darling dread

So, when the calls started, you figured the other rangers were prank calling you. But nobody on your team sounded like him. His voice had a broken, lilting quality – like he was calling from a cassette tape. He’d stutter and snicker to himself without having said anything. You knew he was out there in the woods since you’ve heard branches cracking on his end. Once, you swore you heard him sniffle like he was crying, but you never questioned it. You were at that point where you didn’t ask questions about it anymore.

You know it’s dangerous. You know he’s probably – definitely – watching you. But there’s something about the way he talks, or the way his voice cracks when he laughs. How he sounds performatively confident when he has something daring to say, and how he whimpers when you reply with something that’s deniably flirty.

“Mmm, can I go fass-ster?” he breathes heavily through the line.

This was definitely not one of those moments, though.

“What’s the magic word?” Your tone rises while you tease, imagining how swollen the head of his dick is. You haven’t seen it yet, but your mouth still starts to water.

“Please-please?”

“No.”

He whines loudly, repeating you. “No?”

“Not if you keep interrupting me. It’s incredibly rude. I thought you respected me a little more.”

“Fuck you,” he says through clenched teeth.

You tut and shake your head as if he could see you. “That’s not how you address me.”

“Fuck—you—sir.” he chokes out.  

Your laugh comes out as a huff. “Now, as I was saying, those polaroids were a pain in the ass to take. I think my camera’s too bulky. Are you enjoying them?”

“Oh, yes, t-too much,” the stranger replies. “Have them all-all laid out right huh-here.”

You’d worked out a deal with him – if he helped clean the area, you would provide him with pictures of yourself. They weren’t scandalous or anything, just a couple neck-down shots of you in your uniform.

“How intuitive.” You pause. “Why don’t you start stroking a little faster for me?”

His thanks comes out in a loud moan, you hear his breathing accelerate. You go back to imagining him in this moment. Is he standing? Barely keeping himself up against a tree as the bark scratches against his back. Is he kneeling? His parted knees would be digging into the damp soil, going just a little deeper as his palm glides rhythmically – or frantically.

His head must be tilted back, “Ah, ah.”

“God, you’re so loud.” You say with a smile. “Dude, I think if I put my phone down I’d hear you.”

“I n-need you he-ere with me,” he stutters.

“And do what? You think I’d go anywhere near you – let alone touch you? Some creep in the woods?”

“I want to—want to fuck your face.” Seemingly disregarding what you’d just said.

“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.” You laugh. You think of whatever the fuck you did today to end up here.

The receiver picks up his whimpering along with a squelch that should have you gagging. Instead, your mind is on which of your photographs his cum will drip on.

You can’t help the groan or how your eyes close. “Fuck.”

“Are you jerking off too?” It sounded so clear, like he was right in front of you.

“You think I’m some pervert like you?” You say through a laugh, opening your eyes again. Truth was, you were almost there. You’d had to adjust your pants because of your erection a million times now. You just couldn’t risk the embarrassment or afford the lawsuit if anyone came in, as much as that possibility was low. “You’re the only one here desperate enough to jerk off to someone’s voice.”

“I should really bash your—bash your fucking f-face in.”

“I’d actually feel threatened if you didn’t sound like a whiney bitch.”

His end went silent for a moment. “C-close.”

“You gonna cum?”

“Yesss-ss” he slurs. “Say my name, please, sir.”

“I don’t know your name, you freak.” You should really be more ashamed of that, you think.

He’s nearing incoherence but manages to blurt out what you think is “Toby.”

“Toby?” You ask slowly, and he confirms it with a stuttered “Fuuccckk.” You continue to urge him on like one would a dog. “You wanna cum, Toby? C’mon, Toby, cum for me. You can do it, boy!”

He goes silent again. Your grip on the telephone’s neck tightens as you press it against your ear. It’s like you’re planning on phasing through the phone. His sobs come out stuttered, which are followed by quick pants. You’re sure he must’ve worked up a sweat. You smile to yourself.

“Well, that was fun—”

The line clicks and the loud dial tone startles you enough to drop the phone. The fuck?

You quickly pick it up again. “Hello? Hello?”

Nothing.

What a dick, you scoff internally.

