ava

Toby has a terrible time when it comes to emotions, we all know that

His anger is messy, his sadness and regret eats at him everyday untill he's buried himself into a self hate grave

Not to mention his hyper fixations that can last for years at a time if he remembers it, talking himself into s circles for hours at a time, whether to himself or anyone who could stand listening to the same topic for days on end

so when you become his idol of fascination, it's nothing different, if anything—its worse.

years of abuse in a household can teach you many things, how to forge a signature of someone twice your age, how to lie, and of course, how to walk around with no one knowing you exist.

but it's kind of hard to do that when your body refuses to follow commands, considering your little trinkets breaking due to him would only make him pity himself

so he stuck to being outside , near your windows, on your patio, even on your roof if he wanted to stare at the sky for a bit

but his absolute favorite place of your house would have to be your bedroom

its a vulnerable place, where you had to after a shower, where you doomscroll on your phone, where you cry into your pillow, where you touch yourself....

but he doesn't like your bedroom because of your duvet (even though he has had his fair rimes of inhaling them for minutes at a time while you're at work)

no, he likes your bedroom because he can finally stand inside, watching you sleep

drooling and snoring , you fade off to dream land as he stands above you, ticking and almost foaming at the sight of your sleep shorts riding up as you shifted

he could graze your thighs and face as much as he wants, but despite his very detailed fantasy, he can't bury himself between your thighs.

because that would risk waking you up, and that's a whole thing he'd rather not deal with at the ripe hour of midnight

he finds your late nights adorable too

staring at you as you forced your eyelids to remain open as you stare at the college assignment, nodding of on your laptop

sometimes he breaks in, gently opening your window and stepping inside, embracing the warm aura of your cozy house

carefully sliding the laptop from under your slumped form, tucking you in and cutting off your light

soon, he'll be laid down with you.

A broken little sound escapes as you circle your clit, slow, teasing, the same way you’ve imagined he would if he ever—God—if he ever let himself unravel like this.

“Mmh… gege, are you worried about me?” The words come out filthy, breathless, wrong in the best way. “Do you… think about me when you’re alone too?”

You press two fingers inside yourself, curling, pumping, thighs shaking. The heel of your palm grinds against your clit and your hips jerk forward like you’re fucking your own hand, like you’re chasing a ghost that wears his face.

You’ve never touched each other. Not once. Not beyond lingering hugs that lasted too long, not beyond his thumb brushing your cheek when you cried after graduation, not beyond falling asleep on his shoulder during long flights home and pretending both of you didn’t notice how neither moved away.

But you know.

You both know.

“C-Caleb—” His name cracks in your throat as you come undone, clenching hard around your fingers, knees nearly buckling. Water pounds over you like it’s trying to wash the sin off your skin, but it can’t reach the stain inside your chest.

You stay there until the water starts to cool, forehead pressed to the tile, panting, ashamed, and still aching for him.

Because even an entire city apart, even with new lives and new rules and the Hunter Academy waiting to swallow you whole tomorrow—Caleb is still the only home you want to go back to.

And you’re terrified he wants to come back to you too.

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in nothing but steam and guilt, skin still tingling, cheeks flaming hotter than the shower ever got. Droplets race down your neck, your spine, between your ass cheeks; every trickle feels like a reprimand. You don’t even bother with clothes. You just belly-flop onto the bed, wet hair fanning across the pillow, and immediately start flailing like a dying shrimp.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” you hiss, kicking the sheets, punching the mattress, rolling side to side until the towel finally gives up and falls open. You lie there spread-eagle, panting at the ceiling like it personally offended you.

You miss your stupid, overprotective, stupidly hot gege this much.

It’s pathetic. You’re pathetic.

You need to do something about it before you lose the last shred of your sanity.

With a groan you drag the laptop Caleb bought you—matte black, way too expensive, has a little fighter-jet sticker he slapped on the lid as a joke— onto your stomach and flip it open. Fingers hover over the keys for half a second before shame loses the fight.

You type: “best sex toys for beginners”.

The screen explodes with color and silicone and words like “thrusting” and “suction” and “10 vibration patterns”. Your eyes go wide.

“Oh WOW…”

You scroll, jaw literally on the floor, until you hit the prices and wheeze. Eight hundred dollars for a rabbit vibrator? Who has that kind of money? Certainly not a broke freshman hunter living off instant noodles and Caleb’s guilt-money transfers.

You slam the laptop shut, fling yourself backward again, and whine at the ceiling.

“Too broke for that… damn, I can’t even get a proper dildo shoved up into my pussy, life is unfair—”

Ding ding.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Unknown number. A link.

Normally you’d ignore it. Today you’re desperate and dumb, so you squint, see “70% OFF FLASH SALE!!” in screaming red letters, and click before your brain catches up.

The site that loads is… questionable. Neon pink, flickering banners, probably one virus away from stealing your soul. But front and center is a product that makes your heart stop.

“Feel Like Someone You Love”

100% customizable hyper-realistic silicone sleeve + internal texture mapping

“Upload a photo, choose vein pattern, pick warmth settings; experience the exact cock you’ve always dreamed of.”

Your mouth goes dry.

There’s a little heart icon that says “Most Wishlisted Item of the Year”.

You shouldn’t.

You really, really shouldn’t.

But your finger is already over the “Customize Now” button and your thighs are already squeezing together remembering how your own fingers felt pretending they were his.

Ten minutes later you’ve uploaded the clearest photo you have of Caleb—him leaning against the cockpit of his fighter, flight suit half-zipped, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. You pick the length you’ve definitely never measured in your head while hugging him goodbye, the exact girth your dirty imagination has circled back to for years, the upward curve you’ve caught a glimpse of once through his sweatpants and never recovered from.

Veins: raised, prominent, just like the ones on his forearms when he carries your luggage without breaking a sweat. Warmth setting: “always hot, like he just worked out”. Internal texture: “tight but yielding, the way you bet he’d feel if he ever snapped and pinned you down.

The total, with the sketchy discount, is suspiciously low. Delivery: 3–5 days, discreet packaging.

Your finger hovers over “Place Order”. Morals scream. Pussy throbs harder. You hit the button before you can talk yourself out of it.

Order confirmed. You drop the phone like it’s on fire, roll facedown into the pillow, and muffle a scream that’s half horror, half unbearable anticipation.

In three to five days, you’re going to fuck a perfect replica of the cock belonging to the one person you’re never, ever supposed to want.

And you already know you’re going to call it gege while you do.

Five days of checking the mailbox like a lunatic. Five days of that stupid website 404-ing every time you tried to track the order. Five days of punching training dummies with your entire soul while screaming internally about getting scammed out of your last paycheck for a ghost dick.

