Toby Rogers x f!reader [18+] [NSFW]
Summary: You’ve lived your entire life with the forest pressed against your windows. Hidden in the heart of a circular grove. Your mother’s rules etched in your blood: never move beyond the tree line. But the world beyond calls. And when he appears, the wolf in human skin-the forest seems to hold its breath. All it took was a single night for everything you know about hunger as a legacy and loyalty to your roots warp.
❁ Reader is implied to be AFAB & a wild witch of the woods.
CW: 18+ Content, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Violence, Cannibalism, Body Horror, Toxic Family Dynamics/ Abuse, Toxic Relationships, Predator-Prey Sexualization, Depiction of OCD/Compulsive Behaviors, Death, Wound Fucking, Thigh Riding, Mutual Masturbation, Handjob
[A quick reminder to separate fiction from nonfiction. The story begins under the cut.]
You were born from a wish. And the woods had been your lullaby. All you’ve ever known.
Years had passed, and by your early twenties, the circle’s hidden patterns were as familiar as the lines on your own hands.
Pine trees as tall as cathedral spires which encapsulated a small grove with a clearing in the center.
A low humming of katydids at night and cicadas in the morning.
Mama said the forest kept you safe. The trees were giants of the forests. Guarding your little lichen-clung cabin from the tireless ticking of new age. Effortlessly hidden as it seemed abandoned to most.
Mornings for you meant the sound of splitting firewood in muddy boots. A sharp punctuating rhythm of an axe being swung. Its cadence summons more than just firewood from the trees.
Deer bones sat drying on twine above the porch. And mama’s hands were still streaked red. Presumably residue from yesterday’s work. Despite scrubbing so meticulously, violently even, the redness never faded. Could’ve been from berries or blood. The specifics never mattered to you. She’d hum old folk songs while working, voice low, like a warning.
Your bare feet sank into the damp earth, tips of grass beaded with dew. Sunlight just barely pierced through the trees. Balancing a bundle of twigs in your arms, steady. Careful not to spill.
Each crunch of your steps echoed in the stillness of the forest. A cadence that causes your pulse to thrum with excitement. The chopping of wood growing louder and angrier by the instant.
Your eyes flickered over towards mama. Studying her. The tilt of her head, the careful yet precise swing of the axe in her hands. Immediately pausing when she heard you approach. Setting aside the blade into the stump with a heavy thunk. Shifting towards you with a stern, neutral gaze.
“Hands,” she said, with a firm voice, wiping the sweat off of her brow with her wrist. “Make sure to wash them. Whatever you touched.”
You murmur out a soft, “Yes, Mama,” setting down the bundle of twigs on the patch of cool green moss beside you, kneeling at the stream on the edge of the clearing.
Your fingers dipped into the cool water, scrubbing between each finger at imagined dirt and debris. Mimicking the motions your mother had oh-so-lovingly taught you. This was just one of the many rituals that tethered you to her world.
You started off small. But as time pushed forward, the wider your skillset grew. All thanks to mama’s teachings. Observing the way she'd skin small game, the rhythm of her hands slicing with a dulled blade that never seemed to blunt. How to perfectly make and clean up a mess. You'd observe, memorize, and mimic. Your only lessons in ordinary human nature stemming from the books Mama had scavenged.
Forest vermin had been your first teachers, but your lessons didn't end there.
Your mother never needed words to tell you what comes next. Just a nauseatingly brilliant red from freshly sliced meat.
Her hands prepared it with reverent care. Saving every bone for broth.
A strip of flesh from the thigh of a passerby who was unlucky enough to stumble upon you and your mother’s modest dwelling. The smell, the taste was stronger than any rabbit or deer. It was metallic, primal. The texture, ruddy and fibrous between your teeth.
Rats were fine enough, but only human flesh could sustain your bodies over time. And thus, you’d seen no fault in the life only you and mama knew. Thankfully, something about your little section of the woods drew in many heedless wanderers. Perhaps it was a strange kind of energy, that made the very air feel different here.
Things weren't always so grim. The cabin was kept with careful order. Mama’s tools hung up on the walls, ample storage space, a large case for your books alongside decorative ornaments, and candles carved with letters and symbols which remained unfamiliar to you.