Doesn’t matter, your eyes land on your watch, and it’s time to go home. It’s impossible not to think about your stranger – Toby – as you pack your things. Your theory that he had actually been a fellow park ranger was crushed now, but that was probably for the best. You hope the phone lines weren’t being recorded. You decide to leave your paranoia for another day. Your car was just up ahead, and you can almost feel the water from the shower you would take the second you got home.

You sigh; the seatbelt clicks into place. You insert the key into the ignition and are ready to turn it, but your eyes land on something next to you. You can almost feel your heartbeat in your throat.

He knew he was going to be doing better now. He had recently graduated, the barista had smiled at him, he had a decent job he was recommended for, and an apartment all to himself. The job and apartment were temporary things to get him closer to what he knows he’s destined for. Being here… choosing to come here was on principle. The church had marked his youth, and he had just concluded a big chapter of his life. It didn’t matter that his stomach twisted painfully or that it was traveling up his throat as he sat there. Edward was learning to face things. Edward had a plan, a plan that mattered.

So why couldn’t he look into the face of the man reaching for him with open arms? That’s what the gesture was for, wasn’t it? He’d seen others on campus beckoning friends into the warmth of their body. Never mind his crucified state – he had a friend in Jesus. He had a friend in Jesus. Edward had a friend in Jesus. Edward had a friend. He had a friend. He had a friend.

He needed to stop rocking back and forth.

Edward smiled, for he had gotten better at calming himself. Breathing helped a lot.

He'd hold you loosely, he’d hesitate to kiss you, and he always flinched when you undressed. When you reach for him, his hand often meets yours… and then he pauses. He hovers, just barely not touching. So, you let him take more initiative.

But it hadn’t stopped happening. When he finally cups your face, it’s with the back of his knuckles, not his fingertips. It was as if you were paper, and his nails could slice right through you. No matter how close you get, no matter how tender the moment, he never lets his mouth anywhere near your neck. Even if you were just cuddling, if you so much as tilt your head, he goes still. Then he’d find an excuse to pull away. His kisses were soft, his mouth barely opening, and you can tell he’s fighting himself every second it lingers. You’d caught him once or twice, leaning in to drag his nose along your jaw or your hair – scenting you. Before you can say anything or lean into it, he jerks away like he’s embarrassed – or worse, like he almost lost control.

And that’s what it was really about. He was doubting his control around you.

A low rustle in the trees.

Movement – smooth, silent, practiced. You don’t see him until he’s already at the windowsill, one hand bracing again the frame. He hesitates for just a second. Just like he always does.

You stay seated where you are, legs pulled up to your chest on the bed. You try not to look too expectant even though your heart’s doing that annoying flutter thing it always does when he’s nearby. You’re embarrassed with the knowledge that he’s able to see it, but it’s worse knowing that he misunderstands your anticipation for fear.

“Are you coming in?” You mean to sound casual, but it still comes out softly hopeful.

His mask tips slightly, like he’s scanning your face. Then, finally, he climbs through in one clean motion to land soundlessly on the floor. He closes the window behind him but doesn’t come closer.

You give it a second. Then two.

The air between you feels thinner tonight. Something about the way he’s holding himself – as if waiting for a reason to leave again.

“You don’t have to stay,” you say, because it’s true. The silence was starting to hurt. “But I want you to.”

That makes him shift. It wasn’t much, but just enough that his head tilts a little toward you. Still, no response.

So, you try again.

“Can I ask you something?”

This time, he nods.

“Do… do I scare you?”

His whole body goes still, like you flipped the wrong switch. You rush to clarify.

“Not me, I mean—I’m not saying you’re scared of me. Just—” You close your eyes and let out a breath. “When we’re close, or when I touch you… It’s like you’re bracing for something.”

You open your eyes again and wait. Still nothing.

Sighing, you drag a hand down your face. “I’m not trying to push you. I just—if you’re afraid of hurting me, EJ, I’d rather you say it than keep backing away like you’ve already hurt me.”

And that’s what gets a reaction. His head lifts a little more, and he takes a measured step forward – then another. He stops just out of reach.

His voice, when it comes, is low.

“I think about it,” he says. “All the time.”

You nod slowly. “Hurting me?”

He gives the smallest shake of his head. “No. How easy it would be.”

Your breath catches at his words.