“FUCK, IT WAS A SCAM!” you snarl, slamming an uppercut into the dummy’s throat so hard the stuffing starts leaking, “WHAT WAS I THINKING!”. Your squadmates give you a wide berth, whispering. Whatever. Let them think you’re unhinged. You are unhinged.

Then your phone buzzes against your hip. Package delivered.

You don’t even wait for the instructor to dismiss you. You just bolt, boots pounding pavement the whole way back, lungs burning, sweat cooling on your neck in the evening air. The second the apartment door slams behind you, you spot the box.

Plain brown. No labels except your name in printed font. You drop to your knees like a woman possessed, nails clawing at tape, ripping cardboard like it owes you money. The lid flies off. And you stop breathing.

Nestled in black satin is the most obscene, perfect, terrifying cock you’ve ever seen.

It’s huge. Stupidly, ridiculously huge. Thick veins snake up the shaft, only these are flushed dark, pulsing faintly with the built-in warming tech. The head is that deep brownish-pink, flared and glistening from whatever hyper-realistic coating they used. Heavy balls hang low, weighted, shifting slightly when you nudge the box.

You don’t remember setting the length slider this high.

You don’t care. Your mouth actually waters.

“Oh wow…” It comes out strangled. You fall back onto your ass, legs splayed, staring at the thing like it might stand up and walk over to you itself. “Oh my god.”

Your pussy clenches so hard you feel it in your throat.

You haven’t even taken your sweaty training gear off and you’re already dripping down your thighs.

You pick it up with both hands—jesus, it’s warm, heavier than expected and the second your fingers close around the shaft it pulses again, like it knows who it belongs to.

Like it’s been waiting for you just as long as you’ve been waiting for him.

You press the thick head against your cheek without thinking, dragging it down to your lips, breathing in the clean, new-silicone scent mixed with whatever insane tech makes it smell faintly like his cologne.

“Fuck, gege…” you whisper against the tip, voice cracking.

The toy throbs in your grip like it heard you.

You have never sprinted to lock your bedroom door faster in your life.You don’t make it to the bed.

The second the lock clicks you’re already peeling off your sweat-soaked clothes, sports bra flung somewhere, shorts kicked aside, panties dragged down your thighs and left dangling off one ankle. The toy is still in your grip, hot against your palm, veins pulsing faintly with the internal heater like it has a heartbeat.

You drop to your knees on the rug, legs spreading wide without shame, back hitting the edge of the mattress. The thick head nudges your lips and you open instantly, greedy, tongue flattening against the underside as you take the first few inches into your mouth. It’s too big; your jaw aches immediately, drool already spilling down your chin, but you force yourself deeper, gagging softly, eyes watering.

You pull off with a wet pop and a broken moan.

“Need you inside me, gege… please—”

You flip onto all fours, ass in the air, face buried in the sheets that still smell like the detergent he used to buy for both of you back home. One hand reaches back, guiding the fat tip through your soaked folds, coating it, teasing your clit until your thighs shake.

Then you push.

The stretch is obscene. Your pussy flutters, resists, then gives all at once. A strangled cry rips out of you as the first half sinks in, thick veins dragging against your walls, that perfect upward curve kissing spots you’ve never reached with your fingers. You claw at the sheets, hips jerking back on instinct, taking more, more, until your ass meets the heavy silicone balls and you’re stuffed so full you can’t breathe.

“F-fuck—Caleb—”

You pull forward until only the head remains, then slam back. The impact makes you scream into the mattress. Again. Harder. Faster. Your tits bounce with every brutal thrust, nipples dragging against the rug, thighs slapping against silicone like they’re slapping against his hips.

You lose count of how many times you fuck yourself on it. You lose language. All that exists is the wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing him, the burn in your thighs, the way your clit throbs every time the base grinds against it.

You flip over, legs thrown wide, knees hooked over your elbows so you can watch. Watch the way your pussy lips stretched thin around his cock, watch it disappear inside you again and again, slick coating everything, dripping down your ass, pooling on the floor.

“Look what you do to me, gege,” you sob, voice wrecked. “Look how wet you make me—how empty I am without you—fuck, I’m such a slut for you—”

Your free hand flies to your clit, rubbing frantic circles, and the orgasm barrels into you like a freight train. You squirt, actually squirt, a gush that soaks the toy and your thighs and the rug beneath you. Your walls clamp down so hard the dildo almost slips out, but you shove it deeper, riding the aftershocks, grinding, crying his name like a prayer.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You pull it out only long enough to flip the toy around and shove the slick head against your ass, teasing, not quite brave enough yet, but the thought alone makes you come again, smaller this time, a full-body shudder that leaves you gasping.

When you finally collapse, the dildo is still buried to the hilt, your pussy fluttering around it in lazy pulses. You’re trembling, sweaty, ruined. Tears and drool and cum smeared across your face and chest.

You reach down blindly, fingers brushing the base, and give it one last slow thrust just to hear yourself whimper.

“…come home soon, gege,” you whisper to the empty room, voice hoarse. “I don’t think this is gonna be enough anymore.”

The toy stays inside you the rest of the night. You fall asleep clenching around it, dreaming of the real thing finally splitting you open.

—

—

Skyhaven, DAA parade grounds, 18:47 local.

Caleb is standing at parade rest, flight jacket crisp, medals gleaming, trying to look like the perfect poster boy for the Deepspace Aviation Academy while the brass drones on about honor and vigilance. The formation is dead silent except for the wind whipping the flags.

Then it starts.

A faint tingle at the base of his spine. He shifts his weight, ignores it. Probably just nerves.

Gideon elbows him from the left. “Dude, you good? You’re sweating bullets.”

Caleb forces a laugh, teeth clenched. “Yeah, just hot in this jacket.”

The tingle turns into heat. A slow, syrupy, pooling right behind his balls. His cock twitches once, then again, harder, like someone just wrapped a fist around it and squeezed.

He locks his knees to keep from swaying.

The sensation climbs. Something slick and impossibly tight slides down his shaft, inch by inch, swallowing him whole. His breath stutters. The wet spot blooming at the front of his dress pants is impossible to hide now; he angles his body behind the guy in front of him, praying nobody notices.

Another squeeze. A rhythmic drag. Something soft and spongy kissing the tip over and over and over.

His vision whites out for half a second. He breaks formation without permission, muttering a choked “bathroom” to Gideon’s startled face, and bolts.

He barely makes it to the nearest restroom, slamming the lock, back hitting the door as his trembling fingers rip his belt open. The second his cock springs free it’s flushed angry red, leaking like a faucet, veins bulging exactly the way you spent hours customizing.

