he smiled. Soft and unfiltered, the sight was rare. Groaning, he dramatically tossed his head to the side, “God, you’re fuckin’ clingy, you know that?” Though the grin stayed planted on his face, teasing.
You hummed, cuddled into his shoulder. The distance is still there, but waning. He doesn’t move under the covers; he doesn’t need to. Your closeness is enough for now.
It was the best sleep he’d ever had.
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: WILDFLOWER - Billie Elilish
0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47
Jeff should have been used to it.
He was expecting it after all. The ruin. Yet, the dread refused to leave. He had shown up at your door, destruction in his wake, angry and snippy. Ready to eat whatever the hell was in your pantry, maybe shower, then disappear into the dark before you noticed he was there to begin with. And of course, the one time he wanted some peace and quiet, you decided to have a late-night-in. Stayed up and waited for him, wanting to spend time near him like you cared.
He had planned to go along with it just long enough to leave, keep his mask on to keep you off his back. But nothing ever really went his way, now did it? Facade slipping the second you open your mouth.
“Are you okay?”
The question kick-starts a long-time coming disaster. The calm before a storm. His answer was short, said with barely contained irritation. “‘m fine.” You pushed, worry clear as day as you took him in. The circles under his eyes were deeper than you’d ever seen, clothes scuffed and hung heavy on his frame. He looked exhausted, like something in him was dying, and he was too far gone to save it. “I know, but you just seem tired today.” Patience thinning by the second, who the fuck did you think you were? Pretending you knew him, talking as if you had any right to press.
So he laughed, grin stretching too wide across his cheeks. Empty and cold, his body jerking unnaturally, “I seem tired? And how the fuck do I seem normally, huh?” Cutting you off before you could even take a breath, “You really think you know me? Think we’re best friends because you’re too much of a fuckin’ pushover to tell me to fuck off?” The chair slamming back, towering over you and mocking. Your once serene living room now tainted, his disdain violent and loud.
“I was just worried about you, you were gone for a whole week and-“ He howled, the pitch so sharp it stung. “Oh, that’s rich. You were worried about me? I mean fuck, how stupid are you?” Pacing back and forth like a madman, he turned to face you, sneering. “I know you’re an empty-headed little fuck, but this is something else.” The hurt on your face made him scoff, tangent building in force, any retort you had fizzling out with each belittling word that left his lips. Outrage shaking through the floors, resentment in his tone suffocating you. His fist crashed against the coffee table, the wood creaking under his strength.
Pushing off from your seat, you steadied yourself. Tried to reason with him, “I was trying to help-“ And maybe he could see that, some tiny voice in his head screaming at him to stop before he did something reckless, something he’d regret.
Too bad Jeff never got the hang of listening, blinded by rage and ego, invading your space more and more until your back hits the wall. “You’re such a fucking idiot. You think you mean shit to me? You really want to know me? Wanna know why I seem so tired all the time?” Snarling inches away from your skin, you were trapped.
Adrenaline began to flood your body, hands clutching against your chest. “It’s because I have to waste my time gutting stupid cunts like you. Dragging bodies into ditches, it’s annoying, you know-“ Breaths speeding up, you swallowed. “Jeff-“ His berate never losing heat, voice raising as he continues. “Day and fucking night, cleaning blood outta’ your clothes really starts to bring you down after a while.”
You were on the brink of hyperventilating, vision blurring with tears. “Jeff-” whimpered out, grasping at anything resembling someone you thought was a friend. “Takes work, pisses me the fuck off when they start begging. Shit, it’s even kinda’ funny sometimes-“ The gruesome details spilling, barking at you. Pinned in place as he broke you down, teeth bared, you couldn’t handle it anymore. “JEFF.” Your outburst startled you both, and then you said something that hit like a bucket of cold water. Choked out and quiet in a way that felt violating.
“You’re scaring me.”
The sound was so hopeless it stunned him. As if he had stolen all the fight you had left, so afraid you’d just given up. Stepping back, the fury dissipated, sight no longer clouded with scarlet. You looked terrified. Pathetically curling in on yourself, trembling as you stared at him wide-eyed and panicked. Silent, his crazed grin wiped clean, he reached up to touch your shoulder. To ease you, to show you he didn’t mean it. You flinched like he had burned you. Lerching back from his hand, a pitiful noise at the back of your throat.
It made him feel disgusting. Made him feel like a monster. He hated you, hated the way you feared him, hated the way your tear-filled eyes had him nauseous. Despised the way your surrender infused his lungs with cement.
A beat, and the door slammed shut behind him. Leaving without a word, you stood there amongst the rubble. Dust settling heavy over the memory of who he used to be.
The rain pelting down on him felt colder tonight than it ever had.
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: The Great Gig In The Sky - Pink Floyd
0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47
Bad to the bone, sick as a dog.
Jeff wasn’t raised with gentle hands and tender words. Closeness with soothing whispers to mend the scrapes on his knees. He was forged, welded into shape by iron cruelty, the steel blistering as it seared his skin. They told him he was born crooked, that wrath was sewn into his DNA, hostility festering before he could even understand what it meant to grieve. And maybe they were right, but it was never his choice, never his want, to do nothing but take. To turn callous and resentful, the violence was parasitic. Weaving its way into his blood like an infection, clawing up his throat and spilling between his teeth.
He was diseased, staining everything he touched, trading barbarity like cards in exchange for feigned valour.
Perhaps that’s why your warmth shook him. He had been freezing his entire life, his youth spent screaming, hysterical, and desperate for anything but bruising distance. A boy manufactured with a glass heart, walls built high and lined with barbed wire, locked tight to keep it from shattering.
Then you came along.
You and your awful luck and sunshine eyes. Giving to a fault, painting stars on your window for overcast nights, because you believed. Believed that even if your moon was shadowed and hidden, if you clasped your hands together and wished with all your might, that when dawn would break, the sun would glow golden. Painting the horizon in rose and amber. You were the embodiment of everything he wasn’t. Bright and kind, genuine in a way that made his stomach twist. Chipping at him, water on stone, slowly and aching. It was erosion in its most honest form. You were ruining him.
So he ran. To forget, to try and erase your touch. Yet, it refused, and you stayed despite his efforts. Not in body but in mind, chasing him every step of the way. You were haunting him, buried in his marrow like possession. Each corner he turned, he swore, for a second, you were there. The flash of your shirt in the tree line, the weight of your eyes on him, his muscles bracing for impact, feeling for your hand on his back. Like you used to. When you wanted to get his attention, when you leaned on him just because. He was constantly expecting a hold that would never arrive. No matter what he did, he couldn’t escape it, and it was driving him mad.
Growing reckless, brutality increasing with each assignment. To the point that others started to notice, even more wary of him than before. Every time they avoided his gaze, flinched at his voice, booming and angry, he’d see you. See his mother. She deserved it- you deserved it. They all did. So why.
Why did it make him feel sick? Bile rising, the taste bitter on his tongue, your face replayed on loop. How you shrank in fear, how he had taken your trust, fragile and whispered, and crushed it in his palm. His pride is putrid and devastating, rotting him from the inside out. Jeff knew he’d mutilated what you had beyond repair, the delicate balance reduced to ash, but he was selfish. Wounded mutt crawling home after biting the hand that feeds, dogged loyalty by definition. Because he needed it more than he needed the knife, the rush.
Your sorrow acted as a noose snug around his neck. The more he pulled, the more the rough twine dug into his skin, shredding his flesh. Left him black and blue; this was your fault. You had lured him in, melody hypnotic while you tied him down. Sank your hands past his ribs and tore out his decaying heart, ate it whole as you kissed him goodnight. He was hooked on it; you flooded his veins like heroin.
He was dying, suffocating from the withdrawals. It felt like he was losing his fucking mind. Your scent, your voice, the way it felt when you simply looked at him. Drug-induced haze was the closest comparison, and he was relapsing bad. You’d spoiled him, and now he couldn’t even breathe without you, couldn’t sleep or eat without your ghost over his shoulder. Saccharine, you plagued him sweet and steady. He wanted to rid himself of it. However, your affection had vines; they latched onto his spine, winding up and puncturing his lungs. The fruits of your labour, nurtured by his blood and obsession. He’d fought it, waged war against it, but,
Every rose has thorns, and every heart has a limit.
And Jeff was tired. He was so fucking tired. He’d spent so long pushing upstream when all he wanted to do was drown. Let you consume him, bones and all.
Your picture bleeds watercolour, the hues mixing vermillion and sky blue.
➽──────────────❥
12:15 AM
His knuckles rapped against the wood. This was a bad idea. Still, he shifted in front of your locked door; he’d hyped himself up in the mirror and everything. This was a change in routine; he would always climb through your fire escape, or window, or pick the lock and let himself in. Now it’d feel wrong to, your dynamic had shifted. He didn’t know if you’d even talk to him, want to see him. If you’d gasp in horror and call the cops like you should have long ago, yet he risks it anyway. Because he craved you, looked for the curves of your grin in the smoke. Missed you in his dreams, so he rocked back and forth on his heels and waited.
Shuffling and a latch clicking were heard from the other side. His palms were clammy in his pockets. This was it, the final stretch.
You opened the door slowly, peaking through the crack. Moving cautiously, you were tense. Not that he could blame you. You were exactly how he remembered, soft and cozy. The warm light streamed into the hallway, giving you a halo, cast by your hair and wispy. He was blanking. Despite spending hours talking to himself, planning it out, maybe even throwing up a little. Now that he was standing here, he had nothing. Absolutely jack shit. Brain cotton stuffed and useless, he stared, neither of you daring to break the silence. Until finally, you sigh.
“What do you want?”
You didn’t sound scared, progress. His mouth was drier than the Sahara, he’d never been more nervous in his life, and that was saying something. Decades of slaughter, taking out his whole family and all it took was one judgmental squint from you, and he was sweating. “Wanted to see you,” it was mumbled, meek in a way you hadn’t seen before. He felt too exposed, prayed the ground would open up and eat him. You lingered there for a beat, the cogs turning in your head, then you stepped back. You had hesitance, but not fear, and that was enough.
You shut the door behind him, making your way to the couch with him in your shadow. Settling against the cushions, he dropped down in front of you. Legs crossed stiffly on the floor. “So,” he started, eyes avoiding yours.
“You threatened to kill me-“
“Okay, now hold on- I did not threaten you, I just-“
The look you gave him was piercing. Reminded him to keep himself in check, he wasn’t going to get back into your good graces by arguing. And he fucked up, he could admit that, he knew he was lucky you even opened the door to begin with. Accountability and all that fucking jazz. God, why did this have to be so difficult? Why did he have to be so weird and emotionally constipated about literally fucking everything? Damn, maybe he should just leave, yell some more and really dig his grave. Go home, give up and die-
“Jeff.”
Your voice snapped him out of his spiral. “Yeah?” Blinking up at you, Jeff picked at the sleeves of his hoodie. He cleared his throat, and you dragged a hand down your face like you were about to lecture a toddler. “Say what you came here to say.” Tone final, your gaze hardened. Right. That. Okay, you were mad, he could work with this. “I didn’t… mean it.” The words felt like bricks, teeth gritted like it physically pained him to say. “Didn’t mean what? The part where you admitted to murder? Or was it when you spat in my face and told me I meant nothing to you?” You continued, exasperation building with each sentence. “You don’t get to do this, explode and scream at me, then show up later like you care-“ Your declaration was combative, and he barked back, “I do care, I wouldn’t fuckin’ be here if I didn’t.”
Face hot, you were conflicted, pulled apart by confusion and anger, both framed by longing. “Then fuckin’ act like it.” Volume raising, you were angry at him, yet you missed him, incredibly so. He would show up one day and charm you. Tuck your hair behind your ear, help you cook with affection that’d make you swoon. Then turn around and sneer at you when you laugh too loudly the next.
He had been gone for months, scared you to tears and left. Not once turning around. You thought he’d disappeared for good, and as much as he pissed you off, it hurt. Standing up, you paced round the rug, “I thought I’d never see you again, and I hated you for it. I hated you for it.” The emotions you’d tried so hard to bury were pooling in your eyes. Your speech cracked, despair raw in a way he didn’t know how to handle. “I mourned you. Did you know that? I grieved you, because even if you were terrible, I still wanted you here.” The expression he wore was blank, his body language rigid. He was stunned; he’d expected you to be angry. To slam the door in his face, tell him you loathed him, but not like this.
“You’d choose to stay, then you’d act like I was such a chore to be around. Now you’re confessing to man slaughter and telling me you care?” Scoffing, you throw your arm up, gesturing to him. “What else is there, huh? Are you just going to get worse until I end up in a ditch somewhere?” Cutting him off the second he budges, you were exhausted. “Is that why you came back? To finish the job because I know too much? Finally, gut me like the stupid cunt you obviously think I am.“
You were hiccuping by this point, overwhelmed and in tears, and it was his fault. “I didn’t mean any of that shit.“ He pushed himself off the floor; he was not doing this again. “You hate me and you think I’m too stupid to see it-“ you muttered, palms pressed to your eyes. Empty laugh as you sniffled. He was sick of it; if you wanted the truth, he’d give it to you.
“Yeah, I do hate you-“ Rolling your eyes, a sob tumbling out of your mouth. He closes the distance. In your space, this time it was different. His voice shook with wretched hope instead of fury. “I hate that you laugh at everything. I hate that you’re dumb enough to keep talking to me.“ Fingers wrapping around your wrist, grounding you. “I hate that you fall asleep on me like I’m safe, look at me like I’m good. It pisses me off when you waste your time cooking me shit. Alright? I hate that you see through me.” He prys your hands from your face, cupping your cheek.
“I hate when you care for me. When you work yourself up over fuckin’ nothing-“ Humourless chuckle against your skin. “You have no sense of fucking danger, you care too much about shit that doesn’t matter. I hate that you never think before you act, that you’re clumsy and get into bad situations— because you thought it was a good idea to offer some weird motherfucker hot chocolate-“ Leaning in, tangent taking his breath. He rested his forehead on yours,
“And I hate that you make me wish I was someone else.”
Cadence unsteady, the confession strained, it had you reeling. Adrenaline high, vulnerable as he held onto you. The intimacy of it, things he had sworn to never say, all landing at your feet.
A love letter.
He glanced down at your lips, straying there for a millisecond, but you caught it. Eyes flickering back up and locking. Your mouth brushed over his; you could feel the waver in his hands. Desperation like no other, only centimetres away.
“Tell me to stop.”
You kissed him. Surging forward, he met you in the middle. You tasted like spring and relief. His arms pulling you to him, breaths mixing. Hand cradling your nape, tugging at your hair, molding his lips to yours like he had something to prove. Jeff needed his fill to feel sane; he wanted to drown in you. Stumbling until you hit the wall, bracing his forearm beside your head, the parallel was not lost on him. Your touch was adorned with sugar, holding his face, thumbs tracing circles.
He sank into your grasp with reverence, bodies flush, for someone so brash, he kissed you softly, slowly. Almost careful, as if he’d break you by accident. You hummed, pecking him a couple more times before pulling back, chests heaving. He chased your mouth, needy and hot. Pausing when your hand pushed on his shoulder, brow raised, he looked down at you, perplexed. “Not yet.” A hushed boundary, teasing grin still in place.
You leaned up, exaggerated ‘mwah’ as you made contact with his cheek. Right along his glasglow smile. “Gotta take me to dinner first, and I’m still mad at you.” You were always the worst liar, he thinks. Your bliss is giving you away.
Alas, his habit of ruining things was not lost on him either. You still liked him, though, so it didn’t really matter. “Damn.” He grunted, and you could feel it. He was about to say another stupid joke and completely shatter the atmosphere. He was allergic to genuine affection, could only withstand it in bits and pieces.
“Jeffery, I swear-“
“Is that a knife in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?”
You wanted to laugh, he could tell. Cheeks puffing out, you turned away from him. What an idiot. Didn’t you know? He was yours now, and that meant you obviously had to find him funny.
➽──────────────❥
Now Playing: Pink + White - Frank Ocean
0:58 ➜━❤━➜ 3:47
Early spring.
The sheets cool under you. Fidgeting with the edge of the white cover, you sigh, wondering what he’s doing up so early. Finally stepping out of bed, the cold wood tiles shock you awake as you make your way down the sunlit hall. One thing about your beloved is that he was somehow a skilled killer, yet absolutely clueless in the kitchen. Hair ruffled with sleep and eyes half lidded, you see him. At last, it’s like you miss him in your dreams with the way you yearn; imagine being so enamoured with someone that you call for them even in rest.
It’s silly, but he has tricked you into loving him, you suppose, taken your amore with a running start. “Morning, sweets,” the low rumble of his voice cutting off your train of thought.
Standing there, leaning against the counter, eyes light with humour, his lips stretching up into that lazy grin you’ve come to love. What an asshole. You remember when he first called you that, ‘sweets’. A slip of the tongue; so nervous back then, your heart fluttering in your chest, hanging onto every word. “Morning.” It was supposed to come out with bite, a sarcastic snide, sassy with an eye roll to match. Instead, it’s softer, a tad too real.
Rounding the kitchen island, He wrapped his arms around you, the warmth of it sends you almost reeling, you hate how easy you are for him. How he cradles your head when he holds you, how careful he is, like it’s the first time. Paired with a kiss to your hairline, oh yeah, you’re a goner. A kiss far too sweet for someone like him, rough with jagged edges, but a man in love all the same. The smell of burning ruins the storybook moment,
“Jeff.”
“Yes?…”
A drawl to his words, you weren’t joking when you said he was completely lost when cooking. “Did you burn breakfast?”
He sighs, stepping back and running a hand over his face. “I was trying to do something fuckin’ nice for you and-” Grunting with frustration, he moves aside, showing you the absolute disaster of charred pancakes from past attempts. You’re trying so hard not to laugh in his face, my god, you are trying. However, with the way his large figure was crammed into your small kitchen, burning pancakes all morning amused you to no end.
Giggling as you grab the spatula from his hand, “Okay, let’s try again, buster.” The expression on his face was priceless. “Buster? Who the fuck am I? Your dad’s fishing buddy?” He huffs, furrowed brows and disbelief clear as day.
Always one for the dramatics, you snort.
“Ok then, my love. Will you please, oh please, help me not burn our house down?” Adored him, you did, but god knows he would fight the devil himself before admitting he was soft on you. His favourite moments where you called him those stupid nicknames, all the cheesy ones he claims to despise. Whether you’re aware or not, he takes it to heart, carries those memories of his name on your lips, uttered like an oath for him and him alone. Whispered under tangled sheets and cloudless nights that had him jittery and calm all at the same time.
Groaning loudly and grumpily, he agrees. Shaking his head like he’s reluctant, you know better, though; fluent in Jeff after all these years. You know he’s excited, his tell is obvious. The way he presses his scarred lips together to suppress the smile he wants so bad to share, to the way he looks away from you. Like somehow that’d make it any less apparent, hide the adore he held for you.
Nevertheless, you don’t call him out. You’ll let it slide, this time. Then, right then, you realize your fool of a boyfriend had used salt instead of sugar for the batter. “Jeffery. It says salt on the label.” Whipping his head towards you, “I swear to fuck it said Sugar.” Pointing at the defenceless bag accusingly, like it were the salt’s fault for shapeshifting the second you woke up. “Piece of shit- karma loves to bite me in the ass the second I try to impress someone, huh-“ mumbling under his breath, he grabs it with such vigour you’d think it’d transform into another proxy in front of you and challenge your man to battle.
“Oh my- ok, ok it’s the pantry’s fault for deceiving you with dark forest magic and making you hallucinate sugar.” Snickering behind your hand. “Yeah, it did actually. Motherfuckers gonna’ fight me at this point, pure evil I’m tellin’ you, babe.”
He’s pouting, like you’ll pity him; stubborn as always. Pride’s going to end him one day, by your hands or otherwise. “Totally,” You mutter, damn. You’d tease him more, but you’re weak; turns out those stupid puppy eyes do work; the black t-shirt hugs his biceps just right as he crosses his arms. Looking ridiculously kissable, what’s a woman to do?
Pulling him down, you peck him square on the lips, and of course, the cocky son of a bitch dares to smirk at you after as if he’s in the right. Completely convinced you that he was, in fact, the victim here, it’s out of his hands, and shadow work was the one who ruined breakfast. He towers over you, broad and intimidating. Well, he would be if he weren’t staring at you like you’ve charmed him smooth. All honeyed eyes and goofy grins, has he always been this tall? It’s almost annoying how you have to go on your tippy toes just to reach him. You decide it was annoying. So you grab his face, pressing your foreheads together.
“You’re irritating, you know that?” He chuckles, breathing fanning over your lips. Jeff’s unbrushed hair shadowed his face,
“Yeah? Why’s that?” The nerve on him. His hands are resting on your waist, thumb rubbing back and forth on your shirt. You can’t even respond, don’t get the chance to; he kisses you, slow and heavy. It warms you, melts you, like simmered caramel, effectively silencing whatever sarcastic remark you had ready. He was still as rude as the day you’d met him.
You’ll forgive him nonetheless, because he kisses you like he’s starved. breathes you in like it’s the last he’ll ever have, like you’re something cherished. You’re made of sculpted glass, filled with daisies and daffodils, his grasp far too reckless to touch.
So, you suppose you’ll let it go for now, anyway. Even if he’s infuriating, harsh and resolute, gets under your skin. You’ll forgive him. It’s the least you can do; he can brag all he wants. Parade how you’re wrapped around his finger, because at the end of the day, he knows you’ve got him hook, line, and sinker.
The portrait of you was picked up. Tucked neatly into a pocket. Colours bright and painted every shade the heavens had to offer.
➽──────────────❥
➽──────────────❥
A/N: ITS HEREEE ^3^ I will be boyfriendifying that serial killer if It’s the last thing I do. I hope you liked it reading it because I enjoyed writing it !! Yap to me ab it perhaps ☝️
𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴: lıllılı.ıll. Toby Rogers x GN! Reader .lllııılı..lıllıl
"Harvey - Her’s ⋅" ★ ➤ ➤
𝟶𝟷:𝟻𝟷 ━━━━━━●─── 𝟶𝟹:𝟶𝟹 ⇆ ◁ ❚❚ ▷ ↻
W/C: 13.4k // Summary: Being trapped in a basement gives a brain-eating-bug way too much time on his hands. After the lab he was created in burns down, he’s stuck in a Petri dish underground- that is, until a house is built over the soil. The good news? He really likes the new resident. The bad news? You have a boyfriend. However, he’s nothing if not an… opportunist.
Tags: Parasite! Toby, body horror, lying and a sprinkle of manipulation, toxic OG! Tobias (he dies), the dove is being resuscitated, dub-con, Sub! Toby, oviposition, baby-trapping adjacent (slugs), the real housewives of America tease, penetration (to reader), antenna play, yes it’s exactly what you think it is, weird alien anatomy, dry humping, and domestic fluff
A/N: MY FIRST TOBY CENTRIC FIC !! This one is very silly, and I hope you enjoy reading !! ^3^ Also my first time writing gn smut… so this was a fun change :pp
➽──────────────❥
Parasite. Number: 7938.
That’s what he was, what they referred to him as anyway. His first breath of life had come to him in the form of a petri dish. Well, it wasn’t exactly a breath; he didn’t possess the lungs for that. The luxury to breathe. It wasn’t something god-given, not to him, not in the way it was gifted to others.
He didn’t even have a body, existing in the shape of an arthropod. An experiment. Small and meek, a tiny, nearly microscopic worm. With wriggling legs and dotted eyes that covered his skin. Mucus-slathered, he was kept in a glass vial, lined up with the rest of the vessels. The containers sat on a shelf, carefully organized in a too pristine laboratory.
They had made him artificially, a mocking configuration of natural law. His purpose was to test the brain's capabilities to fight against external stimuli. Test if the human consciousness could withstand something trying to take over. The fiction and media he’d witnessed the lab workers discuss weren’t far off, it seemed.
His only source of entertainment was watching. Staring at whatever the humans were playing on their phones, he got semi-invested in certain shows, too.
They’d huddle around each other on breaks, laughing, crying over people that weren’t real. Having such compassion for characters on a screen. It was baffling to him, honestly. The thing was, they didn’t gain their knowledge from reconstructed membranes or false blueprints of nervous systems.
Their research came at the price of blood.
Hurding people in like cattle, the scientists would strap writhing bodies to a metal table. Put them to sleep and ease their minds with false promises. Telling the volunteers that this was simply a trial run, that nothing would change. Swearing that when they awoke, they’d feel fine. It was just a scan, a mundane check-up, that’s all.
He’d watch them feed the subjects lies, and if he had a heart, he was sure it’d break on their behalf. How cruel is it to tear up over a story about inhumanity, while standing on the side of the aggressor? Pretending to care about make-believe tales, yet turning around to commit acts more damned than imaginable.
A grotesque process, it played out the exact same way every time. The participants would be given some lacklustre excuse on why they couldn’t go home, then be escorted into quarantine. Then slowly, they’d mutate. The mental strain was far too heavy for them to handle.
They’d cry, scream, and beg to be released. Plead for it to stop. Violently tugging at their restraints, slamming themselves into the glass barrier until their throats were raw. Withering away day by day as one of his kind ate at their flesh from the inside out.
They’d be unrecognizable by the end. Empty husks with overgrowths of skin, veins popping behind their eyes, viscous liquid spilling from the rotted sockets. The workers could spew bullshit all they wanted, but he knew better. This wasn’t to see how strong the body was; it was to see if they could play god.
Creating a hybrid of mortality and monster. The issue hung in the aftermath, however. None of the specimens they used had a consciousness of their own. Once the mutation process was over, the test subjects were useless. Lacking basic cognitive function, they couldn’t speak, couldn’t even eat properly. The human DNA appeared to reject the virus-like parasites, choosing to starve its own host instead.
There had been one semi-successful attempt. A young girl, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She was excited about the concept of being a part of something bigger than herself. That fact definitely exploded into oblivion when the agony kicked in. But she fought nonetheless.
Her strength was amplified along with her appetite. They even had to bring in backup when she broke out of quarantine. They hauled her down like an animal, putting a bullet through her skull and staining the ground with gore. Then they moved on. As if she hadn’t been there to start with. A constant cycle of death, rinse, and repeat.
They’d scrap the diseased and begin anew. Starting fresh, only to fail again and again. It was obvious by this point that he was the outlier. The singular bug that had grown a mind of its own. Still, he couldn’t exactly tell them that; he couldn’t talk, and he didn’t want to either.
I mean, what kind of existence was that? They’d inject him into an ear cavity; it’d work, then what? Be stuck in containment forever? Poked and prodded until both he and the host gave in to the reaper? Spending his years forever as nothing more than an experiment didn’t sound appealing in the slightest.
He bided his time patiently, and it’s not like he needed sleep. He just kind of existed, squirming around on the dish, praying that they wouldn’t grab him next. The resentment came later on. He’d seen too much, heard too much. And it had become clear to him by the eighth month.
Mankind was more despicable than any monster they could ever birth from this place.
No empathy, no thoughtfulness to be found. The workers all seemed to lack what it allegedly took to be human. A heart. Throwing bodies down a chute without stopping to blink, mercilessly discarding their own flesh and blood easily. It disgusted him.
The use and abuse of their own kin didn’t even make sense. All the carnage, all the brutality had only been dealt in the name of greed. Massacre for the sake of massacre, pointless grief pushed upon undeserving families. It was madness at best and boredom at worst. He hated being trapped, despised being brought to life for such a dull purpose. Tortured and a tool for torture, he wished that everyone who ever touched this facility would drown. Be haunted by what they’d done, pay the price in searing anguish.
That wish came true on the first of January.
New Year's. The lab had been emptied out, and everyone was busy with plans and celebrations. That night, one of the infected volunteers had escaped captivity. Mindless and enraged, the patient tore through the rooms. It was inevitable that the man would cause irreparable damage. Temperature-sensitive chemicals never did mix well with carelessness.
His vial was knocked off the display shelf in the rush. Clattering on the cement floors with his kindred close behind. Some of them shattered upon impact, and others rolled into the growing fire. The building had been defaced, destroyed at every corner, with alarms blaring overhead.
By the time reinforcements came, it was already far too late. The experiments were never government-sanctioned, and it’d be too risky to try to save the research. So they let it burn, allowed the place to become ash. The walls collapsed around him while he lay helplessly. Buried in the rubble, it was out of his control, and there he stayed.
Year after year passed him by. Still in that forsaken container, he didn’t even have the privilege of dying. He didn’t need food, rest, or air. With no sanity to break, he simply was. That is, until a new era came to be.
He didn’t know how long it’d been, but it was long enough for the soil to flatten. Long enough for the Earth in that area to become habitable.
A house was built over the laboratory's grave. The dirt that surrounded him was dug up, sculpted, and crafted into a basement. In the construction, the old glass finally yielded, and he was free. In a sense. The layout had him tucked in a small burrow above the pipes, giving him a full view of the bunker.
It took quite a while, yet he persisted. His form had adapted to the change in environment, creating a cocoon out of the mucilage his skin produced. From an outsider's perspective, his webbed swaddle resembled a spider's nest or a pile of dust and grime. Some insulation that the builders had accidentally left uncovered.
Either way, it wasn’t much of a problem. The home was empty, barren of people and anything alike. Though his lukewarm peace didn’t last more than a year. First, it was the engines that vibrated through the walls from outside. Then, it was the bustling of voices and footsteps, followed by boxes and flickering lights.
Someone had moved in.
The basement surprisingly remained untouched for the most part. Cobwebs collected in the divots, and the room was still as filthy as when you’d arrived. You didn’t use the space for storage, barely opening the door when you checked around. That avoidance stuck, so overall, his burrow was left alone.
He was originally unbothered. However, when you had officially settled down, the entertainment began. The initial indifference morphed into a strange fascination, and he started to look forward to hearing your interactions.
The house appeared to be occupied by two people. A couple wanting to open the next chapter of their lives, buying a place for themselves, the usual. Even as a slimy mite, the senses he did have were enhanced. He would hear the humans get up, make breakfast, and dote on each other. Your routine was respectable, decently paced. From what he could tell, you were leagues ahead of the dreaded chemists.
Now, he technically didn’t meet the criteria to have feelings, be capable of them, anyway. But in his opinion, he liked you. Thought you were funny. He’d squirm around in his little nook and laugh along when you’d tell a joke. Not in a physical sense, more just the intent of it. It was odd, he wasn’t actually laughing- yet it felt like he was.
There was a joy that would come with your voice, a brightness that followed your scent. You were... pleasant. Yeah, that was a good way to put it.
He liked learning about you, and his position made that a breeze. You appreciated the sunset, but you had a tendency to sleep late. You had a preference for the more savoury dishes, but it was balanced by your on and off sweet tooth. You liked music, liked reading, and movies after dinner. He also learned that your boyfriend’s name was Tobias.
The man who held your heart, the one with the title of your other half. You seemed happy. And while a part of him was a tad jealous, he was content existing as an observer. If you and your lover were the ones to occupy the house for the rest of his years, he would be satisfied. Though when it got late, and the home was quiet, there were moments when he wished for more.
Wished that he were different, made different. Wished that he had a body, a voice to laugh with, a hand to hold. Maybe you’d be friends, and he’d hang out with you on the couch. Share snacks over inside jokes that no one else understood, lean into one another when it gets cold. Just like in the movies.
It wasn’t possible, and he knew that far too well. It was just the two of you in the house; there wouldn’t be an opportunity for him to find a host. And if he did, would he have it in him to go for it? Steal their freedom because he was selfish, ruin their lives because they were in the wrong place at the right time. It wasn’t fair, and you’d probably hate him for it.
So he made peace with living the way he did. Enjoying the bits and pieces he’d get of you through the cracks in the walls. It was enough, it really was. That fact stayed true- until something changed.
There had been a shift in the atmosphere these past few months.
Your once cozy, romance-filled home had gotten colder, and your mood dropped with it. He’d thought your relationship was nearly picture perfect, but with the recent events, he stood corrected. Tobias had started neglecting you, growing snappy and irritated for no obvious reason. It confused him; he literally saw and heard everything you did.
There was no trigger, no decline in your affection towards the man. So why? You were just as attentive as you always were, going above and beyond for your lover. Yet your efforts were met with annoyance, a lacklustre “Thank you” when he’d walk off. It didn’t make sense. He felt wronged, and he wasn’t even there.
It frustrated him deeply. He was angry for you, angry at the boy who’d cause you such sorrow. Your boyfriend was taking you for granted, yelling at you, and saying terribly vile things. Calling you names, making you weep, all because you asked him for the bare minimum. You requested so little, needed nothing more than his reassurance, his presence. And he’d throw it back in your face.
Tobias reminded him of the lab. An identical replica of every disgusting factor they represented. Harsh for the sake of it, hypocritical when at fault. Cruel to the ones whose only mistake was reaching out, the ones damned for caring. For trying. It caused his simmering, yet harmless, jealousy to slowly but surely turn into acrimony.
A bitter animosity. Tobias had everything, had been given everything, and he was so ungrateful. How was that fair? Being born with a silver spoon in your mouth, gotten lucky enough to be truly free. Just to turn those gifts into weapons, using them recklessly- and for what?
Call him delusional, but he could do better. Live better, love you better. For someone with a physical and allegedly working brain, your boyfriend sure was dense. He didn’t listen, didn’t treat you the way he should, and he was a failure.
You couldn’t even trust him with basic tasks. If you asked him to clean, he’d say he did. Only for you to find the room in disarray- it was to the point that you simply gave up. Coming home exhausted, and you’d still have to pick up after him. Such a waste of mobility, a waste of a body.
If he wasn’t going to use his form correctly, then someone had to, right?
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
He was late. Again.
You understand that sometimes things happen, but this was absurd. All you wanted was one date night, that’s it. How hard was it to just show up on time? You’d told him last week, reminded him last night, asking him if he was sure he’d be home by six. Yet when the clock struck six-forty-five, your lover was nowhere to be found.
When had it become so bleak, you wonder. You were happy, so incredibly happy when you’d bought the house. The two of you were attached at the hip, basically inseparable. You didn’t even consider moving in with him as a risk. I mean, why would you?
The first couple of months were bliss. Waking up tangled together, with hushed pillow talk every night. Then one day, he just stopped.
It was like he’d woken up and a switch had been flipped in his head. He stopped trying, stopped looking at you the way he used to. As if he had suddenly decided that you weren’t what he wanted. It hadn’t even been a full year into the move, and he seemed bored. Unfulfilled by your relationship when you’d initiate affection.
Now, sitting on your couch, a heaviness sat in your gut. It was almost seven, and even if he came home soon, the atmosphere was already tainted. You sighed, picking at your cuticles. This sucked. The dinner you’d made had taken hours to prepare. A plethora of dishes, including both of your favourites. Today was marked on your calendar, the event was planned, a part of your routine.
Before you had settled here, when he’d come by late and pick you up for a walk. Your schedules wouldn’t always line up, so you designated one day every month to spend together. Sometimes it was dinner, sometimes it was a drive-in movie, a long stroll under the stars. Just existing in the moment, appreciating the intimacy of it all.