Slowly, you slide off the mattress and stand. He tenses, but doesn’t move. His fingers curl at his sides like he’s trying to will himself still.

You take the last few steps forward until you’re standing right in front of him.

“You don’t scare me,” you say, quiet and steady. “Not your claws, not your teeth. Not the mask. Nothing about you scares me.”

Still no impact. You press just a little further.

“I’ve seen you stitch someone’s wounds up with bloody hands and shake after. I’ve seen you duck out of a room because I was crying, and you didn’t know if you should touch me.” You take a small breath. “You think I don’t know who you are?”

You wait again, watching him.

He tilts his head again. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t need a list.” Your eyes don’t move from where his should be.

 You take on small step closer. Your hands lift – just an offering. Open palms, inches from his chest. Can I? You ask silently.

And when he doesn’t flinch, when he doesn’t back up… you press your palms gently to him. He’s solid and warm. His hoodie smells faintly of cedar, blood, and something colder beneath that. A scent you’ve come to love and find comfort in.

Your voice drops.

“I know what you do,” you whisper. “And I still want you. You’re allowed to want me, Jack.”

His hands twitch – one raises partway, hovering like it always does.

“I’m not scared of you,” you repeat. “Even if you break something. I’d still come back.”

His breath catches – a real, raw sound from behind his mask. Then, finally – finally – he reaches up and touches your face with his fingertips. Not just the back of his knuckles. Fingertips. Still careful, but less so. You feel the subtlest pressure from his nails, but you don’t recoil.

His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. His other hand finds your waist.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmurs. “But I want you so badly it clouds the little restraint I have around you.”

“Good.” You smile, just a little. “I know you wouldn’t do anything to me that I didn’t want.”

His hands still linger on your face – fingertips trembling like he’s not used to being allowed this much.

You reach up, slow, and your fingers graze the edge of his mask.

He freezes.

You pause and rest your hands there, looking at him.

“Let me see you,” you whisper. “Please?”

And after a heartbeat, he nods. His gloved fingers come up to yours, not to stop you… but to help you.

Together, you lift it. The rubber edges scrape faintly as it rises, then it slips free. You’d tell him he looks beautiful, but—

His hands slide up – one cradling the back of your head, the other curling around your side to pull you in. And then he’s kissing you.

Not your usual peck, and not even with any roughness. But it’s so full of yearning it makes your knees go weak.

You make a soft, startled sound against him, and his grip tightens. He groans, low and ragged, and you swear you feel it echo in your ribs. You can’t tell which one of you feels the most starved as your mouth moves against his.

Said it was “good,” then asked if I had any more. I said only if he stops calling me stupid. He stayed quiet, that son of a bitch. I didn’t invite him over for the fourth of July for that reason (among other things, of course). Speaking of which, I finally got to asking if he’s been following me around. He looked at me like I was the one wearing goggles and a mask! I couldn’t tell if he was lying, but I know someone’s been watching me. It’s like, when I walk past the tree line, there’s a pressure in my chest, and there’s a screaming in my head to turn around. The birds stop, and even the bugs go quiet. I feel it behind me… the hair on the back of my head stands on end. There’s always someone at my side view, and it’s always long and still. When I turn, it’s gone, of course. At night, the ringing in my ears gets worse (I don’t even remember when that started). It starts low and builds until I can’t hear myself think. I keep looking at the window. There’s never anything there, but I can’t bring myself to look away. I never remember falling asleep. And don’t even get me started on the dreams I’ve been having! I think Todd makes me watch too many scary movies.

VOLUME WARNING!!

are y'all picking up what i'm putting down....

HI I HOPE YOU LIKE THESE!! even if you don't read fanfiction, i invite you to enjoy the fruits of my labor as art pieces! i love adding visual elements to my fanfictions in the form of headers and text breaks customized for each character. SO I'VE BEEN HOLDING BACK HONESTLY LOL

i don't have much written, but it does follow kind of the same tone of THIS (here) fanfic of mine (but more serious and a little more flowery language). i'm really excited for it! i've been meaning to write a multi-chapter toby fanfic for a while now, and really, what better time than when i still have a bunch of others i haven't updated yet (yay)? i'm gonna get around to my requests and have some shorter oneshots i have ideas for. i'm unfortunately an overachiever (though i lack in perfectionism), and for some reason have sworn anything shorter than 1k my enemy (i never want things to end). it will be cross posted on AO3, where you can check out some of my other stuff too (here's the same oneshot mentioned earlier but on AO3). expect SLOW updates, but i promise i won't abandon it willingly <3

credit for video clips:

slutlv on instagram

That was why he was practically skipping to your bookstore today. Edward had bought you a gift. Something small, really, but the second he laid his eyes on the intricately patterned bookmark (bonus points for having it in a favorite color of yours), it was imperative that he present it to you.

