Last thot of the night.
Toby’s obsessive tendencies and need to be overwhelmingly close to you.
He’s so desperate about it that he grows stricter on that fact alone. Grabbing your face roughly like “Look at me.” When he’s fucking you and constantly asking you who’s inside you because he needs to hear you say his name.
It’s so intense it’s almost unbearable. He refuses to let your eyes close and gets meaner if you start going dumb on it. It’s the ego trip mixed with his fixation on keeping you aware of who’s on top of you. It needs to be him. The last thing you moan when you cum needs to be his name. The last thing you see has to be his face.
That’s where his cannibalistic urges resurface- he physically needs to keep a piece of you with him. He’ll bite you hard enough to bleed and tear up licking the wound because he wants it so badly. He’ll cry like he’s the one in pain, matching your whines nearly perfectly.
It’s nearly uncontrollable to him. Toby mimics your sobs and twitches because he wants to feel everything you do, becoming your literal other half. It makes him genuinely sick to imagine you distancing yourself in any way, and all his paranoia hits you full force when you’re intimate during one of his moods.
Most of the time, he’s expressive, squirming and rambling praise. But when he’s already in that head space, he turns into a different person.
He pins your wrists down hard enough to bruise, begging you with so much agony it borders on uncomfortable. His words don’t match his tone, his cries don’t match his actions. Toby’s sobbing while staring directly into your eyes, close to sneering in your face and telling you to that he loves you to the point of mental breakage.
“Say it- say you love me. You mean it, right? Tell me you fucking mean it.”
“It feels like I’m fucking dying when I look at you. I love you so much- I love you so much it’s killing me, angel.”
It helps when you overwhelm him back, though. The only thing that slowly eases him out of that state is your constant reassurance, signs of trust and forcing him to stay present. If you bring his hand up, wrapping it around your throat- “It’s okay. It feels good, keep going.” He’ll whine like a dog and spasm over you.
You swipe the shallow wound on your neck, collecting the blood before slipping your fingers into his mouth. He drools around you and gags trying to take you deeper- going until saliva and scarlet dribble onto your bare chest. His eyes are rolling up, Toby moaning as if he’s huffing gas after withdrawals.
He fucks you harder every time your fingers hit the back of his throat. It’s disgustingly messy, and he’s not even coherent by the end, slurring his words while he stuffs you over and over again. You have bite marks all over your hand because he chews on you like a mutt, using your limbs as a muzzle, then lapping at the cuts with the most pathetic hiccups you’ve ever heard.
And if you bite him back, he cums so hard he blacks out.