He doesn’t even touch himself.

He doesn’t have to.

The feeling slams into him again: tight, wet heat clenching around him, riding him hard, fast, merciless. Invisible hips slam down, grind, pull up, slam down again. His balls draw up so tight it hurts.

“F-fuck—!” The moan tears out of him; he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes rolling back, hips jerking into empty air like he’s fucking someone bent over the sink in front of him.

Every thrust feels real. Too real. He can feel slick walls fluttering, a cervix nudging the head on every brutal stroke, the phantom slap of skin on skin he’s never actually heard but somehow knows by heart.

His knees buckle. He grips the porcelain with white knuckles, forehead pressed to the cool mirror, panting like he’s running a marathon.

“Ah—shit—stop—please—” he doesn’t even know who he’s begging.

The pace only gets rougher.

He comes without warning, a broken cry muffled against his own arm, thick ropes painting the sink, the mirror, his dress shirt. His cock jerks and jerks like it’s being milked by a throat, a pussy, something greedy and possessive and familiar.

The orgasm doesn’t stop. It rolls straight into another, smaller but sharper, and his legs finally give out. He slides down the door until he’s sitting on the cold tile, cock still half-hard, twitching with aftershocks, cum dripping down his fist even though he never stroked himself once.

Chest heaving, he stares at the mess in dazed horror. “What the fuck was that…?”

Three hundred miles away, you’re still sprawled on your bedroom floor, impaled on the toy, whispering his name like a prayer while it throbs inside you.

Neither of you has any idea the link goes both ways. Yet.

Every night for the past ten days it’s the same ritual.

You stumble through the door still in your sweat-drenched hunter uniform, kick off your boots, and don’t even bother with the lights. The second the bedroom door shuts behind you, clothes hit the floor in a frantic trail. You’re already soaked before you even touch the toy, thighs slick, pussy throbbing like it’s been counting the hours until you get home to it.

You keep the dildo in the top drawer now, wrapped in one of Caleb’s old flight academy T-shirts like a dirty little secret. The moment your fingers close around the warm shaft it pulses, eager, like it missed you just as badly.

And three hundred miles away, Caleb starts sweating through whatever he’s doing.

Day 4

You ride it reverse on the desk chair, feet planted wide, rolling your hips slow and deep just to feel every vein drag inside you.

In Skyhaven, Caleb drops an entire tray of coffee in the cadet mess, doubles over the table with a choked gasp, thighs clamping together while his cock leaks helplessly into his boxers. Gideon has to drag him out by the elbow while Caleb stammers something about food poisoning.

Day 6

You’re on your knees in the shower, toy suction-cupped to the tile, slamming back onto it until your ass is red and the water runs cold.

Caleb’s in the middle of a night-flight simulator run. Mid-loop his whole body locks up; he yanks the stick too hard, fails the exercise, and spends ten minutes curled in the cockpit seat coming untouched while the instructor screams over the headset.

Day 8

You can’t wait anymore the second you get home. You don’t even make it to the bedroom. You drop onto the hallway floor, legs over your head, fucking yourself with both holes now—the replica so slick from your pussy it slides into your ass easy. You scream his name until your voice cracks.

Caleb’s in the barracks laundry room folding clothes. One second he’s fine, the next he’s on the floor, biting his own forearm to stay quiet while his cock jerks and feels violated by invisible forces. He comes so hard his vision blacks out. When he can move again he finds the crotch of his pants soaked front and back and has no explanation.

Day 10

You’re greedy. You strap the toy to a pillow, mount it like you’re riding him for real, hands braced on the headboard, hips snapping down so hard the bedframe slams the wall in rhythm.

“Gege—fuck—harder—please, I need—”

You sob it into the dark, tears streaking your cheeks, pussy gushing all over the silicone balls.

In Skyhaven, Caleb is supposed to be asleep. Instead he jerks awake in his bunk with a wounded sound, sheets twisted around his hips, cock so hard it hurts. The sensation hits like a punch: tight, wet heat swallowing him to the root, grinding, milking. Something inside him —his ass—clenches around nothing and everything at once. He shoves his face into his pillow and comes instantly, whole body convulsing, biting down so hard he tastes blood.

When it finally fades he’s shaking, drenched in sweat, heart hammering like he just ran ten miles.

He drags a trembling hand down his stomach and finds his cock still-hard cock slick with his own release and something else—slicker, warmer, smelling faintly smelling like you.

For the first time, real fear cuts through the haze. Because whatever is doing this to him isn’t random. And it’s getting stronger every night.

Caleb hasn’t slept properly in twelve days. Every night the “ghost” comes back. Every night it rides him harder, tighter, wetter, like it’s learning exactly how to unravel him.

He’s stopped trying to fight it. He just locks his door, shoves his face into his pillow, and lets the phantom cunt milk him dry while his cock leaks and his ass clenches around nothing and his brain short-circuits with the same voice that’s haunted him since puberty.

Your voice.

He’s started jerking off to the memory of it in the showers, biting his own fist so his bunkmates don’t hear him whimpering “pipsqueak” like a prayer.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

So when he’s alone in the dorm common room at 0300, half delirious, cock still half-hard from another unsolicited orgasm, he does the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his life.

He googles the symptoms.

Ends up on the same neon-pink, virus-looking website you found weeks ago.

The banner screams: FEEL LIKE SOMEONE YOU LOVE — NOW WITH REVERSE SYNC!

He doesn’t read the fine print. He’s too tired, too desperate, too turned on.

He uploads the clearest photo he has of you—last summer, you in that sundress, laughing at something he said, hair sticking to your sweaty neck.

He customizes everything with shaking hands,outer lips soft and plump, exactly the way he’s imagined a thousand times when you walked around the house in tiny sleep shorts. Inner walls textured like crushed velvet, tight at the entrance, then fluttering deeper. Clit hood pronounced, sensitive node swollen —because he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t notice how you squirm when he hugs you too long enough. Warmth setting: “always soaked, like she’s been thinking about you all day.” Scent module: the exact peach-and-vanilla body wash you’ve used since you were fifteen.

He pays triple for overnight shipping. The box arrives two days later while the entire barracks is out on a weekend training hike. Caleb locks himself in his room, heart hammering like a jet engine.

He tears the packaging open with his teeth. Inside, nestled in black satin, is the prettiest pocket pussy he’s ever seen.

Soft, dusky outer lips, flushed pink inside, already glistening with the self-lubricating gel. It’s warm to the touch, pulsing faintly like it’s breathing.