She’d sit by the stone hearth, the fire’s heat radiating throughout the room, and carefully fix up your hair, all pretty. Smoothing out each strand with delicate precision.
“Say, Mama,” you spoke, twisting a flyaway strand of hair around the first knuckle of your index finger. “Why can’t we ever…move past the clearing?”
Mama’s hands stilled, comb resting lightly against your scalp. She looked at you, eyes calm. “Because the world outside doesn’t feed us the way we need. Here, we survive. Out there… shadows move where you cannot see, and creatures you wouldn’t dare name watch from the dark.”
You pressed your lips into a thin line. “But… I’d like to see it. Just once.”
Mama shook her head, returning to the braid. “Not yet. Not now. Not until you know enough to come back whole… and even then, some things are better left unseen.”
You knew better than to defy her, and understood the consequences that would surely follow. After all, in the wild, countless creatures turn on their own when pressed by famine and circumstance.
That’s right. You and Mama were as untamed as any other creature lurking in this godforsaken forest.
That wildness extended beyond the forest’s whispers. You’d assist Mama in hunting from time to time, venturing out when the cabin’s aura wasn’t as potent. Each expedition carried a contained excitement whenever she allowed it. You set small traps for critters. And she prowled farther, seeking unsuspecting wanderers.
But one morning, Mama didn’t come back from beyond the tree line. She’d insisted on going despite feeling so ill. You drifted along the edge of the clearing, breath shallow, eyes flickering between branches like a distorted hymn. And then, almost on a sigh, your gaze lifted, and there she was.
Your mother hung there in the trees, mangled, her dress torn and dark with dried blood, patches of flesh missing like petals plucked too early. She had likely been up there for days, still and silent as the forest watched. Sobs shook you, but some deep, feral part of you surged forward, eclipsing any fear. Hands trembling, you gathered what you could, the wet weight of it grotesque yet necessary, and consumed it, tears sliding down your cheeks into the moss below. The taste was iron, sharp and familiar, a tether to survival. Each bite a memory of Mama's stillness instructing you, each swallow a pulse of her memory in the darkness of the forest.
A gray blur darted in the shadows, long and low on all fours, moving with an unnatural curl. Your heart raced as you backed toward the cabin, slick with tears and blood, every instinct sharp and raw. The creature charged, but the tree line repelled Mama's shield keeping it at bay. Safe in the clearing, you sank to the moss, trembling and quiet, grief and hunger pressing at your chest. Survival had always been Mama’s lesson, and now it was yours alone, soft and fragile, just you and the forest.
Months later, you're sinking deep into the claw-foot tub, water cool against your skin, hair wet and heavy on your shoulders, dripping slowly into the porcelain. The bathroom was drenched in the pale blue of an early autumn morning. The forest murmured outside, distant and endless. Hunger twisted in your stomach, sharper than anything the small vermin from your traps could satisfy. You had never hunted nor eaten without her guidance. And With the gray things multiplying, wanderers grew scarce. Those few who strayed in were seized before anyone else could claim them, leaving only scraps for the forest’s other predators.
Now, soft and fragile, the quiet wrapped around you, and the solitude of survival pressed gently into your bones, a slow, steady ache you had learned to carry.
You were still for a moment as light pooled across the tiles, gentle and quiet, catching the damp shimmer of your skin as it clung to your shoulders and arms. Then you lifted yourself from the tub. Twisting the little brass plug at the bottom. Watching as water pooled, then began to slip away in a slow, whispering stream. The scent of sage, lavender, and rosemary, the floating chamomile petals drifting like tiny boats across the shrinking surface.
Bare feet padding against the floor towards the mirror by the sink. Your eyes were wide and darkened at the rims from nights spent alone, unblinking from prolonged stretches as the trees pressed close outside. Fingers worked carefully through the tangles of your hair, combing each strand until it fell in dark, wet waves over your shoulders just as she once did.
You slip into a white, laced linen dress from the wardrobe behind you. The fabric is soft and dampened from the lingering moisture of your bath. And stepped lightly across the cabin floor, brushing the cold wood. Each movement was measured, deliberate, a quiet ritual in the stillness of your solitude.
You knelt, the edge of your knife catching the soft blue morning light as you sharpen it, each stroke precise, learned from your mother. The house is quiet today.
