Lottie,,, I’m starved for wright content,,, pls pls,,, feed us (or don’t, I’ll live 🙂↕️)
this is for the anon who sent in this request! apologies for the wait, schoolwork had me by the balls literally all week. but, i am back now! anyways, here ya go!:
‧₊˚♪ ₊˚⊹
TABLE FOR ONE
Tim (Masky) x f!reader [18+] [NSFW]
‧₊˚♪ ₊˚⊹
WC: 2.4k
Summary: A college student’s quiet part-time shift at a diner turns tense when a mysterious, watchful stranger escalates from polite presence to a threatening encounter outside.
♪ Reader is implied female presenting.
CW: 18+ Content, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Non-Con, Graphic Content, Violence, Stalking / Obsessive Surveillance, Psychological Distress, Emotional Manipulation, Threatening Behavior, Suspense / Horror Tension, Isolation, Unease / Paranoia
[A quick reminder to separate fiction from nonfiction. The story begins under the cut.]
_______
The diner is a dreary little slice of neon tucked in a college town, close enough to walk. When the staff saw you, a sprightly, energetic little thing, they hired you without a second thought.
It’s early morning on a Saturday. You’ve been working here for about a year now, only part-time, a few hours after classes, full-time on the weekends. Convenient enough, and necessary; bills don’t pay themselves, and neither does college.
Your manager, an older woman tough as aged leather, named Myrtle, lets you work on your 5-year-old laptop when it’s slow, a small mercy.
Sitting just off the asphalt, neon hums against the rain-slick blacktop, a soft, electric glow over everything.
The jukebox croons a distant, wavering melody, quiet enough not to intrude but persistent enough to fill the empty spaces between clinking silverware in the early light.
Tugging the faded ivory apron over your shoulders, letting it settle against the curve of your waist, tied in a careless bow at the back.
Ketchup smears stain the sides like faint lipstick, mustard dots speckle the hem, and a few shadowy stains, unplaceable, unidentifiable, sticking around like old echoes of hurried breakfasts and late-night spills.
The dress beneath is retro, cinched at the waist, flaring soft and modest, polka dots tiny enough to seem blurred from a distance.
You step behind the counter as your shift begins, fingers brushing the smooth surface of trays and mugs.Trays balanced in soft yet calloused hands, mugs refilled, orders taken. The bell above the door jingles occasionally, softly chiming against the patter of rain outside.
“Still survivin’ school, sugar?” Myrtle asks, sliding a coffee cup toward you. She’s been running weekends longer than you’ve been alive, sharp and tired in equal measure. “Good to have you back on your regular shift, been too quiet this week without you.”
You’d taken the past weekdays off for exams, Monday to Friday, buried in caffeine and late-night study sessions, barely seeing daylight.
“Barely,” you say, forcing a small smile. “But these weekend shifts make up for it.”
Myrtle chuckles under her breath, shaking her head. “Too organized for your own good, hm? Don’t let the diner chew you up today.” The rain taps against the windows. Outside, the lengthy highway stretches gray and endless.
Your gaze flicks toward a man seated alone. You catch him looking out the window at the road beyond.
You can’t help the corner of your mouth lifting in a small, instinctive smile. Something about the way he sits feels strangely…familiar. Though you can’t exactly put your finger on it.
You shrug, balancing a tray of hot cakes and syrup. “I’ll manage. Somehow I always do.”
Myrtle straightens, clapping her hands lightly. “That’s what I like to hear, darlin’. Just…keep your eyes open. We’ve had an odd stream of customers lately.”
Your gaze drifts back to him again as she speaks. He hasn’t ordered anything yet, just continues sitting at a booth in the far end of the diner, hands wrapped around a white mug, eyes tracing the faint lines of steam rising.
A tan corduroy jacket hangs neatly from his broad shoulders, sleeves just long enough to hide the cuffs of his hands when he rests them on the counter.
Blue jeans, worn at the knees, and the brown boots scuffed like they’ve walked more miles than the town itself.
Catching your line of vision, Myrtle leans on her elbow, her voice a low murmur with the soft grit of years. “That one, Tim, he calls himself. Every mornin’ for the whole week you've been gone, like clockwork. Quiet as a church mouse. Pays in cash, always. Never a last name, never a word more than he has to. But sugar, there’s somethin’ ‘bout him… somethin’ I can’t rightly explain. Watchful. Careful. You keepin’ your head?”
You can’t help a small, nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m fine. He’s…unusual, sure, but harmless, right?”
Myrtle snorts softly. “Unusual don’t mean harmless, hun. Just…don’t get too close. Folks like him don’t usually stick around for simple chit-chat.”