His whole body vibrates with elation, weaving through the crowds of bowed heads. Some dare to look up, their pitiful jealousy souring their expressions because how dare he find some light in the dreariest of cities. Oh, how miserable it must be to not have someone like you in life.

He berates himself, quickly stopping his clammy hand from fidgeting with the plastic that protected the polished metal. In this moment, some part of him really believes that he would be the one to offer this gift to you directly. His shoulders sink, his steps faltering. He is foolish enough to believe he can face you.

Can he really look you in the eye and offer you this token without trembling? He stops just a few blocks from the building.

Does he – in good conscience – believe that he wouldn’t be sick with fear at the implications of giving you gifts? He thought of himself as a very stupid man in that moment.

The wind scrapes against his face as he stands motionless outside the bookstore. The thought of handing it to you – watching your fingers brush his as you took it, hearing your voice wrap around a thank you – was intoxicating enough to tip him over. But fantasy was safe. Real life was brutal. It would strip hope raw and bled it out under fluorescents and security cameras. So, instead, Edward does what he knows he does best. He observed. Adapted. Became invisible.

A very stupid man – yes – but one who will find a way.

He didn’t exactly need to give it to you directly. No, no – of course not. That was madness. He had no business being that close to you. He could barely even breathe in your presence.

He watches the doors, or rather, the faint outline of himself reflected in their glass. All he had to do was place the bookmark near the register. Not on it, but just beside the tray where people left receipts or coupons. The register would be momentarily unattended at opening. You’d arrive shortfly after. You would see it. You always place a novel there when you are reading between customers. Edward’s legs carry him forward before his mind catches up.

The air inside feels feverish against his skin and faintly smells cleaner than usual. He keeps his head down, letting his eyes adjust. There is a customer near the horror section and your coworker – the one who always lingered too close to you – has his back turned to Edward. Edward avoids eye contact. His heart nearly ripping through his ribs, sweat prickling behind his ears.

Now.

He moves slowly, casually, up to the register, and thumbs through the flyer rack beside it. He slips his hand in his pocket, letting the bookmark slide into his palm. He pictures your fingers on it – touching it. It would brush your lips as you absentmindedly held it while reading, and his stomach twists violently with pleasure and shame. It would touch you before he could, he realizes.

Just the faintest sound of plastic can be heard; it had made contact.

Gently… gentl–

“Can I help you with something, man?” your coworker snaps, suspicious from the jump.

Edward jerks his hand back like something had burned it. He isn’t even sure if he still held the bookmark as he stumbles and swirls to face the magazine rack beside him.

“No, he mumbles. “Just browsing.”

The man says nothing. Edward feels eyes on him still. His face flushes a terrible, blotchy red.

He flips through a gardening magazine he doesn’t even register. Sweat gathers on his upper lip. A full-body shiver overtakes him; goosebumps rise in its wake.

You were here.

He doesn’t need to see you, He feels you. The air shifts charged and warm. Your scent wafts toward him, and his ears ring with the effort not to look. He wants so badly to drink you with these starving eyes of his.

His body betrays him anyway.

He angles himself just enough to catch a flash of your hair. But your voice, like a magnet, turns his head all the way just to glance over his shoulder. The sound of you greeting your coworker folds him in half inside. Edward watches as your mouth curves, and the part of him that has been burning in anxiety just seconds before throbs with something else entirely.

Your eyes flick to him – a second, maybe less. You give him that smile.

And of course, that prick had to notice it.

“Can I show you something in the back aisle?” he asks you, loud enough for Edward to just barely hear.

Something coils in his chest. He watches, helplessly, as you follow him.