The memory of how sweet he used to be does nothing but make your throat tight. Your boy. Your baby, who’d make silly faces at you over pancakes, always got into fights in your name, had grown tired of you. It hurt knowing that his promises of forever weren’t as honest as you’d thought.
Click.
The sound of your door unlocking, followed by the jingle of keys. You fixed your posture, swivelling around just in time to catch his silhouette.
Stepping through the living room, Tobias paused upon meeting your eye. Grunting while he shrugged off his jacket. “Hey.” He nodded at you, not sparing another second, as he walked past the sofa. Wow. So he really didn’t remember? After all these years- did being around you more than a few hours at a time dim the magic that fast? Scoffing before you could help yourself, his jaw tensed.
He hesitated in his stride and finally faced you head-on. Spinning on his heel, it was clear his annoyance had begun building.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Crossing your arms when he groaned, you let out a quiet ‘tch.’ You have no idea where he got the audacity, got the fucking nerve, honestly. “Did you lose your watch out there or?” You mumbled under your breath, watching him fling his hand up. “Holy fuck- if you’re gonna’ say something, just f-fucking s-say it.” The surge in his volume set you off, and you rose to your feet.
“You’re late, Tobias. You said you’d be home by six-”
“I said I’d try. Like, what the actual fuck is your problem? I can’t even s-sit down before you’re on my dick?”
Volatile. He had become volatile. You pinched your nose bridge. “It’s the ninth.” And he shrugged with exasperation. “Okay?” It was clear he had no idea what you were talking about. Sometimes it felt like you lived with a stranger- because currently, the man before you was not the one you loved. “Our date. The one I literally told you about last night. The one fucking night a month where we actually do shit?”
The way he rolled his eyes had your teeth grinding. Running a hand down his face, he sighed, as if talking were a chore. “You’re actually- okay. Okay, my f-fucking bad. I fucked up. Let’s do it tomorrow, happy?” He must have lost his goddamn mind. The fact that he had the gall to have an attitude was beyond you. “No- say it. I’m what?” Giving you a humourless laugh, he ran his tongue along his teeth.
“That’s how it’s gonna’ be?”
“If you’re going to call me a bitch, then call me a fucking bitch, Tobias.”
Yeah, you egged him on- but the next words that left his mouth had you stunned. “You’re being a bitch.” Spitting at you with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he continued as you huffed in shock. “What? Are y-you fucking mad at me now? Is that it? You asked me to f-fucking say it, so I fucking said it.”
There was not a speck of recognition or empathy in his gaze, and you realized you were in too deep. That same realization flared when he took your pause as an instigation. Throwing his keys onto the glass coffee table so hard that the frame shook, the noise made you flinch. “And now you’re g-gonna’ cry, huh? Because I’m just the f-fucking worst, right?” It’s like he hated you. Truly and wholeheartedly hated you.
The difference in your anger and his lay in the roots. You missed him; you mourned his presence when he was away. Thought about him day and night because you loved him, loved him more than anything. Your frustration fought its way up your throat, and you swallowed thickly.
Trying your best to steady your nerves, yet your tone betrayed you, cracking. “You’re being an asshole-” Tobias cut you off with a condescending snort. “Wow, did that make you feel better? B-bet you’re real fucking proud of that one.” Glaring at you, his irritation came in waves. Locking his muscles and worsening his tics.
His head jerked to the side, and he closed in on you, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Earth to space cadet-” The wrath in his eyes was so prevalent it scared you. Freezing, you mumbled mutely while he seethed. “F-fucking bitching at me for what? I mean, Jesus Christ-” Stepping back, he gave you a once-over, sneering.
You were sick of this, fighting to fight- you barely even kissed anymore. Tobias was busy, and when he wasn’t, he was tired. Snappy and easily agitated, he acted like you were a task he didn’t want to deal with. It was too much, all of it- you wanted to collapse. Your relationship had been overrun with malice, the romance aspect of it nearly nonexistent.
Blinking the wetness from your lashes, you exhaled shakily. “I just wanted to spend time with you.” And Tobias’s cold response told you exactly what you needed to know. “Well, that w-went to shit, d-didn’t it?” He jeered, his words nailing the coffin shut, burying your love with it.
Just as he was about to leave, scoffing on the way out, he halted. Peering at you with indifference from over his shoulder. “W-where are my axes?” The question took a second to register, and you stuttered. “The basement- I think.” Your retort only aggravated him further. “Why the fuck are they- okay. Yeah. Thanks. Interrupting you when you opened your mouth, “I s-said it’s fuh-fine.”
You were a liar- by technicality. His hatchets weren’t in the basement; in fact, you had no idea where they were. Tobias was a woodworker; he enjoyed the repetition and the constant action of his hobby. It’s just that, in the bustle of the move, you’d lost track of where everything was stored.
Between adjusting to your jobs in town and the overall stress of moving out, he hadn’t had much time to indulge. And you couldn’t even remember the last time you’d seen the things. However, he seemed mad enough as is; it wasn’t worth the effort to correct yourself. Any attempt at helping him right now would definitely backfire, so you were forced to watch him storm down the hall in silence.
There had been a time when you’d promised each other to never go to sleep angry. He’d gather himself up, standing in front of you on the couch. Begging you to talk to him, and you would. You’d talk for hours.
Apologizing and giggling yourselves all the way to bed, his heart was yours to keep. Unlocked, open to you and you alone.
Lying side by side, your palm would slip into his. He would always whisper some sappy oath to never make you cry again. Swearing on everything he had that he was stupid, a fool for making you so sad. And you’d kiss him breathless in return. It was perfect. Two peas in a pod, utterly inseparable.
You really did wonder when he took that cordate key back.
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
The stairs creaked under Tobias’s weight.
Rickety and haunting, his feet descended. Each step brought him closer to a fate more grim than death itself. He was unknowingly luring himself into a trap. The basement that had seemed so unassuming had been carefully crafted into a cage. An aivary with one purpose alone- to ensnare.
To change, to replicate and harvest.
His socked foot made contact with the cement ground, and he clicked his tongue. Agitated that he actually had to put effort into searching for his tools. Rummaging around old crates that had clearly been there long before their occupation in the house, he scoffed. “This is such bullshit.” Tobias thought, kicking at the grime littering the floors. Glancing up, he noticed a cocoon, stationed right above the pipes. Surrounded by rust and cobwebs, it stood out for no apparent reason.
As if it were calling for him, making him gravitate towards it. The odd haze snapped when he shook his head. It was probably just a wasp's nest. He grabbed a sooty broom leaning against the brick and hauled it up.
Snagging the webbing, the net gave way with ease. Casting a ploom of dust motes into the air. His arm shot to his nose, ventilating his inhales while he coughed. It was humorous, the attempts to shield himself from the disturbance. Trying to save his lungs from something so meaningless- like it’d help. Somehow make a difference in the events about to unfold.
His fate had been sealed the second he entered that room.
Then, a flicker caught his attention. A tiny, wriggling shape landed on the tip of the handle. Moving faster than his eyes could keep up with. It scuttered forward before leaping onto his face, cold and clammy against his skin. Assuming it was the run-of-the-mill pest, he swatted at the bug. Though his labour proved useless as the thing seemed determined to stick.
He stumbled back, his movements becoming more and more desperate. Smacking his cheek, he felt it crawl across the area. Closing in near his ear, he rushed to wipe it off. And for a moment, he thought he’d succeeded. The boy couldn’t feel it anymore, so perhaps in the rush, it had fallen off. His relief was short-lived because when he straightened up, the distinct sound of chittering began.
A gnawing, violating noise, right next to his eardrum. Deep enough for him to feel the scratching, the movement in his channel. Panic set in quickly, and he spun to charge up the staircase. If he could make it to the bathroom, maybe he could get tweezers and pull it out. Yet the process had already started; the parasite had latched.
The sensation shot through him like a bullet. Sharp and searing, it sparked through his whole body, and his legs gave out. Collapsing onto his knees, he clawed at his ear. Gasping while adrenaline filled him. What the fuck was this thing? He could feel it. Feel the microscopic tendrils penetrate the membrane separating his external flesh from his brain. Feel it worm its way into the roots, infecting him with something unearthly.
He crumbled further onto the concrete, convulsing violently. Choking on his spit while he gagged. His vocal cords had stopped responding, and his cries for help came out muted. Failing to become anything more than ragged gasps. Even if he couldn’t feel the pain, the physical effects of it stayed the same. The shaking, the wrongness of infection, all combated.
His skin turned clammy, and he shuddered. Bile spilling from his throat, it was a grotesque sight. The liquid that splattered onto the floor wasn’t normal vomit; it came out thick, dark and visceral. An opaque, inky substance, like his stomach was rejecting the intrusion. It tasted like oil, coating his tongue in a nauseating film.
The metamorphosis usually took around three to seven days, but this leech was not like the others. Stronger, more evolved. An advanced strain of the organism. So the phases of infection were pushed into overdrive, progressing rapidly in the span of just a few minutes. Tobias had already entered the final stage; his physical body was being eaten alive from the inside out. The parasite was making room for itself, fastening to his organs and taking over his motor functions.
It pierced into his blood vessels, twisting and slithering. Spreading its hold quickly, the silmy wisps wrapped around the valves of his heart. Digging into the flesh and starting a new growth. Blending itself seamlessly into the original nervous system. It fuses to bone, burrowing into the marrow, inevitable and all-consuming. A rotted plague of both mind and soul.
The brunette jolted once, twice more, before going limp. Sprawled on the ground, flat on his stomach, his pulse slowed. Stopping completely for a handful of seconds. The fibres wriggled under his pale skin, as if thousands of elongated larvae had replaced his veins. Protruding and twitching sporadically, it caused his limbs to snap, bend at odd angles.
The hum of electricity accented the crack of bone as his body writhed unnaturally. Tobias’s shoulders jerked a final time, and he stilled. The silence stretched along with the ticking clock, bathing the space in a stale limbo.
Then, slowly, his chest began to expand, and he took his first breath. Reborn into flesh, he blinked, gathering himself up from the slumped position.
Parasite 7938 had found a host.
His nose scrunched, and he sniffled- he could smell now. Shaking off the dust on his sweater, he ran his palms down his abdomen. A real, breathing body. Finally. It was a bit of an adjustment, but he made do. In theory, this was easy; in practice? Not so much. His first couple of steps were clumsy, and he almost tripped walking through the room. Yet his excitement overlapped that by miles.
Testing his mobility, he did a little jump, cheering when he stuck the landing. Every sensation was new, every thing in the house was something to be explored. He’d never left the basement, so he knew it’d most likely be a journey of guesswork.
The stairs were a challenge on their own, still, he completed the task with some elbow grease. Wow, elbow grease, he had those now. Reaching the top step, he took a deep inhale, preparing himself for the change in environment. With that, he crossed the threshold.
Light. There was so much of it, and he squinted. Your house was warm, cozy and well-lit. It smelled nice too, the scent of lingering perfume and home-cooked meals filling his nostrils. Cautiously making his way down the hall, he paused, appreciating the decor. He hummed quietly, running his fingers against the walls. The texture fascinated him; it appeared that everything had a different finish. A different feeling.
Absorbed in his interest, he tilted his head to the side when he caught a glimpse of his reflection. Your bathroom door was ajar, giving him a straight view into the sink mirror. His feet padded against the hardwood, and he stepped into the space. Closing the door behind him as he’d witnessed on the screens.
He stared at his reflection, and his reflection stared back. This was weird. He hadn’t thought about what your lover had looked like before, what he would look like when the process was over. Reaching up, he patted his face. Tracing along the gash in his right cheek, the marred skin was rough under his touch. Messy brown locks sat on his head, the strands framing just above his brow.
He had freckles, with sparsely scattered moles here and there. With faint scars from what he assumed were fights littering his skin. They were dispersed all over, from his arms up to his neck. Under his jaw, even. Strangely enough, it felt right. Like it fit, in a way. When he was still a tiny slug, he didn’t really picture having a face. But taking in his appearance now, if he had to pick a look, it’d be this one.
Pulling at the skin slightly, he spent an embarrassing amount of time making expressions in the mirror. He smiled, got angry and huffed. Got sad and tried to cry, then he laughed. The audible sound that left his lips shocked him, and he slapped both hands over his mouth. He’d never had a voice before. Hearing it so openly was jarring to say the least.
This was fun. Acting out the emotions he’d only ever seen from the outside, he had a blast playing pretend in the washroom.
First, he was a scorned housewife. Mad at her husband for returning late, she gasped dramatically in her argument against the man. Glaring at him over her shoulder while she spat in betrayal. “H-how dare you, sir. I know there’s someone else- tell me. Who is it? Y-you’ll tell me at once!” And he giggled at his own theatrics. Then, he was a cowboy.
An outlaw who travelled the wild, wild west. Always walking with a pistol strapped at his hip, someone who laughed in the face of death. Fearing nothing and no one. Jumping into a wide stance, he whipped both hands in front of him.
Pointing at his reflection with a mock scowl. “There a-ain’t enough room in this town fer’ the both of us, partner. Ya’ better turn around if y’know what’s best for you.” Making sound effects as he jerked his arms back, replicating gunshots. He thought his accent needed work, but overall, a pretty solid performance, if he does say so himself. Human voices were crazy, and the ability to change pitches was enthralling in his opinion.
Straightening up in the mirror, it was time for the scariest task of all. Interacting with you.
As elated as he was to have been successful, he never actually planned out what he’d say. Never planned out the details of how he’d act upon seeing you in person. His crush on you was settling in, and now he had the right organ to feel it. His heart fluttered behind his ribs at the thought of you- he wondered what you’d look like.
He’d only ever heard your voice, so he was going off vibes alone. He was sure you’d be pretty, though; he knew you’d be. No matter what form you took, he’d one-hundred percent be head over heels. And that was the issue.
The parasite didn’t want to humiliate himself during your- well, his first meeting with you. The anxiety built when he realized his second obstacle. His body.
See, the transformation had gone off without a hitch for the most part, but there were things that were unavoidable in the process. Physical changes that would simply have to happen in order for the DNAs to blend properly.
For one, his antennas were blaringly visible. Two wiggling appendages that stuck out like a sore thumb on his head, peeking from under his hair. While they were useful because he could see through them, he was sure normal humans lacked the feature. They were basically another set of eyes, blinking and moving when he did. Which was an issue.
It’d totally give him away. Maybe they would even scare you, and he could not have that. He worked way too hard to obtain his current form to mess it up on the first day.
Pacing a little, he decided he could just hide them, right? His hair seemed thick enough to cover the things; it’d probably be fine. He shrunk the antennas down, tucking them against his scalp. It wasn’t that uncomfortable, so as long as he was careful, you’d never know. Hopefully.
He steeled his nerves and swung open the door. Marching to what he assumed was your bedroom, aka where you were residing. He swallowed. He’d passed the other rooms earlier, and they were all empty; you had to be in here. Approaching closer, he stood at the shut frame, sweaty and nervous.
He was a brave bug. A very brave bug.
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
You hated this.
Hated going to bed after an argument alone, knowing he was cussing you out because he’d failed to find his hachets.
Moving onto your side, you pulled the covers up to your chin, sighing. You were ready to call it a night, preparing for him to not return until morning. Doing whatever it was that he did usually took time. And Tobias was most likely taking his anger out on some undeserving tree. Closing your eyes, before you heard the bedroom door open behind you. The noise was followed by careful footsteps.
That was... different. For the past couple of months, every time you bickered, he’d always wait for you to apologize first. God, he was probably here to degrade you for giving him the wrong directions. Rolling over, you propped yourself up and met his eye. Though he didn’t look as upset as you’d expected.
Standing in the corner of the dimly lit room was your boyfriend. Strangely fidgety and rigid. He held your gaze for less than a second, then immediately darted his eyes to the floor. What was with him? Was it the guilt? It could be, but he just seemed so uncharacteristically tense. You raised a brow. “... Tobias?” And his head shot up.
“Y-yes?”
“Are you coming to bed?- and I know your axes weren’t down there. I just- I don’t know.”
Trailing off, confusion was written across his face, and he simpered. “Axes?” His tone was unsure, like he didn’t know what the hell you were talking about. “Yeah, your axes. I thought you were going out, you know- cause you’re mad at me?” You couldn’t help it. The lingering hurt was still there, and you weren’t sure if he was going to randomly snap or not. However, your answer seemed to have him even more lost.
“Mad-mad at you? I’m not mad at you.”
“Oh, um.. okay. Well, are you coming to bed then?”
He shifted weight from foot to foot, nearly skittish as he responded. “Yeah- yup. That’s w-what I came to do, heh.” Giving you a nervous laugh, he stepped to his side of the mattress. Pushing the sheets down, only to be halted by your perplexed statement.
“You’re sleeping in jeans?”
“Jeans?- oh. S-should I not?”
Why was he being so weird? He was the one who got in your face earlier, so why was he acting all scared now? Humming, you gave a half-hearted shrug. “I mean, it’s like your work clothes. Don’t you want to change into pj’s or something?” You nodded at him, teasing. “Unless you’re switching it up and wearing denim to bed.” Though your joke didn’t really land, and he shook his head awkwardly.
“No I’m not. Not switching it up- I mean. I’m normal- f-feeling normal. Yeah.”
“Right... so, you’re gonna’ change now?”
You watched as he rebooted at your question, walking over to your shared dresser. Pausing, his hands hovered by his sides, looking confused about where his clothes were. Perhaps he was having a midlife crisis, and that’s why he’d been so moody recently. “Lower drawer, remember?” Your voice launches him almost a full foot into the air, and he squeaks. “Yes! yes I remember. I’m- yeah. I’m gonna’ change.”
Crouching slightly, he hauls open the wardrobe, digging through the folded piles. After collecting a bundle in his arms, he nods to himself. Skittering to the ensuite washroom, then locking the door with a click.
Inside, he slid down the wall, screaming inaudibly into his hands. He didn’t know what he was doing, and he was definitely weirding you out. This was the worst; he literally had no clue how to speak to you. And you were so pretty.
Cuddle up against the pillows, with your hair undone and bare-faced. The thin cotton T-shirt had slipped off your shoulder, revealing your soft skin. The glow of the lamp highlighted your features, showcasing your plush cheeks- and you were asking him to sleep with you. To presumably hold you, snuggle with you the way couples did.
He changed out of his work clothes anxiously, giving himself another pep talk in the mirror. He was a brave bug, and he would romance you so well you’d swoon. Closing his lids, he took a deep breath, strolling back into the room with determination.
Slipping in next to you, he flopped flat on his back. Staring straight at the ceiling, unblinking. He had lied. He was not a brave bug, and this was very scary-
“Tobias?”
“Yeah?”
Your boyfriend was an enigma. Yelling at you one moment, and too fearful to even look at you the next. Did he reach a weird epiphany in the basement? Scooting closer, you rested your cheek on his shoulder. Sighing when you wrapped your arm around him. “... I’m sorry for- earlier. I don’t know. It just feels like we're never together anymore, and we’re always arguing. I just miss you, I guess.” Soft spoken, you traced shapes on his chest. It had been so long since you’d had a heart-to-heart. He was always so busy, too irritated to sit down with you.
“Like I really miss you. I think about you all the time. I love you so much, and it just feels like you don’t want to be here sometimes- I know you don’t mean it, but-” He interrupted you in haste. “I do wanna’ be here- y-you’re everything to me. You have no idea how much I- how much...” The words caught in his throat when his eyes flickered to your face. You were so close, pressed against him gently.
He could see everything, from the slope of your nose to the curve of your lips. It was terribly distracting, and he stuttered. “I-I want to be here, and I don’t know why I yelled at you. It was s-stupid, I’m sorry. I’ll be better- I will. I p-promise.” His apology warmed you, and you could tell he meant it. The desperation in his eyes, with his sad little pout. It was adorable, easing any leftover frustration you had.
“Mm, okay. We can do something tomorrow- dinner and a movie? We haven’t done that in a while.” You whispered, leaning up to kiss him. His nervousness, along with how genuine he was, had you feeling sappy. “Tobias-”
“Toby! I- uh, I l-like Toby better.”
Hovering over him, you blinked at his sudden outburst. He’d never been a fan of the nickname before, telling you to just use his full name. He felt that shortening the title was useless, though you suppose that could change with time.
Humming, you agreed. “Okay, well- does Toby want to kiss me?” And his eagerness had you stifling a giggle. “Yes! I-I want to- I mean, I w-want to if you want to.” You don’t know what had gotten into him, but he was being awfully cute tonight. Yet he took your endearment for hesitation, piping up with wide eyes. He shyly added a “Please and thank you.” To his previous confession.
You could eat him, you swear. “So polite, my baby.” Apparently, you had more of an effect on him than you thought. Toby’s ears turned a deep pink, the blush painting his cheeks and down his neck. He squirmed under the attention, memorizing what it felt like to be yours.
He sighed. “Your baby?” Hushed, he said it as if he was scared. Fearing that you’d somehow retract the words if he questioned you. Stars filled his pupils when you nodded, “Mhm, all mine.” Pressing your lips to his, he clutched at your shirt, pulling you closer. Needy while you led the kiss.
How in the world could your lover ever take this for granted? Not appreciate your vows of loyalty- neglecting you, when he would’ve done anything for even a glimpse of it in person. A taste of the bliss you offered. The heavens were real, and they were hidden behind your ribs. Sanctioned in the thrum of your heart.
Toby thinks you should be worshipped.
You parted from him slowly, admiring his love-sick gaze. Falling back into place next to him, you cuddled his arm. Lacing your fingers together over his chest.
“Good night, Toby.”
“Good n-night, pretty.”
The affection he was spoon-feeding you was addicting. The most he called you was “Baby” or “Honey” if he was teasing you. This was a nice change, and your lids drooped. Yawning, you felt him peck your hair timidly, before settling down. His steady breathing acted as a lullaby, taking you somewhere far and warm.
It was the best sleep you’d had in months.
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
The next few weeks were achingly soft.
You’d woken up with him cradling you like a teddy bear that morning. Rolling off of each other, you brushed your teeth together. Toby, once again, for whatever reason, seemed a little lost. Though you chalked it up to rising before your usual alarms. Brushing it off and moving on with your routine. When it was time for breakfast, you thought it’d be a great idea to make his favourite.
Pancakes, with bacon and scrambled eggs on the side. However, as you began pulling out the ingredients, he stopped you. Bashfully requesting that you could make waffles instead. It made you pause. He had never turned down the signature dish before, always asking for it specifically when you cooked.
It’s not that people couldn’t decide to try something new; it just seemed out of character for him. Still, you agreed, whipping up the best set of waffles you could manage. And the way his face lit up made all your efforts worth it.
Toby tapped his foot, watching you in action. Amazed when you opened the machine you called a “Waffle Maker” to reveal the finished product. You stacked the desserts sky high onto your plates, and the steam curled into the air. He’d never been so excited in his life.
When he was stuck in that petri dish, one of the labworkers had been playing some show on their phone. The screen displayed a shot of the characters talking over breakfast- and in the centre? The most glorious plate of waffles he’d ever seen. Hot and fresh, the syrup was thick as it drizzled over. Sparkling in the early sun, absolutely mouth-watering. It was one of the main things he’d wanted to try, and now he had finally gotten the chance.
Leaning forward on the stool, he bit his lip. “Is it done? Can we eat n-now?” Borderline vibrating in place, you laughed. “Almost, we gotta’ top it off first.” Then you uncapped what essentially was liquid gold in his eyes. Maple syrup. The bronzed molasses poured over the pile, and he stared in wonder. Life could not get any better than this.
You even decorated it with a dollop of whipped cream, sprinkling blueberries over the top to complete the look. Sliding the plate to him, you sat down on his left. The noise that left your boyfriend had you choking on your orange juice.
Toby groaned like he was receiving the best head in the world. Eyes rolling back, he smacked the counter enthusiastically. Turning to you with a mouth full of waffles, and giving you the brightest “I love you” you’ve ever heard. He cleaned the plate with passion. Shovelling the crumbs into his mouth and chasing the leftover syrup with his tongue.
While he had basically entered the promised neverland, you were filled with guilt. It was so innocent, and all he’d done was enjoy his breakfast. Yet the way he was lapping at the porcelain had you feeling hot under the collar.
Messy and borderline depraved, he dragged his tongue across the dish. The syrup dribbled down his bottom lip, collecting at the corner of his mouth. He licked the surface like he had something to prove, humming here and there with half-lidded eyes. It’d come off as lustful if you didn’t know better.
It didn’t help that his shirt appeared to have shrunk in the wash. The cotton strained around his sculpted biceps. Struggling to contain the muscle while he held the plate to his face. Your boyfriend had always been decently built, but in this lighting, the divots of his body seemed extra defined.
The thin fabric stretched taut over his back, and you could see every twist and shift in his shoulders. Broad in a devastating way, he blinked at you, none the wiser. Cocking his head to the side curiously, he hoped he hadn’t done anything strange. “Muffin?” And you jolted out of your trance. “Huh? Oh- I mean, we don’t have any, but if you wanted to go out, we could pick up some?”
It was his turn to be embarrassed. He wasn’t asking for one; he had called you that as an endearment. Clearing his throat stiffly, Toby rubbed the back of his neck. “No- I was... I thought m-muffin was romantic- kind of? Because we’re dating and s-stuff.” His sheepish confession made you snort, and you clamped a hand over your mouth.
You didn’t mean to- it was cute. Aggressively so, but the damage had been done. Humiliation stained his features, and you jumped to correct yourself. “No, it’s cute, I liked it- Toby, I liked it. I promise.” Reaching for him when he swivelled his chair away from you. Trying to act unbothered when it was clear he was, in fact, bothered. You couldn’t help the giggles that left your lips, and he pouted. Fidgeting with the empty plate.
“It was cute, I swear I liked it.”
“I-it’s fine- I was just t-trying something-”
“Toby.”
Cupping his jaw, you turned his face towards you. “It was sweet, I just wasn’t expecting it- and I thought you didn’t like petnames?” You caught him off guard, didn't like petnames? But you guys were a couple, that was literally the whole point, wasn’t it? His eyes darted to the side before focusing back on yours. “I like them now, is that okay?” Earnestly asking you, he nuzzled into your palm.
When had he become so polite? His abrupt display of manners was charming, sure. Yet it still gave you pause. That morning was only one of the many examples in an ever-growing list. Things he started doing that seemed out of place.
Another time was when he had pinned you in the hall.
Strolling through your home leisurely, you were just about to round into the living room. Then, out of nowhere, your boyfriend appeared at the end of the corridor. Approaching you with determination on his face, he cornered you. Leaning down as he braced his arm on the wall next to your head. His ears were pink before he even got a word out, and you gaped at him in surprise. Curious about what he was trying to do.
He stuttered silently, and after a beat, he took a deep breath. Hyping himself up to say the flirty remark he’d practiced in the mirror earlier. “Do you h-have a name, or can I, uh, c-call you mine?” With his nose inches from yours, it took everything in you not to laugh.
Except your willpower was faulty, and a snicker crept past before you could act. You couldn’t hold it in; he looked so serious. Delivering the pick-up line with such urgency- you felt even worse when you watched him visibly deflate. As if that had taken all his courage to say, his lips drooped into the saddest frown known to man. Toby slowly dropped his arm from its position while you cooed.
“That was so smooth, my baby.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m only laughing because you’re cute—”
All these moments were laughably endearing. He had allegedly found a newborn love for the classics. And if it were just things like that, you would’ve thought nothing of it. However, as the days flew by, his change in personality began throwing you off more and more. And there were times he seemed a little too lost when he shouldn’t have been.
Confused when you asked him if he’d talked to one of his friends lately. Toby answered vaguely, as if he barely cared. Which wouldn’t have worried you, it was what he said after that was odd.
He had called her by the wrong name.
This was someone he’d known since childhood; they went to the same middle school and everything. Sarah, but he called her Sophie. Mishearing you when you spoke, he swiftly corrected himself. The words came out rushed, a tad too panicked for what should’ve been a simple mistake. Then, he’d forgotten how old he was.
You were browsing through the movie options when you stumbled upon a poster. The screen showed some blockbuster action, and the preview included a celebration clip. It was reminiscent of his party last year, so you made a joke. Saying something along the lines of “Hey, it’s you, but not old.” A dumb jab that didn’t make much sense. You turned to him just to find his awkward nod.
Thinking it offended him for whatever reason, you apologized. “I’m kidding, you’re only like- what?” Holding your hand out pretending to have a microphone. Waiting for him to finish your sentence, yet he didn’t. His shoulders were tense, and he had chuckled stiffly. It made you sit back, ending the bit with a perplexed “...Twenty-three, you’re twenty-three.”
You’d noticed other things, too. Physical differences that didn’t quite add up. One morning, you were taking a lazy day off, lounging on the couch as normal. It’d been a while since you’d done anything more than kissing, and you missed him.
Crawling onto his lap, you threw your arms around his neck. At this distance, you could take your time admiring him. That’s when something about his eyes stood out. The hue.
Toby’s eyes were brown, a muted sepia. Yet now that you’re looking closer, his pupils were tinted with green. Dotted with flecks of gold and emerald, the colours were nearly too bright. Neon around his iris. You’ve been with him for years; you knew what his eyes looked like.
Your first assumption was contacts, and you questioned him offhandedly. Though his answer was unsatisfactory, shrugging while he reclined from you. Creating distance as you lost sight of your original plan. The more you prodded, the more anxious he became. His tics even flared, jerking sporadically with his foot tapping a mile a minute. It was weird.
Every time you pressed about something utterly mundane, he’d begin sweating like a convicted man. Always switching subjects, or straight up leaving the room with a half-assed excuse. And it wasn’t just his eye colour, you’d started hearing things, too.
Late into the evening, when you were both snug under the covers. There was a distinct chittering that would start. Echoing out from his throat, as if he weren’t doing it on purpose. The sound bugs would make when they communicated. Low and scuttering, it disturbed you a bit.
Perhaps he was sick? You had read somewhere that lungs made strange noises if they were damaged. But when you woke up, it had become evident that asking him was pointless. You were certain he’d avoid you if you did, so what were you supposed to do? Nothing made sense. You’d even tried googling it with little success, and he refused to acknowledge any of your questions. Stuck wallowing in your uncertainty, you sighed.
What the hell was happening to your boyfriend?
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
It was almost midnight when Toby spoke.
Slouching deeper into the bean bag across from your bed, he picked at his nails. Observing you while you read. Today had been eventful. You were out with your friends for most of the morning, and ate with him after you returned. A well-rounded evening that you finished off with a book.
Flipping through the pages, you absently bit at your lip, the sheets cool under you. He thought you looked stunning like this, and he didn’t want to ruin the calm atmosphere. It was just... sometimes he worried.
He made you happy, you’d told him so multiple times in the past week. Reassuring him, he was fine and that he hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet the nagging thought of your disgust if you ever found out remained. Constantly haunting him at every corner, it wouldn’t shake, no matter what he did. Would you hate him? Run off screaming in fear, look at him like he was a monster. Like he was forsaken for existing.
Despise him because he was a parasite. Something made to contaminate, to steal and ruin. Loathe him because he wore the face of someone you knew. Tobias was no more; your lover had died the day he set foot into that basement.
But he was bad to you, wasn’t he? Making you cry time and time again. Toby understood that you’d met him first and that he was the one you had fallen for- but he had failed you. Your boyfriend was growing stale, negligent. The boy would’ve made you miserable over the years; it was only fair that someone else got the chance, right?
Peering at you from his spot on the ground, he hummed quietly. “Baby, can I... a-ask you something?” And you glanced up, adjusting against the pillows while you waited for him to continue. With his bangs messy over his face, shadowing his eyes. He muttered, “Would you love me if I were different?” Voice unsteady, filled with insecurity as his question hung in the air.
You set your book aside, pausing to think. Did you say anything to make him assume otherwise? You’d been pressing him lately, but you hadn’t thought that it’d get to him like this. Reclining, you tucked your knees to your chest. “Of course I would, why?” Still, your affirmation had yet to ease his mind, and he leaned forward. Staring at the floor when he exhaled.
“I know, but I mean if-if I was really different. If I didn’t- look the way you t-thought I did.”
Now you were super confused. A while ago, you’d had the “would you love me if I were a worm?” convo- but this felt more serious than that. A weight settled between you, and concern started seeping in. You had always been vocal about staying by his side, even if he changed. As long as he was yours, you’d be there.
Tapping your fingers on your leg, your response was genuine. “I would. You know, I would. Where is this coming from?” He stood the second the words left your lips.
Pacing back and forth, his shoulders twitched. Spinning to face you with eyes far more desperate than you were ready for. “No- no that’s not what I- I just. What if I wasn’t me? Y-you know? Would you- would you still l-love me?”
His stutter always worsened when his emotions grew too much. Opening and closing your mouth, you were rendered speechless as he continued. “What if I w-wasn’t the same? But I’m-I’m good to you, aren’t I? You said I was good to y-you.” Guilt and fear were eating him alive, consuming him the way he did your lover.
The tangent surged in height; it sounded like Toby was forcing the words out of his throat. Raspy, when his head jerked harshly to the side. “I-I would’ve- I had to. H-he wasn’t good to you- he always made you cry. I heard it, you cried s-suh-so much, all the time.” You swung your legs off the mattress, rising to your feet.
Standing across the room from him, your head hurt. “What are you talking about-” Getting cut off when he huffed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, tone shaking so hard he trembled. “I had t-to. It wasn’t fair, you understand, don’t y-you?-” Stepping closer, his hands quivered by his sides. “I-it wasn’t f-f-fair, he was so mean t-to you. He didn’t d-deserve you, didn’t love you like I-I can.”
Backing away, your hip hit the bedside table, and you swallowed.
“Tobias-”
“Toby. My name i-is Toby. You gave it to me- y-you named me yourself.”
That was the exact moment you realized the man in front of you was not your lover. A primal fear sank its claws into you, sending signals to your brain that there was danger. After it clicked, his appearance- his mannerisms made sense. They were all uncanny. A mimicry of a person. Too fluid to be natural, like something camouflaging in plain sight.
Your gaze shot to the ajar bedroom door, and you lunged onto the mattress. Scrambling across the sheets- your eyes had given you away long before you moved, and he charged forward. Catching you by the ankle, he dragged you back, making you collapse into the covers.
The noise that left his throat was visceral and agonized. So sharp it had the hair on your nape standing on end. Stumbling on top of you, he crowded your space. A chittering and clicking rumbled in his chest, and he sobbed. “Puh-p-please- please- don’t hate me. I l-love you- love you so much, y-you’re all I’ve ever wanted-” Clamping a firm palm over your mouth when you go to scream.
His tears dripped onto your skin, the substance thicker than it should’ve been. A slimy consistency, pearlescent, akin to an oil spill. It reminded you of how predators were differentiated in the wild. Beautiful in a way only venom could be.