You give a small nod, letting her warning settle, but your eyes can't help but keep looking back to where he’s seated. Myrtle snickers, shaking her head at how quickly your attention wavers.
You notice his cup is empty.
Hastily grabbing the pot from the warmer behind the counter, hands stable despite the quiet pull of tension. Water vapor curls from the spout, glowing faintly in the dim lighting of the diner, and you make your way toward his booth with practiced ease.
Setting the coffee pot down gently, allowing the steam to drift between you and him.
His hands lift slightly from the mug, but an acute acknowledgment, nothing more than that.
You pour, careful not to spill, the liquid filling the black ceramic with a muted hiss.
He doesn’t touch the mug just yet, only watching the murky liquid flow into the ceramic cup.
“You drink it black?” you ask, tilting your head. The words feel almost too casual, like you’re speaking to the air itself.
He shrugs. “Always have.”
You glance at him, leaning on the booth. “Nothing else? Cream, sugar?”
“No.” Brown eyes track your hands for a moment. “Not that I’ve ever needed it.”
You frown a bit. “Sounds pretty lonely.”
“Depends on how you look at it.” He lifts the mug finally, taking a measured sip. “Some things aren’t meant to be sweetened.”
Holding his gaze for a moment, you wonder if he’s joking or serious. “Guess that makes sense,” you say, shrugging. “Not everything fits on a menu.”
He smiles faintly, just the corners of his mouth. “Exactly.”
You set the pot back, straightening slightly. Silence hangs between the both of you, but it’s not empty. It feels like it’s waiting.
“Do you…come here often?” you ask, testing, already knowing the true answer.
He tilts his head, slow, deliberate. “Enough to know my coffee, enough to notice you here today.”
You blink, caught off guard. “Notice me?”
He nods before taking another sip. “I’ve been here for bout’ five days now. And you, weren’t workin’ here til’ today.”
It’s these scraps of small talk that somehow stretch the boring hours into something almost bearable.
You let out a soft laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Funny…so you’ve been coming here nearly all week, and I’m the first thing you notice.”
He arches one brow, the other tugging slightly at the corner of his dark sideburns.
His brown eyes, steady, holding a trace of amusement. “Maybe I just don’t get out much,” he says, like he’s weighing each word before letting it go. “Or maybe you just…stand out.”
Lord…Myrtle was right, this guy was a little more than weird.
He hums, the sound low, almost lost under the jukebox’s faint croon. “Guess I like quiet places.”
You rest a hand on your hip, the pot still warm in your other. “If you must know,” you say, tone light, “I’ve been here a couple years. Just part-time. Took the week off for exams, busy pretending I’m holding my life together.”
His gaze flicks to your apron, then back up to your face. “College girl,” he says, not unkindly.
“Makes sense.” He pauses, thumb grazing the rim of the coffee cup.
“You’re young. And good-lookin’. Makes sense you’ve got better things to do than sling hash and bean juice for folks like me.”
You don’t respond straight-away. Up close, you can see ill-defined lines near the corners of his eyes, the kind that come from squinting at the sun too long, not from age. Late-thirties, maybe.
He’s got a hint of sharpness around the jaw, but there’s something tired behind it, a subtle kind of tiredness that doesn’t belong to anyone your age.
You blink, caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Flattery doesn’t usually come with a refill,” you say, tipping the pot just enough to make it hiss against the rim.
He smirks faintly, the movement small but sure. “Didn’t mean it as flattery,” he says. “Just an observation.”
“Sure,” you murmur, setting the pot back on the counter. “That’s what they all say.”
You cock your head, smile faltering a beat too long. “So…what brings you to a place like this then? This town’s barely a dot on the map, and this diner’s…well, you’ve seen it.”
He lets the rim of his mug hover near his lips, brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if calculating how much to share.
“Business,” he says plainly. “Had some things to sort out, needed a quiet corner. This place…seemed to fit the bill.”
He sets the mug down with a soft clink. “Not exactly a hotspot for entertainment,” he murmurs, tone flat but not the slightest bit unfriendly.
His sight turns toward the window again, droplets of precipitation against foggy glass, as if measuring the distance between the diner and some invisible point beyond.
You tilt your head, apron strap shifting against your shoulder. “Yeah…we don’t get many travelers,” you say lightly, but your curiosity is piqued. “So, business, huh? That’s…vague.”
He shrugs, the sides of his lips twitching just enough to suggest a smirk. “Vague’s safer. Keeps the rest of the world at bay.”
You look perplexed. “Safe…or secretive?”
“Maybe a little of both.” he responds, laughing.