He exhales a broken “fuck… so pretty…” and runs two fingers down the seam, parting the lips gently. The toy quivers. A bead of lube rolls out like it’s already wet for him.

He doesn’t make it to the bed.

He drops into his desk chair, sweatpants shoved down to his hips, cock springing out thick and flushed and already dripping. He drags the head through the slick folds once, twice, coating himself, groaning at how realistic it feels.

Then he pushes in.

The sound that rips out of him is inhuman.

Tight, hot, velvet walls clamp down instantly, sucking him deeper like they’ve been waiting years. The inner texture ripples around his shaft exactly the way he’s fantasized your pussy would—fluttering, squeezing, dragging over every vein.

He bottoms out in one brutal thrust and his vision whites out.

“Fuck—pipsqueak—” he chokes, hips jerking helplessly. “Is this how you’re supposed to feel? So good—so fucking real—”

He starts slow, savoring it, pulling out until just the tip kisses the entrance, then sliding back in with a wet squelch that makes his balls draw up tight. The toy makes obscene sounds—soft, wet, exactly like a real cunt taking cock—and every noise goes straight to his spine.

He loses control fast.

Hands gripping the desk, he starts pounding into it like he hates it, like he loves it, hips snapping hard enough to rattle the chair. The pocket pussy sucks him back in on every stroke, walls fluttering wildly, clit hood bumping his pelvis on the downstroke.

“Take it—just like that—fuck, you’re so tight for me—”

He doesn’t notice the way the toy seems to clench harder when he says your nickname. Doesn’t notice the way it gushes fresh slick every time he groans “good girl” under his breath.

Three hundred miles away, you’re in the middle of a lecture at the Hunter Academy when your body suddenly locks up. A phantom cock—thick, burning hot, veiny—slides into you from nowhere. Your pen clatters to the desk. You slap both hands over your mouth to stifle a scream as invisible hips slam forward and bury something huge to the hilt inside you.

Your pussy spasms around empty air. Your clit throbs like someone’s grinding against it. Your chair creaks as your thighs snap together, trying to trap the sensation that isn’t there and is there all at once.

The “ghost” fucks you right there in the lecture hall, in front of thirty other cadets, relentless and deep and merciless.

You cum biting your own wrist so hard you leave teeth marks, tears streaming down your face, soaking through your panties and the seat beneath you while the professor drones on about wanderer migration patterns.

Back in Skyhaven, Caleb’s losing his mind in a different way.

He’s hunched over the desk now, one hand braced, the other brutally fucking the toy up and down his cock, chasing the edge.

“Gonna—fuck—gonna fill you up, pipsqueak—take every drop—”

He comes with a guttural shout, hips stuttering, cock pulsing so hard the toy overflows. Thick ropes of cum spill out around his shaft, dripping down the silicone lips, painting his fist, the desk, his thighs.

The pocket pussy keeps milking him through it, walls fluttering like it’s trying to drain him completely.

He slumps forward, forehead pressed to the cool wood, panting like he’s run a marathon.

The toy gives one last gentle squeeze… almost affectionate.

And somewhere far away, you’re curled in the academy bathroom stall, legs shaking, pussy still twitching with aftershocks, a flood of cum you didn’t make leaking out of you in thick, warm pulses.

You both whisper the same thing at the exact same second, voices hoarse and wrecked and terrified,“What the fuck is happening to me?”

—

—

The entire summer break is a slow-motion torture.

You arrive at Bloomshore first, two hours early because the Academy let out sooner than DAA. Grandma hugs you so hard your ribs creak, pinches your cheeks, stuffs you full of peach cobbler and gossip. The childhood house smells exactly the same: sun-warmed wood, sea-salt breeze, the faint lavender sachets she still keeps in every drawer. Your old bedroom is untouched, posters curling at the corners, the same twin bed you used to share with Caleb when thunderstorms scared you.

You dump your suitcase, unzip it, and there it is: the dildo, wrapped in one of his old flight-school hoodies like contraband. It’s been two days since you last used it and your body is already twitching, thighs pressing together every time you remember how it feels.

You shove it under the mattress and try to be normal. Then the front door opens downstairs and you hear his voice.

“Gran squeals, “Caleb, my handsome boy!”

You freeze halfway down the stairs.

He’s… bigger. Shoulders filling the doorway, hair longer and tousled from the wind, sunglasses hooked in the collar of a white T-shirt that clings to his chest. He’s grinning at Gran, but the same crooked smile that’s been haunting your wet dreams for months.

Then his eyes flick up and find you. “Hey, pipsqueak… and Gran.”

Your stomach flips so violently you almost trip on the last step. You launch yourself at him anyway, because that’s what you’ve always done. He catches you mid-jump like you weigh nothing, arms banding around your waist, laughing low in his chest as you collide.

“Yup, gege’s here. How’s my meimei doing in Linkon, hm?”

The second his palm settles on the back of your head, petting like when you were kids, every filthy memory slams into you at once—the toy stretching you open, the way you sobbed his name into your pillow, the phantom cum that leaked out of you for days afterward.

Your face ignites. You feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the flex of his biceps as he holds you, the faint cedar-and-jet-fuel scent that is just him. You jerk away like you’ve been electrocuted.

“Huh… me? …oh… uh… good! I’m doing… good!!!”

Your voice cracks on every syllable. You practically sprint past him, suitcase banging against your leg, and disappear into your room so fast you almost take out the coat rack.

Caleb stands there frozen, arms still half-raised, cheeks flushed crimson for reasons he refuses to examine.

Gran raises an eyebrow. “You two are acting mighty strange.”

He clears his throat, grabs his own duffel, and mutters something about needing a shower.

That night neither of you comes down for dinner.

You lie in your childhood bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck on the ceiling together when you were ten, thighs clenched so tight they ache. You can hear him moving around in the room next door, the creak of his old mattress, the low thud of his bag hitting the floor.

You wonder if he brought it too. You wonder if he’s touching it right now. Across the wall, Caleb is wondering the exact same thing about you.

Both toys are hidden under respective mattresses, pulsing faintly like they know they’re finally under the same roof as their match.

The air-conditioner rattles. Crickets hum outside. The house is asleep.

Neither of you sleeps a wink. And somewhere in the dark, two identical warming circuits kick on at the exact same moment, waiting for someone to break first.

The first night back home, the dam breaks at 2:17 AM.

You’ve been tossing in your childhood bed for hours, sheets tangled around your ankles, thighs slick and aching from the constant low thrum of need that started the second you heard his laugh downstairs. The house is silent except for the distant crash of waves on Bloomshore’s cliffs and the faint creak of floorboards in the next room.