Edward drifts too – just a good few seconds after – toward the adjacent aisle. Close enough to hear but hidden enough. He strains to listen.

“Hey,” your coworker’s voice drops. “I don’t want to freak you out, but… I never see that guy outside your shifts. Like… ever. I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I-I could say something—"

Edward’s throat tightens so hard he nearly chokes.

His vision swims, an angry red seeping into the corners. He was sure his mind was fracturing – here, now, in the middle of the store.

The idea of you looking at him with revulsion – of you agreeing – of you going to some flat-faced Gotham police officer with trembling hands and a photograph of his face. Your coworker’s skull against the pavement, again and again and again.

Your voice.

“That’s sweet of you, but I think you’re overthinking it.” Soft. Dismissive.

Edward’s stomach drops in disbelief.

You laugh a little, almost embarrassed. “He seems harmless.”

The coworker seems to hesitate. “Still. If he’s making you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable.” You sound almost firm now. Not annoyed, but… resolute. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

If anything else is being said, Edward can’t register it.

You defended him. You defended him.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but they water anyway. A flush of ecstasy and confusion shoots through him. You can… you can understand him. You know he’s not like everyone else – that he’s not a threat. That he’s harmless, that he was—

Yours.

But—

No.

No, no, no. This isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right.

Because if your coworker had noticed how he lingered around you, that meant others could too. Maybe he’d point it out next time. His gift.

Oh God, the gift.

You’d find it. Your coworker would be right there.

”Didn’t I tell you?” he’d sneer, gesturing toward the bookmark. “Creepy little freak.”

And you… you would turn.

You would turn toward Edward with those eyes – those divine, hallowed, heaven-crafted eyes warped with fear. Revulsion.

The moment would stretch into something surreal, time crawling sluggishly. You’d stare at him; your hand clutched around the polished edge of the bookmark he chose so carefully.

Your face would contort, slowly – the muscles tightening, your lips parting in the shape of a scream he hadn’t even heard yet. And yet, he could already feel it tearing through his skull. His gift, meant as an offering, would fall from your hands and hit the floor with a clink that would echo in his ears forever. Your face – your beautiful, untouchable face – twisted in horror.

You’ve worked through this before, he reminds himself. Stop and breathe. Stop. Breathe.

He couldn’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

And in the present, Edward is already halfway down the block. His feet move on instinct, his coat whipping around his legs as he barrels through the crowd. He doesn’t care who stares, who he bumps into. His skin is crawling. The inside of his skull felt too hot. He was speedwalking like he could outrun the humiliation before it could catch up to him.

His legs burn, his vision blurring.

Edward doesn’t stop moving until the bookstore is miles behind him, and he is back in the dark stillness of his apartment. He is breathless and vibrating.

He slams the door and locks it three times.

His gift was supposed to make you smile. Instead, it might have destroyed him.

After drowning in his own thoughts, Edward peels himself away from his door. He makes it to the far corner, where he paces back and forth so furiously it makes his floorboards cry out. He’s crying – in waves, in jagged bursts of sound that catch his throat and sputter out. His hands won’t stop trembling. At one point, he grips the edge of his kitchen counter and almost wretches over the sink. He claws at his hair, arms trembling. His glasses hang crooked on the bridge of his nose.

He wraps his arms tightly around himself and whimpers softly, head dropping with the weight of self-hatred. He doesn’t think to take his coat off or his shoes. He just walks in uneven circles, his palms slapping the sides of his head one after the other. He stops short as his foot clips the wheel of his desk chair.

It sists waits innocently for him in front of his monitor. He knows that it’s still open to the window, still showing the last frozen frame of your apartment from when he’d checked earlier that morning. All he has to do is bring it to life – to bring your space to life. He stares at it. He sways on his feet. He’s spent hours in that chair watching you. Breathing to your rhythm; reading when you read, living when you lived.

Edward grips the back of it, jaw trembling.

It sails backward as he throws it violently across the room. It hits a wall with a dull smack and topples onto its side. One of the wheels must have cracked, but he doesn’t even flinch. He only stares at the darkened screen instead.

His hands twitch, as if heading toward the mouse, but he retreats. The proximity burns him more than the cries from his throat. Like his own desire is made of acid.

“No,” he weakly says aloud, shaking his head.