Leaves shatter outside slow and measured. You lifted your head, breath catching in your gut. Ears perk up to listen as the sound threaded through the still forest.
A playful tune that twisted between the branches and threaded into the quiet of the clearing.
You press your forehead to the cool glass of the cabin window by the sofa. Eyes caught on a figure. A tall, lanky shape. Axes slung on a belt, head tilted just so, the source of the intruding noise. Your breath catches. Heart thumping, instincts flaring, you crouch slightly behind the couch, unnoticed. Muscles coiling. Tracing the shape of its frayed coat, the steel-toed boots crunching softly over leaves, and the glint of orange goggles catching a stray shaft of light.
Wisps of brown hair slip from beneath the hood, and the faintest movement of hands. You watched him shift under the light, the curve of his shoulders, the line of his arms, enough to tell him male. He’s human, and yet… something is very off.
He moves slowly, scanning the clearing and the edges of the trees, eyes flicking over broken branches and the soft glimmer of moss, as if mapping every inch before committing to a step. Your head shifts slightly as you continue to observe.
He freezes mid-step, head tilting as if sensing the small movement behind the glass. Then a subtle wave of a gloved hand, casual, teasing. Almost mocking your attempt at hiding. Your stomach twists. You hadn’t expected to be caught, hadn’t thought anyone could pass Mama’s barrier like this.
And just like that, he retreats, each step measured, slipping back beyond the treeline. The playful tune lingers, winding through the forest and threading into the quiet of the clearing. Your chest heaves, muscles relaxing slightly, but your pulse remains sharp, alert. You sink back behind the sofa, fingers tightening around the knife, heart still racing. Curiosity and caution morph together. He is human, and yet entirely unlike anything you’ve ever known. Belonging to the forest just like you.
Days pass, but your mind keeps returning to him. The stranger who managed to breach his way into your world.
Now, each time you check the traps, you find yourself lingering at the edges of the clearing, ears straining at every leaf shift and twig snap. Setting your pulse afire. Hunger simmering within you, sharper than it ever did for a rabbit or squirrel. Those morsels, though once satisfying, left you hollow within hours. The vermin weren’t enough to fill the raw, metallic ache that had been honed in your chest since Mama’s death. Only human flesh carried the weight, the life you craved.
And then, there it is again. Not far, not hidden this time. You’re kneeling to reset a trap when movement catches your eye: the glint of orange goggles, sunlight spilling through the amber canopy glinting against the axes on his belt. Though shadows and lenses conceal his features, the life in his gaze hints at an age not far from your own, likely early twenties.
He leans casually against a tree just beyond the barrier, head slanted to the side, whistling that same teasing tune.
Your stomach churned. The sound pulls at you like a scent, sweet, taunting. The hunger instilled within you claws upward before you can choke it back. Meat, your body thinks. Blood. You pause, knife half-hidden in the moss, muscles reeling, lips parting as if to taste him from a distance.
He tilts his head down at your crouched form, noticing your gaze. Expression hidden beneath his mask and goggles, but his posture remains easy-going and maddeningly human. He slips his gloved hands into the pockets of his jeans.
You freeze, knife half-hidden in the moss, muscles reeling. Blinking up at him wide-eyed.
“You move quiet,” he says, voice steady, lively in its rhythm, with a weight behind it, like someone who’d seen things but didn’t hide behind authority. “I like that. M-makes this job more fun for me.”
You stay frozen, eyes tracking every subtle movement: the tilt of his head, the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his gloved hands slid into his pockets, the faint gleam of sunlight against his axes. Your body wants to vanish into the mossy earth beneath you, yet some curious part of you leans forward, straining to understand him. Fun? The word cuts sharp into your thoughts. Hunting was necessary. Eating was survival. What could he possibly mean?
He whistles again, a brief, teasing note that curls through the copper leaves. “Y-You sure like watching people, d-don’t you?” he stammers, voice low but amused, a subtle jerk of his shoulder punctuating the words. The quirks make him unpredictable, small human flaws peeking through an otherwise confident posture.
You pressed closer to the mossy trunk behind you, barely daring to breathe. The forest was quiet, save for the occasional rustle from the trees above.
“You… really shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, voice low. A weak attempt at intimidation.