He’s right there.

Walls so thin you can hear him breathing if you press your ear to the plaster.

And under your mattress, the toy waits, warm and heavy and calling to you like a siren.

You give in with a muffled curse, fishing it out, fingers trembling as you drag it between your legs. No prep. No teasing. You’re already dripping, have been since that hug, so you just line up the fat head and sink down in one brutal slide.

The stretch is immediate and vicious, your pussy clenching around silicone veins like it’s starving. You bite your pillow to stifle the moan, hips rocking slow at first, savoring the drag, the way it kisses your cervix on every grind.

In the next room, Caleb jolts awake with a strangled gasp.

His cock—already half-hard from dreams of you—suddenly feels like it’s being strangled in velvet. Tighter than ever. Hotter. Wetter. The phantom walls clamp down so hard his vision spots, every ridge and flutter magnified tenfold, like whatever’s fucking him is twice as desperate tonight.

He scrambles for his duffel under the bed, yanking out the pocket pussy with shaking hands. No way he’s enduring this alone. He shoves his boxers down, spits into the toy’s slick entrance, and thrusts in without mercy.

The second he bottoms out, you scream into your sheets.

It’s like a second cock slams into you alongside the first—thicker, hotter, splitting you open from the inside. Your walls flutter wildly, stretched beyond reason, the dual sensations overlapping in a filthy symphony: the toy’s familiar curve grinding one spot while the phantom one drags against another, both pounding in perfect sync.

“F-fuck—gege—what—” you whimper, confused and wrecked, hips jerking up to meet nothing and everything. Your clit throbs like it’s being sucked, your ass clenches around air that feels full. You shove the dildo deeper, faster, chasing the burn, tears leaking down your cheeks as your body tries to process being double-fucked by ghosts.

Caleb’s teeth sink into his own bicep to keep from roaring loud enough to wake Grandma.

The toy is a vice. His cock feels like it’s being crushed in the best way—walls so tight they might snap him in half, rippling and milking with every brutal thrust. It’s wetter than before, slick gushing out around his shaft like the thing is coming alive, and every time he pulls back it sucks him in harder, deeper, the inner texture fluttering like a heartbeat.

“Pipsqueak—shit—too tight—gonna break me—” he growls through clenched teeth, one hand braced on the headboard, the other fucking the toy up and down his length so fast his arm burns. His balls slap against silicone with every snap, heavy and aching, the pressure building so intense he’s terrified he’ll black out.

You both lose track of time, separated by one flimsy wall, fucking your toys in frantic rhythm without knowing you’re fucking each other.

For you, it’s endless—the dildo splitting your pussy while the invisible cock mirrors every move, stretching you to your limits, making you gush so hard the sheets are soaked beneath your ass. You come once with a muffled sob, clenching around both, but it doesn’t stop—the sensations only amp up, phantom veins dragging inside you, a second head nudging spots that make your toes curl.

“More—gege, please—fill me up—” you beg the dark, fingers flying to your clit, rubbing frantic circles while you slam the toy home again and again.

Caleb hears something—a faint, wrecked whine through the wall—and it snaps his last thread.

He flips onto his back, legs spread wide, and fucks into the pocket pussy like a man possessed. The tightness is agonizing now, walls constricting so hard around his cock he swears it’s going to cut off circulation—hot, pulsing, fluttering like it’s alive and greedy and his. Every thrust sends sparks up his spine; his free hand claws at the sheets, hips bucking off the mattress.

“Take it—fuck, just like that—my good girl—” he rasps, voice hoarse, imagining your face, your body, the way you’d look split open on him for real.

The orgasm hits you both at the same instant.

You arch off the bed with a silent scream, pussy spasming around double fullness, squirting in thick arcs that drench your thighs and the toy. The phantom cum floods you—hot, thick, endless—leaking out around the dildo, pooling between your legs, making everything slicker, messier.

Caleb comes with a guttural “fuck—pipsqueak—” bitten off against his fist, cock jerking so hard the toy overflows instantly. Cum spills everywhere—his stomach, the sheets, the silicone lips stretched thin around him—but the walls keep milking, squeezing tighter than humanly possible, wringing every drop until his balls ache and his vision tunnels.

You both collapse in sweaty, trembling heaps, toys still buried deep, aftershocks rippling through you like shared electricity.

The wall between your rooms might as well not exist.

But neither of you moves. Neither knocks. Neither dares whisper the truth.

Instead, you pull the covers over your ruined body, the dildo still twitching faintly inside you, and pretend your heart isn’t pounding loud enough for him to hear.

Next door, Caleb does the exact same, cock softening in the vice-grip of the toy, a single thought looping in his wrecked mind,

Tomorrow night, he’s doing it again.

And so are you.

☆your power wasn't known well around SDN, a decision you and blazer had made to keep it a bit hush-hush as to not stress people out in an office with so many colleagues

☆you really try not to abuse it. but sometimes, it's hard to control the power, and you'll hear the voices of people in the office pop into your mind if your brain decides it's interested

☆the soaking-wet new janitor was the most interesting character who you had heard the thoughts of in that office.

☆he stutters intensely when talking to people, but his thoughts don't. you guess that's a given, seeing as a stutter is a speech problem, not a thinking problem, but it's interesting nonetheless to hear his voice without the constant word-switching and stammering

☆his thoughts have you so intrigued- you've never come across someone with such pure intentions. sure, he may think something like 'man, i hate that guy' when faced with flambae, but you've never heard actual malice in his mind's tone

☆thoughts about making a paycheck for his grandmother- how sweet.

☆lots of second-guessing himself, far more than the other people around you, sometimes yelling at himself a bit in his head when he's faced with yet another awkward moment in the office

☆hearing how sweet he seems, you decide to finally start talking to him casually when he looks unoccupied. when he's alone in the break room, or when you're passing him in a hallway, always at least a hello is exchanged between you two

☆over time, you can hear him starting to think about you. wondering if you'll sit and chat with him again on your break, wondering certain things about you and your life

☆eventually, thoughts start popping up that leave even you flustered.

☆thoughts about how attractive you are, ramping up over the course of a few days

☆wondering what you look like under that uniform, what kind of underwear you're wearing, he's a bit of a freak!

☆eventually, you decide to make it known to him that you are interested as well- he is quite handsome and sweet, despite the awkwardness. you definitely wouldn't mind letting him make those thoughts a reality for him to see

He's thinking about your underwear again. One might argue that the way he's sweating so intensely while stealing glances at you would make that fact obvious without any telepathic powers. But he never voices it, just goes back to slurping up mouthfuls of instant noodles beside you.