Toby rattled above you. Trapping your wrists over your head with his free hand. “I did t-this for you- I did it for you. I-I’ll be good, I will. I’ll be g-good.” Hiccuping as you stared wide-eyed. The hue of his pupils had been further mutated, the green enveloping the hazel in half-moons. You nodded shakily, trying to calm your breathing while he slipped his palm off.
If he were born godless and wretched, you were damned long before he’d reached you.
Under the fear, the violation of knowing something had inhabited Tobias’s body- there was a sick flattery. Your lover had been decent to you, treated you well. Yet there had always been a void that lingered. An emptiness that refused to be filled.
Growing up, you were never chosen. Never the first pick of the bunch. That rang true even in your relationship. Tobias loved you, yes, but you were not who he had envisioned when he pictured bells and a veil. There had been another.
A girl he’d fallen for prior to you. They dated in high school, then halfway through college. Everyone around them thought they were a pair to last; it’s just that things happen. People get busy, and they fight and argue. So she left, leaving him a broken husk. Then he met you, friends to lovers, a tale as old as time. When you weren’t together, he’d told you about her.
How kind she was, how sweet and caring. How much he missed her, how he saw her in everything. And you had caught feelings first, so of course it stung. Though you assumed that after you had started dating, he’d moved on. Put his heartache to rest, satisfied with your love. It seemed like he was, felt like he was.
Until his mask began cracking.
Little things here and there. The way he’d reach for her favourite snacks at the store on autopilot before yours. How he’d constantly play the music he knew she liked, still keeping the playlists she made for him. The ones made at the peak of their relationship, the ones they made the most memories with. The distance he’d punish you with when it got rough. When you’d catch him fidgeting with the patch on his jacket that she sewed.
You tried everything, changing your style, talking differently. Just to make him love you more. Make him look at you with even an ounce of the loyalty he’d given her.
And Toby had closed that void in the span of weeks. More attentive than he’d ever been, thoughtful, genuine where it mattered. In the past fourteen days, there hadn’t been a single time when you’d questioned if he was thinking about someone else. He made you feel special, paying attention to every detail about you. Was it so awful to appreciate him for that?
Did it make you diseased and demented for not hating him? Not pushing him off in disgust, not pausing to mourn your replaced boyfriend- did it make you just as parasitic as him? When you looked up at him, you didn’t see a monster. An abomination to be put down-
No, you saw a creature fabricated from solitude, a lifeform starved of warmth. His despair had been forced upon him, stitched into his plasma before he even knew what it meant to be hungry. To want. He was like you in that way, both products of your environments. Burdened by a grief you hadn’t asked for, longing but never having. You understood each other.
Maybe that’s why you closed your eyes when he brushed his lips over yours.
Your hands were trapped above you, firmly in his grasp, while he pleaded. “You suh-s-said I was yours, your baby. All yours, you p-promised me- you promised I was yours.” Trembly, his mouth was on you in a flash. Whining into the kiss when your tension faded.
Toby’s tongue slithered along yours, stretching and hitting the back of your throat. It was inhumanly long, too smooth, too slippery. Exploring your mouth like it was a necessity.
His cock throbbed at your taste- you were so sugary. Not in the classic sense, but his palette worked differently from the average person. Your emotions, your fluctuations in mood, all had a flavour. A soft sweetness, with notes of lust and apprehension. Yet your need was ever-present, and it tasted divine. Buzzing through his veins, echoing into his skull as he pulled back.
However, his tongue remained blocking your windpipe. The muscle stretched between you, and you gagged at the intrusion. It never seemed to end, slinking even deeper down your esophagus. The sensation was borderline violating while he watched with focus. Lids dropping heavily, he panted.
His tongue also counted as an erogenous zone, and your throat was so hot. Convulsing every time you swallowed or huffed, it felt good. As if he were being burned alive by the pleasure. Toby’s hips slumped onto your pelvis, grinding down against you. The friction sent sparks of heat up your spine, making you whimper. He wasn’t even doing it on purpose- humping you like a puppy was simply his body reacting to stimuli.
The dual-ended gratification had him keening; he never thought it’d be this intense. He’d only ever perceived intercourse through media, so now that he was here, it overwhelmed him. It threw off his other senses, disrupting his mind’s ability to focus on being alert. As a matter of fact, it threw him so much that his carefully concealed appearance was revealed.
Antennas. Slowly perking up from his hair, they blinked at you. Wiggling slightly- as horny as you were, your human nature won over. Toby had become distracted, and his grip on you was released. Arms braced by your head.
Perhaps it was in bad taste, but you couldn’t help it.
Reaching up, you poked one. Staring in fascination as it retracted. It was honestly kind of... cute. He reminded you of a big snail. Jolting a little, his tongue withdrew, and he sniffled. Your prod was harmless; it was just the fact that he hadn’t been expecting it.
“They’re um, th-they help me balance.. I think. I can see more this way.”
His meek admission only further interested you, and you ran the pad of your index up the stalk. The thing swayed in response, curving around your finger. Which was all fine and dandy to him, until your touch sank to the base.
The majority of the organ had a normal amount of nerves- but the closer you got to his scalp, the more sensitive it was. His statocysts were the only part of his “original” anatomy that stuck out. They were directly connected to his nervous system, straight to his brain. Having them fondled and played with had the poor bug nearly paralyzed.
You were using them as some kind of fidget, toying with the things. Twirling the joint section under his hair between your fingers while he struggled to keep his composure. It was humiliating; they were the equivalent of eyes for humans.
However, unfortunately for him, he was not human. And every time you rubbed it’d make him leak into his boxers.
Of course, you knew that. His poker face couldn’t fool a blind man, and his eyes looked about two seconds away from rolling back. Perspiration collected at his crown while his brows furrowed. You could feel him against your heat, pulsing with need. His movement had begun picking back up, too desperate to care if you noticed.
Toby rutted into you, chasing the high. Though his pace didn’t last long. It had grown too much for him to handle, for him to even move. The way you worked his antenna thrummed all the way to his cock.
It was basically a built-in vibrator; the pleasure caused his length to physically feel it through motion. The cells would shake, quite literally vibrating his nerves. It felt absolutely euphoric, and he collapsed onto your shoulder. Burrowing his face in your neck, he keened.
Teeth gritted and pornographic, the sound had you twitching around nothing. “S-so good, can y- mmph. Can you go f-fuh-faster? Please-” He curled his arms around you, scooping you off the linen. Toby cradled you at the waist, and you followed his request. Bringing up your free hand, you massaged the tentacles. Breaking him to tears, “Y-yeah- haah- right there- s’good right there.” He whined pathetically.
An idea came to you then, a terribly, terribly perverted idea.
Smoothing your palm down his hair, you cupped his nape. Tugging his head downwards and pausing to think. You jutted up a bit. Taking one of the vesicular eyes into your mouth before he could react. Licking and suckling at the base, your tongue dragged against the mock skin. The gyrations had Toby sobbing.
His whole body stiffened. Spine arching into a half circle as he hiccuped into your collar. Your saliva was slick against his feelers, warm and inviting. You were resetting his brain- at least that’s what it felt like.
Both numbing and sharp, the pleasure plagued his body ruthlessly. Making him press his hips tightly to your core, jerking non-stop. If you told him that he was dying, he’d believe you. The adrenaline was potent, drug adjacent, and it had him dizzy. Heart beating so hard he thought it’d burst from his chest.
Toby’s gut was filled with magma when he cried out, shuddering violently as he came. “Oh, fuck- c-can’t ah- ah-” Painting his underwear a semi-opaque white. You rode out the waves with him, and your legs shook with fervour.
Too neglected for too long, you took the chance to catch him off guard. Abruptly flipping your positions, you straddled his abdomen. Immediately sitting on his still-aching bulge, you gave him no reprieve. Refusing to let him rest while he begged through glassy eyes. “W-wait- I don’t- it doesn’t look normal. I’m not-” Though his pleas fell on deaf ears, and his pyjamas were yanked to his knees.
Okay, well, that was certainly new.
Lying atop his sweat-damp abdomen was a multi-coloured appendage. Tentacle akined in shape, and it shifted to the left. Moving like an octopus leg, the thing appeared to have a mind of its own- because his face went bright red when it reacted to you. You swiped the tip with your thumb, observing the way it seemed to chase your touch. Descending closer, you realized his happy trail had been removed.
A petal-like material in its place, the path led to right below his navel. Organic, almost floral in nature. It was soft as you traced the feature. Still, it drooled the same, and you were going to die if you weren’t stuffed soon.
Shifting your hips, you towed down your shorts. Just enough to expose your entrance, you shivered, feeling the edge of his adjunction nudge your hole. It was a lively limb, wriggling while it slipped in an inch. And you’d be a fucking liar if you said it wasn’t mind-shattering.
Slowly, you sank down on him. Letting him penetrate deeper and deeper- you threw your head back when he finally fit completely. It was so slippery, constantly dripping an excess of slime. You could feel it writhe inside you, lapping at your walls, inflating to your shape. Your chest heaved, and you glanced at him blearily. Finding your lover ruined beneath you.
Toby could barely keep his eyes open. Breathing shallow as he clutched your thighs in hopelessness, you were so tight. Like drenched silk around his cock, his jaw fell slack when you started to move. Gasping, each drop of your hips forced raspy “uh- uh- uh-”s to echo from his chest. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus- he could hardly even see.
It was blistering through him. Infesting and ravaging his body in pulses, leaving him utterly intoxicated. High on you while you milked him for all he was worth.
Sticky plaps of skin on skin filled your ears, and you bounced like a whore over him. Fucking yourself on his girth was addictive. Even now, he was adorable. It made you giggle drunkenly. “Toby, ngh- you’re so cute- so cute- makes me wanna’-” and you clenched around him, mewling.
The pressure had him choking on his own spit, his grip bruising the fat of your ass. “P-please, god- please-pleaseplease-” Toby’s dick spurts prematurely from your praise, and the faux ejaculate coats your tunnel. He was feverish as he pumped into you, his pupils rolled up in ecstasy. It felt like he was going insane, genuinely off the deep end. You were brainwashing him, and he thanked the fucking stars for it.
The bed frame creaked loudly, thumping against the wall from the force of your bodies. His shoulders bowed, the coil in his stomach on the brink of snapping. “Gonna’ cum- I-I’m gonna’ cum- s’too much-” Voice cracking on the last syllable, and pitching up.
A gluey ring formed around his base, squelching lewdly with every thrust. His seed spilt out in thick, hot ropes, filling you to the brim. And you screamed.
Body going taut, you squirmed, humping him through your orgasm. The release whitens out your vision, leaving you trembling, a sheer mess. Though before you could truly relax, he jostled underneath you. Whimpering loudly. “Hah- s-shit. Sorry- sorry- I can’t. I have t-to- you’re too w-warm.” His words don’t register until it’s too late.
The liquid came first, a watery substance that gushes from his cockhead. There's so much of it that it squirts from your entrance- soaking the duvet. Then, something moves from inside his cock. A cylindrical shape. Travelling up the length and forcing out his weeping tip- it fits itself snugly inside you. Creating a false womb.
It feels wrong, a blasphemy of the natural order, and you try scrambling off. But your efforts were overpowered, held down by the strong arms locked at your waist. Too weak to struggle efficiently, you whined pitifully while he planted his feet. The Roe continued to embed even when you drooled against his collar. Limp as Toby loaded you past your limits.
After snapping his hips once, twice more- he slumped into the mattress. Finally loosening his grasp on you. He had you flush against him, and your insides felt heavy. Too stuffed to be comfortable, “What- nngh, what did y’do?” You slurred.
His response reeked of guilt, yet that turmoil was tainted by satisfaction. “I-I’m sorry, angel. I couldn't h-help myself- but you’re mine now. All mine, even deep inside. You’ll b-be happy, I promise- I’ll always take care of you.” Humming, he drew circles on your bare skin.
God, this was fucked- and you didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, the weight in your stomach felt uneasy. On the other hand, a part of you felt strangely complete. Something about the closeness, the undeniable intimacy and the claim of it- had you leaning into his touch. Allowing him to kiss your head, whispering about how much he loved you.
Exhaustion was inevitable, the slumber drowning you leisurely. You were so tired, and he was warm. Doting, safe, even if all the logic in your head told you he shouldn’t be. Parasite be damned, you couldn’t find it in you to care anymore. After all-
Toby was your baby, wasn’t he?
ᯓ★
➽──────────────❥
Parenthood was weird, especially if your babies were slugs.
Well, not exactly slugs- but that’s what stage they were in currently. Following the whole “incubator” incident, the eggs hadn’t actually stayed inside you. By the time you’d awoken, the heaviness had long faded, and you felt normal. Well rested, even.
Your lover had kept his promise to take care of you. He’d cleaned you up, changed the sheets, all while you were unconscious. He’d taken you down to the basement after, showing you his previous residence in the little hidey hole above the pipes. Clearly elated to update you on the miscellaneous science facts he’d learned over the years.
Then, he tugged you into the corner, and under a thick set of blankets- was a nest. A small fabric huddle that contained the shells. The outer layer was clear, giving you a decent view of the spawn. Your spawn, technically.
About the size of two handfuls, inside the egg sat a snail-looking embryo. The worst part was that you genuinely found them cute. Maybe it was the post-birth hormones, but they were kind of growing on you.
Toby’s barely concealed excitement wasn’t helping your case either. Nearly bouncing on his heels, he proudly displayed the babies. Grinning so brightly it almost blinded you. He even picked out a list of names. However, the list definitely needed work, and you would be going through them together.
It took around a full four months for them to “hatch.” And you were thankful to skip the gruelling nine months that normally came with pregnancy. However, that didn’t mean you were off scot free.
As it turns out, even if they weren’t officially a part of your body, they were still connected to you. Which meant mood swings, odd cravings and the rest of the usual fine print. If there was the slightest shift in the air in the basement, one that the eggs didn’t agree with, you would get nauseous. Something to do with the residual DNA that lingered, he’d told you.
He took his duties seriously, waiting on you hand and foot. And it took some time, but he actually adjusted to his job quite well. The enhanced strength aided him in his day-to-day labour, and his lack of attitude boosted him socially. So overall, things seemed smooth sailing.
Though when the actual day arrived, he almost vomited.
His attention was overwhelming, checking on you every two minutes- you couldn’t even piss in peace. Toby would be knocking on the door, petting the wood sadly from outside. Asking you something along the lines of “Do y-you feel okay? Your stomach doesn’t h-hurt, does it?” or “Muffin, are you s-sure you don’t need anything? I can go to the store-”
Nothing you said calmed his worries, so you were forced to just let him fuss. You couldn’t die or anything tragic like that from the hatching- he was simply concerned to the point of spiralling. A chronic overthinker, who would’ve known that bugs could get anxiety?
You had gathered in the basement, waiting with bated breath to see them break through.
The first thought you had was that they were slimy. The second was how the hell were they going to grow up? Toby swore on his life that they’d become more human in appearance with time. And you believed him for the most part— it’s just hard to picture that when you were holding a glowing slug.
They also grew faster than normal infants, and slowly but surely, they started looking more like you. More like him.
Reaching the average size for an eight-year-old in the span of ten months post-hatch. They were strangely articulate, far too smart for toddlers. You enrolled them in school and prayed none of their classmates ever asked where babies came from. Your friends questioned you, too.
Wondering why, how, and when this happened, you would try your best to switch topics. Sweating nervously with Toby at your side. He’d desperately side-eye you, begging you to do something as if you weren’t in the same boat. I mean, what were you supposed to say?
“Sorry, Tobias is dead, and I’m happily married to the parasite that ate his brain.”
There was no reasonable excuse, and you’d awkwardly make up a fake phone call to take. It wasn’t all terrible, though. Their more bug-leaning features went away with age, making them a perfect batch of mini you’s. Your shared features became clearer on their faces each passing day, and you were content. Until one of your mutual companions pointed out how quickly they seemed to gain height.
God, you really needed to start forging adoption papers.
➽──────────────❥
➽──────────────❥
A/N: LMFAOOAOA I had to make it romcom- you know I don’t do actually dark fics :pp !! This one’s for you my Toby mains !!
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇, DIARY ENTRY 𝐎𝐍𝐄: starting with a flashback to how you and Knight! Toby used to be. You’re a princess, Toby Rogers is a knight. You two are young and in love, but can’t be together due to kingdom affairs— and Human! Jack Nyras, a prince who’s supposed to be engaged to you. This is intended to be a mini-series.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒, fem reader , kingdom AU , and not very canon , a bit out of character , starts off with flashback
You and Toby were close, at least when you were seventeen. You were young and naive, believing that you and Toby were mature enough to make your own decisions. Living in a kingdom will quickly make you realize that whatever prowess you think you possess can be easily crushed with tremendous power in the blink of an eye.
Buried beneath the burdensome iron and steel, there was a boy who dearly and tenderly cherished his princess. He was loyal to you, your kingdom, and the ruler whom he served. He was good at what he did, even as a squire. Silver sword dexterously impaling enemies. It was second nature to Tobias Erin Rogers. The brown-haired boy was intense when it came down to service. He dedicated everything to the person who had rescued him from the slums, saved him from ridicule, and trained him.
He was a passionate blend of sadisticness and meekness. Sweet-tempered only to you. Deadly silent and obedient to others, especially when it came to his ruler, like a compliant guard dog snarling at the mouth, baring his teeth at those who dared to bother his loved ones. However, he’d always come back to the flowered garden with you, lying in the flaccid grass devoid of his hefty helmet, nimbly holding your hand up to his scarred mouth, gingerly kissing the backs of your fingers as they involuntarily curl flusteredly.
It was something you two shared. You both wanted to stay blissful like this. But there was this agonizing tick in the back of your mind, like a clock, serving as a reminder that you still had political duties and relationships to upkeep for the sake of your kingdom. Unfortunately, this means you will be engaged to Jack Nyras when you reach the age to do so. A boy you didn’t even know well or care about. He was to come to the kingdom tomorrow. Dreadfully, you withdrew your hand away from his, tucking it in the lap of your poofy, white dress.
“Your h—highness,” Toby stammered, "is something wrong?” He looked intensely at your form, burying his arms into his own lap, trying to give space the best way he could as you vented. Not much needed to be said, as what was to come on the next day weighed greatly on your minds. You sway back to him warily, glimpsing through your lashes. “You know what I’m thinking about.” He groaned before tightening his lips, offering a silent but defensive nod back as a response.
You continued, “Maybe we could run away...?” A stupid, childish thought. It’s easier said than done to escape from a kingdom as powerful as yours. Both of you were seventeen, and attempting to flee isn't easy at all, considering your positions. Tobias wasn’t just a regular squire; he was one of the most promising and loyal ones. And you were in a position of royalty.
A throaty swallow before he continued. “R-run away?” He repeated. Marking where the conversation tread into uncharted territory. Running away was an ungraspable thought. Run back to the foul arms of commoners who shunned him for his ‘behavior?’ Back out to the place, cold and unsure if you were going to live or die.
He yearned for residence in a place brimming with security and affection pouring from every angle, all for him. It’s something he’s always desired after being deprived of it. Your father granted his wish. Blessing him with a place that he could finally call home long after years of torment, where instead, he could be seen for his victories instead of his differences.
“If we pack our things and bring a map and money, then maybe we could finally be together and even—” He interrupted, “I—I swore never to disobey him.” He attested to his promise, but his response sounded almost automatic.
You scoff. “You’re already disobeying by being with me, alone." He didn’t respond, as it was the harsh truth. Yet, even though it was hypocritical, he stood his ground to the very end. One thing was undeniable: this strong sense of loyalty came from fear. You could imagine running away and thinking it’s a reasonable idea because you’ve never actually been outside. But Toby, who's experienced it, never would want to go out again.
“I-I can’t just up and leave, a—abandoning code.” He declared sternly this time. Both of you had your frustrating reasons. Your father wants to take the one thing that isn’t an agreement away from you. A love that’s familiar and natural. You had a plunging fear that you’d ultimately lose Toby at the hands of your father. Alongside the anxieties you had about the boy you’ve never even met residing in the castle, the next day.
“I-I don’t want to be without you—I-I don’t.” As if the thought were agonizing. He spoke in a smaller voice, but you could sense the quiet storm forming in his chest. The thought of losing everything he was given was scary. A deep breath. "I know," you whispered, “I feel the same.” You finish as you lie on your back, looking at the sky.
Undoubtedly, both of you were stuck.
Crunch—crunch.
While you mindlessly lay there, his ears perked up. Picking up the sound of boots crumpling leaves. His instinct led him to hoist you off the ground. Just when you were about to speak, he snappily shushed you. He prepared the horse and helped you get on, and you two left as quickly as the wind. Those were the measures they had to take; he’d be in trouble if he were ever seen with the princess, alone, being flirty, so they needed to stay alert.
Jack Nyras and his family approached the kingdom the next evening. They were wealthy; you could tell by their presence and clothes. The way Jack’s father wore his fur robe with pride, the soft dotted material draping his broad shoulders almost like a protective cape, pooling on the marble floor. And alongside him, his wife. Elegantly walking beside him, heels clicking in a rhythmic beat, looking more like an expensive trophy than a woman.
The Nyras, the newest and most welcomed addition to the kingdom, but of course, one of them was destined to bring along a stir-up of trouble.
Jack.
He was quick to observe, gathering information before he spoke to anyone.
Mostly because he was quite introverted.
The first day he arrived at your kingdom, he noticed how you were with the knight. You certainly weren’t friendly with him. It wasn’t hard to spot the feelings you both had for each other. He just wondered how the knight hasn’t gotten into trouble yet if it’s so obvious. At least it would be intriguing to watch a princess with a knight; he wouldn’t be entirely bored here. He almost wanted to test it—seeing if you’d fall for him instead. It’s a cruel thought, but he wouldn’t act on it much, as he didn’t want to deal with romance anyway.
He knew that he was to marry you. He didn’t take it personally when he first heard the news, calmly eating dinner at his table as his father delivered the news. He knew that this was just business, even from a young age. He had his fair share of heartbreak. He’d rather not go through it again, especially with some princess he doesn't know. A marriage didn’t have to be made of love; it could just be an agreement.
Though maybe he was still bitter about his own love life.
His father noticed him standing there, watching the two. “Get to know her, son." His father commanded, knocking him out of his trance, lightly pushing the boy towards you.
He collectedly strolled to you, hands tucked respectfully in pockets. “Your highness.” He greeted, before giving a humble bow. You were easy on the eyes, that was for certain. “Oh! Greetings. You must be… hm! Prince Nyras?” You question, feeling quite uneasy at the way this very… attractive prince is shamelessly checking you out as if you were a steaming piece of meat. “Mhm.” He responded with a polite nod.
“How… put together you look!” You awkwardly exclaim. “I could say the same for you—sorry. Am I making this awkward?” Too much for the first meeting? He wanted to end the conversation right there. This was probably the worst first impression he’s ever had. He could tell he had made you uncomfortable with his immodest staring, even though he didn’t mean it. The boy has a problem with staring before actually speaking. You laughed, “You’re fine. If you couldn’t tell, I’m quite nervous as well.”
“Well,” fixing himself for a moment, "Your castle is quite fancy.” You cracked a small smile at his observation, taking pride in it. “Oh, you’ll love it here. We have all types of food, music, and horses!”
“All types of food, meaning… all parts?” He questioned that out of everything. You hum, “Well, yes…?" What are you thinking?”
He was about to say something, but shook his head. “Actually, let’s not worry about that. It was a pleasure meeting you.” He recovered by bowing once more, ending the conversation at that. You silently thanked him for how prompt he was.
Just when you two were about to go your separate ways, Jack’s father came in, all boisterous. Saving the awkward silence between the pair. “You two need to get used to each other! You’ll be kissing soon.” A loud sigh emerged from Jack, embarrassed by his father. Who just… says that?
You couldn’t hide the look of disgust that twisted into your features. You haven’t kissed anyone before, at least not on the lips. And if you were going to properly kiss someone, it surely wouldn't be Jack Nyras.
As Jack’s father continued talking your ear off, you reflected on how that conversation went. Jack was completely different than how you thought he’d be. He tried to be serious, but it came out really awkward, yet you learned something about him at least. It sounded like he had an odd niche in different varieties of food. It was endearing in a way. You couldn’t help but wonder what else you two have in common.
On the other hand, Toby, who was leaning against the cold brick wall, had the displeasure of hearing those words. He couldn’t control how his jaw clenched, and his posture stiffened in envy. The affirmation that you two would have to kiss made him feel worthless.
It didn't matter how childish it looked; he felt firmly about it. Disguising his envious spite about Jack coming here was tiring. Now that the boy is finally here, he feels the crumbly, cheap mask slipping. Out of annoyance, he stomped out of the room. Going off to patrol somewhere else. Jack saw, and as his father continued talking the princess’s ear off, he took this as an opportunity to sneak out.
Meticulous steps before announcing himself. “You like her? But you know you can’t have her, right? Knight.” Jack smirked, leaning against the stone wall. It was calculated. He wanted to see just how desperate the knight was for the princess.
“Ex—Excuse me?” He turned around to face him, getting a better look at him. He looked put together, as expected for a prince. Toasty brown, curly hair cascaded down his neck like a waterfall. Deep, brown skin and much taller than he is. No doubt he could easily wow the princess—or anyone, for that matter. Though no time to ogle, Toby spat rudely, “It’s n-none of your business.”
“You shouldn’t speak to a prince like that. Know your place. I’m helping you.” Jack warned with a flick of his tongue. Toby didn’t think about what he was saying; instead, he just let his mouth run. “I don’t c-care about who you are. You’re not the person I serve.” Toby couldn’t help but be defensive towards him. But he knew that defiance wouldn’t change anything. Jack Nyras was right. You two were still going to be engaged and married, while he watched from the sidelines.
“Nuisance.” Jack muttered under his breath, “I’ll remember this. Be grateful that I won’t tell your master about this blunder.” He wiped the invisible dust off his suit and walked away. Like a gesture to mock where Toby stood in the hierarchy. Below him. The dust that Jack walked on top of.
Toby narrowed his eyes. “W-wh-who are you calling a nuisance? You’re not m-much older than me!” He questioned, but only to himself, as Jack had already exited. He followed after, coming back into the room where you were.
You were sitting down in a chair, already drained from Mr. Nyra’s lectures. Toby came over, next to you, placing a quick hand on your shoulder. You sigh, “Jack’s father sure is a talker…”
“D-Doesn’t know how to shut up, just like his son.” He muttered bitterly under his breath, hoping you didn’t hear. But you did in fact hear. You tilted your head, narrowing your brows. “Oh? Where did this come from?”
It’s like even thinking about the conversation frustrated Toby more. “You know what t-t-th-that prick did? He came outside and tried to provoke me.”
That immediately got you up from the chair, almost comedically. “He did what?” Scanning the room, trying to find Jack. “I’ll talk to him.” He shook his head. “Don’t.” He commanded.
You didn’t understand, “But he’s being an—"
“Don’t.” He repeated. You rolled your eyes. “Fine, Toby. You'd better handle it then.” He nodded at that, keeping silent and frowning. You didn’t like seeing him upset, but you knew exactly what to do. “You know what? Come to my chambers tonight, and I bet I could make you smile again.”
“G-gonna try making me happy with your card games?” He asked.
You giggled. “Well, of course. Father did buy me a new deck.”
“Spoiled.” He teased— “Hey!” You yelled.
Night fell, and throughout the castle, it was quiet, as expected, since everyone should be asleep. The only thing one could hear was the cautious pitter-patter steps to your room caused by Toby, not wanting to wake anyone with the sound of his clunky armor. He’s done this many times, like a routine. Once you heard the faint knocks, you hurried him in, shutting the door.
“Toby…” you softly cooed. Taking off his helmet for him, he leaned into your touch like a gentle puppy before you had broken away to grab the cards from your dresser, ready to showcase your skills in dealing cards.
But the pathetic— sad look Toby sported stopped you. One full of solemnity. You weren’t stupid. You knew the thing bothering him was Jack, and quite frankly, you felt the same. You stopped dealing the cards for a moment to speak.
“I’m… still thinking about leaving with you. You know? Or… standing up to my father.” You paused for a second, examining his expression towards your words. He took in a breath. He knew he couldn’t stop you if you really did want to leave. But he didn’t want you to abandon your privileged life for him.
“I know it’s not well thought out. Maybe even… impulsive.” You weren’t really sure the more you spoke. You had everything, things commoners could only dream of. You have a great father, you lead a life of luxury, and above all, you wouldn’t know how to survive on the outside. You never had to.
“I only want to do this for us.” You naively expressed, but he shook his head in disapproval. This whole day and yesterday, Toby has just been spoon-fed with the fact that he could never have you how he truly wanted you. It’s not worth losing your security for him.
“I-It’s not worth it.”
He stood up straight. “Y-you have a good family and a g-good life… You shouldn’t have to throw away everything for me. You know it’s inevitable.”
“What do you mean?” You ask, sorrowfully. Eyes widened like whatever he was going to answer with would crush you.
“I-I mean… your assigned marriage to Jack. I-It’s okay.”
He paused before continuing. It hurt him to say this. “Safety is more important… you shouldn’t feel like you need to run, and—I… I’d rather not go out there. I-I know it’s cc—co-cowardly of me to say, but it’d be better for both of us if we just accepted—“
“I won’t accept that, Toby. No matter what anyone says.” The words she promised, light and breathy, as sweet as honey, he was sure that those words would forever remain stuck with him. “And you're not a coward.”
“P-princess—“ Before he could finish, a blistering knock against the wooden door caught their attention. “Your highness, open the door.” The guard demanded in a monotone voice.
You were dumbfounded at first. What did they need? If they were coming in, you had to hide Toby.
Wasting no time, you shoved Toby into your closet, making him hide in the labyrinth of your puffy dresses and petticoats before coming back to the man behind the door. “Pardon me?” You question.
“Open the door.” They commanded again; they wouldn't take no for an answer. “I’m changing—“ They immediately interrupted. “We know he’s in there. Tobias Erin Rogers.” How did they know that Toby was in here? Was he not careful enough?
“Come on out before you both get into trouble.” You still refused. You went over to the closet door, whispering to Toby. “Go through the window…” He refused. “T-They already know.” He walked out of the closet. “I don’t wan-want to get you in trouble as well.” Continuing his path to the door, he opened it.
They took him by the arm roughly. “Good choice. You’re in trouble, Tobias.” The old man lectured.
And that was the last you saw him.
yes were spreading indigenous eyeless jack agenda. more to come! thank you for reading til the end!
SYNOPSIS: You’re his sweetheart, his everything. The only good thing that shines light on his life as a proxy, and he desperately needs to show you how important you are to him.
You were curled up on the old couch in Toby’s room, one of your legs draped lazily over his lap, fingers absentmindedly running through his messy hair. He was trembling a little more than usual tonight, the muscle just beneath his left eye twitching in uneven beats.
He tried to keep his shoulders relaxed, but they jerked every now and again like someone was tugging invisible strings. Still, you could feel the way his breathing evened out slightly when he leaned into your touch.
He hadn’t said much all evening. Not that it was unusual. Sometimes, when the weight of the world and the screaming in his head got too loud, he just… folded into himself. You never pushed him. That’s part of why he loved you.
“Y-you’re s-s-so… fuck,” Toby mumbled through stutters, voice catching on a stutter and dissolving into a low groan. “Y-you’re so p-pretty it h-hurts.”
You looked down at him, brushing his bangs away from his eyes. They were hazy and dark, locked on you with something close to awe and need . Your heart skipped at the way his breath hitched.
“Yeah?” you whispered, smiling. “I think you’re pretty too.”
“Don’t,” he said, suddenly, voice tight and hoarse. His head jerked to the side and he blinked hard. “Don’t s-say that. Not… not about me.”
You frowned, thumb stroking the hinge of his jaw. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, burying his face in your neck like he wanted to disappear inside you. His gloved hands grabbed at your waist like he was anchoring himself. Like if he didn’t, he’d fall apart.
“B-because I’m not. I’m… I’m fucked up,” he said into your skin, muffled. “You s-should’ve left me, you… you c-c-could’ve. Could’ve found someone n-normal. Someone who doesn’t- duh-doesn’t-!!.” He couldn’t finish his sentence.
Your chest ached. You tilted his face toward yours gently and kissed the corner of his lips. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.
“I don’t want someone normal,” you whispered. “I want you.”
Toby let out a sound, half sob, half laugh. His hands shook harder as he pulled you closer, mouth brushing just beneath your ear.
“I d-don’t know how you do it,” he muttered. “Why you’re still here. I don’t- f-fuck…deserve you. But I need you. God, I-I need you.”
You felt the sharp scrape of his teeth on your neck but before the sting could even register you felt the warmth of his tongue, the suction of his lips, the hungry need in the way he mouthed at your skin like he wanted to consume you.
“I-I gotta… Need to… thank you,” he said, breathless. “Let me… please, l-let me thank you.”
Your fingers slid under the hem of his hoodie, feeling the hot skin of his stomach. He twitched under your touch, stammered something unintelligible, and looked at you with that wide eyed desperation again.
“I love you,” he choked. “It h-hurts how much I-I love you.”
“Then show me,” you said softly. “Let me take care of you, Toby.”
That’s all it took.
He had you on your back within seconds, gloves discarded somewhere on the floor, lips trailing rough, open mouthed kisses down your neck.
His hands were everywhere. Grabbing your hips, sliding under your shirt, shaking and twitching as he touched you like he didn’t know where to start or how to stop.
You could feel the love pouring out of him in every frantic movement. He didn’t touch like someone who was trying to get off. He touched like someone starving, desperate, reverent, terrified of waking up and finding out this was a dream.
“T-too much?” he asked, pulling back just long enough to search your face. You shook your head, arching up into him. “Not enough.”
He groaned low in his throat and yanked your shirt off. His eyes raked over your body like it was holy. “F-fuck… y-you’re like a fucking angel.”
You reached for him, helping him tug his hoodie and undershirt off. His skin was warm and scarred, chest rising and falling in shaky bursts. He looked nervous. Maybe even more than that, but you kissed every jagged scar like it was made of gold.
His fingers trembled as they skimmed your thighs, breath shaky, eyes flickering over every inch of you like he was afraid you’d vanish.
“Y-you’re so… f-fuck, so pretty,” Toby praised, voice rough and full of awe. His head jerked to the side slightly, but that didn’t stop his wandering hands. “S-so fuckin’ perfect… how the hell are y-you mine?”
You reached for his cheek, brushing your thumb along his stubbly jaw. “So are you, baby.” Toby whimpered when you spoke in that low, loving voice, while full body shudder rolled through him. “D-don’t say that unless -fuck- unless you mean it,” he rasped. “I-I’m not gonna be able to… to hold b-back…”
You pulled him down into a kiss, both of your tongues fighting for dominance. His hands clenched in the sheets at first, but quickly moved, jittery, to your waist, then under your shirt, dragging it off like he needed it gone. And honestly? He probably would’ve combust if he hadn’t taken it off.
Next was your panties, he dragged the lacy fabric down your legs hurriedly, he just stared for a second. His pupils blew wide. His mouth opened, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t form the words.