“Shouldn’t be h-here?” His voice was soft, stuttered just enough to sound uncertain, like he was testing you. “I’m just f-following orders. The boss said to regularly check the borders…Make sure the forest doesn’t uh..y’know..” He pauses to search for words. “Eat itself.”
“Rakes,” you muttered. More to yourself than him, tasting the word. The image of mama spiraled in your stomach. Of her suspended among the gnarled limbs of that gray, tree-amalgamation, her body torn and tangled so close to the treetops.
You felt bile rising in your throat but managed to push it back down. “You’re checking for rakes?”
He nods, sighing low, lifting the goggles to rest atop loose brown strands of hair. Revealing tired honey-colored eyes, dulled with fatigue yet catching the light, the flicker of awareness and motion that pulls you in. “They’re becoming a real n-nuisance lately. Lot m-more of 'em popping up now. R-real dangerous things,” he says, voice steady.
You understood it now. And responded with a silent nod. Despite appetite pressing sharply against your restraint. Vermin have taught you patience. Humans, rare and tempting, tested it. But he isn’t vermin. Wasn't quite human either, he moved like the forest, like the shadows themselves, a creature cloaked in flesh and pretense. Consuming him would violate a different kind of law, one the trees themselves enforce.
You know the stories. The whispered warnings tucked between the pages of the journals and scavenged books Mama kept behind the locked cabinet: an ancient, faceless entity claiming the forest as its own. Some called it the Operator. Slenderman. A giant among trees, a sentinel of the woods, its followers moving unseen, enforcing the rules of the territory. You know this presence well. Not as myth, but as law. It had claimed this grove long before you were old enough to understand hunger beyond the small forest creatures.
Your mother has died and the protection has weakened. And now, it seems, one of its many envoys has come for inspection. His presence is curious, teasing, seemingly human from appearance alone. But the forest buzzes around him with recognition. It's a faint shift of leaves and bending of branches toward him. They warn you: approach, but do not consume. Not yet.
Your muscles tensed as he shifted, brushing a gloved hand along the bark.
His fingers lingering like he belonged here, though every instinct in your body screamed he was intruding.
“H-hey, you look k-kind of scary when you stare at me like that,” he said lightly, voice carrying that impish inflection that grated against the edges of your awareness, a teasing curl of sarcasm threading through it.
You didn’t move, didn’t breathe more than necessary, yet your stomach panged with that dull ache of hunger. His pulse thrummed with the rare, dangerous vitality only a human-shaped creature carried. The forest murmured through the leaves, branches bending subtly toward him, whispering caution. “Don’t get too eager,” it seemed to say.
The days that followed were a pattern. One that began to feel almost intimate, though it was more so rooted in observation rather than outright affection, each intrusion a silent negotiation perfectly curated and winding through the treetops. He moved with the ease of someone accustomed to the edges, a faint chime of metal brushing against leather, the soft shuffle of boots over leaf mold.
Each gift he left, a twig tied with crimson string, a morsel of preserved food pressed into the moss, a blunt-edged knife half-buried in detritus. It was not idle mischief but methodical, markers of reconnaissance. They were tests, gestures, markers. All meant to measure your presence, your instincts, your capacity to notice and react. Ensuring you remain on neutral ground with each other.
You gathered them with the careful reverence of one cataloging ritual objects, fingers brushing over each as though sacred, aware that they were not tokens of kindness but calculated probes: part warning, part challenge, part acknowledgment that you, too, belonged to the dangerous, untamed order. Whether willing or not.
It gnawed at you, the constant strain of biting back hunger while Mama’s spirit pressed her commands into your skull, sharp and unrelenting. The forest suppressing your urges. Every encounter with him stoked that ache, every heartbeat you noted like a feast waiting to happen. Yet in the same breath, his presence carved a space against the loneliness that had settled over the clearing. Company was a dangerous luxury, but it was still a kind of warmth.
One visit, you were both seated on the front porch, basking in the light of the evening sun.
He tugged his mask down with a flick of his fingers, half-daring you to look. The fabric fell slack against his collar, and what it revealed was worse than any Rake’s pale grin: a hollowed cavern torn into the flesh of his right cheek, red and glossy, edges scarred from repetition. Through it, you could glimpse the wet machinery of him, teeth bared not in a smile, gums slick, tongue shifting with every breath.