He can’t watch. Not tonight – you weren’t even home yet. Not after your coworker opened your mind to his behavior. You would find the gift, and you’d know. You’d hate it.

Don’t look at the computer.

Don’t check the time.

Don’t even touch the box.

The box.

Edward’s entire frame jolts violently at the reminder. His box of mementos hidden behind a second cardboard box, next to his mattress, and beneath stacks of useless tax papers. He itched to touch it. He wanted so desperately to lay everything out and just look.

His hands continue to claw at his scalp. He drags his fingers down his face, leaving hot smears of moisture down his neck. He can’t tell if it’s tears or sweat or both.

His body can’t hold the tremor anymore. His shoulders collapsed inward as he stumbled toward the mattress like he was drunk. He can’t even make it.

He tries to sit on the floor, only to end up collapsing instead. His knees hit the wood hard first. He clutches the hem of his coat, mouth open and gasping. His forehead drags forward until it bumps against the floor. He’s on his side, knees pulled in, fists jammed against his lips. His sobs go muffled in his palms.

The crying didn’t even sound like him anymore. It came out ugly and desperate – a choked keening. It mixed with the shaking apologies under his breath, over and over, to no one. His voice is thick with snot, the whole front of his face wet.

I just wanted to give you something, just something nice, I’m sorry.

He rocked back and forth, pressing his forehead into the cold floor. His ribs cramped with the force of the crying, his back heaving. It had never been this bad. It had never hurt like this.

He’d panicked before – sweating through shirts, shaken all night at the thought of you catching him on the feed. But this… this was something worse. He was mourning you – someone still alive and breathing. He wasn’t sure what he was weeping for – the possibility of his dying fantasy, or the punishment.

He hated himself.

He hated that he couldn’t just stop this, and his lack of control. That even now, even as he curled into a pile of his own tears and mucus, he wanted – needed – to see you.

He needed you at home. He needed you to be here and telling him it was okay. That he wasn’t a monster, and not as disgusting or useless as even he believed himself to be.

So, he stays, knees folded up to his chest, snot dripping from his nose. He doesn’t move even as his face is raw, and his voice is down to a rasp. Time to him became meaningless. Outside, the sounds of Gotham leak in – sirens, the low bass from a passing car, someone screaming a name in the street. The sky outside has long since blackened. The city hums through the walls, and Edward lies in the center of it all like a dying thing.

But, from the floor – barely able to lift his head – Edward’s eyes drag toward the blank screen. He can feel it calling to him, he really can. Like a hook, dragging through his ribs.

His palms slap the floor as he drags himself on all fours. Every breath comes out as pants, his knees scraping the floor. He doesn’t spare a glance toward his chair – he doesn’t deserve the luxury. His fingers scratch against the floor like he was trying to pull himself through a war zone. He knocks his knee against something hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t feel it.

He slaps a trembling hand against the keyboard until the light from his screen nearly blinds him. Sitting back on his legs, he types out the commands to your feed. His hair sticks to his forehead, and he quickly wipes away the drool escaping the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t know what he expects.

Maybe nothing. Maybe you hadn’t bothered to read tonight. Or maybe you were reading, just somewhere out of sight. He could view that as a mercy, or maybe it would kill him.

But when the feed boots up, every pixel seemed to move into place slowly. Pixelated black, then movement. Your movement.

Edward’s breath catches in his throat so fast it cuts off a noise that had started to crawl up from his chest. He jolts like he’s been shocked, his pupils flood with black, his lashes wet and clumped together. He crawls closer to the monitor, still on his knees.

You’ve changed into your sleep clothes – making you look soft and warm. Like you’ve been kissed by the golden light of your lamp. Then he sees it, tucked neatly seemingly a chapter away (which he assumes must be your reading goal for the night). It gleams in the yellow lighting – silver filigree, and the small silk ribbon trailing from its top.

Edward’s hand flies to his mouth and clamps over it as a sob yanks out of his chest. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling, and he doesn’t think he ever could. He’s past knowing what his body is doing anymore. But the bookmark is there – and you’re using it. You’re using it.

His knees spread further on the on the hardwood as he gets as close to the monitor as he physically can. His eyes are wide and soaked, breathing so fast it could kill him. He pants against his own palm, and when his hand drops, it leaves behind a streak of spit and tears across his chin.