Then his scarred fingers moved closer, careful at first, then with a hunger that made your breath catch. He dragged two fingers through your folds, twitching slightly when he felt how wet you already were.
“Y-you’re this wet for me?” he whispered, voice breaking like he almost couldn’t believe it. You nodded, gasping when he slid a finger inside you, thick and slow. His hand trembled, and he groaned through his clenched teeth. Then another finger joined the first.
“F-fuck,” he muttered, jaw twitching. “Y-you’re- so t-tight… feels like y-you’re already pullin’ me in.” He was barely holding it together, thrusting his fingers into you while his other hand dug into your thigh, holding it wide. He twitched as he moved, watching your face contort with pleasure.
“D-don’t look away,” he begged, voice cracking as he curled his fingers inside you. “I wanna see you fall apart… Wanna see what I d-do to you…”
You whimpered when his thumb found your clit rubbing slow and teasing circles, his hand twitching even as started to move with more confidence. You clenched around him, moaning his name, and he lost it.
“F-feel that?” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re s-so close, I can f-feel you gripping -fuck- gripping me…” You came with a cry, thighs trembling, body arching into his hand. He didn’t stop, kept fingering you through it, lips hovering just above yours, eyes wild.
“G-good girl,” he whispered. “You look so fuckin’ pretty like this. M-made just for me.” When he finally pulled his fingers out, he quickly brought them to his mouth go get a taste, sucking them in with a groan.
“I c-can’t- can’t wait anymore,” he choked. “Need to be inside you. Need to feel you.” He pushed his pants down in one rushed motion, cock flushed and leaking, twitching just like the rest of him. He lined up at your entrance and froze, teeth clenched. “It’s okay.” you breathed.
He didn’t have to be told twice and sank into you with one deep thrust, burying himself all the way to the hilt. Your back arched, and he let out a sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. “S-so-so tight,” he gasped. “Oh my f-fucking god…”
He set a rhythm, fast, erratic, twitching through every thrust like he could barely control himself. His moans were constant, broken, raw.
He sank his teeth into your neck, rough enough that you wouldn’t be surprised if he broke the skin. When he pulled back, his eyes met yours, pupils wide and dark, like he was staring at something divine. His eyelids fluttered shut as he leaned in and pressed soft, reverent kisses over the fresh bite marks he had just made.
“F-fuck, you feel so good, feels like y-you were made for me,” he gasped. “Y-you take me s-so well, you’re duh-doing s-so good…”
His hips slammed against yours, hands gripping your waist, twitching as he lost himself deeper. He looked wrecked as he clenched his jaw shut, eyes rolling back slightly.
You met his thrusts, voice shaky, moaning into his mouth, “Don’t stop, Toby.”
“I won’t,” he pressed gentle kisses to your temple, his thrusts never wavering. “P-promise.”
You clenched around him, body shaking, pleasure building again. His twitching got worse, whole body spasms between thrusts, but he didn’t stop. He held on.
“G-god, I’m close,” he choked. “You’re s-squeezing me, fuck, fuck, come for me again? P-please, baby, let me feel it-“
You cried out his name as you came again, body locking up under him. He groaned into your neck, hips stuttering, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. Hot, deep and messy.
He collapsed on top of you, panting into your skin, twitching slightly with the aftershocks.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just the sound of heavy breathing and rustling sheets, the tremble of his voice when he whispered, “You’re perfect.”
CW: Explicit sexual content, public sex, cunnilingus, squirting, fingering, masturbation, degradation, praise, violence, murder, obsessive behavior, petty theft, emotional distress, references to unsolved crimes, featuring appearances by Tim and Brian
Summary: Night shifts at a rundown gas station convenience store rarely go as planned - especially when a twitchy stranger starts stealing candy right in front of you… and refuses to stay away.
Wordcount: 8k
Part 2: HERE
Part 3: HERE
Part 4: HERE
The fluorescent lights above the counter hummed like dying insects, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cramped aisles of the little gas station convenience store. This place hadn’t been updated since the late nineties, faded chip bags hanging in crooked rows, a rattling cooler that sounded like it was on its last legs, and a single dusty security camera mounted high in the corner that hadn’t recorded anything in years. You’d been stuck working here for almost eight months now, wearing the same faded navy polo with the cheap embroidered “Stop & Gas” logo peeling off the left breast. The pay was shit, the customers were worse, and management blamed you every single time inventory came up short.
You sat on the wobbly stool behind the register, one elbow propped on the scratched laminate counter, popping your gum loudly as you flipped through the local newspaper. The headline on page three still made your stomach twist even though the story was three years old now:
“Unsolved Blaze Destroys Local Bar - Three Years Later”
You skimmed the article with tired eyes. Some rundown dive bar on the edge of town had gone up in flames one night, spreading unnaturally fast. One body had been recovered from the wreckage, burned beyond recognition. The night-shift bartender was still listed as missing. Police had called it suspicious from the start, accelerant traces everywhere, but leads had dried up fast. No arrests. Just another cold case in a town that already had too many.
You snorted softly, snapping your gum again. “Figures.”
You folded the newspaper in half and tossed it onto the counter, leaning back until the stool creaked in protest.
Stealing was practically a local sport around here. Kids on bikes snatching energy drinks, truckers palming beef jerky, teenagers daring each other to stuff pockets full of candy. Every week the inventory logs came back short, and every week your manager chewed you out like it was your fault for not having eyes in the back of your head. “You gotta be more vigilant,” he’d say, like you weren’t already exhausted from twelve-hour shifts in this fluorescent coffin. You hated it. Hated the constant low-level paranoia, the way every customer felt like a potential thief, the way you always ended up taking the blame when the numbers didn’t add up.
Your shift had barely started and you were already counting down the hours. The clock above the door read 8:42 p.m. Outside, the lot was mostly empty except for one beat-up Chevy truck idling crookedly at the far pump, engine rumbling low. You watched the two men for a long moment through the glass.
One of them leaned against the truck with his arms crossed, a cigarette glowing between his lips. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a permanent scowl etched into his face as he stared out toward the treeline like he expected something to crawl out of the woods. The other one stood at the pump, lighter hair catching the harsh sodium lights, his expression cold and detached as he watched the numbers tick up on the gas display. There was something off about both of them - too still, too watchful. The kind of men who made the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You chewed your gum slower, eyes narrowing.
The bell above the door suddenly jingled, sharp and far too cheerful for the quiet night.
Your head snapped up.
He stepped inside like he owned the damn place.
Tall. Hood pulled low over messy brown hair that stuck out in uneven, self-cut chunks. A black bandana covered everything below his nose, pulled tight so only his dark, restless eyes showed. Scuffed black Converse, dark hoodie, shoulders already twitching with small, involuntary jerks. He moved with a strange, uneven gait - long strides broken by sharp hitches, like electricity was trapped under his skin and kept firing at random.
The second he crossed the threshold, his gaze locked onto you.
For one long, electric second your eyes met across the empty store. Something cold and dangerous crackled in the air between you - raw awareness mixed with the heavy knowledge that you were completely alone in here. Then he looked away first, almost guiltily, and shoved both hands deep into his jacket pockets.
You watched him drift toward the candy aisle, your gum forgotten mid-chew.
His right shoulder rolled hard toward his ear. A quick, violent snap of his head to the left. A soft, bitten-off grunt slipped out from under the bandana. Tourette’s, maybe. Whatever it was, the restless energy rolling off him made the air feel thicker.
He stopped in front of the Snickers bars.
Long, scarred fingers hovered. Another sharp tic jerked his neck sideways with an audible crack. He plucked two bars from the rack casually, and in one smooth motion slipped them into the deep pocket of his pants.
You saw it clear as day.
Your stomach tightened. Not again. Not fucking tonight.
He turned like nothing had happened and started heading for the door, shoulders hitching with every other step.
You stood up fast, the stool scraping loudly against the tile.
“Hey,” you called, voice cutting sharp through the fluorescent buzz. “Aren’t you gonna pay for those?”
He froze mid-step, one hand already pushing the door open. The bell gave a half-hearted jingle.
Slowly, he turned.
Dark eyes met yours from under the shadow of the hood. Confusion flickered there for a split second, then something sharper - amusement, maybe. Or challenge. His head twitched hard to the side, shoulder rolling up toward his ear as he shrugged, casual as hell.
“What?” The word came out muffled and choppy under the bandana, laced with a noticeable stammer. “I-I didn’t tuh-take anything.”
You crossed your arms, leaning one hip against the counter, the “Stop & Gas” logo stretching across your chest.
“I literally just watched you put two Snickers in your pocket. Pay for them or put them back.”
He stared at you for a long beat. Then his eyes dragged slowly down your body, over the faded polo that clung a little too tight after too many washes, down to the way your jeans sat on your hips. He wasn’t subtle about it.
A low, muffled sound, half laugh, half tic, slipped out from under the bandana. He patted the side of his pants where the rectangular bulges were clearly visible.
“You c-can check my pockets if y-you want,” he offered, voice low, almost playful.
The nerve of him made heat crawl up your neck.
“Dude, I can literally see them. You’re really gonna play dumb with the candy still in your pocket?” you shot back.
He tilted his head, another sharp tic jerking his shoulder. The corners of his eyes crinkled like he was smiling under the fabric.
“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You scoffed. “Take them out. Right now. Or I’m calling the cops.”
His eyes darkened. The playful edge vanished.
“Try a-and see w-what happens, bitch.”
The word hit like a slap. His gaze dropped again, slower this time, lingering on your thighs before sliding back up. He gave a short, choked laugh that sounded more like a tic than anything human, then turned and shoved through the door. The bell jingled mockingly as cold night air rushed in.
You stood there stunned for half a second before anger surged hot through your veins.
“Fucking asshole!”
You quickly stepped out from behind the counter, following him. You yanked the door open and stepped out into the biting cold, the fluorescent light spilling out behind you.
He was already halfway across the lot, long strides eating up the gravel. The Chevy truck’s headlights flared on suddenly. The dark-haired passenger flicked his cigarette away and narrowed his eyes at you through the rolled down windshield. The lighter-haired driver sat stone-faced behind the wheel.
The hooded guy, your thief, jogged the last few steps, yanked open the back door, and slid inside. The door slammed.
You shouted after him anyway, voice cracking across the empty lot.
“Hey! Get back here, you piece of shit! You don’t just walk out with my fucking candy!”
From inside the truck you heard that same choked laugh again. The passenger muttered something sharp–“Fucking idiot” and “Told you to behave”–before the driver shifted into gear. The truck rolled forward, gravel crunching.
The back window rolled down.
Your thief leaned out just enough for you to see the glint of his eyes under the hood. He lifted one scarred hand in a lazy wave, fingers twitching once.
Then he flipped you off, eyes crinkling with clear amusement under the bandana.
The truck sped up, taillights flaring red as it disappeared down the dark road toward the treeline.
You stood there in the cold, breath fogging, heart hammering with rage.
“Fucking idiot,” you hissed, flipping the empty road off with both hands before storming back inside.
You locked the door early that night.
Two Snickers. Two lousy bucks.
And you were already dreading the next shift.
The day after the thief stole those two Snickers, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.
No matter how hard you tried to shove the memory down, it kept crawling back up. The sharp, involuntary hitch of his shoulders. The way his head snapped sideways with that soft, audible crack. The choppy stammer that made his words fight their way out from under the black bandana. And the absolute fucking nerve of him - walking into your store like he owned it, slipping candy into his pocket right in front of you, then flipping you off from the back of that truck like it was all some kind of game.
It was infuriating.
You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. Hated the way your stomach had twisted when he’d looked you up and down like he was already imagining peeling the “Stop & Gas” polo off your body. Hated that every time you closed your eyes, you saw those dark, restless eyes locking onto yours across the empty store.
But deep down, buried under layers of annoyance and the righteous anger you kept feeding yourself, you were curious.
What the hell was he hiding under that bandana? Was he ugly? Or was it just an intimidation tactic - some edgelord trick to make himself look more dangerous than he really was? And who were those other two men in the truck? The dark-haired one with the cigarette and the permanent scowl, and the lighter-haired driver with the cold, dead-eyed stare. Where had they gone after they peeled out into the woods? Were they locals? Drifters? Something worse?
The questions gnawed at you all shift, turning every slow hour into a loop of unwanted thoughts.
It was a strangely calm day at the store. Only a handful of customers had trickled in, mostly truckers grabbing coffee and lottery tickets, a couple of locals buying cigarettes. No one caused any trouble. No one tried to walk out with half the candy aisle. By the time evening rolled around and the sun started dipping behind the thick treeline, the store was dead quiet except for the constant low rattle of the cooler and the buzzing fluorescents overhead.
You needed something to do before you drove yourself crazy replaying that lazy middle finger in your head for the hundredth time.
Grabbing the mop and bucket from the back room, you filled it with soapy water and got to work on the scuffed tile floors. The rhythmic sloshing and the faint squeak of the mop head were almost meditative. You pulled your hair up into a messy ponytail to keep it out of your face, the strands still slightly damp from the morning’s shower. The faded navy polo clung to your back as you worked, the “Stop & Gas” logo stretching across your chest with every push of the mop.
You were halfway down the center aisle, hips swaying slightly with the motion, when the bell above the door suddenly jingled, sharp and bright in the quiet store.
You didn’t turn around right away, figuring it was just another trucker or local grabbing cigarettes on their way through. You gave the mop one last lazy push across the tile, the soapy water sloshing softly in the bucket.
Then you turned.
Your heart almost stopped.
It was him.
He stood just inside the doorway, the bell still swaying gently above his head. Same oversized dark hoodie, hood pushed back just enough to let messy brown hair spill out in chaotic, self-cut chunks. Same scuffed black pants. Same black bandana pulled tight across the lower half of his face, hiding everything but those dark, restless eyes. His shoulders were already twitching with that familiar restless energy - small, involuntary hitches that made his whole frame seem like it was wired wrong.
The second your eyes met, his gaze dropped. He scanned you openly, shamelessly, starting at your sneakers, dragging slowly up your legs, lingering on the way your jeans hugged your hips and the curve of your ass, then higher to where the faded “Stop & Gas” polo stretched across your chest. His eyes flicked back to your face, then down your body again like he couldn’t decide which part he wanted to look at more. There was something almost playful in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, like a smile was hiding under that damn bandana.
You wanted to slap him.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve coming back here,” you snapped, grip tightening on the mop handle until your knuckles went white.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, head tilting slightly to one side as a sharp tic jerked his shoulder upward. Another quick snap of his neck to the left, accompanied by a soft, bitten-off grunt that slipped out from under the fabric. His eyes stayed locked on you the whole time.
You shoved the mop into the bucket with more force than necessary, the water splashing loudly, and stalked behind the counter to put the solid laminate between you and him. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, glaring.
He stayed rooted near the door for another long second, then took a slow step forward.
“Hi,” he muttered, voice muffled under the bandana, that familiar stammer cutting through the single word.
You scoffed, loud and dry. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got? Are you back to steal some more, or did you just come here to stare at my ass again?”
Instead of answering, he started walking toward the counter.
His steps were uneven, shoulders hitching every few steps, head giving another sharp sideways twitch as he moved. He drifted closer with that same restless, predatory energy that made the air in the store feel thinner. His dark eyes never left yours, even as another tic made his right shoulder roll hard toward his ear.
You held your ground behind the counter, arms still crossed, heart hammering harder than you wanted to admit. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were laughing at you. And still he kept coming, until he was standing right on the other side of the register - close enough that you could smell the cold night air clinging to his hoodie mixed with faint pine and cigarette smoke.
He fidgeted a little, scarred fingers twitching against the edge of the counter as another sharp tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
You stared in confusion as he placed the two Snickers bars on the scratched counter in front of you. They were completely crushed and melted from being in his pocket for hours - wrappers crumpled and torn, chocolate smeared across the plastic like they’d been sitting in a hot car all day. It was ridiculous. The bars looked pathetic, like sad little casualties of whatever chaotic life this guy led.
You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Seriously?”
This had never happened before. Thieves didn’t just come back to return their stolen shit. Especially not after flipping you off and peeling out like it was all a joke. What the fuck?
He just nodded once, eyes crinkling at the corners again like he was smiling under the bandana. “Y-yeah,” he said, the stammer making the single word drag.
You stared at him, waiting for something to happen - anything. For him to laugh and snatch them back, or for his buddies to burst in and rob the place, or for the whole thing to turn into some kind of setup. But nope. He just stood there, shoulders hitching with those small, involuntary jerks, dark eyes watching you like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
So you pushed. “Why on earth are you doing this?”
He thought about it for a moment, head tilting slightly as another tic made his right shoulder roll hard toward his ear. A soft, bitten-off grunt slipped out. Then he shrugged.
“You l-looked very upset last night,” he muttered. After a little pause, he added, quieter, “And it d-didn’t feel good s-stealing from a pretty girl.”
You were completely caught off guard.
The words hit like a sucker punch - simple, blunt, and way too honest for a guy who’d just called you a bitch the night before. Heat rushed up your neck, and for a second you didn’t know whether to laugh, snap at him, or throw the melted candy right back in his face. Pretty girl? From the mouth of the same asshole who’d eyed you like meat and walked out with your inventory?
Your mouth opened, then closed again. Everything felt off-balance now.
As he just stood there, shoulders still twitching with those small, restless hitches, dark eyes never quite leaving yours, you couldn’t take the weird tension anymore. The melted Snickers sat between you like some ridiculous peace offering, and the way he was looking at you made the air feel too thick, too charged.
You crossed your arms tighter. “Well yeah, of course I was upset. We’ve got a huge problem with people stealing shit in this store. Management’s always riding my ass about inventory coming up short, like it’s my fault assholes can’t keep their hands to themselves.” You sighed, then continued. “Why did you even steal the candy in the first place?”
He shrugged, one sharp roll of his shoulder turning into another quick tic that snapped his head sideways with a soft crack. His gaze dragged slowly down your body again, over the faded polo, the curve of your hips, then back up to your face, before he answered.
“Got a s-sweet t-tooth,” he said simply, the stammer making it sound almost boyish despite the rough edge to his voice.
You huffed, a short, frustrated sound that did nothing to ease the heat crawling up your neck. The pressure of it all - the intense way he stared, the constant little jerks of his body, the subtle implication hanging in every glance - was getting too much. You didn’t know if you wanted to kick him out or keep him talking just to see what he’d say next.
So you simply pushed the two crushed bars back across the counter toward him.
“Dude, just keep ’em. It’s fine.”
He looked down at the ruined candy, then back up at you. Something flickered in his eyes - disappointment, maybe. The corners crinkled less, like the hidden smile had slipped.
Then he casually said, voice low and muffled under the bandana, “I’m c-craving something s-sweeter than that.”
You stared at him, blinking. “…Like what?”
A sharp tic jerked his right shoulder hard toward his ear, followed by a quick snap of his neck to the left. He let out a soft, bitten-off grunt before the words came out, rough and direct:
“Like y-you.”
Your face went red immediately, heat flooding your cheeks even though you tried your hardest not to react. You felt it burn all the way to your ears, your pulse kicking up so fast it was embarrassing. Pretty girl. Craving you. The nerve of this fucking guy - coming back here after stealing, after flipping you off, now dropping lines like that while his body twitched like it had a mind of its own.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, completely thrown.
He didn’t laugh or take it back. Just stood there watching you with those dark, restless eyes, waiting. Another small hitch rolled through his shoulders as he tilted his head slightly, like he was genuinely curious how you’d respond.
The store felt smaller than ever, the scuffed tile and faded aisles closing in while your heart hammered against your ribs.
Finally, you managed a shaky scoff, trying to play it cool even as your face betrayed you.
“You’re… actually insane.”
But your voice came out softer than you wanted, almost breathless, and the red in your cheeks wasn’t fading anytime soon.
He nodded at that, the movement sharp and uneven thanks to another quick tic that made his shoulder jerk upward.
“Yep,” he said simply, like he was just confirming the weather. No smirk, no defense, no trying to play it off. Just yep. Like being called insane was normal.
Jesus fucking Christ. What was this guy’s deal?
You swallowed thickly, the heat still burning across your face. Your fingers awkwardly adjusted your messy ponytail, tucking a stray strand behind your ear just to have something to do with your hands. You glanced around the empty store before your eyes flicked back to him.
“I don’t even know what’s under there,” you said, motioning vaguely toward the black bandana still covering the lower half of his face. “Like… what you look like.”
He blinked. Once. Slowly. Like the thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to him at all.
Then, after a beat, he asked, voice low and choppy through the fabric, “You w-wanna see?”
Your heart stuttered. You rubbed your arm, suddenly self-conscious under the sickly yellow fluorescent glow.
“Um… yeah. Sure.”
He hesitated for a moment. His restless eyes flicked down to the counter, then back to you. Another sharp tic jerked his head to the side with a soft crack, and his scarred fingers twitched against the edge of the bandana. For the first time since he’d walked in, he looked almost uncertain, like he was weighing whether this was a mistake.
Then he made up his mind.
With a quick, decisive tug, he pulled the black bandana down and let it hang loosely around his neck.
Holy shit.
The scar was huge. It stretched diagonally across his left cheek, brutal and badly healed, thick and raised like someone had dragged a jagged blade across his face and never bothered to stitch it properly. The skin around it pulled at the corner of his mouth, giving his lips a slight, permanent twist on that side. It looked painful even now, years later.
But aside from that… he was pretty.
He looked much younger than you expected. Messy brown hair fell into his dark eyes in uneven, self-cut chunks. His lips were full and slightly swollen, the bottom one especially plush despite the scar tugging at it. His jaw was sharp, almost delicate in its angles, and his skin was surprisingly soft-looking, pale with a faint scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you hadn’t noticed before. The contrast between the violent scar and the rest of his face was jarring - beautiful in a broken, almost haunting way.
You held your breath without realizing it, the air caught tight in your chest.
His eyes, those same restless, dark eyes, were locked on yours now, waiting. You could see the tension in them, the braced expectation. He was waiting for the rejection. For the flinch. For the disgust to flash across your face like it probably had a hundred times before. He seemed completely ready for you to tell him to get the fuck out.
Your pulse hammered loud in your ears.
You didn’t look away.
And then it happened.
You don’t know what on earth possessed you to do this - maybe the way he looked at you with those scarred, pretty features and those braced, waiting eyes, maybe the electric tension that had been crackling between you since the moment he walked back in, or maybe you’d just lost your goddamn mind after eight months of fluorescent-lit boredom - but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
“I can give you something sweet to eat.”
The tics started immediately.
His head snapped hard to the left with an audible crack, shoulder jerking violently toward his ear. Another sharp twitch rolled through his frame, then another, faster, like his whole body was short-circuiting. He looked shocked, like you’d just shot him point-blank. His dark eyes went wide, the restless energy in them freezing for a split second.
“W-wait… wh-what?” he stammered aggressively, the words tumbling out choppy and broken under the fresh wave of tics. His scarred mouth twisted with the movement, the thick line on his cheek pulling tight. “You– you s-said–?”
No going back now.
Your hands shook slightly as you motioned with your chin toward the small space behind the counter. “Come here.”
He just kept staring, frozen, another violent hitch jerking his shoulders. So you did it.
Your fingers went to the button of your jeans. The faint metallic click of the button popping open sounded impossibly loud under the buzzing fluorescents. You dragged the zipper down. The waistband of your plain white panties peeked out, simple cotton, nothing special, but the sight of them made a low, choked sound rip out of his throat.
And then he was moving.
He came around the counter fast, uneven steps eating up the short distance, shoulders hitching with every step. He stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his body and smell the faint pine and cigarette smoke still clinging to his hoodie. You turned slightly so you were facing him fully, heart slamming against your ribs so hard you felt dizzy.
This was pure insanity.
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and pushed them down your hips, letting them slide to your ankles. You stepped out of them, kicking the faded denim aside. The cool air of the store hit your bare legs, raising goosebumps.
He was breathing heavily now, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. His eyes raked over your panties, then flicked up to your face, then back down to the thin white fabric like he couldn’t decide where to look. Another tic made his head jerk sideways.
You touched the waistband of your panties with trembling fingers. Then, slowly, achingly slowly, you pulled them down too, letting them drop to the floor.
He gasped audibly, a raw, broken sound that cut through the constant hum of the lights.
And then he just… fell to his knees.
Right there on the scuffed tile behind the counter, like gravity had suddenly given up on him. His hands landed on your thighs for balance, scarred fingers gripping tight as another wave of tics rolled through him, shoulder snapping up, neck cracking to the side. But his eyes never left your now-bare pussy.
He was face to face with it, only inches away, dark gaze hungry and stunned all at once. The sight of him on his knees like that - messy brown hair wild, brutal scar pulling at his swollen lips - sent a hot, familiar rush pooling low in your belly. Heat throbbed between your legs, your clit already aching under the intensity of his stare.
His breath ghosted warm against your skin, shaky and uneven.
“F-fuck…” he whispered, voice wrecked, barely more than a rasp. Another violent tic jerked his head, but he fought to keep his face close, eyes fluttering like he was trying not to lose it right there. “You’re… so fucking p-pretty.”
His fingers flexed on your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below where your hips met your legs. He leaned in a fraction closer, lips parted, the scar making the corner of his mouth twitch as another soft, involuntary grunt slipped out.
He was waiting again - waiting for you to stop him, to push him away, to come to your senses.
But you didn’t.
All you could feel was the wet heat building between your thighs and the desperate, trembling need in the man kneeling in front of you. Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. This was your thief - the same twitchy asshole who’d flipped you off and sped off into the night - now on his knees like this. It didn’t feel real.
You swallowed thickly, voice coming out quieter and a little shaky, a mix of nerves and want. “Eat it.”
He didn’t hesitate anymore.
His scarred hands slid up the backs of your thighs and grabbed your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he yanked you forward. The sudden pull made you stumble a half-step closer, your bare pussy right against his face. He buried his nose in you and just breathed you in - deep, greedy inhales like he was trying to memorize the scent. A low, broken moan tore out of his throat, vibrating straight against your folds.
“F-fuuuck…” he groaned, the word muffled and ragged. His shoulders hitched violently, but he didn’t pull away. He just pressed closer, nuzzling, inhaling again, another desperate moan spilling out as if the smell alone was enough to wreck him.
The whole thing was insane. The store was open - door unlocked, lights blazing, anyone could pull up to the pumps and walk in at any second. A trucker, a local, anyone. The thrill of it shot straight through you, hot and addictive, making your clit throb harder.
He spread your legs apart a little wider with his grip on your ass, thumbs spreading your cheeks just enough to open you up for him. Then his tongue was on you.
At first it was testing - slow, broad licks from your entrance up to your clit, like he was tasting something precious and trying not to devour it too fast. The wet heat of his mouth made your knees buckle. You slapped one hand against the wall behind you for support, the other flying down to grip his messy brown hair.
The second you pulled at his hair, something in him snapped.
His tongue turned eager, almost frantic. He licked you like he was starving - long, sloppy strokes that covered every inch of your pussy, then focused on your clit with tight, circling flicks. He was loud. Obscenely loud. Wet slurping sounds mixed with deep, guttural moans and broken groans that vibrated through your core. Every time his tongue dipped inside you, he groaned like he’d just tasted heaven.
Your whole body shook. Your legs felt wobbly, sweat already breaking out across your skin under the faded polo. You held on for dear life, fingers tightening in his hair as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.
“Taste good?” you managed to gasp out, voice shaky.
He groaned into your pussy, the sound raw and filthy, tongue never stopping. The vibration made your hips jerk.
“Yeah?” you pushed, breath hitching. “Better than candy?”
He made a noise that was half laugh, half desperate groan, choked and wrecked, then nodded frantically, his scarred cheek brushing your inner thigh. “Yes,” he moaned right against your clit, the word hot and wet and direct. “So m-much better–fuck, you taste so fucking g-good–”
The confession sent another rush of heat through you.
He threw your left leg over his shoulder without warning, opening you up even more. The new angle let him bury his face deeper, tongue working you harder - licking, sucking, flicking your swollen clit with relentless hunger. His scar pulled at his mouth with every movement, but he didn’t seem to care. He was lost in it.
You glanced down and saw his right hand palming himself desperately through his dark pants, rubbing the obvious bulge with quick, needy strokes.
The sight made something possessive flare in your chest.
You yanked his hair harder. “Did I tell you you could touch yourself, you fuckin’ thief?”
He whined - actually whined - into your pussy, the sound high and needy and so fucking hot it almost pushed you over the edge right there. His big, dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, wet and pleading, mouth shiny and dripping with your slick. The brutal scar twisted with his expression, swollen lips parted around another desperate sound.
“P-please,” he begged, voice muffled and broken against your folds. “Please– I’ll be a g-good boy for you, I swear–please let me–”
The sight of him on his knees, face buried between your legs, eyes begging while his tongue kept working you, nearly made you cum on the spot.
You nodded, breath ragged. “Go on then.”
He only stopped for a second, long enough to frantically shove his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was big. Thick and long, bigger than anything you’d ever had, the head already flushed dark and leaking. Veins stood out along the shaft as he wrapped his hand around it and started stroking himself fast and rough.
Then he was back on you, mouth even more eager now, sucking your clit between his lips while two fingers slid inside you, curling just right.
At one point his teeth grazed the inside of your thigh - biting down hard enough to make you gasp. You yanked his hair roughly in response, and the pain made him groan loudly into your pussy, his hand jerking his cock even faster, slick sounds filling the small space behind the counter.
He ate you like a man possessed - slurping, moaning, tongue and fingers working in perfect rhythm while he stroked himself frantically. His hips bucked into his own fist, desperate and uncoordinated because of the constant tics rolling through his body.
It didn’t take long.
His moans grew louder, more broken. His shoulders jerked violently. Then he came, hard, moaning deep into your pussy as thick ropes of cum spilled over his hand and splattered onto the scuffed tile floor. There was so much of it, pulsing out in heavy spurts while his tongue never stopped moving on you.
And still he kept going.
He ate you like nothing else mattered in the world, licking up every drop of your arousal mixed with his own ragged breathing, sucking on your clit with renewed hunger. His free hand gripped your ass tighter, holding you steady as your legs threatened to give out completely.
The orgasm hit you like a freight train.
You came harder than you ever had in your life - shaking violently, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat as your head fell back against the wall. Your hips jerked against his face, thighs clamping around his head. You almost fell, vision whiting out, but he held you up with surprising strength, arms locked around your thighs like iron. His tongue kept working you through it, licking and sucking and drinking down every drop you gave him.
Some of it squirted, hot and sudden, splashing against his chin, his scarred cheek, and dripping onto the floor and his hoodie. He just moaned louder, slurping greedily, swallowing what he could and letting the rest coat him like he wanted to wear it.
Your body kept trembling long after the peak, little aftershocks making your legs twitch. He stayed on his knees, face still buried between your thighs, placing soft licks along your soaked folds as if he couldn’t bear to stop tasting you.
Your heart was hammering, sweat cooling on your skin. He looked up at you with dark, dazed eyes - mouth wet, chin dripping, scar glistening with your cum - and whispered, voice completely wrecked:
“Th-that was… so good.”
Then he licked his lips slowly, like he was savoring every last trace of you. His tongue dragged over the swollen bottom lip and along the edge of the thick scar, eyes half-lidded and dazed. After a beat, almost shyly, he added, “You’re… my d-dream girl.”
You could barely breathe. Your chest heaved, lungs burning as you tried to pull air back into your body. A shaky, breathy laugh escaped you - half disbelief, half pure adrenaline.
You carefully eased your weight back onto your own two feet, legs still trembling. One hand stayed braced against the wall for a second longer before you trusted yourself to stand. You reached under the counter, grabbed a handful of tissues, and wiped yourself quickly, cleaning up the mess between your thighs as best you could. He stayed on his knees the whole time, watching you with dark, hungry eyes that hadn’t lost any of their intensity.
You pulled your panties and jeans back up, buttoning and zipping with fingers that still felt clumsy. The fabric felt too warm against your sensitive skin. He observed every movement, quiet except for the occasional small hitch of his shoulders and the soft, involuntary grunt that slipped out when his head twitched sideways.
Finally, he pushed himself up off the tile, wiped his slick chin and mouth with the back of his hoodie sleeve, and tugged his pants and boxers back into place. The aftermath hit like a sudden drop in temperature - awkward, heavy, reality slamming back into the fluorescent-lit store. You were both just standing there behind the counter, breathing hard, the air thick with the scent of sex.
You tried to pull yourself together, smoothing down your messy ponytail and straightening your polo. Then your eyes met his again, and a small, helpless giggle bubbled out of you.
He smiled, actually smiled, this soft, dazed curve of his scarred lips that made the corner of his mouth twist a little more. It was boyish and almost sweet despite everything.
He wiped his chin one more time with his sleeve, then shoved both hands into his pockets and rocked a little on his heels, glancing over at the two crushed Snickers still sitting on the counter.
You sighed, a small laugh shaking your shoulders, and walked over to the candy aisle. You grabbed two fresh Snickers bars, brought them back, and held them out to him.
“Here,” you said, voice still a little hoarse. “They’re on me.”
His eyes lit up like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket. He beamed, wide and genuine, scar pulling tight, and took the bars, immediately stuffing them into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he muttered, that familiar stammer cutting through. “I, uh… I g-got my sweet fix already, but I’ll s-save these for later.”
You shook your head, still laughing softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned again, rocking once more on his heels. “Gotta go,” he said after a moment, jerking his head toward the door. Another quick tic made his shoulder roll hard. “But… I’ll be b-back.”
You nodded, trying to sound casual even though your pulse was still racing. “Cool.”
He hesitated, dark eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing it. Then he stepped in quickly, cupped the side of your neck with one scarred hand, and pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your lips. It was brief, warm, and a little clumsy, his scar brushing your skin, but it left you tingling all over again.
He pulled back, looking down almost shyly, then turned toward the door.
“B-bye,” he muttered as he shoved the door open. The bell jingled cheerfully.
“Bye,” you called back, watching him step out into the night.
The door swung shut behind him. You stood there for a long moment, heart still hammering, a dazed smile tugging at your lips as the faint scent of pine and cigarette smoke lingered in the air.
The soft glow of your bedside lamp cast a warm, cozy light across your bedroom, chasing away the shadows and making the rumpled sheets feel extra inviting. You were sprawled across your unmade bed in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties, legs tangled comfortably in the blankets, a half-eaten bowl of cereal balanced precariously on your stomach. Some mindless sitcom droned on from your laptop, but you weren’t really watching it. Your mind kept drifting back to three nights ago - behind the counter at Stop & Gas, the way his scarred mouth had felt between your thighs, the desperate, broken sounds he made while he devoured you like you were the only sweet thing he’d ever needed.
You still didn’t know his name. That fact made the whole thing feel even more ridiculous, like some fever dream you’d conjured up during one too many night shifts. But the memory had you grinning like an idiot into your pillow, stomach fluttering every time you replayed the way he’d looked up at you with those dark, dazed eyes, chin glistening, whispering “You’re my dream girl” like he actually meant it.