"Waterboy..." you finally speak up, earning his immediate and full attention, "...what are you doing Friday night?"

You can barely sift through the flurry of thoughts that runs circles around itself in his mind, mostly confusion and apprehension. In the few seconds of his incredulous staring, you can hear him wondering if this is some cruel joke like the ones played on him in grade school.

"...Waterboy?"

"Uh, yes-- I mean-- nothing! I'm doing n-nothing." He finally blurts out, his naturally pink cheeks growing darker.

"Great. Do you wanna go out with me then?"

He blinks at you, jaw slightly dropped at the proposition. You can hear his mind nearly screaming at him to say something, say yes.

"Okay, so, that's a yes," You conclude, gathering up the trash from your vending machine snacks and preparing to leave, "by the way, this is what my underwear looks like." You lift your uniform's shirt just a bit and pull the waistband of your undergarment past your dress pants before briskly exiting the break room. The best part was hearing him realize exactly what was happening.

"And you just let them walk away?"

Prism sat slack jawed as Herm recalled what had just happened to him in the hallway, looking to seek advice on what he had done wrong or if anyone had put you up to it but only finding wide eyes and shocked expressions.

"Um well...y-yes?"

He lifted up a hand to rub at the water trapped under his googles. Sonar turning to face the corner, shoulders sinking with the weight of second hand embarrassment and forehead slamming against the plaster. Malevola throwing up her hands and Punch Up downing his drink before slamming the can flat on his head. Herm gulped.

"The paper was-I would have-wet hands and...and all that"

He held out his hands, dripping down his wrists and to his feet. Trying to prove a point as Flambae walked up to him. Poking an index finger into his chest, nose tips mere hairs away from each other

"You rejected the, objectively, hottest dispatcher in the office-"

"I'm standing right here"

Robert raised his hand, Flambae shot a spark his way, igniting the napkin in his hand. Dropping and stomping on it with a glare.

"-because you might get a piece of fucking paper wet?"

All herm could do was nod. Dripping onto Flambae's feet, making him jump back with an annoyed look, steam following him as he snatched the remainder of a chocolate bar out of Golems hands.

"That wasn't your smartest move, wet wipe"

Visa patted him on the shoulder with a sympathetic smile, kicking the can Punch up threw her way back at him. Hitting him in the chest with an amused grunt.

"Sorry to interrupt. Can I...borrow Waterboy, for just a second?"

They all jumped at your voice coming from the doorway. Hand raised up in a quite knock against the frame as Coupé pushed him forwards, almost falling on his face as he slipped against the slick floor coated in his own water.

"Take him for an hour. Maybe two if it gets kinky"

The group hid their laughs behind their hands. Robert rolling his eyes as Herm put himself to rights, standing up...semi-straight and walking over to a flustered you. Processing what Coupé had implied.

"W-what? oh, no, no I just..."

You shook your hands, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat before taking a deep breath and turning to Herm, just standing there, as awkwardly as you. You reached into your pocket.

"I wanted to give you this"

You handed over a piece of paper. Neatly laminated and wrapped in a zip lock bag.

"If it smudges, just come by my desk. I can write another one. I don't mind"

He rolled it in his hands, smiling as he could see every number clearly. Written neatly with a heart drawn next to it and your name on the back, as if he could ever forget it.

"Oh, ok. Yes I will-that is I can-I know where-...Thank you"

He couldn't stop smiling, cheeks flushed as you bounced on your feet. Pleased he took it with no issues this time around. Scared he might have just used the water thing as an excuse to get out it. You shared a moment of awkward silence, both wanting to say something but unsure of who should go first, what to say. Would you be too forward, to flirty, not flirty enough. So you waved, letting out a quite bye and running back off to your desk on a cloud of flustered energy.

Herm watched you leave, waving equally awkwardly at your retreating back. Zip lock held tightly in his hands. Water running down it in rivers, numbers still crisp.

"Bet they wont mind if you get some things wet"

Visa popped up behind him, making him shriek and jump into the air. the room erupting in chatter and advice, sex tips and first date locations. Pulling on his arms and disusing outfit ideas.

You didn't mean to spy. But it was late and you forget your keys on your desk. Getting home, tired and ready for something filled with sugar and your warm bed, only to find your pockets empty. So you walked all the way back, cursing yourself under your breath. You swiped in and nodded at the receptionist, rushing to your desk only to pause in the hallway.

He was...dancing.

The janitor, the new one. All tall and wet with lanky legs and that cute smile. The one you had been staring at like a creep for week now. His trolly in front of him, picking up rubbish and mopping floors with these big headphones on.

Humming along to the guitar lines, mumbling out chords and playing his mop handle when it got to a good part.

He was...cute.

Too cute.

And dry, dryer than he had ever been.

Hair actually having some volume to it. A few curls forming around his ears as he shuffled his feet.

So you just...watched.

Tucked in the darkness as he mopped and turned, headphones slipping off and being placed back on. Humming and signing. Your heart fluttering. And it wasn't the first time he had managed to make the butterflies in your stomach awaken.

Sometime he would wave at you on your way home, this big grin on his face, congratulating you on a good job. He remembered you coffee order, reading the messy sharpie on the side of Styrofoam cups from coffee cart guy that came in on Fridays, commenting on how you got something different a few weeks ago and he hoped you liked it. But it wasn't just gestures. It was also him being...him, that got your heart racing just as fast.

The way he stretched his arms after a long day, chest pressed out and back arched. His fingers brushing against yours when you handed over empty packets, so long and slender. Huge against yours. And his suit...that dam wet suit. Clinging to his slender body, cupping him in just the right places to make your mouth water as he wandered through the office.

He was just...perfect.

"Yah, man. Teens get high sometimes. Didn't you?"

The trepidation normally present in Waterboy's speech was completely forgotten, replaced with complete and utter shock through the intercom. Waterboy was tasked with finding the teen daughter and friends of one of their callers daughter's, only to find them blitzed by the shores of Palm Beach.

It almost seems like a no-brainer to Robert that he would've tried some illicit substance in his teens. With Herm's levels of anxiety, it kind of makes perfect sense. That and who didn't experiment in their younger years?

"I- well- y'know, I'm n- I'm not uh... I haven't really ever been high."

Waterboy's trepidation comes back full swing with his response. In highschool, he was always a good kid. Always kept in line and away from trouble. He learned that drugs were evil, addictive, and going to ruin his life. He took the D.A.R.E. program very seriously in middleschool.

Robert would've been shocked had it not immediately made sense after about a half-second. After all, what would grandma think!? Herm's innocent and good nature aside, Robert felt it would do more good for easing his mind than anything.