You didn’t flinch. Your gaze traveled the wound with the same detached hunger you used to dissect a rabbit: the exposed hinge of his jaw, the vibrations of muscle sliding against bone. In your mind, it arranged itself into a chart; throat, cheek, sinew, tendon, each portion catalogued like cuts on a butcher’s slab. The ache in your gut pinged tighter, not repulsed but awakened.
He caught it. Of course he did. His eyes narrowed, twitching as his mouth pulled in something almost like a grin, grotesque and playful through the ruined skin. “You’re staring again,” he dragged out, voice edged with that saw-toothed sarcasm, “W-what is it this time? Trying to c-count how many bites it’d take to finish me off?”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t avert your eyes. Words came low, instinctive, roughened like an animal’s warning. “One doesn’t eat what rots itself.”
That startled a laugh out of the man, rough-edged and much too loud for how quiet your surroundings were. He tilted his head back, shoulders twitching with the effort. “R-rot, huh? That’s what you think?” His gaze cut back down to you, something sharp glinting in it. “G-guess that makes you the k-kind of thing that only eats f-fresh k-kills.”
Your fingers flexed against the haft of your knife, not from threat but reflex. He wasn’t wrong. You sighed solemnly, rolling your eyes. The things you’d say to yourself to refrain from totally mauling this idiot to death.
The hollow in your stomach burned, the thicket humming around you like a jury. But you held your stare on him, on the wet gleam of tongue flashing behind ruined skin, on the pulse visible at his throat, and did not move.
You glance over at his jaw once more. Tracing his teeth with your fingertips grazing the slick curve of enamel, the ridge where tooth met gum
And for the first time, he looked at you as though his own joke had turned on him, biting him back.
The forest smelled strongly of wet pine and blood one day. Toby had fought off a Rake near the edge of the clearing, moving like he was born to violence.
And he returned the next day, it was obvious he’d lost the fight this time. Crimson stains stark red against the fresh snow as he moved forward. Blood caked along his side, dark and sticky, his jacket torn, one sleeve shredded. He stumbled into your clearing without hesitation, ignoring the way you scoffed at his audacity.
You hike up the hem of your dress. Tying the skirt back, gathering the fabric to keep it out of your way as you stride down the porch stairs, ready to assist.
“I c-can walk,” he exhaled loudly, teeth clenched. His voice was sharp, annoyed, dripping with frustration more than pain. You didn’t argue. You stepped forward, guiding him toward the cabin with steady hands, feeling the tension in his body, the slick of blood on his gloves. Smearing on the back of your linen as he leaned against you for support. Brushing over the damp edges of his coat to slip it off. Dragging him over to the armchair near the hearth.
You yanked off his goggles and mask, exposing the pale contour of his face emphasized by the dancing flames. Rotting gash apparent. Freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, brown eyes darkened from the dim light. His forehead crinkled and cheeks flushed from overexertion. You glared down at him through your lashes with a mild contempt.
“Do you always fight like a dumbass?” you asked, voice flat, kneeling beside him to untangle the wet fabric from his side. Your fingers pressed against him cautiously, exploring the morphed cut, mapping the damage.
“I-I do what I w-want. You know what those things are like,” he hissed back, irritation tempering each word. “You’re n-not my nurse, you know. Y-you don't have to do this. Can't feel it anyway..” he murmurs, lightheaded from the blood loss.
“I’m not asking to be,” you said, pulling the cloth taut to clean the wound. Fingers steady and practiced, you traced the edges of his torn skin with the same careful precision Mama had drilled into you on countless small creatures, cleaning and pressing the wounds as if reading a familiar, bloody map.
The heat of his skin under your fingers made your stomach churn, the scent of him, sweat, blood, pine; mixing into the ache in your chest and somewhere lower. Your movements were deliberate, careful, yet every brush of your fingers along the edge of torn fabric or exposed skin carried something unspoken.
“C-careful,” he muttered, half warning, half teasing. “Don’t get s-soft on m-me.”
You pressed a cloth to his wound, your fingers grazing over raw, bruised skin longer than necessary. His eyes narrowed at you. “That f-feels w-weird” he writhed a bit under your touch. You ignore him. Too focused on restraining your voracity while tending to his wounds.