For the first time in your life, you were actually excited to go back to work tomorrow. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. But the giddy little rush in your chest wouldn’t quit.
Your phone buzzed loudly on the nightstand, jolting you out of your daydream. You glanced at the screen - Andy. Your coworker, the early-thirties burnout who always smelled faintly of weed and dealt on the side to anyone who asked. He usually only called when he wanted you to cover a shift. With a sigh, you paused the show and answered.
“Yeah?”
Andy’s voice came through shaky and raw, like he was still catching his breath and fighting the urge to puke. “Holy shit… you gotta hear this. I just watched someone get murdered right outside the store. I’m still shaking, man.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You sat up fast, the cereal bowl nearly spilling. “What? Andy, slow down–what happened?”
“I was working the night shift. Everything was dead quiet, like usual. Then James Miller comes in–that skinny fuck with the neck tattoos who’s been stealing from us forever. The one who got arrested last year. He does his usual bullshit: grabs a couple beers and some jerky, stuffs them in his jacket like I'm fucking stupid, and heads straight for the door. I yelled at him to pay up, but he just flipped me off and walked out laughing.”
Andy swallowed hard, voice dropping. “It was pitch black outside. You know how the lot lights barely reach the edge of the building. I followed him out anyway, pissed off, ready to get his plate or at least scream at him one more time. The second he stepped past the pumps, some guy came out of nowhere from the shadows near the treeline. Dark clothes, hood up, just–moving way too fast. He had hatchets–two of them, I think. It was too dark to see his face at all. He just… went at James like an animal.”
Andy’s breathing hitched. “James tried to run but the guy was on him instantly. Swinging those hatchets–chopping, hacking. Blood sprayed everywhere. James was screaming, then gurgling, then nothing. It was over in like a minute. I freaked out and ran back inside, locked the door. I watched the whole thing through the glass while I called the cops. The psycho just… finished and vanished. Ran off into the woods behind the pumps like he was never there.”
You felt the blood drain from your face. “Jesus Christ…”
“The cops are here now. Whole place is taped off. James' body is still lying out there, completely mutilated. I told them it was James Miller, the repeat thief we’ve dealt with a dozen times. And listen to this–they found a note thrown on the ground right next to him. It said ‘I will not steal again :)’ with a stupid little smiley face. Fucking weird. Anyway, they’re asking me a million questions now. Feels unreal, man. It was… it was brutal.”
Your stomach twisted. James Miller. Just another local loser who’d pushed his luck one too many times.
Still, the note hit you like a slap.
“I will not steal again :)”
The words echoed in your head. A twisted little callback to the melted Snickers, to the playful way your thief had shrugged and said he didn’t take anything, to the lazy middle finger from the back of the truck.
It felt… personal. Like a message directed straight at you.
A chill crawled slowly up your spine.
No. That was insane. You were overthinking it. Had to be. Some sick coincidence. James probably had plenty of enemies - people he’d stolen from, people he’d pissed off. The woods were full of weird shit and weirder people. Andy hadn’t seen the attacker clearly. It could’ve been anyone.
“That’s… really fucked up, Andy. Are you okay? Do you need me to come down there?”
“Nah, they’re keeping me here answering questions. Manager’s gonna call you about the schedule. Store’s closed at least tomorrow, maybe longer. Just… be careful dude, alright? Whoever did this is still out there.”
“Yeah. Stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”
You hung up and sat there in the sudden quiet, heart hammering.
The laptop screen glowed mockingly. You stared at the wall, the giddy high you’d been riding for three days curdling into something cold and uneasy.
James Miller was dead. Brutally. With a note that felt like it was mocking the exact game you’d played with your thief.
“I will not steal again.”
It felt like a message. Directed at you.
You shook your head hard, trying to push the thought away. You were probably just paranoid from too many night shifts and one reckless, adrenaline-fueled night behind the counter. It was a coincidence. It had to be.
Still, the woods outside your window looked darker than usual.
And for the first time since that night, the thought of seeing your twitchy thief again didn’t fill you with pure fluttering excitement.
It made your stomach twist with something sharper. Colder.
Summary: Being a cam girl is a fun gig. Flexible hours, dressing up in cute outfits, and arguably easy cash. It’s almost made even better, knowing that you’ve got troves of desperate men right under your thumb. Well, it is - until one of them gets too attached.
CW: 18+ content, explicit sexual content, sex work, reader is a cam girl (duh), female masturbation, male masturbation, sex toys, voyeurism, stalking, toxic behaviour, breaking and entering, dubious consent w/ noncon elements, unsafe sex, wet and messy, drool and spit, vaginal fingering, biting and marking, hair pulling, dacryphilia, possessive tendencies, dom/sub undertones, Toby’s SUCH a desperate LOSER lmfao, and a total creep, also a bit psychotic, creampie
-
NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!
-
Toby should’ve never gotten a laptop.
He never saw the need for one beforehand, never cared - nor had the time - to waste his hours away in the online world. He had way bigger, and way more important priorities. Being one of Slender’s top dogs meant that most, if not all of his time was spent devoting himself to a cause he barely understood. Kept so busy that he could barely even take a moment to form an independent thought.
But, despite all that, and despite Slender’s best efforts - Toby was still human. Flesh, bone, and a beating heart. Needs, wants, desires. Curiosities.
So when he’s coming home from a mission in the city one night, and happens upon a discarded laptop in a dumpster behind an electronics store - he takes the bait. It had just been sitting there, the metal of its casing glinting in the moonlight, the charging cord barely a foot away.
Like it was beckoning him. Taunting him.
So, he takes it.
He wasn’t expecting it to work, brought it home with the expectation that he’d get nothing but a black screen staring back at him. That he’d dispose of this momentary lapse of judgment, and go back to life as usual - dumping it back in the trash like he had never found it in the first place.
That’s not what happened. By some grace of god, or possibly by the devil’s hand - it worked. The screen flickered and blinked on when he connected the charger and plugged it into the nearest non-busted outlet in his vicinity. It worked. A few dead pixels in the left-hand corner, a hairline crack running down the centre - but it worked. That enough was enough to have Toby letting out a downright giddy little laugh to no one but the four walls of his room - eyes wide and reflecting the screen before him, like he was staring into the gates of heaven itself.
He was. He just didn’t know it right then.
It didn’t take long for him to become completely and utterly hooked. Any free time to himself he found himself in the exact same position - eyes burning from the blue light, back hunched into an absolutely abhorrent display of posture, his gaze glued to the screen before him. He was like a kid on Christmas, excitement thrumming through his veins every time his fingertips hit the keyboard.
His new toy. Opening up a door to a world he had been exiled from. Observing it all like a window shopper, stuck behind the glass as he gazed upon things he could never have. Things he never should’ve seen. News stories, videos - some recounting disappearances and crimes he had committed with his own bare hands. Blogs and stories, profiles belonging to people he once knew.
Still living, just as he was, but on the other side of the coin. Unaware that he was still breathing, still wasting oxygen on his own wretched lungs as he peered into their lives. Analyzing the smiles on their faces. Wondering to himself, it was all a facade.
He spent days doing that. Checking in on old relatives, old classmates. Gritting his teeth when he would find out that they were doing well. Some married, some working towards some fancy degree. It felt like a swift punch to the gut, made him nauseous like their unknowing grins were an insult to life itself.
To him, they were.
Because why had they gotten it good? Why were they the ones thriving, and he was the one kicked to the curb? Living in a dusty old cabin that just barely had enough power to keep his screen lit.
He wasn’t sure what he hoped would happen. That karma would’ve dealt its heavy hammer onto all of their lives, leaving them sick, penniless - dead? Swiftly making them repent for everything they had done to him, one strike for every time they had ever pushed his face into the dirt.
But karma didn’t take names. It was fickle. Wasn’t some all seeing god that punished the horrid and cleansed the world with one swipe of its hand. If that were true, he’d probably be taken out right along with everyone who had wronged him.
His little escape from the horrors had quickly become just another set of horrors itself. Putting him into an even worse mood than before with an already frazzled mind from the events of the day, and yet he just couldn’t tear himself away. It was some sort of sick fascination, like a voyeur, gazing upon people’s lives while they were none the wiser. And maybe that’s why he just kept coming back. Maybe that’s how he found you.
He can’t really remember it all clearly, how he had stumbled upon this little goddess on his screen. Probably from some pop up ad on a porn site he had stumbled upon on one of his lonelier nights. All he remembered was seeing you. Front and centre. Top of the charts on the front page of the website you called home - right where you belonged. He remembered immediately thinking that it made sense, gazing at the little thumbnail snapshot of you - body covered in nothing but a sheer babydoll dress with the sweetest little smile curving your lips. It made sense, that you were the most clicked. And he hadn’t even ever watched you yet.
But when he finally did? It was an entirely different story. You were ethereal. Exquisite. A marvel of a woman all done up in lacy lingerie. Your body, carved to the shape of his wildest desires, your voice soft and sweet like a siren’s song. Eyes sparkling, lips plump, and the softest looking thighs he had ever laid eyes on. And don’t even get him started on what lay between them.
He hadn’t been with nearly as many girls as he would’ve liked too. Had seen enough cunts that he could count them on one hand. But yours? It was perfect. He was sure of it. He didn’t have to compare it to anything else to know that.
Always glistening and puffy by the time you peeled your panties off, legs spread to give your audience a nice show. Riling yourself up until you were desperate for it, soaking the lacy fabric so good he could see glistening strings of your slick attaching you to them before they broke. The first time he had witnessed it he was enraptured, goosebumps prickling up on the back of his neck, stomach flipping like he was witnessing something he had no right to. He probably didn’t. Someone like you, someone so soft and supple - someone so perfect - his hands would taint you. Leave you ruined. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much his body craved you, he just knew he’d break you.
(But maybe that was half of the reason he wanted you).
So, he just watches, like everyone else in your audience. Watches your pretty painted fingernails, the softness of your hands as you play with your own tits. Watching how the flesh indents under your fingers, knowing that they had to be even more supple than they looked. Imagining what it would be like to see them all marked up with splotches of red and purple from his teeth and tongue. Listened to your moans and imagined they were for him. Imagining that you were crying from stretching yourself around his cock, not your dildo or your fingers.
His fingers could give it to you better. And that toy you used? It was a dinky little thing. All of your followers knew it too. He could see them in the chat, begging you to take something bigger. Asking if you even could.
Toby knew you could. Could see it on your face when you sunk yourself down onto it. That little wrinkle of frustration in your brow. That thinly veiled want for more. For something real. How you rolled your hips deep, like you were imagining something bigger, something that could really fill you up. Something that would make those pretty tears you loved to spill genuine.
It was all on purpose, it had to be. To keep everyone begging. Hoards of men just like him joining your livestreams day after day, just to see if this was the night you finally stretched yourself out good. It never was, and that’s why you were so popular - because you were a fucking tease. And anticipation is one of the best motivators.
That was true for Toby as well, even if he knew better.
He found himself joining your lives every single night. Right when they started, when you were still (mostly) clothed. Every night the outfit differed, and yet every night you still made his mouth water - his hand flying to the bulge in his jeans before you even took your top off.
Lace, silk, satin. Sheer little dresses, crop tops and thigh highs. Boyshorts on nights when you wanted to feel comfier, crotchless panties when you were really putting on a show. Garters on your legs that he’d imagine peeling off with his own teeth. The common denominator between all of your clothes was that they looked expensive, and it didn’t take long to figure out why.
You talked to people in your chat often, addressed them by name, and batted your pretty eyelashes at them through the webcam. It didn’t take long for Toby to realize that you’d do the same for him, if he just tossed you a bit of cash. You’d do anything for the right price, it seemed. He had seen it for himself when you edged yourself for nearly two whole hours, just because a donator had tossed you a grand and told you not to cum. It was crazy to think about, throwing money at this girl just so that she toyed with her own body while you were sat miles away - unsatiated with fingers itching to touch her.
It was humiliating that he started considering it.
It was downright pathetic when he actually did it.
He just couldn’t take it anymore, listening to you moan out all of these other names from those sweet lips of yours. It felt like a crime. Like some exclusive club, he was being locked out of behind a paywall. And though he had came to the sight of you multiple times already, he just knew that hearing you speak to him would buckle him. He’d be hearing it ringing in his ears for weeks, and he wanted that. Needed that.
So he caves.
Proxies normally deal in cash, but Toby was well versed in pickpocketing - so it only took one or two trips into the city before he was walking home with a pretty hefty wallet snagged from the pocket of a businessman. Loaded with credit cards of all different varieties, but he knew that it would only be a short time until his victim realized the damage and locked all of them. So, as soon as he gets home, he’s ripping one out of the leather and typing the details into the account he had made on the website. Your website, as far as he was concerned.
And he knew that it wouldn’t take long for his little spending spree to end, but that didn’t matter. He could always swipe another card from some other brain-dead drone.
It would be worth it every time. He knew it the moment you spoke to him for the first time.
’Oh, that’s a new name. Welcome to the show, Toby. What can I do for ya’?’
His name sounded like gospel coming from your lips. It wasn’t anything special, just four simple letters, and yet they sounded like a prayer. Had Toby hanging onto every syllable. His mouth damn near salivating as he watched the way your lips formed around it, lungs feeling tight as all of the air left them in a shuddering exhale. You were looking right at him when you said it, eyes glinting like you knew exactly what effect your voice would have.
(Of course you did. It was your job to be a temptress, after all.)
He remembered hesitating. Remembered how his body had broken into a fit of trembles and twitches as you eyed the chat expectantly. Waiting for him. For him. He remembered all the blood rushing down to his cock so quickly it made him feel lightheaded. Vision going a little blurry, but you were still in crisp focus. A vignette surrounding the object of his desire. Everything else, wiped away, because nothing else mattered. Not as much as you did.
’Take your top off?’ He felt silly - embarrassed - typing the words out, felt his gut twist when he hit send, even though other people had asked much worse of you. But, they had also paid more.
’Take my top off?’ You had giggled softly, your lips curling into an amused little grin. Like you knew. Like you could feel his nerves radiating through your screen. And he watched as your hands slid down your body, all smooth and slow, dragging it out just to make him sweat. Directing his gaze to your each and every curve, eyes widening in anticipation when they slipped behind your back - undoing the pretty bow that kept your halter top fastened without even so much as a hitch. So easily. Staring right into your webcam when the fabric fell down into your lap.
Braless, of course you were. You always were. Giving him an eyeful of your bare tits just because he had asked. They just sat so pretty. So perfect. So soft when you reached up to toy with them. Kneading them gently, letting out a little gasp like they were just buzzing with sensitivity. Was it for show, or were you really just that easy to rile up? He was banking on the latter when he slipped a hand into his boxers.
He let out a hiss through his teeth, barely even aware of how hard he actually was before he got a hand curled around the base of his cock. Pulsing against his palm, skin taut, precum dribbling down onto his fingers when he gave it a teasing squeeze. Eyes glazed over as he watched you, committing the colour of your nail polish to memory when you gave your already perked up nipples a little pinch. A wicked shudder going down his spine as your lips part for a moan.
‘This what you wanted, Toby?’ His whole body jolted when you spoke his name again, his cock twitching against his palm as his movements grew more and more eager. Shoving the waistband of his jeans down like they had offended him, giving himself more breathing room for more desperate flicks of his wrist. ‘Wanted to see my tits, baby?’ He whines, face scrunched up in pleasure - eyebrows knitted together, and his eyes pinched closed. He wasn’t even watching anymore, but he didn’t even need to. That sweet voice of yours was all he needed. ‘Bet you’re wishin’ these were your hands, huh?’
’Yes- F-Fuck-‘ He gasped out into the empty air of his bedroom. Like you could hear him, like you gave a fuck. Like you viewed him as something more than just another sap you could squeeze dry.
His ears were ringing, hips bucking into every pathetic movement he made. The sound of that obscene ‘schlick, schlick’ filling the air of his empty bedroom between his huffed out gasps and groans, boarded by your voice through the speakers of his laptop - downright taunting him. ‘You’ve gone quiet, baby. Hands too busy?’
It was humiliating, so much so that part of him wanted to fly back to the chat and give you an earful. But the other part - the more prominent part - was in, far too deep. Your voice made him hot, even through the taunts. So much so that he can feel sweat soaking his clothes, his t-shirt clinging to the curves of his back. Beads of it rolling down his forehead. Burning up, pumping his cock faster and faster, not sure if he was working towards or trying to fend off his release.
You made the decision for him.
’Great first impression. Go on and cum for me, Toby. Bet you’re close.’ He saw stars, cumming so abruptly like you knew the whereabouts of some hidden switch within him. So sudden, it knocks the wind out of him and makes his vision whiteout. Groaning shamelessly into the air, not a care in the world that someone might hear him as he just barely registers the feeling of his cum splattering against the front of his t-shirt. He was practically choking for air, thighs trembling like a leaf in the wind. Keeping his strokes steady until the overstimulation was making his gut clench, milking out every ounce of pleasure as if he just couldn’t bear to let it fizzle out.
Chest heaving when he slumps back against his sheets, so dazed he couldn’t even be bothered to clean himself off and tuck his cock back into his boxers. You had moved on already, while he was struggling to piece himself back together, already chatting away with someone else who had offered you more.
He didn’t care. He could barely even hear you. His ears were ringing with the sound of your voice. Replaying it over and over like a broken record. His mind right then was a void that only you inhabited, the sole ruler in his kingdoms of thoughts. Looping a lasso around his rationality and pulling it taut - choking him out with the intensity of his desire.
And it stayed that way. From a regular viewer to an avid patron. Throwing you every dollar he could get his hands on. That initial apprehension fading away, asking you for more and more and more. Getting lewder, more vulgar in his requests of you, and yet you took them all in stride. Just so long as he had the money to back up his words.
He did. He always did. He made sure of it.
’Wanna see you stretch that pussy open, baby’. Fifty dollars.
’Look how wet you are… Better lick those fingers clean.’ Seventy.
’How about you moan my name when you cum? I’ve been good to you, haven’t I?’ Two hundred.
You did it all. Like his own personal doll. A marionette that he pulled the strings for, hanging onto his each and every wish. He couldn’t help but feel special, important to you. Someone who you actually enjoyed talking to, obeying.
It was hard to keep his ego in check. Even harder when it started to seem like he might not be too far off with his fantasies.
You started greeting him sweetly every time you saw this name pop up in the chat. Murmuring out a little ‘There you are, Toby. Missed you.’ Before he even sent you a dollar. Your smiles looked more genuine, giggles sounded more real. The icing on the cake was the blush that would warm your cheeks as your eyes scanned across his request for the night.
You liked him. You had to. Why else would you start catering to him? It was just barely noticeable, but it was enough for Toby to pick up on. The subtle changes in demeanour, the sparkle in your eye when you saw him join your live. He couldn’t help but poke and prod, see just how far you’d go - proof that you were his girl, and that everyone else were just afterthoughts.
‘Cute set.’ He had commented one night, eyeing the scene of you sprawled out on your bed - clad in a sheer black bodysuit, nothing but a pair of pasties and a skimpy little g-string to cover all the good bits. ‘I like you better in red though.’
You hadn’t acknowledged it, but he knew that you saw the message. He had seen the way your lips quirked up a bit, eyes glinting with something downright dangerous.
The next night, you were wearing a deep scarlet lingerie set.
You hadn’t said it was for him, but you didn’t need to. Even as you went on with the show as normal, giggling and flirting with the crowd you always accumulated - the clothes on your body were a statement.
His words mattered to you. It hadn’t even been a formal request with a payment attached to it. Just a little offhand comment, something he was hoping would sink under your skin - and it did. Because maybe, you liked pleasing him just as much as he liked watching you.
Maybe, when you were trembling and gasping as you played with your clit, you were imagining it was his fingers instead. Maybe you had already conjured up some idea of what he looked like - what you hoped he looked like - and that’s what you pictured as you drew yourself closer and closer to your release. Whatever you were picturing, he was sure it was far from the truth.
After all, who’s ideal lover has a hole ripped straight through their cheek? Not many, that was for sure. But that was alright, he was sure you’d warm up to it eventually. He’d just have to show you that he could treat you better than your wildest dreams. That he could keep you happy, smiling, and sated. So overwhelmed by his devotion towards you that you wouldn’t even bat an eye at his more horrific attributes. Maybe, you wouldn’t even mind it if he told you exactly what he did as a profession.
Maybe he wouldn’t even let you.
It was hard to stay… Normal, about you. He knew that there was a barrier between the two of you, that you could never be what he wanted you to be for him. You could never be his, truly. And yet, he found himself fantasizing that you could be. Daydreams turning into reality quicker than he could reel them in, his pupils turning into little hearts every time he clicked on your livestreams. The pounding in his chest and the throbbing in his jeans, only increasing tenfold every time you acknowledged him.
His eyes, dancing across the curve of your smile, mind racing with the thought of what you tasted like. Your lips were always so glossy, but what was the flavour? Cherry? Strawberry? And your skin, so soft, glistening under the lights above you - it was soft, and he knew it, he could practically already picture what it would feel like to sink his teeth into it. Could conjure up the sounds you’d make. Just like you did on camera, but softer, sweeter - more genuine. Only for him, no one else would know what you sounded like when you were actually into it.
He dreamt about you, night after night. Daydreamed about you, when he was out on missions. Slicing through the flesh of yet another victim, but he was barely even registering it. Moving on autopilot, his mind rotted like a cavity from your sweetness.
He knew it would only get worse and worse, unless he did something about it.
Unless he actually had you.
It was easy to find your whereabouts. Reconnaissance missions were a walk in the park for him, and tracking down someone's location was something he was well versed in. It was his job, after all, just as stringing him along was yours.
Maybe, you should’ve been more careful.
It only took a few swipes through your social media profiles until he was able to figure out where you were located. You probably hadn’t even realized how careless you had been, but you had basically left a breadcrumb trail leading him towards you. Oblivious to the landmarks you left in the backgrounds of your photos outdoors, smiling sweetly in every single one - none the wiser that you had practically doxxed yourself in the eyes of someone like him.
He knew what state you lived in. Your favourite grocery stores, and clubs. From there, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what city you lived in. What specific district.
And you had no idea, going on with your life like normal, posting live after life and greeting him sweetly every single time - oblivious to the fact that he was planning a trip to come see you. To come feel you. To show you that, betting on him, wasn’t a mistake. That out of every single man in your chat, there was only one who could treat you the way you deserved. Only one who knew how to.
Him, obviously.
It took a few weeks for him to figure out how to get out there. Desperate for you, and yet still bound by his ties to Slender. He couldn’t just leave, and he knew that. He needed to be close by and ready, on call for whatever gruesome task was offered up to him. But, missions out of state were common, and he knew that, so he just had to sit and wait. Had to keep joining your lives and buttering you up, getting you all primed and ready for when he finally met you.
It wasn’t even a thought that you might not be happy to see him. You had to be. You liked him, laughed at his jokes, abided to his every wish. You were his, and you were just waiting for him to come and get you.
When a mission is finally offered up in your state, he nearly bursts into tears from relief. It had taken a while - nearly two whole months, and he had been jittery and anxiety ridden the entire time. Driven to the point of pacing around his room as your stream played in the background, damn near close to creating a pin board dedicated just to you, complete with red string and everything. He needed you. Needed you so badly it made his skin crawl, his desire an itch that festered under his skin, only able to be soothed by you and your touch.
Viewing you wasn’t enough anymore. And honestly? It never had been. He had known from the start - from the very first click - that he’d never be content just watching you through the screen of his laptop. He needed to feel the goosebumps pebble your skin, needed to smell your arousal as you just grew wetter and wetter, needed to hear the way your voice cracked on a moan - right up close and personal.
He needed you. All of you. Skin to skin with him, like you were made to be.
The mission in your city goes off without a hitch, like it always does. He was good at his job, efficient, but maybe he flubbed the truth a little when Tim contacted him via flip phone to ask for progress. Maybe, he said that the victim was tricky, always hanging around too many crowds to find them alone.
That wasn’t true, of course, he had slaughtered them like a cow on the first night there. Wiped the blood from his skin and buried them in a ditch within a matter of hours. But they weren’t his prime order of business, they had always been an afterthought. Just a scapegoat to get here.
You were the real prize. You had been from the very beginning.
And it was almost as if you wanted him to find you, because you were so stupidly easy to track down. One night hanging around your favourite bar, and he had you in his sights. Dressed up so pretty - sheer black tights ripped at the knees, a little black dress that showed off your each and every curve. Hair done up into a loose bun, picture-perfect eyeliner and glitter on your cheeks. Not even sending him a passing glance as he leaned up against the brick wall outside and lit up a smoke. Laughing along with the rest of your friends as they dragged you into the building. So blissfully ignorant, it almost made him feel bad for taking advantage - almost.
It wasn’t his fault that you were so easy. It wasn’t his fault that you had invited him into your life so easily.
You were lucky he was a patient man, because he waited. Waited, and waited, and waited. Waited until the sun began to peek over the horizon again, a ghost of pink from the approaching dawn bleeding into the inky black night sky. You had waited until last call until you were stumbling out of the establishment - alone. He didn’t mind. Had gone through a whole pack of cigs while he waited for you to have fun, but it was a necessary loss for what he was rewarded with.
You, all flushed and beautiful. Messy and uninhibited. Too drunk to even call a taxi so you just lazily kick your heels off and stagger on home. He followed you down every single block. Didn’t even need to be all too discreet about it, because you were too fucked out of your own mind that you didn’t even notice him trailing behind you.
So easy. Almost as if you did know he was there, and you were just welcoming him right in.
You lived in a quaint little apartment, a shitty little bachelor pad that he honestly wouldn’t have expected. With the money you pull from the pockets of desperate men like him, he’d expect you to live in something much more grand. Something much more fitting for a princess like you. But, he supposed it did also make sense - all those pretty garments you dressed yourself up in, and all those toys you played with, he knew that they couldn’t be cheap. Taking all that cash and feeding it right back into the machine, making sure that you stayed being the perfect fantasy.
You were number one on the charts, after all, and had been for a while. He was sure that wasn’t exactly an easy task to maintain. He watched how you fumbled for your keys, your movements clumsily and unstable - trying one, two times before you actually got the key in the slot. So messy, it was honestly a miracle that someone just like him hadn’t found you and tugged you away on your precarious walk home.
You didn’t really have to worry about any of that, though, he had been ready for it. The two hatchets hanging from his belt had just been itching to spill blood if anyone had tried anything with his girl.
His girl.
Watching his girl stumble into her home. Peering through your window as you tripped through the living room, tossing your heels onto the floor without a second thought. You left your blinds open (of course you did) and you were too wasted to even think about drawing them closed. So perfect. So willing. Just letting him get an eyeful as you unzipped the back of your dress and made a beeline towards your kitchen for a glass of water from the tap of your sink.
Just a hint of bare skin, and yet it would’ve sated him. Near drooling over the curve of your shoulder blades as he felt his pants tighten, breathing going shaky at the sight. You looked even softer in person, even more delicate. All smooth lines and soft curves, not even a single blemish marring your perfect skin. The direct opposite of him, and all the scarring that speckled him.
But then, you just had to go and give him more. Like it was his own personal show, his eyes widened when you shrugged the straps of your dress off after taking a hearty gulp of water. Just letting it fall down your body like water dripping off of your skin - so uninhibited and uncaring, letting it drop to the ground without a second thought. More and more skin for him to rave over, just sending more and more blood straight down to his cock.
You were perfect, he was sure of it. Even better when you weren’t acting. All light and loose, so pretty and oblivious as you reached down to adjust your thong. A pretty little number you were dressed up in, all lace and silky fabric, it was almost a shame that somebody hadn’t taken you home.
But then again, if they had, he wouldn’t be able to stand here, witnessing it all for himself. The relaxed curve of your stomach, just letting your body be free because no one was watching for once. The way your bra cupped your tits so perfectly, how your thighs jiggled a little when you walked. You were a goddess to him, so much so that when you walked off to your bedroom, he was following you right to it. Rounding the outside of your house, his body feeling hot and jittery as he creeped towards your bedroom window.
Your bedroom window, where the curtains were also undrawn. God, you were just inviting him to look, weren’t you? Could you even blame him, when he snaked a hand down towards the bulge in his jeans? Cupping it, so achingly hard just from watching you, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. He had been getting off to just watching you for months now. But this time it was different, because you didn’t know.
You didn’t know he was unbuckling his belt as you unclasped your bra. Didn’t know he was sliding a hand into his boxers when you reached up to massage your tits, a little - aching from being compacted into your bra all day. So beautifully ignorant as he stroked himself nice and slow, trying to keep his groans to a minimum as his eyes stayed locked on your form.
On the way your ass moved when you walked over to your closet, how the fabric of your panties hugged your cunt when you bent over to grab an old T-shirt from your bottom drawer. There was no mystery, he knew exactly what you looked like under those clothes, had memorized it a million times over.
But this time, his prying eyes were unwelcome, and that’s what was really getting him going more. Leaning his shoulder against the brick of the outside wall, he was gasping into the night air, cock throbbing against his palm as he watched how your skin stretched when you pulled the loose fabric over your body. Somehow, you looked even better this way than all dolled up. Just you, your bare legs, and some old faded band tee - nipples perked up so beautifully under the fabric from the air conditioning in your apartment.
You reached up to pull the elastic from your hair as he’s squeezing the base of his cock, trying to make this last even as precum dribbles down onto his knuckles. So wet and slick, so ready for you, if only you were ready to take it. Your hair falls loose, and he’s hissing through his teeth, hips stuttering into his own grip as he watches the way it cascades over your neck. So soft and silky, he could almost picture what it would feel like sliding between the gaps of his fingers. What noises he could pull out of you, just from curling his fingers into a fist and gripping it just a little too tight.
He doesn’t even realize he’s panting until the inside of his mask gets so hot and stuffy it feels like it's going to suffocate him. With his free hand, he hurriedly unclasps it and yanks it off of his face - letting his gasps and stifled groans ring out into the night air. He’s trying to be quiet, he really is, but he doesn’t think he’s been more worked up in his entire life. So sensitive that every downstroke makes his hips twitch and his stomach twist, that familiar coil of white-hot burning heat swirling low in his gut. Leaking onto his fingers, the sound of it was almost even louder than his moans were - so filthy, all for you. Because of you. And you didn’t even know it.
You just scampered over to your vanity like normal, pulling out a packet of makeup wipes from out of the drawer to wash off the night.
That was what got him. He had never seen you barefaced, not once. You were always so prim and perfect. Concealer covering up every blemish, false eyelashes glued on top of your real ones. Lip gloss and lipstick, blush and contour. Meticulously done up to be the woman from his dreams. But seeing you without it? Oh, he didn’t know it was possible for you to get more gorgeous, and yet you just seemed to outdo yourself time after time again.
He liked the sight of the moles and freckles on your face that you covered up day after day. Liked your natural lashes, and the dark circles under your eyes that you hid away with concealer. Your skin wasn’t perfect, donning a few pimples and acne scarring from years before - but that was the best part. It wasn’t perfect, it was real. You were real.
The sight of you barefaced and beautiful in front of your mirror, body just barely hidden under an old t-shirt - that’s what really drove the point home. You weren’t just some girl on a screen. You were living and breathing just like he was. He could see the tired droop of your eyes, the slight sway of your body from the lingering liquor still swimming in your veins. You reach up lazily under your shirt and scratch an itch under your tits while letting out a sleepy little sniffle, and he could just die right then and there. You were so tangible.
Online, you were a doll he could dress up and play with to his heart's content, but here - you were just a tired, messy girl. A real woman. Someone he could so easily reach out and take.
His orgasm takes him by surprise. He had been trying to fend it off, trying to make this really last because the sight of you so relaxed and free was downright intoxicating - but then you lean forwards in your seat. Your t-shirt rides up a bit, giving him a nice cheeky glimpse of the curve of your ass, the way your panties hugged your curves so deliciously, and he was done for. You didn’t even know how provocative you were being, you weren’t even trying. That was the best part.
He has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip when the pleasure crests and pulls him under, biting hard enough to make himself bleed as he takes in ragged gasps of breath through his nose. His whole body breaking into a fit of shakes, hips twitching and jerking with each rope of cum he pumped out. It sullied the grass beneath his feet and dirtied his knuckles, so much of it - like his body could feel his close proximity to you and adjusted his hormones accordingly.
His body slumps, heavyweight leaning up against the outside wall of your home as stars dance behind his eyes. Lips finally parting to take in a few heaving breaths as his head spins. His whole body, so loose and weighted at the same time, it's no surprise when his knees buckle beneath him - thighs shaking as he slides down the wall until he’s seated on his ass. His softening cock still half out of his jeans, his badly aimed load already going crusty against the fabric.
His jaw clenches, and then his neck is cracking to the side. Eyes squeezing shut when it happens again, then again. Letting out a strained little grunt when his shoulders jerk, one hand flying down to curl into the grass below him as his joints twitch and spasm. So overwhelmed, it was like his entire body was going into overdrive, like he was trying to crawl out of his own skin just to get to you quicker. It's humiliating, sitting there like a madman, his shoulders seized up close to his ears as he struggles to wipe his dirtied hand off on the blades of grass below him. Knowing that you’re just one wall away, that you could look out your window any second now, and see the pathetic mess of a man trying to piece himself back together right below your windowsill.
That wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want your first impression of him to be that he was just some creep. He wasn’t. He was just devoted to you in ways you could never imagine. The sight of you made his heart seize up and stutter, the sound of your voice had his lungs squeezing so tight that all his air was leaving them in a wheezing gasp. You made him itch. Made him ache. Like you were some sort of infestation, slowly but surely rotting him from the inside out. You’d never get it. Not unless he told you, showed you. Not unless you felt it for yourself.
Naturally, he sticks around. Of course, one night spying on you wouldn’t have been enough. It didn’t satiate the craving, it only fed it. And so, he was making up excuses to Tim on the phone - telling him day after day that the target was tricky, slippery, to not come pick him up yet because he wasn’t finished. He sure as hell wasn’t - he was only just getting started.
He grew accustomed to your routine over the next few days. You’d wake up, brush your teeth, and watch a few episodes of some cheesy sitcom on your television while you sipped your morning coffee. Then, you’d wash your mug in the sink. The same mug, every day. It must be your favourite. After that, you were headed for the shower, to which you hid yourself from him for about twenty minutes every single day. Your bathroom didn’t have windows (a shame), but even if it did, he’d assume your bare body was hidden behind a curtain. So, for that stretch of time every day he’s left leaning up against the side of your house, palming the bulge in his jeans as the image of you - all bare and glossy with water droplets - danced behind his eyelids.
He followed you to the store, to the bar, to your friend’s houses. You didn’t seem to have a day job, but he supposed that wasn’t entirely surprising - you probably got everything you needed just from donations. Hell, you could probably live comfortably just off of his contributions alone. You spent most of your days just lazing around, living off of the funds you’d pulled from your hoard of fans - sometimes taking day trips to the café near your house, or to the mall to buy some new exquisite number to add to your repertoire.
The night was when you really came alive, though.