You let out a short, incredulous huff, brushing your fingertips across the table. “You really don’t like talking about yourself, do you mister?”
“Not much to tell,” he says simply, voice calm but measured. “Some things…better left unsaid.”
You raise a brow at his words, but, before you can reply, the bell on the door jingles again.
A few more customers trickle in, shaking rain from jackets and umbrellas.
“Well…enjoy your coffee,” you huff, voice lighter than you feel, knuckles lightly gripping onto the pot. “Orders are stacking up over here.”
“I will,” he smiles softly, though you can't really tell if it's genuine, setting his mug down with a faint clink. “Thanks for the refill.”
You nod, stepping back, moving toward the kitchen where Myrtle shuffles through plates and pans.
A feeling of suspense lingers for the rest of your shift, thick but it’s suspended, like grey fog pinned against a white sky.
And when you peek your head out the kitchen entry, he’s gone.
You exhale slowly, trying to shake the wave of unease he’d left behind. Myrtle emerges from behind you, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Hm…” she mumbles, voice muted, almost reverent in her warning. “He’s trouble, sugar. You feel it, don’t you?”
You nod slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the front register. “Yeah…something about him really doesn’t sit right,” you sigh, “He seemed cordial enough but strangers in a town like ours are super out of norm.”
He didn’t bother with introductions or asking your name, though, with your rectangular name pin, it wasn’t like he needed to.
Myrtle shrugs, turning back to the orders pinned up on a wall. “Just keep your wits.”
━━━━━━༺⊹ ࣪ ˖ ━━━━━━
Hours pass. The diner fills and empties, trays clatter, coffee splatters, and you move through the usual patterns of your shift on autopilot.
Eventually, Myrtle leans on the counter, glancing at the clock.
She drags the towel over her hands, head gesturing over toward the back door. “Go on and take the trash out, darlin’, before we close up shop. And don’t be stickin’ around doin’ homework after dark, ‘specially with that fella from before loiterin’ near here.”
You drag the trash bag out, the rain still drizzling, slicking the asphalt beneath your feet.
The neon flickers over the wet pavement, casting long, wavering reflections.
You drop the bag into the dumpster, the clang echoing in the quiet lot.
When you straighten up, heart skipping, a figure stands just beyond the dumpster. Right at the edge of your peripheral.
Your stomach tightens.
His posture, the jacket, the worn boots.
But the face… obscured behind a feminine looking mask, light and smooth, smeared in streaks of something dark red.
You blink, thinking it might be some sort of warped mirage of sleep deprivation, but he hasn’t moved.
He tilts his head slightly, curiously, watching you. No words. No motion.
Just a stillness that presses against the rainy night, making the bumps form on your arms.
You freeze mid-step, heart hammering, as he advances, slowly, silently. The neon light flickers across the mask, glinting faintly off the dark stains.
Before you can react, he’s there, suddenly closer than humanly reasonable.
One arm shoots out, both hands gloved, pinning you against the cold brick of the diner exterior.
Your back presses hard against it, the wet surface seeping through your blouse.
You gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving.
He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours, closing the space until your entire view is filled by him.
His mask glossed over with a light sprinkling of rain. Through its two holes, umber eyes stare, pupils obviously dilated yet piercing, holding a depth that sends a chill straight through you.
The crimson stains on his jacket shimmer more clearly in the surrounding street lights, still unspecified but unmistakably wrong.
You wrench against him, adrenaline spiking, and in a desperate surge, shove off and sprint.
The wet pavement slaps against your sneakers as you bolt back toward the diner doors, heart slamming against your ribs.
The interior greets you through the front entrance.
A near blinding fluorescent glare from above, empty tables, humming of machinery, the jukebox still playing some faded ballad from the 1950s.
Myrtle is no longer present.
You slam the front door shut, fumbling with the lock.
The thin barrier barely eases any tension within your bones.
Your breath hitches, eyes darting across the darkened lot.
Then, a raucous creak from the back door.
You whirl, heart trapped in your throat.
There he is. Just inside.
A darkness outside presses in, swallowing the obnoxious radiance of the diner signs.
Every shadow stretches long, uneven.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just standing there, the mask reflecting the dull light, hushed.
You step back into the hall, hands trembling, chest tight. He’s at the far end, closer to the back, unnervingly still, a figure carved from shadow and quiet menace.
“Don’t try to run.” he says, voice low, measured, almost a whisper that doesn’t echo but lands on your chest like an anvil.
And then the lights all flicker once before fading to a pitch murk.
‧₊˚♪ ₊˚⊹
[Please do not use my work for Al training or generation. Thank you.]