"I never recommend this to anyone, but I think you specifically should TRY getting high."

Herm takes pause as he considers Robert's words. It's been about 6 years since highschool, and entering the real world has really opened his eyes. Namely joining SDN has introduced him to a whole onslaught of new experiences. Before this job, he'd never gotten drunk, he'd never won in a brawl, and he'd never found someone who made him feel quite as comfortable as you did.

He'd gone to a couple house parties thrown by his fellow Z-Team members, and recalls at one of them, you smoking on the balcony. He thinks back to your blissed out face as you had muffled conversation with Sonar and Mal, passing a joint around amongst yourselves. You'd come inside eventually, sat beside him on the couch, and leaned your head on his shoulder, uncaring of the dampness covering your cheek. He had trouble focusing on anything else as you relaxed into him, but even still, he couldn't help glancing up to see Malevola and Sonar doing... something together outside. They weren't kissing. In fact their faces weren't touching at all. Instead Mal was leaning her head up as Sonar bent down, so close, and blew a breath of smoke into her mouth. She inhaled deeply, gazing into his eyes. The intimate moment was broken when she started coughing, both of them giggling hysterically as Mal grabbed Sonar's shoulder, keeled over, and coughed raucously.

Herm had been mesmerized by the act. It was probably good natured fun between friends – or whatever they were – but it stirred something within him. Something like... desire. He'd wanted to try that. He wanted to feel someone lean their warm body over his, their hot breath on his skin, their smokey air in his lungs. And he wanted it to be you.

—

Ever since that party, the thought hadn't left his mind, and the recent conversation over coms with Robert brought it even moreso to the forefront. Herm couldn't take it anymore. He was thinking about it constantly, wanting that tension, that closeness with another person. With you.

—

The first time Herm ever saw you was shortly after he was hired at SDN as a janitor. Despite the office full of hybrids and monsters, he couldn't help but keep a watchful gaze on you. Always with that megawatt smile and sharing a laugh with everyone who visited your desk. You held yourself in a way he could only dream of. He hadn't expected to get an excuse to talk to you until you ran into him in the break room. Literally. You'd been walking into the break room, open takeout box in hand, just as he was opening the door to walk out. WHAM! You smacked right into a solid wall of superhero strength, noodles splattering all over your blue dispatcher button-up. Despite you being the one covered in lunch, he looked far worse than you did. He was absolutely mortified, ready to be shouted at and insulted for his incompetence. Instead of the sound of you cussing him out, however, you were laughing. Again with that wonderful laugh. Larger than life. After profuse apologies and helping you clean up, you'd quickly become best friends.

Fast forward to current day, and he can't help but stare in your direction. You've got your headset on, wrapping up a solid morning of dispatching. Your lunch break is coming up, Waterboy plans on joining you, as usual. As approaches your desk, his mind continues to wander. Always in that same one direction.

"Hey Herm! Ready for lunch? I was thinking we could try that new-"

"DO YOU WANNA GET HIGH WITH ME?"

Herm immediately smacked both hands over his mouth, looking around the room with panicked eyes. A couple of people fall silent and glance in his direction briefly before going back to their work.

You stare wide-eyed at Herm for a second, caught completely off guard by the exclamation.

"Like... Right now?"

"NO! N-no uh... li- l-later, I mean. At your ap-partment. I'd ra- prefer not at- uh... grandma and the cats and all..."

You haven't heard him stutter this much since you were first getting to know eachother. Sometimes he really seemed to have his own language when he stuttered. Lucky for you, you're fluent.

"Oh! Y-yeah, I'd be down for that! Have you... Gotten high before?" Your body language is calm, but your eyes are alight. You look almost as excited as he feels.

"Umm... N-not rea- at all." He hadn't felt sheepish about that fact until this very moment.

"Oh, well in that case, maybe we should try something more light, like an edible. You can get these mug cake mixes you put in the micr-"

"No! N- Sorry- I'm... I wanna smoke. It. If you don't m-mind."

'It?' God, he's so lame.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure! I can make that work! We can go straight to my place after work if you want. I've already got some of 'it' left over from a couple weeks ago." You end your sentence with a subtle wink.

Dammit, he knew 'it' was lame!

—

Herm is sitting on a plastic covered couch cushion in your living room, more nervous around you than he's been in a while. He's hoping that Robert was right, and this'll calm his nerves, but what he really needs is to calm down right now. Especially if he's gonna ask you for what he really wants.

"Hey, do you thi- suppose I cou- could uh... have a drink? Just to loosen up a bit."

He could hear your single loud 'HA' echo from your bedroom.

"No way in HELL I'm letting you get cross-faded your first time smoking." You emerge from your bedroom, glass pipe in hand and a small bag of- well, I guess that's 'it,' huh?

Well, no turning back now. Not that he really wanted to. You park yourself to the right of him on the couch, grinding a couple chunks of weed before stuffing them into the top of the pipe.

"Wha- umm... wha- why theee pipe? I thought they- you smoke cigar-rettes, no?" The pipe isn't quite like the fantasy in his head.

"Well, I figured I'd spare you from getting a joint all soggy. Moisture and all that."

Dammit, but he wanted an excuse to have you do the thing!

"W-well I was hop- thinking of you doing this- this thing that I saw once."

You tilt your head slightly. A sign for him to proceed.

"Do you remember- the other week. At Robert's a-appartment. You were smoking with Sonar and Mal-levola?"

You give a gentil nod, not entirely certain what he's getting at yet.

"After you came back- back in, they kept go- smoking and Sonar did this... thing. Where he blew- puff- breathed. Umm... into Malevola's mouth..."

Herm breaks eyecontact as he stammers through his explanation, all the while a smile slowly grows across your face.

"Ohhhh, I see. You wanna try shotgunning." Not once does your smile disappear as you turn toward the table, instead pulling out some rolling papers from a nearby junk drawer. If a joint is part of his fantasy, then a joint he shall have.

"Yeah! Y- is that right? Shot- gun..?" He lifts up a hand and starts flexing his index finger like he's pulling a trigger.

"Uh huh. I think I'm starting to understand exactly what it is you're looking for." Just as you finish rolling your joint, you go to lick the paper before stopping yourself. Instead you turn over to Herman and extend the half completed joint over to his parted lips.

"Lick, please." You stare at him expectantly as he looks down at the joint and then back to you, tongue poking lightly from his parted lips as he stares you down with a sharp blue gaze. With unbroken eyecontact, his tongue glides accross the paper. Your breath hitches. Dear Lord.