You didn’t stop doing shows, just because he had gone radio silent. Of course not, it was your job, after all - you couldn’t take a day or two off simply to wait for him. But he would swear that he could see it in your eyes as he watched through the window. You were disappointed, every time you failed to see his name pop into your chat, crestfallen at his absence. Going on as usual, keeping the act up, but he could tell.
You missed him.
If only you knew that he was still watching, just up close and personal this time.
And god, was it better. So close, he could just burst through your window and touch you if he had a little less self-restraint. The camera really didn’t do it justice - up close, you were a dream. The most gorgeous woman he had ever laid eyes on, with the prettiest pussy to match. Absolutely dripping with slick when you sank your fingers in two knuckles deep, stretching yourself out nice and proper - but not as well as he could.
His patience weaned quickly. He could only spend so many nights watching you try every trick in the book to make yourself cum. Desperately tweaking your nipples as you rode your favourite dildo into the mattress, that ever present pinch in your brow - frustration, need. You needed him. He could have you falling apart in mere minutes, he was just sure of it. He’d bet you’d never touch a toy again, after he finally had his way with you.
You were just laying in wait, your entire body coaxing him forwards and feeding into his delusions.
You couldn’t call yourself innocent, when you were just reeling him in like this. He was sure that if he took a peek into your thoughts, he’d find that you were thinking of him just as he was thinking of you. Craving him. This man you didn’t even have a face to match the name for, and yet he had buttered you up so good that you were imagining him to be exactly what you needed to soothe the ache in your gut, the throbbing in your panties.
He could be the cure to the never ending lust that consumed you. He just had to show you.
-
You’re out with friends when he first sneaks in. Finding out that your window was unlocked the entire time had sent a thrill straight down to his bones. Knowing that it's just been that easy this entire time. That he could’ve had you whenever he wanted, that you had just been offering yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter.
Maybe… Did you know that he was here? That he had come all this way just for you? Were you inviting him in? Welcoming him?
It sure felt like it, when he first stepped foot into your bedroom. Dirtied boots hitting the soft carpeted flooring, contorting his body to squeeze through your window until he was fully inside. Shutting it behind him like it mattered at all.
He had taken a moment to just appreciate it all, to just breathe you in. The scent of you was everywhere - clinging to your walls, your clothes, your sheets. The sweet floral scent of your perfume, bordered by your natural musk. The smell of you. The smell that seeped out of your pores on a day-to-day basis. He wanted it all over him. Wanted to bottle it up and guzzle it down. He wanted to inject it into his veins, for fuck’s sake. Let you circulate throughout his entire body and make a home in his heart, keeping you there for as long as you’d let him.
He’s sinking into your sheets before he can even think twice about it. It feels like sinking into the fluffy clouds at the entrance of heaven itself.
Sheets so soft and silky, drenched in the scent of you. The smell of laundry detergent is just barely noticeable, it must’ve been a few days since you last washed them - and god, if he isn’t grateful for that fact. It was like a gift for all of his efforts. Sweet, floral perfume, cut through by the undertones of your natural scent. He could smell your sweat, your essence, the lingering film of shampoo that had smeared against your pillowcase.
It was you. You had been here. You slept here. Touched yourself here, time and time again.
A shaky moan rumbles from his chest as he buried his nose into your pillow, his eyes pinched shut as drool pools in the corners of his mouth. Not wearing his mask, and not bandaged up, it seeps out of the gash in his cheek and stains the fabric beneath him, but he doesn’t care. Can’t care, not when the mere scent of you was turning his brain into mush.
His hands scramble to grab purchase of anything they can. They find your blanket, which he bunches up and immediately drags over to his nose. Inhaling lungful after lungful of that glorious smell, his breathing growing more and more shaky as the seconds ticked by.
Toby felt like his entire body was on fire. Every single nerve in his body set alight as he writhed against your sheets, drinking you in, moaning on every exhale like just the scent of you alone had sent him into heat. It sure felt like you did, with the way his skin was itching beneath his clothes - sweat beading up on his brow and leaving a slick film against his body.
He couldn’t even bring himself to kick his boots off. Crawling further into your little private sanctuary, the tread of his boots smears mud against your delicate sheets - sullying them, leaving his mark. He’s too far past rationality to even notice. “F-Fuck-“ He chokes out into the empty air, his voice raw and strained - the soft curse clawing its way out of his throat as his crudely bandaged fingers grip your blanket like a vice. With his eyes closed, and his nose stuffed full of you, it was easy to imagine that he was clinging onto your body instead. Burying his nose in your neck, getting to drink in this scent straight from the source.
His hands slip through the sheets, hips twitching against the mattress subconsciously. Drool pooling in his mouth and dribbling out of the gash in his cheek to stain your satin pillowcase.
He’s never felt more filthy in his entire life. Not when stained with blood, not with skin caked in mud and grime - but now. Smearing the raw essence of himself against the sweetness of your personal space. Taking something so pure and tainting it, leaving a mess of mud, sweat, and spit against the sheets you were probably aching to sink into after a long day.
It was no secret that his time was limited. That this little stolen moment of depraved bliss could be cut short on a moment’s notice. He knew that you were out with friends, but for how long? Long enough for him to bask in your sanctuary for enough to make the itch under his skin finally cease? Long enough for him to press his face into your pillow and moan your name out like it’s gospel, lungs tight with the need to have your hands on his skin?
Long enough for him to come up with a good enough explanation for why he’s here? A reason that wouldn’t scare you off?
Because that was the last thing he wanted to do.
He knew you had an image of who he was, and how he acted in your mind. Probably some handsome man loaded with money, that didn’t bat an eye at sending you thousands of dollars on a whim. Not… This. Some panting, twitching mess on your bed, minutes away from soiling his boxers just from huffing the scent of your shampoo.
Toby wasn’t so far removed that he wasn’t aware of how this must look for him. How it would look to you if you stumbled upon him. You’d probably be halfway through a frantic conversation with the cops before he could even get a word out.
He was so far removed that he didn’t care.
He was weighted by the force of his desire, head too clouded to even think about pulling himself away and cleaning up the mess he had made.
Besides, even if he did leave before you got home, he was rather keen to leave evidence of his presence.
He wanted you to know he had been there.
He wanted you to know that it was him. That he did it. He ended up exactly where he was supposed to be this entire time - in your bed.
You could be terrified, or repulsed, but Toby knew you’d come around eventually if he just talked you through it. You liked him, after all.
You wouldn’t have worn that lingerie for him if you didn’t.
He liked to think that you had just been waiting for him this whole time. Yearning for him every time you looked through your chat and didn’t find his name. Hoping that he would come find you - and he did.
Ideally, the shock of his presence in your home would just be a little hurdle to step over. Something that would quickly fizzle out once the excitement of him needing you just as badly came to fruition. Like a hit off of a cigarette - just a slight burn before that warm gooey feeling took over your veins.
He hoped that you’d be just as easy as you portrayed yourself to be. Just falling right into his arms, because you knew just as well as he did that he was exactly what you had been needing this entire time.
And if you were difficult? Well… He could work with that too, but he was really hoping that you’d be receptive.
He wanted to love you, not scare you.
And maybe, he could’ve done this in a better - safer - way. Wriggle his way into your life like he was always meant to be there. Slip into the club you like on one of the nights you were there, chat you up, let you lead him home, cook you breakfast in the morning. Show you, right off the bat, that he had always been the missing piece. Care for you. Love you. Show you what you deserve.
Make you fall for him, like he did for you, never knowing how deep his affection - obsession- ran.
Get you so ensnared, that if you ever found out about the blood that stained his hands, you wouldn’t even bat an eye, because you loved him and you knew that side of him didn’t make up who he was fully.
You had too sweet of a heart not to accept him. Maybe, you’d even let him take you back home with him.
But, that best case scenario would only play out in his fantasies, and maybe he should’ve known that. He had been on a streak of good luck when it came to you, for so long that it was starting to grow suspicious. The attention, the naivety, the ignorance. Easy to track down, a sense of security, and unlocked windows. It had been far too simple, up until now. If it kept on this way, Toby would’ve started to think there was some sort of higher power on his side - overseeing and endorsing all of his misdeeds.
Of course, though, that couldn’t be the case.
If there was a god, they were simply setting him up. Letting him climb higher and higher until he inevitably fell flat on his face.
Good thing he was well versed in just ‘walking it off’.
The sound of your front door unlocking hits Toby’s eardrums like a shockwave. The telltale jingle of your keys makes his eyes snap open almost alarmingly quickly.
He knew it was a possibility, but he had been banking on the fact that it just wouldn’t happen. That, against all odds, you’d come home long after he had disappeared again. But he had been selfish - greedy - overstayed his welcome because he couldn’t fathom the idea of tearing himself away from the things you’d touched. It was the closest he could come to have you draped over him, and to peel himself away from that - it felt like leaving a limb behind.
He could’ve played it safe. Could’ve just snagged a few items of your clothing to satiate the urge whilst still keeping his anonymity for a bit longer. Do it properly. Respectfully.
Instead though, he overindulged, and now he was here - frozen in your sheets with his pulse going overdrive, and a throbbing in his jeans.
Now, he was left with a few options.
The most logical one would be to hightail it out of here. To slip back out your window, go back home, and let you panic by yourself once you found his boot prints stained into your carpet.
Or… He could stay. Finally meet you face to face.
For someone as far gone as he already was, the choice was a clear one to make - the idea of leaving was quickly thrown to the wind. To come this far and not be met with a prize for his efforts? It almost felt unthinkable.
So, he waited. Sat up, scooted towards the end of your bed, and sat there - shaking hands folded in his lap like a boy waiting for his first date. Still red in the face, still twitching and jerking because the excitement coursing through his veins was turning his tics up to eleven. Anxiously tapping his foot against the floor, ears perked to listen for every little sound you made as you moved around your house
Nervous. Giddy. Already thinking of exactly what he was going to say to you when the two of you met eyes. Hopeful, that you wouldn’t run off. Piecing together a game plan for if you did.
Footsteps down the hallway make Toby’s heart rate jump, his eyes widening a little in anticipation as he listened to you draw nearer and nearer. God, he could only imagine what you were going to look like when you finally cracked your bedroom door open. He'd bet the look of shock on your face would be sweet enough to give him a toothache.
A soft clearing of your throat outside the door. A creak as the hinges swing open. Then;
You notice him immediately - unsurprisingly. In the soft, clean atmosphere of your room, Toby stuck out like a wine stain on white fabric. An outlier so jarring that your breath stops halfway in your chest, your entire body locking up in a mixture of fear and shock. Paralyzed in the doorway, wide eyes locked on the man sat on your bed. The stranger in your space. Sitting there, like he had every single right to be there.
There's a stretch of silence where neither of you say anything. Where neither of you move. You blink a few times, like you’re half-convinced you’re hallucinating him - still stuck in a shock-induced stupor with your fingers curled right around the handle of your door. But then, he lifts a hand, gives you a lazy little wave - and the idea that this might just be a fucked up mirage your brain was casting is shattered.
This was real. He was real. The mud stains on your carpet proved it, just as much as the slow smile his lips stretch into.
That realization hits you like a ton of bricks, and Toby watches it happen.
You jolt, jumping back about a foot into the hallway, a panicked tremor making its way through your entire body until every limb was shaking. He could hear your breathing from where he sat - short, sharp breaths that just bordered on hyperventilation. Your eyes water, a half-choked sound somewhere between a yelp and a scream breaking on its way out of your lungs.
You looked about two seconds from just passing right out.
God, you were pretty.
“W-Was hoping you wouldn’t be scared.” Toby murmurs softly, pushing himself up and off the bed. He doesn’t step closer - not yet - just stands there with his hands in his pockets, head tilted to the side a little as he observes you. You watch as his eyes trail down - from your face, across your abdomen, down your legs, then back up again. Not even trying to hide it. “You’re e-even cuter in person, you know.”
“What the fuck-“ Toby can practically taste the fear in the air when you breathe those words out, soft and shaky. Your entire body is coiled tight like a spring about to snap, probably warring between booking it to the nearest telephone, or staying to see what he wants out of morbid curiosity.
If you were actually a victim, you’d be the type to give him ample time to move in close. He’s thankful for that fact. It’s always easier to deal with the ones who freeze, over the ones who run.
“You-You know who I am?” Toby asks, trying to keep his voice measured. It’s difficult, with the excitement coursing through his veins, and the slight giddy tremor to his words betrays that.
He takes a step closer, you back up one. He snorts out a soft laugh in response. Maybe you were smarter than he thought. Maybe you knew that bolting away would never actually bode well for you.
“What? No.” You squeak out, like a little mouse - cowering as Toby takes a step closer, then another. You match each one, stepping back every time he advances on you, but his strides are longer. His ambitions are stronger. He’s calm on the surface, that buried down glee just barely poking through with each erratic jerk of his shoulders. But when you lock eyes, the look he gives you says it all.
‘If you run, I’ll catch you’.
And you’re not quite sure that you want to test that.
“Sure you d-do.” Toby chuckles softly, his lips curling into a smile that sends a shiver down your spine. The gash on his face stretches and twists with the movement, gnarled and grotesque - the sight making your stomach lurch. “S-Sure, you don’t know me like this;” He gestures towards himself. “But you kn-know me. Have for a-awhile now.”
“I think you’re mistaken.” You stammer out, voice hoarse. Your heart slams in your chest so wildly that you can hear it in your ears, your lungs feeling tight with each breath in. “Listen, I don’t know what you want, but-but I don’t have cash or anything-“
“Cash?” Toby barks out a laugh that makes you jump, your entire body tensing up even more. “You think I-I want cash? G-God, no. That’s not h-how this works.”
He meets you at the doorway, tilting his head down to meet your frightened gaze. “I don’t t-take money from you, I give it t-to you, remember?”
Your face twists, a mixture of confusion and dread mixing together on your features into something so delicious it only makes Toby’s smile widen. You’re precious. Clueless. He’s almost tempted to just keep you this way, suspended in the unknown. Scared and clinging onto his every word; it’s a good look on you. “Oh, c-c’mon, don’t act like you ha-haven’t missed me. I’ve been keepin’ track. Watchin’ how s-sad you get when I don’t pop in among the h-hoard of losers you accumulate.”
His hand stretches out, bandaged fingers curling around your wrist before you can even attempt to jerk away. You try to pry yourself free, his grip only gets tighter. “You m-missed me, yeah?” He murmurs down to you, his voice low. “Tired o-of pretending to like all of those other dumb ff-fucks?” His grip squeezes tighter, and you can’t help but let out a soft whimper. You could practically see him preen at that sound. “You p-put those shows on for me, I kn-know you do.”
You can’t help but yelp when he tugs you in closer, stumbling over your own feet whilst trying to wrench your arm from his grip. Your eyes sting, tears welling up in the corners as your limbs shake. Every word he’s saying is barely even registering for you, just white noise to mix in with the ringing in your ears. That is, until; “Kn-Knew you were mine the d-day you wore red for me.”
The worst are soft, but they have all the effect of a gunshot. You feel your legs get weak, eyes widening to a near painful degree as you finally snap your gaze up to meet his. You don’t breathe for a solid five seconds, shivering like he had just dumped a bucket of ice water onto you.
It takes all of the effort in the world to choke out a response.
“Toby?”
It’s instant, the smile that spreads across Toby’s face - a grin that’s all teeth and sick satisfaction. His grip on you tightens just a little more, his fingers biting into the flesh of your wrist with a pressure that promises bruises. He just can’t help it when a sharp, elated laugh leaves his lips - his eyes sparkling under the low light with some corrupted form of excitement.
“I kn-knew it!” He breathes out, hot breath fanning against your face when he ducks his head down just a little lower. “Fuck, ha-had me thinking I was c-crazy for a second there. Looking f-for signs where there weren’t any.” His gaze wanders over your face, his expression almost crazed in the way he regards you. It’s then that you notice he’s trembling almost as bad as you are. “But n-no, you did do it for me.” Another soft laugh. “You like me, d-don’t you?”
“Wait-“ You manage out, your voice trembling. “You can’t just-“ Again, you try to wriggle your grip free - to no avail. “You tracked me down?”
Toby’s grin only stretches wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he yanks you in even closer to him. Just a hair’s width away from bumping straight into him. “L-Let go of me-“
“What? D-Did you think it would be hard to?” Toby snickers, before his head dips down lower - taking in a less than discreet whiff of your hair with a shiver trickling down his spine. “You were s-so easy to find, baby. Almost like you wa-wanted me here.”
“That’s not-“
“I think it is.” Toby’s breath fans against your ear, before he’s leaning in just a bit closer - closing the gap between the two of you. He shudders when his nose presses against your jaw, his lips parting in a silent gasp. You were so warm. “I’m not s-stupid, you know. You’ve been n-needing me here. You’ve been n-needing more than the bullshit you f-fuck yourself with.”
His nose drags up your jaw, and his hands are greedy in the way they just keep tugging you in closer and closer. The one that’s not gripping your wrist slides around to rest on the small of your back - keeping you all but pressed up against him. Right where you were supposed to be. “Don’t know why you-you’re being shy about it. You’ve already given yourself to me, time and time again.”
The feel of your tremors under his palms sing to the tune of your fear, and Toby just soaks it up like a flower in the sunlight. Poor thing, acting like you hadn’t danced your way into this situation. “What?” He murmurs against your skin. “D-Don’t like me now that I’m not throwing c-cash at your feet?”
“You broke into my fucking house.” You hiss, flinching away from his touch. “You stalked me.”
“And you encouraged me.” Toby hums, wrapping his arm fully around you. He’s got you one-upped on both size and strength, so it’s an easy feat to keep you fit snugly against him. He just can’t help it when his heart rate picks up, his mind buzzing with the feel of your soft curves pressed right up on him. It’s a sensation he'd been craving for far too long, and now that it’s real? It’s almost enough to make him drool. He’s sure you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, just as he could feel yours against his. “Y-You wouldn’t have played along if you d-didn’t want to meet me, right? You treated me different.”
He starts to back up, tugging you along with him even as you squirm - slow, controlled movements that show he’s playing the exact same role as he did when he interacted with you. A director. You were just his pretty little actress. “T-Treated me like you wanted me.” He murmurs. “Like the money d-didn’t even matter.”
Your feet feel like lead as he drags you along, your eyes focused solely on his face as he speaks. On all of the features that detract from the blight on his cheek. Pale, freckled skin. Soft fluttering lashes, framing deep brown eyes. An almost boyish softness to his features, sharply contrasting the darkness swimming in his irises. He moved like a bottle rocket about to go off, his whole body tense and twitching even as his face stayed calm. It was just as jarring as it was intriguing. “You’re just m-mad because of how I did it.” Your eyes drop down to his mouth. A split lip, chipped teeth, and stubble trickling down his jaw. “But this is what you wanted eventually, r-right? Me, here?”
Toby finds your speechlessness endearing, his expression turning almost smug as he watches you drink in his features - like this was all playing out exactly how he had wanted it to. “Just say you th-thought about me. Don’t gotta hide it.”
“It’s not as simple as that-“ You mutter out, flinching when your toes bump against his. “You were just… Different.”
“Yeah?” Toby smiles down at you, his expression almost too sweet for the situation you’re in. His expression is almost soft, like your words had soothed something deep within him. “D-Different how?”
“Just… Different.” The revelation of who he was made you at least half hopeful that his intentions were less than violent - and that was what you were clinging on to as he slowly walked you back towards your bed, sheets already ruffled from his presence. “You felt like… Like talking to a real person.”
“That’s because I a-am.” Toby chuckles softly. “Got all the p-proof right here.” The backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed, and it’s just so easy to tug you right down with him when he sinks down into the sheets again - your thighs parting to straddle his, like your body knew its place. Your very cells just knew him, and gave way the moment he asked for a bit of lenience.
You were just as easy as he thought you would be. Part of him glowed at the idea, the other scoffed a bit at how little of a fight you put up. Good thing he was the one who found you first. “M’not gonna h-hurt you.” He hums up to you softly, gazing up at you through his lashes as you sit perched on his lap. “That wasn’t the p-plan here.”
“Then what was the plan?” You’re not even sure why you even ask - you can tell the answer just from the heated look in his eyes. Just from the way his fingers tighten around you a little when they slip down to grip your waist. Getting bolder, now that he was pretty sure you weren’t just going to up and bolt.
“Well, d-depends how nice you’re gonna be.” Toby murmurs lowly. “But whatever r-route it takes to get there, it’s going to end the same way.” A quirk of his lips. “Me, showing you what you’ve been m-missing.”
He leans in close, his lips brushing against your neck before he finally takes the plunge and closes the distance - stubble scraping against your skin as a precursor to the wet kiss he leaves against you. “You-You know I’m not blind. You’ve been needing more. Gettin’ tired of fucking yourself like some pathetic slut.” You feel his lips curl into a grin against your skin, and you shiver. “Right?”
“That’s not-“ You gasp when his teeth scrape, gathering up the essence of your skin that he licks into his mouth with a soft groan. You know that this isn’t something you should indulge in - you shouldn't be rewarding him for completely disregarding every boundary you had put up. And yet… “It wasn't an invitation.”
“Wasn’t it?” Toby laughs softly, his breath fanning hot against your collar bone. “C’mon… A-All that shit I paid you for? That was just the start of what I w-want to do to you.” His hands give you another soft squeeze, making your jaw clench as you try to bite back a soft noise. “And I came so f-far just to make it happen. Won’t you just let me? Doubt you’ll re-regret it.”
“You can’t- You realize how fucked this is, right?” You breathe out, eyes fluttering. “You had no right-“
“Yeah, I did.” Toby cuts you off as he nuzzles into your hair. “All the s-signs you gave me? I think my reaction was pretty rational.” One hand snakes up to slip into your hair, using it as leverage to tilt your head back - more access for his lips and tongue to roam. “Unless you wa-wanna fess up to leading me on.”
“That’s my job-“ You start, words quickly getting cut short when his teeth nip at the junction between your neck and shoulder. Already leaving marks - making sure you couldn’t just go and forget about him, even if you pushed him away right here.
“I know that.” Toby hums. “But the treatment you g-give me? Nah. That’s special t-treatment.” A jerk of his arm draws your hips in closer, pressing you right down against the bulge in his jeans you had been choosing to ignore up until now. You hated the butterflies that erupted in your gut at the contact. “So now, I think I’ll reap the benefits.” His lips part, his tongue dragging up the length of your neck until his lips meet the lobe of your ear - lapping up each drop of your nervous sweat like it was liquor. “You’ll let me, w-won’t you?”
It’s a demand in the disguise of a question. You’re not quite sure if ‘no’ is even an actual option, when his hands are keeping you in a grip you could only dream to wriggle out of. Your brain feels like mush when you try to mill the thought over, especially when his grip on your hips starts pushing you into a forced grind against him.
He’s not entirely wrong. Maybe you had thought about him - your idea of him - once or twice (or many times) when you were playing with yourself. Maybe you did need something more than what you could give yourself.
And with the size of the bulge he was rocking your hips against? He might just be that.
A break-in could’ve definitely boded worse, right?
You don’t say a word, no verbal confirmation - but the way you loosen up a little tells Toby all he could need. You stop pushing back against his touches, start relaxing under his rough touch. You finally let your lips part in a soft sigh, as opposed to swallowing all of the noises back.
You stop fighting it. You accept the truth Toby had known to be true this entire time. “There we go.” He murmurs against your neck. “S-See? You’re mine. No point in fighting it.”
His movements grow more and more greedy - his face pressed into the crook of your neck as his hands rock you against him. Huffing out hot, heavy breaths against your neck every time your clothed cunt presses down against his crotch. When his eyes flutter shut, he can practically feel the way you throb above him, even through the layers of fabric. Proof that you needed him just as much as he needed you. All he had to do was peel back the layers of fear and hesitance, get your head so fuzzy you didn’t even think about the morality of it all. “Feel that?” He murmurs into your ear. “Only ever g-get like this for you. Can’t fuckin’ think.”
You can feel the hickeys bloom without even needing to see them as his lips travel down your neck - nipping and biting his way to your collarbone. Hellbent on leaving his mark wherever he can. “Thought a-about it so many times - what you’d f-feel like.” A soft moan fans against your shoulder. “You’re better than I e-ever imagined.”
He tugs you flush to him - one hand tangled in your hair, the other one keeping your hips pressed right against his. Never once letting that sinful friction let up. “So fuckin’ soft.” Another wet kiss against your collarbone. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Toby-“ You murmur softly, your eyebrows scrunching together as your hips grind slow against his - the sweetest form of torture, making your gut twist with a mixture of pleasure and shame.
“Sound so g-good saying my name.” He hums back to you. “Like some k-kinda angel.” His hips buck up to meet yours, stealing a gasp from your lungs. It sounds like gospel to his ears. “Tell me you wa-want it.” He pulls his face out of the crook of your neck just to meet your eyes - his own dark enough to send a shiver down your spine, his pupils blown out wide. “Wanna hear it.”
It’s difficult to get the words out, because you already know the answer. You do want it - but you shouldn’t. You should’ve called the cops ages ago. Shouldn’t have even ever let him get his hands on you.
And yet here you were, ensnared within his web. Did it even make sense to try and struggle anymore? Would it not just get you even more tangled?
“I want it.” It’s almost an out-of-body experience when you whisper those words to him - your voice barely even sounding like your own when you say it. “I want you.”
Maybe, just because you’re curious to see if he can back up each claim he’s making. If he really can be everything you’ve been craving.
“You do?” Toby grins - wild, almost manic. “Gonna make you w-wish you got this shit on film.”
You can barely even get a thought in before he’s flipping the two of you around with a strength that makes your head spin - your back hitting the softness of your sheets mere seconds after the last word leaves his lips. It’s like you flipped a switch - snapped the last string of his restraint the moment you let those sweet, sweet words of permission leave your lips. He was holding himself back - had been for a while now - you realize that as his greedy hands claw under your shirt, grasping and smoothing over every inch of skin he can find. “G-Gonna treat you good-“ He breathes out, his eyes near feral as he gazes down at you - at his hands, shucking your shirt up to expose more and more soft flesh. “Been th-thinkin’ about this for months. What I’d do t-to you-“
It’s a whirlwind, how quick Toby moves now that he’s been given the green light. You barely even register getting your shirt off. You blink and your bra’s off too - with two desperate hands coming up to massage your bare tits right after they’ve been freed. “So soft-“ He huffs out. “God- the cameras d-don’t do you justice, baby.”
You whine when his fingers sink in just a bit too deep, writhing beneath him as he kneads the soft flesh under his palms - his fingers reaching to tweak your already perked up nipples. With your face scrunched up, you don’t see it - but Toby looks enamoured as he gazes down at you. Completely and utterly smitten. Like he reached up and snatched an angel from heaven, just to drop her right on the sheets below him. “Perfect. Knew you would be.”
One hand stays playing with your tits, lavishing attention across the board like his heart would stop if he ever stopped touching you. The other one, slips down lower. His palm smoothing down the expanse of your bare abdomen before finding the button of your jeans. He doesn’t hesitate, not even for a second - not even to ask you if it was alright. Like he was just so sure you’d say yes, that he didn’t even need to hear you actually say it.
Your hips jolt when he tugs your zipper down, thighs twitching around his hips as he nudges himself in closer.
You can feel that buzzing in your veins swirling together with the desire - that half of your brain still begging you to flee. It’s quickly shoved down by the more rational part of you - already knowing that it’s far too late. “G-Gorgeous.” Toby moans out as he tugs the denim down your legs, his breath catching with each new inch of bare skin that’s revealed to him. Soft and silky, even in just the regular lights of your room. No makeup, no special lighting - just you, and you looked just as gorgeous as you ever have. “G-God- I barely even know where to f-fuckin’ start-“ He says, and yet his hands seem to move quicker than his brain, because he’s tugging your panties to the side before he can even finish his own sentence.
You’re not quite sure what’s more humiliating - the fact that you’re already wet, or the fact that he comments on it. “Look at th-that,” Toby breathes, his voice filled with awe as his gaze drops down to your cunt - red and puffy from grinding down against him, slick glistening between the folds. “You really d-do want me, huh? Already f-fuckin’ drenched.” His words aren’t mocking, not even close to cruel - just so incredibly appreciative. “Don’t worry, I g-gotcha.” He hums softly as his hand slides down lower, tugging a gasp from your lungs when his fingers slide through your wetness. “Won’t even have to lift a finger this time a-around.”
His smile only widens at the way you tense up when his fingers find your clit, his eyes crinkling in apt appreciation at the way you choke on a moan - trying too desperately to muffle yourself, but failing miserably. “You-You’re really gonna be shy now?” He snickers, rolling his thumb against the sensitive nub - soft and slow, just warming you up for what’s to come. “I’ve heard i-it all. Seen it all, already. What’s there to hide from?”
It’s hard to argue with his words, especially when he slips his middle finger right into you with no warning. His fingers are calloused and lean, longer than yours - reaching spots you had tried to time and time again. Like he knew your body better than you did, finding your g-spot after only a few curls in. “How are you e-even this tight?” He breathes out, his gaze dropping down to watch as a second finger stretches you out. “Fuckin’ yourself on the d-daily, and you still feel like fucking heaven.”
“T-Toby, fuck-“ You can feel your brain turning to mush, your vision going blurry as his fingers scissor inside you. Curling just right, pressing into each and every sensitive spot. You can’t even control yourself before your arms are reaching upwards, your fingers curling into the thick fabric of his jacket as some means to ground yourself. “S-Slow down-“ You only ask that because of how quickly he’s winding you up - it’s almost embarrassing.
It’s just impossible to fight against it, with how dedicated he seems to be to your pleasure - his dark eyes watching your each and every movement and expression, taking note of every little thing that makes you tremble just that much more.
“Slow down?” Toby chuckles softly, raising an eyebrow. He only doubles his efforts at that, two fingers pumping into your cunt as his thumb pressed up against your slick clit. “B-But this is how y-you like it. You f-forgetting who I am? I know you.”
If you had the breath to, you’d correct him. Tell him that he didn’t know you - just a fraction of you. Just the ‘you’ that you deemed perfect enough to display. But, you’re having a hard time stringing two thoughts together, let alone a convincing argument when he’s methodically breaking you down into pieces. “Spent w-weeks watchin’ how you work this pretty little cunt.” He grins. “It ain't too much. Y-You’re just mad I was right.”
Your cheeks burn, the sound of slickness every time his fingers sink into you is filthy even for your standards. Your walls are just parting for him, dripping slick onto his digits like a welcoming gift. Proving him right over and over again, your body singing his praises with each wet squelch. “You need me. See that now?”
His head ducks down low, teeth nipping at your jawline as his fingers piston into you - not even the sleeve of his jacket is spared, the thick material stained with your essence each time his wrist snaps forwards. “I-If you didn’t, you woulda pushed me away by now.”
And that, you can’t argue with. Because you should’ve pushed him away by now - should’ve at least attempted to - but the moment you started wondering about what it would be like to give in? That was the end of it all for you.
He was right, and you knew it. You were his. Had been for a while now.
Your body seems to know that too. Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you feel that familiar warmth start brewing low in your gut - your clit pulsing under his thumb, the slick gumminess of your pussy constricting around him as he fingered you closer and closer to your release. There's a part of you that doesn’t want to give into it - that wants to try and fend it off - but the majority? It’s just screaming that this is the quickest you’ve ever been able to get off, Toby’s fingers working you just right. Like all his nights of studying you had paid off. He was damn near an expert now. “Hah- I feel it- You’re gonna cum f-for me, aren’t you?”
Toby sounds absolutely elated, and you can practically feel the excitement radiating off of him as he presses his fingers into you deeper - curls them harder, lets his bites sink in sharper. “Dreamt about this shit. G-Give it to me, yeah? Let me feel it. C’mon-“
You just can’t fight it. You’ve been forced into the role of the unwitting lamb since this all began, and with a wolf like Toby pinning you to the sheets? There's just no chance of winning for you.
(Whatever ‘winning’ even means, in this situation.)
The sound you let out when your orgasm hits you is one that Toby knows will be ringing in his ears for weeks. Months, even. This beautiful, broken cry - choked off and crackling under the weight of ecstasy as your body arches up into him. Sweet, sweat-slick skin pressing into his t-shirt, your lips parted in the perfect portrait of absolute bliss.
And he had been right - you amp it up for the cameras. You act, just like you’re supposed to. Put on a movie worthy performance of arousal, stretching your expressions to the extremes your audience craved so dearly. The real thing was just so much more glorious.
Soft features wrinkled together as your body trembles, your eyes rolling back as your eyelashes flutter - mouth agape as you gasp for breath. He just can’t tear his eyes away - can’t tear his hand away, even when you start whimpering and trying to push at his chest from the overstimulation. He just keeps fucking his fingers into your twitching cunt, over and over again, until tears spring to your eyes. Those, are just as beautiful as the rest of you - pretty pearlescent droplets framing red ringed eyes. Clumping your lashes together, making your irises just sparkle when you look up at him like you need him. “That’s better.” He hums - clearly all too pleased with himself. “Knew you’d been f-faking it on stream.”
“Faking it?” You rasp out, the whispers of bliss still evident on your every feature as you try to catch your breath. You just look like such a dream beneath him - red and rosy, all your soft curves glistening with a sheen of sweat. All because of him. He almost gets dizzy when the thought starts to sink in fully. “I never faked anything.”
“Maybe n-not on purpose.” Toby shrugs, gently pulling his fingers out of you, only to drag his hand upwards - smearing your own slick against your tummy like a brand. His lips curl into a smirk as he sinks his fingers into the soft skin - watching with a keen interest how your flesh indents under his touch. “But what you j-just gave me?” His hand slides back down low again - only a moment’s hesitation in the air before he pulls his palms back, then snapping his fingers forwards again to land a wet slap right against your weeping cunt. The yelp you let out has his gaze turning near feral. “That was different. That w-was real.”
He drags his teeth against your neck, scraping over hickeys that were already beginning to throb - his tongue chasing every bite in attempts to soothe you. “And you wanna know s-something?”
You just barely manage to hum in response, with his presence clouding up your senses. It’s the scent of him - sharp and metallic. The feel of him - desperate and unforgiving. The heat radiating off of him, hot enough to choke you out. He was smothering you, clogging up your pores with his essence so that you’d smell of him for weeks after the fact. It was just as intoxicating as it was terrifying.
You couldn’t tell if it was your body betraying your mind, or the other way around. Whatever the state, you felt like a prisoner within your own sheets - sinking into the bed you made with the man you had unwittingly coaxed to join you.
Every touch was difficult to rationalize. Every breath against your skin was noxious - and yet you just couldn’t force yourself to wriggle free. Something sick within you wanted this - wanted him. Something sick had parted your lips and spoken those words right to him. “Bet you-you’ll look even prettier cumming around my cock. Stretched just like y-you’ve been wishin’ for.”
His hips keep you pinned to the bed, but his hands leave you in favour of shucking his jacket off and letting it drop to the floor. “Everyone who w-watches you, knows.” In just a t-shirt, your eyes roam the bare skin of his arms. He’s lanky, but well built - trained for endurance, it seemed. Scars up and down his freckled skin, bandages and plasters covering up the newest scrapes. The shirt was loose, but it clung to him well - keeping just enough hidden to pique your curiosity.