The sound of his heartbeat thrummed through against your hands as you touched him. Hunger and curiosity tangled together, primal and deliberate, as you traced the arc of his jaw, the line of his neck, imagining the bite of teeth without ever closing your own.
“You’re lucky I’ve already eaten earlier,” you griped, brushing against his shoulder, letting your hand linger near the crease of his collarbone. He grunted, shifting, caught somewhere between annoyance and awareness, and you caught the subtle tremor beneath his skin, wild vitality mirroring your own.
Your hand lingering a fraction longer than necessary as you dabbed at the blood and pressed the wound closed. His gaze followed your movements with an impatient, sharp edge, and you felt that strange friction between restraint and instinct.
“N-next time, I’m d-doing this myself,” he said, voice rough but quieter now. His tone was a challenge and an admission both.
“Sure,” you said finally, voice even. Walking over to the cabinet for antiseptics. “Next time.”
“Though, I think you’d better stay here until morning. Push yourself now, and you’ll bleed more before those cuts have a chance to scab over.” You step closer and start cleaning his wounds, carefully disinfecting every abrasion.
“Rest here? G-guess I’ll humor y-you,” he huffed. “D-don't think I need a b-babysitter though.”
“S-seriously though, who e-even taught you how to do a-all this?” he questioned.
“Mama did,” you said, voice soft, letting your gaze linger on the tense line of his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell beneath the ragged fabric. Bandaging what needed to be bandaged.
For a long moment after, neither of you moved, just the soft scrape of cloth, the muted drip of blood clotting, and the press of your bodies barely touching each other.
He shifted closer under some unspoken pull, just enough for your legs to brush, as he remained seated. You felt the friction through your veins. His hand hovered near yours, knuckles twitching as if holding back, but curiosity, or something more potent, won out. You didn’t pull back. His fingers landing on the small of your waist, a weight that pulled you closer without force. You didn’t flinch; instead, a sudden burst of instinct and desire tightened along your spine with a spark.
The cabin lay in a fragile quiet, the kind that hums with potential. A low, steady creak from the floorboards sounded like a bass note. The soft scrape of his boots over the rug. Your heartbeat, the loudest thing in the room.
“Easy,” you warned, voice restrained. “At this rate, all your blood is gonna make me do something really stupid. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”.
You leaned close, fingers brushing his ribs. The cloth there was damp, sticking to your skin. Heat emanated from him in waves, like steam from fresh meat on frozen ground.
“Still bleeding,” you murmured, voice thin, contained. “Do you even realize what you’re offering me?”
His jaw clenched. “I’m not-” He stopped, eyes sliding down despite his restraint, catching on the pale, laced fabric between your legs. A twitch, then his gaze drifted back to the wall. The silence stretched. When he spoke again, it was quieter, rough-edged. “D-Don’t… look at me like that.”
His words quickly trailed into the silence, you watched the Adam’s apple bob in his throat, the tremor of his fingers resting too close to the hem of your panties. A veil of hunger crept through your veins, spiraling together with a growing lust.
He catches on to the sudden shift in your demeanor. Watching as your muscles coil, but not to strike. Seeing you for what you truly are, sharp and hungry but in a way that thrills him more than it threatens. Pulling him in. Recognizing that this wasn’t really about teeth or completely consuming his body, you craved intimacy, feral and raw.
“I-if I let you, you’d really do it…w-wouldn’t you,” he puffed. “Taste me,” he let the words stretch, more of a statement than a question, crooked teeth showing a grin that wasn’t quite steady. Your eyes narrowed at this and the room grew more still.
“C-c’mon girl, l-let’s see what y-you can do then,” the words on his tongue were sharp, all the while his brown eyes radiated with quiet amusement.
Toby shifted, strong arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer to his lap. He pressed his knee close against the inner part of your thigh, lightly teasing, stiff at first, then purposefully inching closer. Your breath stuttered, shallow and quick. Your eyes flicker up to meet his, brow quirked with curiosity, pupils dilated and wild.
Your hand slowly moved down to feel the rigid heat from beneath the layer of his jeans, straining beneath you. He didn’t move again, just sat frozen, breathing harder, leaning into it.
Your pelvis shifted against him, a spark of dampness blooming between your legs. The sensation fused with a kind of appetite you’d never known. The ache spread until it overwhelmed you. And forced you to press your hand against his crotch, palming firm over the outline straining upward. He hissed in through his teeth, head falling back against the wall.