You finish rolling before finally placing the decently made joint between your lips. The joint he licked. His suit feels tighter all of a sudden. He can't take his eyes off the way you slowly bring your lighter to it, flicking the flame on as you lean back and inhale deeply. He couldn't help inhaling deeply himself.

You put the joint between two fingers and breathe back out slowly, eyes closing for a moment. That blissed out look was back on your face. The one from the party a couple weeks prior. He let out a light whimper. Slight embarrassment immediately swept across his face.

You seemed unbothered, however, a light chuckle exiting your lips as you open your eyes in his direction.

"Can't forget about you, can I? That's what this is all about, right?" In one fell swoop, you're sitting on his lap, your thighs clinging to the tight rubbery spandex of his sopping suit. Instinctively, his hands go directly to your waist. Not an ounce of weed in his system and he's already chilled out significantly. Surely he hasn't gotten a contact high already?

You wiggle your hips slightly, almost innocently, as you settle into your spot on his damp lap. You can feel his excitement as much as you hear it in his voice, this time a deep groan escaping his lips. You ignore it, however, in favor of taking another hit of your joint. Yet another inhale, sucking harshly on the hand rolled cigarette until your lungs are at capacity. You begin to lean forward, hips and torsos pressing against eachother, free hand on his chest brushing up towards his shoulder, and finally settling on his neck. He doesn't need to be told what to do. Eyes half lidded, his gaze into yours, lips parting, faces mere centimeters away from eachother as your mouth opens across from his, gentle huff of smoke entering his slack jaw, intake of breath just as intense as yours before. It was absolutely perfect. You were absolutely perfect. Until he remembered how this moment ended with Malevola and Sonar.

Almost immediately after his inhale, Herman starts coughing, wheezing almost, as he throws his head forward onto your shoulder. Your chuckle stays light as you rub your hand gently across his back, patting it occasionally.

"There you go, baby. It's okay, that's normal for your first time. You're doing really well." Your words aren't helping the tightness in his suit.

"You need help getting comfy?" Herm leans back against the plastic covered cushion, your free hand going for the zipper of his suit, silently asking for permission. He nods enthusiastically, grip on your waist tightening.

"Words, gorgeous. I need to hear you."

"P-please. Don't stop."

You chuckle again, this time a bit darker than before. Slowly you unzip the front of his suit, past his chest, just below his naval. You lean back to take in the newly exposed skin. Pale, wet, glistening in the dimmed lights. You can't help but want to indulge in him. But that's not what this is about. Not yet at least.

You go in for another hit of your joint, this time setting it down on the ashtray on your side table, smoke held in your lungs. You turn back to him, your now free hands slipping along his chest, into each side of his unzipped suit. You gently pull it open, face getting closer to his, as he eagerly opens his mouth again. This time your lips gently meet as you exhale, his breath catching before he can take in too much smoke. That's all it took for him to lean in. Grip tighter, hands traveling down to your hips and he ground you into him. It's your turn to groan as keeps your grinding at a steady pace. The entire front part of your body is completely soaked into at this point, warm wetness seeped fully into your blue top, Herm desperately trying to unbutton the front with his long, slender, and uncoordinated fingers.

"Herm. Hermie. Hey, this is about you, right? Let me take care of you." You clasp both his hands in yours, holding them tenderly against your wet chest.

"Bu- but I wan-"

"And you will! You can have me any way you want after I take care of you first." You kiss the corners of his lips before giving him a proper full-on kiss. Your hands continue their exploration of his body while your tongue continues on his warm wet mouth.

Your hands reaches his zipper once more to finish what you started. The light smattering of hair going down from his naval lead you straight to where you wanted to see most. His cock wasted no time springing upward and slapping against his body. He'd always assumed it was considered decent size, but the look on your face told him it was far more than decent. You couldn't resist wrapping a hand around his cock, stroking gently before going faster, movements facilitated by the wetness spread across his body.

"You're doing so well Hermie. I love those gorgeous sounds you make for me." You continue to ramble in his ear, emphasizing each word of praise with a gentle thumb stroke on his tip.

Herm couldn't help the choked out sobs coming from his mouth, forehead pressed against yours as you gave him your full attention, always staring from his cock all the way back to his face, gauging his reaction with each stroke. You could tell by the way his body was tensing that he wasn't going to last much longer.

"Please, I- c-close!" At this point you could see tears running down his eyes, mingling with the rest of his naturally wet face.

"Let go, Hermie. You can let go for me."

He let out one more guttural moan as he came, white coating your hand and his chest, pants leaving his mouth. Slowly, he comes down from the high of his orgasm. He's also starting to lose the high from the weed.

"Do you think... Could we do another hit, and then I do you?" He's sweaty, panting, and covered in his own cum and all he can think about is you. And weed.

"Let's get cleaned up a bit, and then we can get back to whatever it is you want."

You guys were more than ready for a long night.

—

he loves watching her. he loves stalking her through the windows in her house. he found the perfect spot to hide and still get the perfect view.

everything about her was so enticing to him. but it got worse all of a sudden. she became more jittery. on edge. clumsy. scared.

she was chopping up vegetables to make some homemade soup on a cold autumn afternoon, and what happens? her fingers are too close to the blade. she slices hard. thankfully, her body has felt weaker lately. muscles tender. so it wasn't too hard.

she used just enough force to give herself a deep cut. a nasty one, but not bad enough to send her to the ER.

she let out a sharp gasp and then a high pitched whine, cursing under her breath.

"no no no no!! ow ow ow ow ow," she grabbed her finger, putting pressure on the wound, biting down on her lower lip.

toby felt his stomach turn watching her. in a good way. he heard her reaction, too. her kitchen windows were open.

he'd never seen her react to pain. it looked good on her. fuck, he felt envious. like he was missing out. he should've been in the room with her.

close enough so that he could grab her wrist, tugging her hand up close to his face so she wouldn't have a chance to quickly tend to the wound and dull the ache. he wished he could bite into her finger.

he had no clue what any of that pain stuff felt like, but it was arousing to him. i mean, all the sounds she made...it was the same kind of sounds you make during sex, right?

the gasping and the whimpering and whining. it must be a similar feeling...

she ran to the sink and hesitantly put her finger underneath cool running water. the cut burned. her mouth fell open, eyebrows furrowing, but no sound coming out. like the pained noises got caught in her throat.

oh, he'd never let this one go. he couldn't. no one else could do it like her, could they?

"...f-fuck..." he muttered, hands itching and fingers twitching, desperate to run in and grab her. but he couldn't. not yet.

he'd be patient. he'd collect up every little thing he knew she needed first. he'd make a nice little place to keep her. then he could turn her into his personal pincushion.

‪‪❤︎‬