And his face? Well, he was almost cute enough to make you forget how he had even gotten himself here in the first place. “Can see it on your f-face- You need more. Those t-toys just ain’t cuttin’ it, are they, baby?” A deliberate nudge of his hips makes your brows wrinkle together. “Need the re-real thing.”
You let out a near embarrassed whine, cheeks going pink like you hadn’t just soaked his fingers moments prior. Lucky for you, Toby finds that cute. Unlucky for you, he thinks it’s fun to push it. “C’mon, say it.” A few soft pats against your core make you squirm, your entire body locking up in a mixture of humiliation and arousal. “This p-pretty cunt’s been aching for a real cock, right? Just begging t-to be fucked stupid.”
“Sh-Shut up-“
“That your way of s-saying I’m right?” Toby snickers, leaning back on his haunches to gaze down at you. “Didn’t expect you t-to play coy, with how easy you are on camera.” Your gaze tracks his hands as they reach for his belt buckle, your eyes widening just a tad when he starts to work it loose. “Look at th-that face.” Toby grins. “Yeah, see? I-I’ll give it to ya’. Just gotta tell the truth. St-Stop playing, and admit you wanted this.”
And what can you even say? That you didn’t? That this wasn't a situation you had conjured up in your mind time and time again? Because that would be a lie. Everything he said, had just a smidgen of truth laced within his words - like he had read you like a book before ever even coming face to face with you.
Yes, you had thought about him. Yes, you liked him more than the other donors you chatted with - that’s why you treated him differently. Yes, you often found yourself wishing there was a real, breathing man between your thighs instead of your own fingers.
Yes, you had thought about Toby (or, your idea of Toby) fucking you before.
To say all of those things out loud would probably be like adding gasoline to a fire, and so instead you just whisper out;
“Yeah, I wanted it.” Which ends up having the exact same effect.
Mere seconds after the words leave your lips, Toby’s damn near pouncing. His belt is off in seconds, whipped to the side to clatter against your floor. His jeans are tugged down just as quick as his boxers are - not all the way, he’s too desperate for that, just enough to let his already leaking cock spring free.
His hands grip your hips and drag you to him - the two of you moaning in unison when his bare cock grinds against your core. Sliding through your folds, getting nice and slick. It felt like you were baptizing him - blessing him by letting his sweat mix with yours, by letting his precum mix with your wetness.
It was everything he’s ever dreamed of. Hot and wet, throbbing beneath him in tune to your own heart beat - like your body was coaxing him into just sinking right in. A slow grind of his hips makes his fingers twitch against your hips - his entire body taut and trembling, shaky huffs of breath spilling from his lips. Catching in his chest each time the head of his cock notched against your entrance.
He had dreamt about this, time and time again, and now that he was actually drowning in the reality of it he felt close to bursting. Almost too much to handle, how soft and sweet you were. How welcoming you were - just how he had hoped you would be.
Of course, you had lived up to his expectations, you were perfect after all.
“S-Say I can.” Toby breathes to you, the words coming out as a shaky exhalation. His eyes lock on yours, deep and intense - searching yours for any hint of hesitation. There's a flicker of it, but only for a moment before you bury it down again. “Tell me you w-want me.”
And you are far past pretending.
“Want you-“ You gasp out, your hips jerking with each nasty roll of his hips. You can feel the mess he’s making between the two of you - sweat and mixing fluids smearing against your pelvis with each press he makes downwards. “Toby- Just fuck me already-“
You can feel it under your fingers when Toby tenses up, his muscles flexing beneath your touch before they relax again - and then, he’s letting out a breathy little laugh.
“N-Nasty fuckin’ mouth.” He’s grinning as he reaches down low, curling his fingers around himself to line himself up properly. “Love that about you.”
Your stomach flips when you feel the head of his cock nudge against you - testing the waters, letting your brain come to terms with the stretch you’re about to take before he presses in further. For someone who’s seemingly bursting with restless energy, he’s surprisingly slow when he sinks in - but that’s because he was savouring it.
Savouring every inch of that tight, wet velvetiness - thanking god under his breath with each inch of himself he sunk into you. You felt like heaven and hell all wrapped up in one. So addictive, he knew that he was fucked before he even fully bottomed out.
He had told himself that this would just be a one time thing - that he'd find you, fuck you, get it all out of his system, then go back to normal life. A small part of him entertained the idea of winning you over and bringing you back with him, but he knew that was a pipe dream. Feeling how your body parted for him, though, it was feeling more and more like something he had to strive for.
Toby hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath the entire time, until he started to feel lightheaded right as his hips met yours. Eyes wide, chest heaving - he gazed down at you like you were a goddess laid before his own sacrifice. A heady mix of awe and reverence that made your skin buzz. “Fuckin’ hell…” He murmurs softly, one hand leaving your hip to slide onto your stomach - pressing down like he was trying in earnest to feel himself inside you. To feel for proof that this was all real.
You watch his eyes flicker down as his fingers twitch, drool glistening on his lips as they lock on to the junction right where the two of you are joined. His hips flush to yours, every inch of himself nestled right where he had been craving the past few months. Squeezing around him, dripping slick down onto him. Throbbing around him like your body was thanking him for being there. “L-Look at you-“ He gasps. “F-Fuck- Look at you-“
His eyes flick back up to yours, pupils blown wide under drooping lids. “S’it feel just as good f-for you, as it does for me?”
That might be an understatement. You were resisting the urge to squirm on his dick, your entire body trembling as your pussy flutters around him in attempts to adjust. He’s settled in deep, thick enough to make your mouth water even with how wet you had been. Slotting into you like a puzzle piece falling into place, filling up each nook and cranny with nothing left to be desired.
You couldn’t even remember the last time you had felt this good, so easily. All he had done was sunk in, and you were thanking whatever god had brought him to you. Fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, slipping up higher to knot into those thick brunette curls. Grasping tight, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp.
“You feel perfect.” You breathe back to him, and it’s the whole truth. You couldn’t even dream of lying right now. “Better than I- Than I imagined.”
You let the words slip from your lust clouded mind, and they just do him in.
“Yeah?” He groans softly, his hands keeping you pinned to the sheets as he draws his hips back. “Thought a-about me?” The drag of his cock against your twitching walls is downright mind-numbing - but the feeling of him sinking back in all over again just steals the breath right from your lungs. “Kn-Knew you did.”
His hips roll into you slow and deep, letting you really feel it every time he stretched you back open again. Wanting to etch himself into you - carve a path that anyone else would feel if you tried to get away from him after this. “Didn’t-Didn’t even know what I looked like, b-but you knew you needed me. Needed this.”
The sound of his hips meeting yours is filthy - slick and sticky, enough to make your gut twist. It’s obscene - this entire situation is - but it’s that specific breed of sickness that your body yearned for. It was real - it was raw. It was everything you had wished for on all those lonely nights, tending to Toby before anyone else. “Fuckin’-“ He groans low, the sound rumbling out of his chest when you tighten up around him - a reward for his efforts as he nudges right up against your g-spot. “Fuckin’ yourself e-every night, wishing it was me.”
It’s not clear whether or not he was looking for an answer to that, but when his hips snap forwards harder, you realize that he was. You choke out a cry, your nails scratching against his scalp as you tug on his hair harder - legs squeezing around his hips and arms wrapped around his neck. Completely and utterly wrapping yourself up around him, just as he had always wanted. “It’s true, r-right?” Another snappy thrust has you arching up into him, Toby taking advantage of that by nudging his face into your neck. “P-Pretending to care about all the other d-dumb fucks, but you were thinking about me. W-Wishing I was there.”
His teeth sink into your neck - hard - not enough to break skin, but definitely enough to bruise. Just another to add to the collection he’s already given you. “Say it.”
“I was!” You gasp out, your entire face scrunching up when he picks up the pace. Slow grinds turning into deep, quick snaps of his hips - sinking the entire length of his cock into you on every press in. Absolutely soaked by you, glistening with your slick in a way that had his breath stuttering along with his hips. “Th-Thought about you.” Your fingers grasp downwards, clawing his shirt half up his back as his hips press into yours. Eyes glassy, you can barely even focus on the sight of him above you, but even through the blur you can tell he looks gorgeous. Fluffy brown hair frizzed up by the heat generated by the two of you, sweat beading down his temple, his cheeks flushed a pink so deep it was swallowing up his freckles.
And his eyes. They were devoted to you. His gaze felt like a touch in itself, with the way it swept over every inch of you with rapt appreciation. Like he was memorizing you - cataloguing each and every one of your dips and curves to file away and rave over later. Toby looked at you like he just couldn’t believe you were real, even as his cock punched moans out of your lungs.
Toby looked at you like he loved you, without even fully knowing you. He looked at you, like nothing you could ever say, or do, would tarnish his view of you.
It was something you could barely even wrap your head around, especially now, when he seemed to be hellbent on fucking your thoughts right out of your skull.
“Y-Yeah, you fuckin’ were-“ He pants, his words broken up by sparse groans that just sound so lovely to your ears. Hoarse and strained, like being with you pained him just as much as it satisfied him. “Thinkin’ about me- Fuckin’ this t-tight cunt wishing it was my cock-“
He lets out a harsh, breathless laugh - the sound near deranged, like he couldn't believe you were confirming and endorsing his sickest desires. His movements had evolved to something relentless, his fingers bruising into your flesh - blunt nails clawing off thin layers of skin under them. You jolt every time he sinks in to the hilt, your features wrinkling like it’s just bordering on too much.
It’s an expression he’s never seen on you before. It’s something he’d snap a picture of to immortalize, if his phone wasn't busted.
Yeah, he’s keeping you. He can’t wait to break the news. “G-God, look at this shit-“ He sounds almost manic as he breathes those words out, his eyes gleaming with deranged glee as he watches your flesh ripple with each harsh snap of his hips. He could drool, watching how your flesh moves. He does, but barely even notices when a few spots of saliva seep out of the gash in his face and land on your stomach. “Takin’ it like you were m-made for it.”
And maybe that’s when it clicks for him, that this is the girl he’s watched put herself in the most depraved situations. This is the girl who definitely can take whatever sick desires he’s got brewing.
So, his hands slip upwards, palms gripping the backs of your thighs before he’s pushes up - pinning them right against your chest, your knees damn near touching your ears. Practically folded in half, and yet you don’t even push back against it, you just cry out in a plea for more.
His lips twitch into the most self-satisfied grin when your eyes roll back, choking on a moan halfway through the noise as he sinks in even deeper. It’s enough to make your mind completely go blank for a second - your thoughts fizzling into white noise as he drives his cock into your g-spot with a force that brings tears to your eyes.
You’re too overwhelmed to even notice when tears break free and spill down your cheeks, but Toby notices - of course he does, his eyes have been glued to your face, taking note of every little change in your expression. “So fuckin’ pretty-“ He gasps out, leaning down to nuzzle against your cheek. His lips part, his tongue darting out to lap up your tears, a deep groan rumbling against you as the salt meets his taste buds. “So fuckin’ m-mine-“
It’s humiliating, the way your body sings at those words. That sweet possessiveness that he had no right bearing, sinking deep into your veins like a drug. Because if that was true - if you really were his - it sure felt like a nice thing to be.
“M’yours-“ You’re half delirious as you choke those words out, barely even thinking about the weight they hold as your cunt clenches around his cock. Taken right to the brink all over again, toes curling by his shoulders as he fucks your next release right out of you.
And this time? It’s messy. It’s something you had strived for on stream because you knew it would get clicks, but you just couldn’t ever make it happen with your own hands. Toby, though, does it easily - fucks you deep until you’re gushing all over him - hot, wet, droplets of your release hitting the front of his t-shirt and staining it.
You borderline convulse - twitching and crying beneath him as he works you through the aftershocks, his eyes shining with a feral glee the entire time.
“E-Even fuckin’ squirting for me?” Toby chokes out a disbelieving laugh, the intensity of his movements only increasing tenfold upon that revelation. You can feel it as his cock throbs inside you - his thrusts going sloppy, teetering on the edge right along with you. “You really d-did need me, baby.”
His hands keep your thighs pinned, leaving you nowhere to squirm away, even when you get so sensitive it makes your skin crawl. “Gonna fuckin’ cum in you-“ He gasps out, and you’re almost sure your ass must be red from the force in which his hips are snapping into yours. “Gonna cum s-so deep you’re gonna fuckin’ taste it-“
Even if you wanted to argue that, you can’t - reduced to just a mess of tears and drool as his cock bullies your g-spot over and over again, just fucking more release out of you on each stroke in. Toby loves the mess, though, and if the elated look on his face didn’t prove that, his twitching hips sure do.
He only manages a few more sloppy thrusts in, before he’s making good on his promise. His hands keep you folded in half, his cock sinking in deep enough to make you choke before he’s completely letting go. A strangled groan vibrates against your ear as you feel that hot, sticky warmth bloom inside you - Toby’s hips jerking with each thick pulse of it he deposits deep inside your warm, waiting body.
For you, it feels like completely giving in. For Toby, it feels like confirming the claim he had staked on you from the start.
Feeling it drip out around his cock to stain your thighs, feels like leaving a mark that you couldn’t soon erase - even if you wiped the evidence from your flesh. “Feel that?” He murmurs softly, his body curling over yours - his face pressed into your neck as he pants against your skin. “M-Means you’re mine.” His hands give your thighs a tight squeeze, his lips curled into a sated smile against your skin. “Go on and f-fuck another guy after this - he’ll just be fucking me d-deeper into you.”
But that’s something you’re not even sure if you could fathom after this. The aches he placed in your joints would linger for weeks. The thoughts he placed in your head would stick around for years.
So, you just pull him in closer - let his softening cock stay warm inside you as you curl your fingers into his hair.
Not too keen to let go, just how he had known you would be.
-
“Toby, c’mon, I’m about to start rolling.”
Toby wasn't quite sure how exactly he had expected this all to end, but you - perfect you - transformed his deepest fantasies into reality.
Sprawled out on his bed now, dressed up in the prettiest lingerie he had picked out, waiting for him with your legs folded beneath you.
Like a dream he just couldn’t wake up from, no matter how many times he pinched himself. Gazing up at him with those sweet eyes that had stolen him from the start.
“A-And what’re we going for today, hm?” He hums as he fiddles with the goggles nestled in the strands atop his head. “Got s-specifics for me?”
Your hands are already reaching for him when he draws near, curling into the hood of his sweater and tugging him in closer.
“Nah.” You grin. “Just keep the mask on.”
And that, he can do.
——————————
HIIIIIIIIII I’ve been teasing this one for ages now lmfao can’t believe I finally got it out
huge thank you to my lovely lovely beta who got to watch me crank this shit out in real time!
How writers feel after starting a jaw-dropping, pearl clutching, thigh shaking, mouth watering, soul taking series just to leave me with no aftercare and discontinue it
You were the worst drunk ever. Think of a white college girl who had seven vodka sodas, and now she was stumbling around with a giggle cuddling literally everyone, calling every girl cute, and a garden gnome you ended up tripping over.
But now you were finally leaving the club, pulling your too tiny skirt down, your pumps way to high and somehow by the grace of god keeping you up right. Thank god you broke them in before trotting out with your girlfriends.
But you took a wrong corner. Somehow stumbling into the worst part of town, walking over a year old splatter of blood from some guy who probably got his through cut—or cut it himself. You scrolled through cute little cat videos over and over again until you bumped into someone.
“Oof—oww!” You sneered. Rubbing your head. Looking up. Some scruffy guy..who was way too cute! His round droopy eyes through orange colored goggles. Black mask—or whatever covering the bottom of his face. Wearing a hoodie and two coats over it. It was definitely ass bitting cold out but your body was practically 99% alcohol at this point.
“Woahhh…you are such a cutie!” You squeaked, watching him blink, look around like a clueless anime girl who was just complimented by the school bad boy. You reached up, grabbing his shoulders, yanking him down a bit. Laughing as you touched him all over his face. Jumping against him. He was quite literally frozen in confusion and..blushing red underneath his mouth guard.
His head twitched a little. Instinctively grabbing onto your arms as you laid against him. He was absolutely not supposed to be seen around..but you had quite literally stumbled into him. And you were so pretty..how could he resist?..
Your hands ran over his face sloppily pulling against his cheeks through his mask. “Ohh.. I’m so sleepy..will you take me home..?” You muttered, eyes basically closed, as you snuggled him. He was definitely a little overwhelmed..but more touch starved than that. He nodded before even thinking of it.
Thats how you ended up home. He said he found your wallet in your bag..and you begged him to stay.. thankfully you fell asleep before trying to get him to sleep with you..another way..
You burried your face in your hands. Apologizing over and over again as you two sat on your fluffy pink couch. “God..im so sorry toby..” you muttered, he’d told you his name through a few cute stutters.. you looked up at him. “Did i throw up on you..?”
His silence made you groan. You’d totally thrown up on him. You were the worst!!
“It-t’s ok-kay..” he muttered letting out this cute boyish giggle scratching behind his neck. He hadn’t told you about how you kissed his cute over and over until your lips were numb. Or how you told him how fucked your love life was.. you’d probably die of embarrassment.
“Your so sweet toby..thank you for looking after me..and not taking advantage of me..” you muttered, pushing your hair back. Smiling at him, “i-its nothing-ng… r-really..” he watched you brush your hair back. He shifted. You didn’t even mind his scar..he fiddled with the piercing on his lip. “D-did..did y-you me-ean it..?” He muttered, you tilted your head.
“Mean what..?”
“Y-you said i-i w-was…cute..”
You blinked, watching his ears go pink as he leaned his head down, his fingers twitching. He was clearly embarrassed ..but you could tell a part of him wished you were telling the truth..
“Yeah..”
You whispered. Brushing your fingers over the lace on the bottom of your shorts. Glancing up at him again. Shifting a little closer on your knees.
“Your super cute..like…your eyes are really cute..”
You muttered, unable to keep a smile off your face as he puffed out air. Before he said another word, he leaned close . Tracing your face.
“Y-your m-my drea-am girl..” he whispered, pressing his cracked lips to your chin once.
summary a day at the ice rink turns into him admitting his feelings
content 1k words, reader is friends with the titans, jealousy, friends to lovers, accidental love confession, + a bonus with some of the titans
1.5k follower event
Jason hadn’t wanted to come. He never did unless you dragged his ass out. You called socializing healthy. Jason thought it was more like a humiliation ritual, especially when his brother’s friends were involved.
“It’s ice skating, stop glaring at me,” you mutter as you tie the laces of your skates. You can already hear Roy’s loud laughter echoing through the rink.
Your lips curve up at the sound. Garth probably fell. Or maybe Lian said something funny.
You look up to find Jason glaring at you even harder. The smile drops. “You’re being childish, Jay.”
“Yeah, Jay, loosen up a little. This’ll be fun,” Dick cuts in. He throws an arm around Jason’s shoulder, but Jason just shrugs it off like it’s nothing.
“You’re both a pain in the ass,” Jason tells the two of you.
You grin. “We’re your favorite pain in the ass.”
Jason holds out a hand once you finish putting your skates on. You take it. His hand is bigger than yours, warmer. It feels safe.
“Only you, sweetheart. Dickhead can—”
“You two upgraded to pet names now?” Dick asks, looking between you both with raised brows.
Your face heats instantly.
“It’s not like that.”
“None of your fucking business.”
You and Jason speak at the same time.
Dick looks like he wants to laugh, but instead, he keeps it in, a knowing little smile on his face.
“Alright, lovebirds, don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” He gives Jason a pointed look before skating back toward Donna and Wally.
You blink after him. “What does he think would happen on an ice rink?”
“It’s Dick. Who knows,” Jason mutters, tugging you closer and onto the rink.
His cheeks and nose are pink. You aren’t sure if it’s from the cold or embarrassment, but it’s cute, especially the way he looks away. A big guy like him, worried about what you think. It sends something warm and giddy through you.
“Can you even skate?” you ask. One hand is still in his, the other gripping the railing so you don’t fall.
“’ Course I do,” he says, looking at you.
You eye him suspiciously. He’s balancing fine, but you doubt he’s anywhere near as good as Dick.
“Can you?” he asks when he catches your stare. He shifts his weight, and your eyes flick up to his.
“Hmm, yeah. Dick taught me a while back.”
“He always teaching you stuff?” Jason asks, bitterly, his grip on your hand tightening.
You roll your eyes and ignore him. Focusing on not falling, you skate forward while dragging Jason along like he’s some oversized stray puppy. He seems perfectly content with it.
When you glance back, he’s already looking at you.
The white streak in his hair stands out against the black. His face is flushed. Your eyes drift lower to his biceps, his shoulders, the way the tight shirt clings to him, and does his form justice.
You aren’t paying attention to anything other than Jason. He’s all over your mind, a presence that makes your heart feel too full. Naturally, he’s too busy staring at you to notice the incoming redhead.
Wally bumps into you, and your feet slip out from under you. Jason’s arm catches you before you can hit the ice. Somehow, he doesn’t go down with you.
He pulls you against his chest, his other hand settling firmly on your waist. When you glance up, his jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed ahead.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? You could’ve hurt her," Jason snaps at Wally.
“Uh, dude, she’s fine—”
Jason gives Wally a death glare.
Wally swallows hard, offers you a tiny smile, then slowly skates backward.
“Right. Cool. Awesome. I’m just gonna… go over there," Wally says nervously, pointing on the other side of the rink.
Jason pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you. Your face presses against his chest, and you can feel how fast his heart is beating. You choose to ignore these weird, overprotective moments.
From the corner of your eye, you spot Kori spinning Dick around on the ice.
“Can we do that?” you mumble, your own arms sliding around Jason’s waist.
“No. You’ll fall on your ass,” he snorts, calmer now that you’re safely in his arms.
“You’ll catch me.”
His hands slide up, fingers tangling lightly in your hair. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls back and offers you his hand again.
he twirls you around on the ice.
A surprised laugh escapes you. It's loud, free, and Jason wants to hear that sound come out of your lips every day.
When you beam at him, it slips out of his lips, something he doesn't think he's said to anyone in a while. "I love you."
His eyes go wide. The pink on his cheeks turns bright red, and one hand leaves yours so he can run it through his hair nervously.
Your smile turns wicked. “You love me?”
He groans your name, exasperated.
“No, no. You just said you love me.”
“Sweetheart,” he warns.
You turn dramatically. “Wait, I have to go tell the others—”
His hand wraps around your wrist, and he pulls you back.
His lips press into a thin line like he’s annoyed, but you can see the panic there, too.
Your eyes soften. “Sorry. I love you too. Now, can I go tell them?”
He just stares at you in disbelief.
“Jason?”
When he still says nothing, you reach up to poke his cheek. He catches that hand, too.
“No,” he says simply. He leans down till his lips hover over yours. Your heartbeat races faster, and suddenly you forget every other thought in your head.
For a moment, he hesitates. “Can I—”
You lean forward to press your lips to his. Your hands curl into his shirt. One of his hands slides to your waist, the other cups your face.
The kiss isn’t messy or rough. It’s slow and soft like he’s savoring every second of it, like he’s afraid he’ll never get this again.
When he finally pulls away, he looks wrecked and breathless, lips swollen, eyes a little dazed.
“Baby,” he mutters, like you’ve ruined him with one kiss.
You smile innocently. “Yeah, Jay?”
His throat bobs. “Do that shit again.”
Bonus:
“Do they think we’re stupid?” Roy asks Dick, watching the two of you hugging in the middle of the ice rink.
“I think they are the foolish ones,” Kori adds delicately.
“Oh, no, Jaybird definitely knows,” Dick says, squinting at the two of you. “He’s just pretending not to.”
“Yeah,” Wally says with a wince. “Dude practically killed me with one look.”
“Uncle Jay scary?” Lian asks from her spot on Roy’s shoulders, her fingers tangled in his hair.
Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.
cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn
wc: 10.4k, one shot
notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3
main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah
It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.
Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.
Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.
By the time he gets to you, you’re prodding at the battery terminal with pure confusion, clearly out of your depth. He stops by the driver’s side fender, his shadow stretching over the engine bay and swallowing up what little light the morning offers.
"Get in and try to crank it," he rumbles, his voice still rough from sleep.
You flinch slightly, nearly dropping your keys, as you turn to find the massive mechanic who’s just materialized out of the fog. Stumbling through a rushed, embarrassed explanation about how the dashboard lit up like a christmas tree before the steering went stiff, you slide behind the wheel, fingers trembling as you twist the key. The engine coughs out a pathetic, sluggish click-click-click before dying completely.
Sukuna leans over and scans the open engine bay with narrowed eyes. He brings his hand down to the alternator, then straightens and wipes a streak of grease off on his thigh.
"Alternator's shot," he diagnoses, pinning you with a flat stare through the windshield. “It stopped charging your battery while you were driving. That's why your steering went stiff, and all those warning lights came on. Battery's flat now."
He glances down the road toward his garage, jerks his chin in that direction, then flicks his gaze back to you, waiting. "Not fixing it out here. I can tow it in and take a look, if you want.”
You blink at him, hesitation suddenly tightening your chest. He's a huge, imposing stranger with eyes that seem to see right through you. You have no clue what his garage charges, and for all you know, he’ll tow your car a few meters and hand you a bill big enough to drain your entire savings account. Biting your lip hard, you look down the foggy road toward the distant city lights, debating whether freezing out here for your usual mechanic is worth it.
"Really?" you ask, your voice thin and cautious.
"You got a better plan?" Sukuna asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. He doesn't look like he's got the patience for a long deliberation this early in the morning.
Your eyes flick from the dead dashboard to the shutters of his garage down the road again. Waiting for your own mechanic could mean hours out here, and you’re already running late. Shoulders sagging, you let out a shaky, resigned sigh and nod. "No, not really. Okay, yeah. Please tow it."
True to his word, ten minutes later your car is hooked up to his truck and rolled right onto his hydraulic lift. He works quietly, hooking up a diagnostic scanner and testing the voltage. You stand on the side, nervously watching him work through the tangle of wires and metal, while the smell of old coolant and burnt oil fills the air.
Finally, he wipes his hands on his coveralls. He glances up, meeting your gaze with a flat, unreadable look before speaking. "Alright. It's definitely the alternator. Parts and labor, you're looking at around two hundred, maybe two-fifty if the belt snapped when it seized up."
He braces himself for the usual routine: the hesitant sigh, the defensive wince, maybe a drawn-out complaint about how expensive car parts are these days. He’s seen it all before, a thousand times over.
None of that happens, though. You just blink at him, completely speechless, like he’s started speaking a foreign language.
"Are you..." You swallow hard, eyes darting between your car and the man in front of you. "Are you undercharging me out of pity? Did I really look that pathetic standing on the side of the road?"
Sukuna freezes, and the rag stops mid-wipe against his palm. He stares at you, his brow knitting into a dumbfounded, deep scowl, entirely derailed by the accusation. "What? No. That's the price of the part and half an hour of my time. I don't do pity discounts.”
"Seriously?" A breathless, half-disbelieving laugh escapes you, as your hand comes up to press against your forehead while you try to make sense of the numbers. "My mechanic charges me a small fortune every time I bring this thing in. Like... last year I paid almost three hundred for an oil change, so I figured something that actually stopped the car from running would be..." You trail off, your eyes wandering up to the underside of a different car on the lift. "Honestly, I have no idea. Just… more."
Disbelief hardens his stare, and a sharp, sudden outrage flares in his chest at whoever’s been fleecing you, quickly followed by a heavy wave of disappointment. He can't quite believe you’d just hand over a small fortune for basic maintenance without so much as a second thought.
"An oil change," he repeats in a low rasp. "He charges you three hundred dollars for an oil change?"
"Well... yeah? And..." Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you wince as your sneakers squeak against the slick concrete. Your hand waves uselessly in the air when you’re trying to remember the items from the invoices you received. "Some other things? He always says there are other things."
Silence settles over the garage, broken only by the steady drip of fluid into a drainage pan nearby, each drop echoing like a ticking clock.
Sukuna tosses the rag aside, leans against the workbench and folds his arms across his chest. His eyes narrow, studying you with a look that grows more troubled by the second, like you’re some puzzle that refuses to make sense.
"You know what those other things were?"
You frown, your shoulders pulling in slightly under the weight of his intense stare. "Not really."
That stare doesn’t budge, flat and unblinking, and it makes you want to sink straight into the concrete floor.
"And you paid anyway."
It's not a question, but a flat statement, paired with a slow, disappointed shake of his head that twists your stomach.
Heat crawls up your neck, embarrassment prickling across your skin. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself defensively, trying to salvage a scrap of dignity. “He’s a mechanic, so like… why wouldn’t I trust him about… mechanic stuff?”
"So you just pay whatever he puts on the invoice?"
After a beat of hesitation, your eyes flick toward the garage exit before you force yourself to meet his gaze again. "I mean..."
The irritation in him doesn’t fade; if anything, it settles in deeper. The more you talk, the clearer it gets that this wasn’t just one bad invoice. It’s a pattern.
"How long you been taking your car to this guy?"
A startled blink, caught off guard by the rapid-fire questioning. "A few years?"
A muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw flexes. "Christ." His arms drop, one hand coming up to rest flat against the workbench behind him. "You don't know anything about cars, do you?"
You open your mouth, ready to stammer out some flimsy defense, but he cuts you off with a sharp, impatient wave.
"No, don't answer that." He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment. "I already know." When he lowers his hand, his expression darkens. "And he knows it too. That's the problem." He takes a slow step toward you, his towering height making the small garage feel instantly crowded. "He knows you don't know what you're looking at. He knows you won’t question the invoice. He knows you’ll just nod, pull out your card, and pay whatever number he pulls out of thin air."
His words hit with bruising accuracy, uncomfortable in their honesty. Swallowing hard, you feel the bitter reality of years of being scammed settle like a stone in your stomach. Sukuna clicks his tongue, the sharp, dismissive sound echoing off the concrete walls.
"And he's been taking advantage of it, overcharging the hell out of you.” He shakes his head again, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "It's disgusting."
—
The last clink of metal fades, giving way to the low, steady purr of your car’s engine. Sukuna lingers, listening to the alternator hum, his attention fixed on the sound until he’s sure everything is running just right. Only then does he cut the ignition and shut the hood.
At the sink, he scrubs at the thickest layer of grease on his hands and forearms, while each pass of the soap gives him a moment to stew. The whole time he’d been working on your hatchback, the audacity of your last mechanic kept simmering in the back of his mind, needling at his sense of professionalism and refusing to let go.
He dries his hands on a clean rag, then heads back to where you’re waiting by the office door. The invoice comes off the clipboard, and he holds it out to you along with your keys.
"Alright, you're good to go," he rumbles, his voice level and calm. "It was just the alternator. Parts and labor came out to two hundred, exactly like I said."
You take the keys and the paper, relief washing over you as your eyes land on the total. Exactly what he quoted. No hidden fees, no sneaky line items, no surprise charges, nothing lurking in the fine print.
Sukuna stands there, his large hands settling loosely on his hips. His gaze flicks from your face to the paperwork in your hands, brow furrowing slightly as he hesitates. Then, the words slip out before he can stop them.
“If you want, you can bring your old receipts by sometime. Dig 'em out of your glovebox or whatever." He clears his throat, the sudden offer surprising even him as it leaves his mouth. This isn’t something he does. He doesn’t take work home, and he sure as hell doesn’t do clerical charity for strangers. Still, he pushes through the awkwardness, keeping his tone flat and businesslike. "I’ll look through 'em and write down what you actually should have been paying for that basic stuff. That way you have a baseline reference sheet next time you go back to your guy, and you'll know if he's trying to pull a fast one."
There's no pressure behind his words. He leaves it entirely up to you, offering a casual favor simply because he despises seeing someone get taken advantage of.
You blink at him, completely caught off guard. You look up to his face, and gratitude cuts through your usual wall of caution.
"Really?" you ask, a soft smile breaking across your face. "You'd actually do that?"
Sukuna gives a short, dismissive shrug, shifting his weight like he’s trying to play down the gesture. "Takes me ten minutes. It's no big deal."
"Thank you. Seriously, that’s... incredibly nice of you," you say, genuinely touched by the gesture. You fold the invoice carefully, tucking it into your purse. "What day would work best for you? I don't want to interrupt your business."
Sukuna rubs the back of his neck, eyes drifting toward the calendar tacked to the garage wall as he does the math in his head. "Day after tomorrow," he decides, looking back down at you. "I usually wrap up around six. Come by then. The shop's quiet after hours."
"Six on Wednesday. Perfect," you nod, your smile widening slightly. "Thank you again. I really appreciate you fixing the car so fast, and for... well, everything else. I'll see you Wednesday."
"Yeah," he mutters, his voice dropping a fraction softer as he nods back. "See you then. Drive safe."
He stands in the open bay, watching as your hatchback backs out of the driveway and pulls into the morning traffic. Only when your taillights disappear down the street does he finally let out a low breath, turning back to his tools and wondering what possessed him to volunteer his free time to look at old paperwork.
——
Just like he promised, the shop is mostly quiet when you pull up to the garage on Wednesday. With the bay doors rolled halfway down, the usual street noise is muffled, leaving only the clink of a wrench against metal to let you know he’s still inside.
Pushing open the side door, you’re greeted by the soft chime of the bell overhead. Sukuna appears from the back a moment later, dragging a clean rag over his forearms. His crimson eyes catch yours before flicking down to the stack of papers in your hand and the box tucked securely under your arm.
"You actually found 'em," he rumbles, a faint quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before his expression smooths back into that usual, unreadable mask.
"Every single one I could find." Stepping up to the high counter that separates the office from the shop floor, you set the invoices down and nudge the box toward him, careful not to jostle what’s inside. "And I brought this. As a thank you."
Sukuna glances down at the cardboard box but doesn’t reach for it. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brow instantly furrows into a stubborn, defensive scowl.
"I don't need cake," he snaps, voice blunt and dismissive. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than accepting a gift. "I fixed the alternator, you paid the invoice. We're even. You don't owe me anything."
"It's not cake. It’s an apple pie. And it’s homemade," you counter softly. Before he can get another word in, you reach out and pop the lid open, letting the sweet scent of baked apples and cinnamon spill into the grimy, oil-scented room. You shoot him a small, stubborn look that dares him to refuse. "And you're taking it."
For a split second, Sukuna freezes, his eyes darting from the warm pie back up to your face, looking completely out of his depth. The tension drains from his broad shoulders, and he lets out a low, grudging grunt, realizing he’s being difficult for no good reason.
"Fine," he mutters, reaching over. He grabs the box and carries it to the small, cluttered desk in the corner, sweeping aside a stack of part catalogs to clear a spot. Pausing, he peeks into the box again, then nudges a metal stool toward the desk for you with his boot. "Sit down. Let me wash up."
While he heads over to the sink to scrub the grit from his hands, you pull the pie out of the box. Only as you glance around the cluttered office does the realization hit you. You look down at the pie, still warm in its baking dish, then at your empty hands.