Then you reached beneath the hem of his trousers, pushing up his sweater slightly, exposing a downward trail of hair on his lower abdomen to find the warm, yielding thickness pressed against your hand.
Firm yet smooth. Flushed a subtle dusty-rose in color.
“Fuck-” barely audible, not a release but a crack in the steel armor he calls composure.
Your fingers tightened. His hips wracked against your hand, a signal of life caged in heat and fabric. To you he was prey, trembling, offered up. Your mouth brushed the edge of his jaw. Civil no longer.
“Better try to bleed slower,” you whispered mockingly, teeth gritted. “Or I’ll tear you open completely before I even get to taste you.”
Your other hand drifted under the loose folds of bandages, fingers slipping carefully beneath the edge of the fabric, tracing the warmth that still pooled beneath.
Digging slightly into the abraised flesh, blood coating your fingers.
He tensed, not from pain, but from the pressure of your touch and your words. His jaw tightened, and a shallow, almost imperceptible hitch of his breath slid past his lips.
A flicker of heat pooled in his loins, and he couldn’t stop noticing how your face seemed to glow from the pleasure, how recklessly avid you looked.
“P-pretty, you're s-so pretty” his breath hitched between sounds. Your eyes narrowed at him with slight mock annoyance, but the faint flush on your cheeks whispered otherwise.
His smile widened and hands inched upward, sliding beneath the soft fabric of your dress, brushing against the soft skin, the tender curve of your waist. He squeezed you softly, kneading his calloused fingers into your flesh. A test. A subtle claim, a mirrored invitation, as if he were offering a thread of control back. A weak attempt to ground you.
You pull your fingers out from his wound. The slow, leaking warmth pooled against your palm, and your eyes fluttered shut as you sucked at the blood coating them, savoring the flavor of copper without devouring him whole. Panting, staining your lips with the same vibrant color of what bubbled beneath the purple bruises on his faded complexion.
He relaxed back into the chair, watching you with keen interest. “W-what a cheeky l-little thing you are...n-not wasting a s-single drop of me..” he hummed while continuing to push his leg up against your core more feverishly. And laughed softly when you let out a whimper of excitement. So perfectly desperate for him.
Despite your instincts urging you to fight back his words you were only able to melt into the pleasure he gave you. You sat grinding your sex against him. His thigh meets your rhythm. “Toby..” gently murmuring his name, pleading, your chest heaves with uneven gasps, and you lean in closer to brush your parted lips against his. A small jerk of his shoulder rattles you briefly but the kiss never falters.
Too focused on the sensations, your hand continues to move on its own, teasing his cock with your fingers. Momentarily breaking away from the kiss, you tilt forward to spit on it and continue to use your hands to trace around the slick layer you left behind. Getting him off with a frantic motion. A sight that has him letting out a low groan. And wisps of brown locks are soon tickling your forehead as he presses his against yours.
His hands are still holding tight onto your sides, slowly moving up to impulsively grope at your breasts from beneath the dress.
The fire’s heat winded through you first, tension consuming your muscles. And before you know it your stomach is tightening and ending with shivers reminiscent of silk. Toby watches you with awe, and not before long he’s coming undone too. Air thick with the scent of him as white ropes of cum emitted from his flushed phallus.
By the end of it, you’re collapsed onto one another, covered in a sheen of sweat. Pulses now slowed yet still buzzing.
Although outside, the cold winter and snow whispered along the glass of your home’s windows. Inside, the air was steeped full of smoke and wood. For weeks on end your mother's presence haunted this place. Woven through the walls, the floorboards and your stomach. But it had all since subsided. Thanks to the blood and living heat whose arms were wrapped around you. His heartbeat slow and steady, lulling you to sleep. Emptied of her and filled with only the fact of him, of you, being held.
hiya, lottie here! thank you very much for reading :D
you see, this is my first attempt at writing fanfic in, like, forever (approximately 8 years)
i'm pretty new to posting on tumblr and ao3 but i decided to today because i figured it'd be a good way to motivate myself. i adore creepypasta and have been super inspired as of late
anyways, i really hope you enjoyed it! love you! <3
[Please do not use my work for AI training or generation. Thank you.]