When Sukuna walks back in, drying his hands on a paper towel, he finds you perched on the stool, mortification written all over your face.
"Um," you manage, cheeks burning with embarrassment that creeps up. "I just realized... I forgot plates. And forks. I was so focused on getting the pie out of the oven and not showing up late that I didn't even think about it."
Sukuna stops, staring at your flushed face, and a slow, amused smirk tugs at his lips. He opens a filing cabinet, rummages through a plastic bin in the top drawer, and pulls out two plastic forks he clearly hoarded from a takeout order.
"Don't worry about it," he says, dragging a second stool over and settling in beside you. One fork is pressed into your hand, while he plunges his own straight into the pie, breaking off a steaming chunk. "We can eat it out of the dish. Problem solved."
A relieved laugh slips out as you take a bite for yourself. The pie is actually good—better than you hoped and the relief from that is almost dizzying. Watching this massive, intimidating mechanic quietly savor a dessert you’ve made in his own garage fills you with a sudden, unexpected warmth.
A few bites in, Sukuna reaches for the stack of invoices you brought along. He fishes a battered yellow highlighter from the drawer, uncapping it with his teeth, and drags the first sheet closer. Instantly, his whole demeanor sharpens, focus narrowing as he scans the lines of text.
"Two hundred for an air filter?" he mutters, jaw clenching so fast you can almost hear his teeth grind. Flipping the page back a little too sharply, he scans the top of the sheet, eyes narrowing. "When was this?"
"Last… three months, I think?" you offer, leaning in to peer over his elbow, the edge of his sleeve brushing your arm.
"Three months ago," he confirms, voice dropping into a dangerously low, tight register. The highlighter clicks against the paper, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. "I looked at your air filter on Monday when I was checking the belt. There is absolutely no way a filter looks that bad after ninety days of city driving. He didn't even change it. He just wrote it down and charged you for the part."
Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth. Staring at the highlighted line, you feel disbelief crash over you, cold and sharp, prickling along your skin.
"Wait... what? He just... left the old one in there?" You shrink down on your stool, while both embarrassment and genuine offense burn in your chest. "I actually remember sitting in his waiting room for an hour because he said he had to go fetch the specific part from the back warehouse."
Sukuna lets out a sharp, cynical grunt that cuts through the room and makes you wince. "Yeah. He was probably back there taking a nap on your dime." He flips to the next invoice and scoffs loudly. "A hundred and fifty for a 'diagnostic fee'? Your car doesn't even have a complex computer system. You plug the reader in, it takes two minutes. He's padding the numbers because he knows you’re not gonna question it.”
You blink, eyes glued to the number on the page, the math slowly ticking through your head. "Two minutes... for a hundred and fifty...?"
He’s working himself up again, but his eyes keep flicking to you, making sure you’re following every step of his explanation on why it's a scam. He breaks down the mechanics in plain English, laying out the real labor time versus what was billed, and you find yourself keeping pace with him, asking about parts, checkup schedules, and why on earth a single fluid could ever cost that much.
Sukuna’s highlighter hovers over a line, pausing as he takes in the questions you’re firing back at him. Whatever assumption he had about you being gullible is gone now. He sees you're not stupid or careless, just someone who did what anyone would: you trusted a professional because you didn’t have the background to know better. The way you’re sitting here, eagerly learning, determined to protect yourself, earns a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"You're tracking this fine," he says, irritation melting away into something unexpectedly gentle. "You just needed someone to actually layout the baseline for you."
"Yeah," you murmur, smiling a little self-consciously. "Nobody ever really explained it before."
Any trace of your nervousness has vanished. Settled into his office, you absentmindedly swing your legs beneath the stool, taking another bite. Eating straight from the baking tin, you instinctively leave the best pieces of crust for him. It’s a small, polite habit that doesn’t go unnoticed, and Sukuna finds it oddly endearing.
Powdered sugar dusts your thumb as you hold the dish steady while digging your fork in again, and without thinking, you lick it off while scanning an invoice. The gesture is so unselfconscious, so normal, but it catches his attention and draws his gaze to your face.
This close, he can’t help but notice the small things: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you’re focused on the paperwork, the little smile that appears each time you taste the pie, how small you look perched beside him. For a moment, his mind just goes completely blank.
The realization hits him square in the chest—you’re beautiful. And you went out of your way to bake a pie for him.
All at once, the office starts to smell different. The sharp tang of oil and metal slips away, replaced by the sweetness of apple and cinnamon, and beneath it all, your perfume.
You point to a line on the invoice, but his attention drifts to your hand resting next to his on the desk. His own fingers are thick and calloused; yours look impossibly soft and small by comparison. The urge to see how your hand would feel in his is so distracting he nearly loses track of what you were saying.
For a moment, the usually unshakeable and confident mechanic is thrown completely off balance, his thoughts tangling so fast he almost forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. Somehow, he keeps his face neutral, handling the rest of the paperwork with a steady voice, but underneath, panic is already clawing at him. He has no clue how he’s supposed to get your number before you walk out that door.
Hesitation or tentativeness have never been his style. If he wants something, he takes it; if he likes someone, he just tells them. It’s always been that simple. But with you leaning over his desk, a crumb of crust clinging to the corner of your mouth, something unfamiliar creeps in and stiffens his limbs. It isn't shyness—he doesn’t have a shy bone in his body, and he certainly doesn't embarrass easily. Still, this strange, careful caution settles in his bones, making every movement feel intentional and new.
For once, he actually cares about the reaction he’s going to get, and that shift in the stakes makes his usual straightforwardness feel too rough, too heavy-handed for this. The thought that messing this up could mean never seeing you again roots him to the spot, every instinct to act suddenly tangled up in hesitation. His hands feel too big, his words too blunt, and the risk of screwing this up presses in until he feels almost clumsy.
Ideas tumble through his head, each one worse than the last, none of them good enough. Sliding his business card across the desk? Too impersonal, like he’s just angling for another job. Handing over his phone and asking you to put your number in? That’s too aggressive, too much like he’s trying to corner you in his own shop. Even making up some excuse about needing to text you a follow-up on the alternator warranty feels cheap, and the idea of playing a game just to get your number makes him feel ridiculous.
The whole thing leaves a sour taste in his mouth, every option making him feel more foolish than the last. Frustration builds until his jaw aches from how tightly he’s been clenching it, tension crawling up into his temples. He can’t remember the last time he was this stuck on something so simple.
At last, he forces his jaw to unclench, loosening his grip on the highlighter before setting it down. Glancing around the cramped office, something cuts straight through his frustration. Here you are, sitting in a garage after hours with a man twice your size you barely know, just because he offered to help. You trusted him enough to walk into his shop after closing, carrying a homemade pie as a thank-you that feels so genuine it almost hurts.
The last thing he wants, and the absolute last thing his pride will allow, is to make you feel like he used a professional angle just to corner you. If he pushes for your number now, after spending an hour showing you how vulnerable you’ve been to a scam, it’ll feel like an ambush. It’ll undo every bit of safety you felt sitting next to him and ruin any chance he might have had. The thought hits him like a splash of cold water, cooling his temper.
Drawing in a sharp breath, Sukuna reaches past you for a pen resting on the clipboard. He pulls the top invoice toward him and scrawls his phone number across the margin of the page.
"Look," he rumbles, his voice steady and stripped of the chaos in his head, sliding the stack of paperwork back across the desk to you. "You're gonna have to find a new shop now or keep dealing with that idiot down the road. If he—or anyone else—hands you a quote and it feels even a little bit off, you text a photo of the invoice to that number." He taps his thick thumb against the handwritten digits on the page. "That's my personal cell. I’ll look at it and tell you if they’re trying to rip you off."
Blinking down at the paper, you’re completely oblivious to the war he just waged with himself. The gesture is so unexpectedly kind that warmth blooms in your chest and a soft smile tugs at your lips as you glance back up at him. "Are you sure? I don't want to bother you any more than I already did."
"It's not a bother," he mutters, keeping his face carefully blank even as his pulse hammers a little harder against his ribs. "Just think of it as a backup plan. I can't stand watching people get scammed."
"That… actually makes me feel a lot better. I’ll make sure to save it," you murmur, glancing up to meet his unreadable gaze. The papers fold neatly beneath your fingers before you tuck them into your bag and rise from the stool. "Thank you. Seriously. For the alternator, the invoices, all the explanation and… for the company."
"Yeah," he mutters, his throat suddenly tight as he gives a single, gruff nod. "Don't sweat it."
Once your empty baking dish is tucked back into the box, you offer him one last warm smile that squeezes his chest uncomfortably tight. He pushes himself up to walk you to the door, the bell above your head chiming bright as you step out into the cool evening air.
"Goodnight, Sukuna."
"Goodnight," he calls back, standing entirely still as he watches you walk toward your car.
The warmth lingering in the office vanishes, leaving only a cold, hollow ache in its place. Through the glass, Sukuna watches your car start up, headlights slicing through the dusk as you ease out of the driveway and disappear around the corner. The instant your taillights blink out, frustration slams into him, heavy and relentless.
"Damn it," he barks into the empty shop, slamming his hand flat against the workbench.
Never in his life has he felt this powerless. Control is what he prides himself on—knowing exactly how a machine or a situation will play out because he’s the one steering it. But right now? He’s handed over his only leverage, left the whole gamble in your hands, and the lack of control is enough to make him want to tear his hair out.
He has no name saved in his phone, no confirmation. Nothing. He’s got no way to reach you, which means he’s stuck waiting, and everything now hangs on whether you decide to text. What if you lose that paper? What if the number gets buried in your purse and you forget about it until your car dies again months from now? What if you just think he was being polite and have no intention of ever using it?
The weight of not knowing gnaws at him, driving him to pace the shop floor, muttering curses under his breath for being so damn careful.
Two hours later, fresh from the shower, he sinks into the couch with a cold beer he hasn’t even opened yet. Usually, Sukuna finds the quiet of his apartment a relief after a day spent surrounded by noise, but tonight the silence feels heavy and irritating.
His phone lies face-up on the coffee table. By ten, he’s already picked it up and set it down more times than he cares to admit, each glance met with nothing but the glow of the lock screen and the relentless crawl of minutes. By eleven, frustration curdles into something uglier—doubt.
Doubt isn’t something he’s ever felt before, but alone in the dark, his mind starts tearing apart every second of that hour you spent in his office. The memory of your shoulder brushing his lingers. He can still hear your laugh when you realized you’d forgotten the plates, see how easily you followed his explanations, and how you smiled. He’d been so sure there was something there. He’d bet on it.
But as midnight approaches without a single vibration, his thoughts twist, turning defensive and sharp. Maybe he’d read the whole thing wrong. His brow knots as a heavy, sour thought appears and settles right in his gut. You didn’t feel a connection. You were just being polite, bringing an apple pie to thank a mechanic for doing his job. Sitting on that stool, chatting with him, you were just well-mannered, not interested. He’d blown it all out of proportion, let himself believe there was a spark when, to you, he was just the guy who fixed your alternator and handed out some advice.
—
Sukuna arrives at the shop in the worst mood humanly possible. Sleep barely touched him last night, and whatever patience he might have had for the rest of the world has been ground down to nothing.
Fingers curling around the cold iron handles, he wrenches the shutters up, and metal slams against the top of the frame so hard the glass windows in the office rattle. Not that he gives a damn. His jacket lands carelessly on the hook as he storms inside, and the paper coffee cup hits the workbench hard, sloshing the dark liquid over the plastic lid. It tastes like battery acid, but he drinks it anyway, needing the bitterness to match what’s inside of his chest.
He sets his personal phone right at the edge of the workbench, telling himself it’s just so it won’t get crushed in his pocket while he works. He knows that’s bullshit. Each time he reaches for a tool or crosses the bay for another socket, his gaze flicks back to the black screen, searching for a flicker of light that stubbornly refuses to appear.
Around nine, the shop's cell rings, echoing through the empty bay. Sukuna’s heart lurches, a ridiculous, frantic leap before his brain can rein it in—maybe you lost his number but found the shop’s online. The wrench clatters to the floor as he strides into the office, snatching the phone off the desk with a grip that’s just a little too tight.
“Ryomen’s Automotive," he grunts, his voice a rough, impatient gravel.
"Hey, man, just checking if you got those brake pads in for the pickup?"
Disappointment slams into him right beneath his ribs. His jaw locks, knuckles whitening around the mobile. "Yeah. They’re here. Come get 'em," he snaps, hanging up before the customer can get another word in.
Storming back into the bay, he grabs up his phone and shoves it deep into his pocket, as if that’ll keep the urge to check it all the time. The impact gun roars as he goes after a stubborn lug nut, the booming racket finally loud enough to drown out the chaos in his head. That’s it. He’s done checking. If you haven’t texted by now, you’re not going to. You probably tossed the paper, and he needs to get over it.
By one, Sukuna is elbow-deep in the greasy undercarriage of an old sedan, forearms streaked with black smears, his expression locked in a scowl so forbidding that even the delivery drivers have been giving him a wide berth all day.
He’s just reaching for a torque wrench when his phone vibrates on the workbench.
Bzzzt.
The sudden vibration catches him off guard, freezing him mid-reach. For a moment, he doesn’t move at all, letting the faint clicks of the cooling engine overhead fill the silence. It’s probably just spam, he tells himself. Or some useless data plan alert. Or a wrong number.
Peeling off his gloves, he slides a hand into his pocket, pulls out the phone, and swipes the screen awake. There’s a text from an unknown number—except the first line of the preview makes his chest seize up.
[You]: Hey! Sorry for the late text, I didn't want to bother you last night since it was way too late. Just wanted to send this so you have my contact too. Thanks again for looking through those invoices with me, the pie was a small price to pay for saving my bank account!
OH THANK FUCK.
Relief hits him in a bone-deep wave, draining the tension from his shoulders. He draws in a slow breath as he stares at the words glowing on the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up and register the gap between his own spiraling and your ridiculously polite message. You were just being considerate, that’s all.
Clearing his throat, he uses a clean patch of his forearm to wipe the grease off his thumb before he even thinks about typing. Something clever would be good, something that proves he’s not rattled by any of this, but his fingers feel thick and awkward on the keys. Finally, he settles for something short that won’t give him away.
[Sukuna]: No worries. Pie was great, by the way. Just let me know if you get any more of those invoices.
He taps send, eyes glued to the delivery confirmation, then instantly adds the number to his contacts. Your name appears at the top of the chat, and for the first time all day, a smirk tugs at his mouth, breaking through the hard set of his jaw.
The phone disappears back into his pocket, and he turns to the sedan on the lift, with a jolt of energy running through him. As he grabs his wrench, the reality of the situation hits him from a completely different angle: you texted just to be polite and acknowledge the professional favor, and he just capped his own response by telling you to let him know if you get more invoices, boxing himself right back into being the helpful mechanic. Now what? How is he supposed to ask you out without trampling all over the boundaries you just so carefully respected?
By Friday night, that pitiful text thread on Sukuna’s phone has become a full-blown obsession. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he ignores the bowl of dinner going cold on the counter, his attention fixed on the glow of his screen. The chat is as embarrassingly short as it was the previous day: your polite thank-you, then his own awkward reply about the pie.
With a low, frustrated rumble in the empty apartment, he taps the empty text box. He’s never had to plan a conversation in his life, but suddenly, the weight of actually caring what you think drags every word through mud.
Hey, you free this weekend?
He glares at the five words. The line looks all wrong, like something a teenager would send on a dating app, hovering over his phone, waiting around for a girl he barely knows to throw him a bone. Sukuna is a grown man; he doesn't do vague, open-ended checking-in. And if you say no, or tell him you have plans, that’s it. Conversation over. No way to push back without looking like a desperate idiot.
Worse, you texted him because he'd offered to help with invoices, not because you'd expected him to use your number for anything else.
"Don't be a fucking asshole, Sukuna," he mutters.
With a heavy, irritated sigh, he holds down the backspace key until the box is wiped clean.
Saturday evening drags in after a brutal ten-hour shift, wrestling with stubborn leaf springs and rusted exhaust bolts. As he’s slumped on his couch with a cold beer in his hand, his muscles ache, but his mind is still stuck on the same loop. He pulls out his phone again and opens the chat. All he needs is an excuse—something car-related, since that’s the only ground you both actually somewhat share.
Let me know if that alternator’s making any noise.
His thumb freezes before he can hit send, and he scowls at the message, a sharp spike of professional irritation cutting through the haze. If the alternator was making noise, that would mean he’d screwed up the belt tension. He knows it’s perfect. He checked it twice before you left the bay. Asking about it now is basically calling his own work sloppy, and his pride won’t let him insult himself just to get a text back. With a shake of his head, he deletes the line and takes a long pull from his beer, trying to rework the phrasing, still clinging to the car angle but making it less about his own hands.
Make sure you check your oil this week.
He drags his hand over his face, catching himself immediately. If he sends that, he’s just barking orders at a customer who already admitted she doesn’t know a thing about cars. It sounds bossy, too gruff, and leaves you nothing to say except a flat agreement.
"What the fuck am I doing?"
He clears the text box again and tosses the phone face down onto the cushion beside him, ready to bang his head on the wall.
Monday night is the worst. The silence of the last few days feels like a personal insult. Standing by his kitchen window, looking out at the dark street, he’s completely fed up with his own uncharacteristic hesitation. He’s Sukuna. He doesn’t sit around overthinking a three-line message like some awkward kid. Enough. He’ll just give it to you straight, no games or professional excuses. He snatches the phone off the counter and types, fingers jabbing at the screen.
I'm heading to the diner by my shop for lunch tomorrow. Come with me.
He stares at the message, breathing heavier as his thumb hovers over the blue arrow. For a split second, he almost hits it. But then your reaction flashes through his mind—opening your phone and seeing a blunt lunch demand from the mechanic who fixed your car last week, suddenly wondering whether the man who seemed so put-together had been working an angle the whole time.
"No. That's fucking creepy."
He’s completely trapped by his own respect for you, stuck suffering the consequences of having zero organic reason to reach out. He can rebuild a transmission blindfolded, but figuring out how to move a text thread from professional advice to I want to see your face again without being an asshole? That breaks his brain entirely.
A low, bitter curse slips out as he clears the message. He throws the phone onto the kitchen table, furious that one person has managed to jam his gears so completely without even lifting a finger.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
By Tuesday afternoon, the frustration has cooled into a quiet, stubborn determination. Leaning against the workbench during a lull in the shop, he stares at your name in his contacts. One more try to find a middle ground that feels natural but actually gives him an opening.
Found another complaint about that shop online. Thought you’d wanna see it.
Sukuna deletes it before he even finishes the sentence, dragging his hand down his face. Thought you’d wanna see it. He sounds like he’s trying way too hard to find an excuse to talk to you. It’s not a lie, but he’d rather die than let you catch on.
"For fuck's sake."
By Wednesday afternoon, Sukuna’s completely done with himself, and he’s become absolutely insufferable to be around. Leaning against the tool board, he glares at the calendar pinned crookedly to the office wall, his thumb drumming a relentless rhythm against his thigh.
Every scenario he plays out in his head ends with him looking like an idiot. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be on his own terms, in his own space, where he actually knows what the hell he’s doing. Turning back to his tools, he forces himself not to spiral into another round of pointless drafts. Finally, his mind clears—he doesn’t need a smooth pickup line. He just needs a real, professional reason to get you back in the garage. Maintenance. That’s it.
I’m closing up the shop tomorrow around 6. If you wanna swing by, I can show you how to check your fluids and oil so you aren’t just guessing. No worries if you’re busy.
He stares at the message for a moment. There. Completely professional. Nobody in their right mind could mistake that for flirting. Another second passes. Perfectly reasonable text to send a customer.
With that, his thumb slams the send button, heart thudding stupidly against his ribs. The phone disappears deep into his pocket as he turns back to his tools, pulse racing, completely irritated by his own anticipation and already hooked on the slow, torturous wait for your reply.
Meanwhile, you’re at home, finally sinking into the couch after a long day, when your phone buzzes against the coffee table. His name flashes across the screen, and your heart gives a small, unexpected flutter. You read his invitation twice, and a soft smile tugs at your lips. Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tap out your reply, keeping it light and trying to match his tone.
[You]: I'd love to! Need me to bring anything? (I promise I'll actually remember the plates this time if there's food involved!)
Down in the garage, Sukuna’s been organizing the same shelf of oil filters for the last four minutes, trying to distract himself, when his pocket finally vibrates. He freezes mid-reach. He deliberately finishes placing the last filter on the rack, forcing himself to move at a normal pace, refusing to look like a lunatic even to his own reflection. Only then does he step back, dig out his phone, and unlock the screen.
Reading your text, the tight, stubborn knot in his chest unravels all at once. Relief hits so fast it’s almost dizzying, and a rush of heat crawls up his neck. You didn't say no. You didn't find an excuse, you didn't think it was weird, and you explicitly said you'd love to come back. And that little joke about the plates instantly crumbles the remaining walls of his stubborn frustration.
A massive, genuinely victorious smirk spreads across his face, eyes crinkling at the corners as a low, rough chuckle rumbles out of his chest. Energy surges through him, ridiculous and electric, like he’s just rebuilt a blown engine in record time.
Then his gaze snags on that last sentence, and his thumb freezes over the keyboard.
Food. You’re asking about bringing food.
For you, it’s testing the waters for a little more time together. But to him, it's enough to send his thoughts careening straight off the rails of the maintenance lesson and into a chaotic spiral of logistics. Does he buy something? Does he tell you to bring something? If he says no, does that mean you’ll just learn how to check a dipstick and drive away immediately after? He doesn't want you to leave. He wants you back on that metal stool, right where he can see you.
Pacing a short line next to the workbench, he types out a response, frowning as he slams straight into a wall of overthinking that’s completely foreign to him: I’ll grab some burgers. No, that’s too much like a date. Don't worry about food. No, that sounds like he doesn't want to eat with you at all. Or worse, you’ll eat before you come, and he’ll miss his chance entirely.
Frustrated with his own hesitation, he deletes the drafts, grunts, and decides to handle it the only way he knows how: blunt and completely practical.
[Sukuna]: Just bring the car. I’ll order a pizza. Pepperoni alright?
He hits send, tossing the phone back onto the bench with a sharp exhale. The message is demanding, a little aggressive, and leaves zero room for negotiation. Still, it guarantees you're staying for dinner.
A wide grin splits his face as he spins around and surveys his empty shop, eyes scanning the bays with sudden, critical focus. Twenty-four hours. That’s all he’s got to make sure his office looks halfway respectable before you walk through the door.
—
Rolling into the gravel driveway with five minutes to spare, you idle near the entrance just as the side door swings open and Sukuna steps out into the cool evening air. He’s in a plain black tee stretched across his broad shoulders and dark grey sweatpants. The change catches your eye immediately because he looks ridiculously good out of his coveralls. You can’t help but wonder if the wardrobe swap was just a coincidence, or if he actually cared about making a good impression tonight.
He walks over to the front of your car, waving his hand to guide you forward. "Bring it straight into the second bay," he calls out.
Following his gesture, you shift into drive and ease the car forward into the bay. The engine clicks softly when you shut it off, and as you step out, Sukuna’s already at the front bumper, nodding at you.
“You’ve made it," he rumbles, stepping up to pop the latch and lift your hood into place with a practiced, heavy thud.
"Told you I would," you say, glancing over the open engine bay with curiosity. "So, where are we starting? Am I going to get entirely covered in grime?"
Sukuna lets out a low, amused huff, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and pivots toward the rolling tool cabinet. "Not if I can help it."
He reaches into a cardboard box on top of the cart and pulls out a pair of thin, black single-use gloves. His size is impossible to ignore when he steps in close, suddenly crowding the space, and hands them over.
"Put these on first," he instructs, his gaze locking onto yours for a heartbeat. "The alternator's fresh, but everything else under that hood isn’t. No reason for you to ruin your hands."
You take the gloves, smoothing the black rubber over your wrists before looking up at him with a playful smile, tilting your head. "Very thoughtful. I didn't think a tough mechanic like you cared about a little dirt."
"I don't care about it on me," Sukuna mutters. His eyes linger on your hands for a second before he jerks his gaze back down at the engine bay, clears his throat, and points into the tangled mess of metal and hoses. "Alright, come here. We’re skipping the basic fluid check—you’re smart enough to know how to read a dipstick. I want to show you more interesting stuff."
Stepping in close, you slide the gloves over your hands, your shoulder brushing his for just a second. It's barely a touch, but enough to make both of you hyper-aware of the space you share.
"See this belt right here?" Sukuna asks, leaning over the grille. His deep voice drops into a steady, confident cadence as he gets into his element. "This is your serpentine belt. In case someone tells you it’s about to snap, I'll show you how to check the tension yourself, and how to spot actual dry rot versus regular wear."
He tugs on his own gloves, then reaches down. He navigates the cramped space around the engine block with ease, and you find yourself briefly distracted by the contrast between the size of his hands, the precision of the movements, and how gentle they look as he grips the heavy rubber belt. Then, with a twist, he exposes the underside to the light.
"Get your hand in right here," he says, glancing sideways at you, his eyes dark and intense in the low light. "Feel the edge of the rubber. Tell me what you notice."
For the next hour, Sukuna guides you through a standard oil change, patiently talking you through each step. He doesn't do the work for you; he has you reach beneath the chassis with a socket wrench to feel the exact point of resistance on the oil pan drain plug, his hand covering yours to adjust the angle, explaining the difference between a secure seal and stripped threads.
When he shows you a spark plug, he holds the tiny ceramic piece beneath the shop light, pointing out the faint color differences that separate a healthy engine from one that's burning fuel too rich.
All the while, Sukuna stays at your shoulder, keeping you grounded. Each time your gloved fingers falter over a stubborn clamp or an unfamiliar valve, his hand is there, nudging your wrist or guiding it with a confidence that makes it impossible to feel foolish. He answers every question thoroughly without a hint of impatience, pleased with your curiosity. By the time you peel the gloves from your hands, the machinery that once felt so intimidating is just a puzzle you’ve learned how to solve, and the satisfaction settles deep in your chest.
A sudden chime of the office bell cuts through the quiet, shattering the spell. Sukuna pulls his hand back from the engine block, his head snapping toward the front door.
"Pizza's here,” he rasps.
He strips off the gloves, tossing them in the trash before heading to the glass door to pay the delivery guy. You follow suit, peeling yours off and grabbing the plates you stashed in your trunk earlier. Stepping into the dim office, you find Sukuna already setting the steaming pizza box dead center on his desk.
"Look at that," you tease softly, sliding the plates onto the desk. "Real plates this time."
Sukuna glances down at them, and a faint, genuinely amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Fancy," he mutters, eyes flicking up to catch yours for a split second before his hand moves to the cardboard lid. “Bringing the good stuff to a garage."
The moment he flips the lid open, the rich, savory scent of hot cheese and pepperoni floods the room, instantly smothering the stubborn trace of motor oil that still clings to the air. He slides a massive, steaming slice onto your plate before grabbing one for himself. "Eat up before it gets cold."
For the first twenty minutes, conversation just flows easily, and to his immense relief, not a single word about car parts comes up. You ask about the shop, how long he’s been running it, and whether he always wanted to be a mechanic. He tells you how he likes working with his hands, how machines make sense in a way people never do, because if something’s broken, there’s always a reason, and always a fix.
After a while, Sukuna starts tossing questions your way. One answer leads to another, and before long you're deep in a story about that trainwreck project at work and the latest chaos your friends managed to stir up over the weekend. He doesn’t interrupt, his crimson eyes fixed on your face, watching your eyes crinkle with laughter, how your hands sketch wild shapes in the air, and the tiny smile that sneaks out when you mention your friends.
Some part of him is convinced this should be awkward. Or, at the very least, harder than this. But it feels completely natural, and before he knows it, he’s talking more than he ever does. And that’s exactly when the invisible trap closes right back around his throat.
Ask her, his mind orders, the thought landing in his chest with a sudden, heavy thud. Eight words. Do you want to go out with me? Just say the damn words.
You finish your slice and lean back a little on your stool, thumb brushing a stray crumb from your lower lip without thinking.
Do it now. She's sitting right here. She likes talking to you. Just open your stupid mouth and ask for a real date.
Sukuna shifts his weight on the metal stool as his large hand tightens around his napkin.
Don't be a coward. It's a question, not a marriage proposal.
He opens his mouth, but his throat locks up tight. He isn't actually afraid of hearing the word no—he has plenty of pride, but a rejection wouldn't break him. What paralyzes him is the fiercely protective boundary he’s drawn around you in his own head.
And then what? She realizes the mechanic who helped her has been working an angle the whole time?
He’s desperately trying not to abuse the trust he’s built with you. The sheer weight of wanting to keep this clean and respectable for your sake completely jams his gears.
"Hey," he blurts out anyway, his voice a little rough, cutting right through the middle of whatever you were saying.
You pause, blinking at him with curious eyes. "Hm?"
Sukuna freezes as his brain goes completely blank again under your direct gaze. His eyes drop to your mouth, staring at the soft curve of your lips in the dim light of the desk lamp, his mind scrambling for any kind of escape hatch.
For fuck's sake, Sukuna. You've started already. Just finish it.
Instead, his throat stays bone dry, jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek. The words just refuse to come, and the surge of internal fury that follows nearly knocks him sideways.
“Never mind.”
You study him for a long moment, and a small, knowing look flickers in your eyes as you set your crust down on the plate.
"Well," you say softly, with a playful little tilt to your head. "I guess I officially know enough about drive belts now. At this rate, I won't have an excuse to bother you anymore."
The words hit like a bucket of ice water. The thought of you just fading back into the real world, never showing up at his garage again, triggers a raw, defensive panic that steamrolls right over his hesitation.
"You don't need car trouble to stop by," he quickly says.
It comes out too blunt, his voice rough and a little too sharp in the quiet room. He winces inside, bracing for you to pull away, but you just look at him, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.
"You know," you murmur, your voice dropping into a gentle, teasing tone as you lean just a hair closer over the edge of the desk. "Most people just ask for a date."
Sukuna goes utterly still. The words hang in the air, and the silence that follows is so thick you can hear the faint, steady hum of the fluorescent bulb overhead. He doesn’t answer right away—he can’t. The gears in his brain lock up as he stares at you, completely stunned that you’ve just outmaneuvered him without even trying.
But then the sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and the tension in his chest snaps like a rubber band.
A low, rough chuckle shakes his chest, half frustration, half pure captivation. He drops the crumpled napkin onto the desk, and suddenly his eyes are burning with that hyper-confident heat he’s been holding back all week. The cautious, hesitant mechanic is gone in a blink.
"Yeah?" he rumbles, his voice dropping an octave.
Before you can blink, he closes the distance between the stools. That massive hand of his finds the back of your neck, thick fingers curling gently, thumb pressing into the warm skin along your jaw. His sheer size blocks out the rest of the office, casting you in his shadow as he leans down, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.
His eyes drop to your mouth, and the intensity of his stare makes your breath catch.
"Been trying real hard to be polite all week," he mutters with a wicked smirk right against your lips, tracing a slow line along your jaw with his thumb. "But you're entirely right. I'm taking you out tomorrow night."
He pauses, giving you one last chance to pull away if you want to. When you don't move, matching his smirk with one of your own, he closes the last bit of space without a single shred of hesitation.
The moment his lips meet yours, a ragged breath escapes him, a sound so raw it sends a shiver tearing down your spine. He’s been starving for this all week, and the force of it knocks the air from both your lungs.
Sweet vanilla and tobacco from his perfume flood your senses, drowning out everything else. Sukuna tastes exactly like he smells: warm, intense, and utterly intoxicating. Any coherent thought vanishes beneath the rush of it. Your hands find the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric at his chest and bunching it tight in your fists as you pull him closer. Every bit of hunger he pours into the kiss, you give right back.
Feeling you lean in and your hands on him, a low, gravelly groan rumbles from deep in his chest. His grip at the nape of your neck tightens, thick fingers slipping higher into your hair until they're tangled in the strands at the base of your skull, leaving no room for doubt about how badly he's wanted this. His other hand leaves the desk, sliding up to cup your face, calloused thumb sweeping hard over your cheekbone as he tilts your head back, searching for a better angle.
Slow, insistent pressure parts your lips, and his mouth moves over yours in a rhythm that makes your head spin. The heat pouring off him is overwhelming, swallowing up the entire office until there's nothing left but his lips and the rough drag of his hands against your skin.
Sukuna pulls back just a fraction, barely a breath of space between you, so you can both drag in ragged breaths. Eyes closed, his forehead drops against yours while his chest heaves. But staying away isn’t an option. He leans right back in, catching your lower lip between his, sucking on it with a slow pull that rips a quiet gasp from your throat.
That deep drag is followed by a series of quick, hot pecks—one to the corner of your mouth, another firm press at the center of your lips, and finally a lingering kiss that seals your mouths together all over again.
Every tiny, breathless break just makes him hungrier. He presses in deeper, tongue tracing the shape of your lips, completely taking over the pace. Your heart hammers stupidly against your ribs, your body turning to liquid on the metal stool, kept upright only by the iron grip of his hands. He’s kissing you like he wants to leave a permanent mark, making up for an entire week spent talking himself out of this.
Even when he finally tears his mouth away, he refuses to let you go. His breath comes in short, heavy rasps that tangle with your own, crimson eyes fluttering open to find you—dark, hooded, and completely blown wide as he stares at your swollen lips. His thumb sweeps over your lower lip, wiping the dampness away with a slow, heavy pressure that makes your chest ache.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. The office is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath. His chest rises and falls close to yours, and you can feel the lingering warmth of him, the tension that hasn’t left either of your bodies.
A smirk slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth. He savors the silence every bit as much as the kiss itself.
“Text me your address,” he rumbles, his voice incredibly low and rough. His hand is still tangled in your hair, fingers threaded deep enough that when you instinctively try to lean back and get a better look at him, his grip tightens just enough to stop you. It isn’t rough, but it’s firm, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his fingers shift slightly against your scalp. “And be ready at seven.”
Blinking up at him through the haze of the kiss, you tilt your head as much as his grip allows, brows lifting as you study him. The corner of your mouth twitches, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"Pretty sure that wasn't a question, Sukuna."
His smirk deepens as he looks down at you, completely unfazed by your tone. That arrogant confidence in his eyes is impossible to miss now, and somehow it only makes your stomach flip harder.
"Neither was taking you out tomorrow night," he murmurs.
You don’t bother answering. Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you drag him down, crushing your lips into his. He chuckles deeply into the kiss as his hands slide from your face to your waist. Before you can think about what he's doing, he's pulling you off the stool and into his lap. Deepening the kiss, you bury your fingers in his hair, drawing a low groan from him that sends a shiver racing down your spine and straight between your legs.
notes:
> sukuna: somebody has been scamming this woman
> sukuna: she baked me a pie
> sukuna 5 minutes later: i need her phone number or i'm going to lose my fucking mind
romaincrisis
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
titsay
discoholicmusic
vaporwave
gummygunk