You shift a little to scratch your knee, and the book rustles. The bookmark slips out just slightly and you reach for it, your fingers pinching the top edge to tuck it back in.

He lets out a shuddering noise, his eyes flutter like it pains him to even see you. His fingers tremble as they press against the desk in an attempt to steady himself. His whole body has gone hot, not from shame, but from something so full of pressure and longing he feels like it might burst straight from his skin.

You touch it. You touched it. You held it. It touched you. You accepted it.

His chest swells with something far too big for one man to hold. He’s sobbing again, mouth hanging open like he’s never seen something so divine.

His hands move fast as his shaky fingers pull the zipper down to free himself. His cock is already half-hard and aching, but there’s nothing sweet or erotic in the way he handles it. It was purely compulsive – so clumsy. His eyes never leave the screen, and fresh tears slid down his cheeks.

He wraps his hand around himself with a broken noise in his throat. “Oh—God—”

The first stroke is so desperate it nearly hurts.

The monitor glows white-blue across his skin – illuminating every fragile, pitiful inch of him as he jerks himself with wet, frantic movements. His breath hitches so high it sounds like a whimper, and in all but name, it is. His pale belly trembles with every shaky breath.

He watches you intently, keening. You’re mouthing something to yourself, acting out like he’s seen you do a hundred times – and his hand starts to move faster. Each time your lips form new shapes he can’t hear, his hips buck. His body jerks in pitiful little thrusts against his own hand, a grotesque parody of connection.

“I’m sorry—” he chokes.

And he is – he is.  

But your fingers brush the bookmark again, and his mouth trembles to let out a soft moan. His hand moves faster, frantic and ugly. He’d never done this – gotten himself off to your feed like you were some cam girl.

“I’m sorry—I’m so—sorry—” he sobs, the words hitching and falling from his mouth.

He catches his bottom lip in his teeth, like he’s scared someone might hear him. Not that it mattered, his mouth fell open again when he saw you playing with the ribbon.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean—I just wanted to—I just wanted you to touch it—I just—"

He weeps harder every second, but your skin just looked so soft. His body shudders, thighs trembling beneath him. You have no idea how close you are to being worshipped at this moment.

He tips forward, his free hand catching on the edge of the desk to brace himself. His body curls tighter, his knees pressing onto the floor hard enough to hurt. He watches the monitor like it’s the face of God – and in that moment, you are. Your very presence absolves and damns him at once.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Have mercy.

The sound of skin against his palm fills the room – a slick, fast rhythm accompanied by sniffling and the occasional whimpering of your name. He can feel it building in his stomach already – shameful. Edward moans when you almost reach the bookmarked page, shaking so badly he nearly topples over. He strokes harder, every muscle in his body working against him.

He doesn’t dare whisper your name now – not when he’s turned the sacred into something so vile. His ears are ringing from shame, and his knees burn from the floor. His chin trembles violently for the apologies he can’t even bring himself to make.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

It was miserable. It was like his body had purged it, right on his floor. Some of the warmth had hit his stomach and cooled in seconds. His body spasms as his hand keeps pumping long past the point of sensation, like he doesn’t know how to stop.

Edward feels just as hollow as he has been for the past few hours, if not worse. His hand drops limply from his lap. He looks down at himself, disgust curling in his gut. He stills with his seed cooling on his skin. He can’t breathe – not from exertion, but from how heavy the silence hangs over his desecration of you.

Edward doesn’t know how he can bring himself here after his atrocities the other night. The thought alone makes his gut twist. He shouldn’t be here, at his table with his view of you. He told himself that before he even got off the train, again when he climbs the steps to the street level, and a third time when he catches sight of the faded green awning across the street. It pained him, greatly, to be in your presence. If he could apologize without the embarrassment of explaining, he would. His face burns when he remembers the feel of his cock in his hand – how quickly he’d unraveled at just the sight of you using the gift he left behind. After what he’d done, and what he’d said – murmuring to himself like a deranged priest in a perverse confessional. After he came with his face lit by the glow of your lamp through his screen. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the mess off his floor until the morning sun had begun bleeding through his blinds, making the dried stickiness on his skin feel even more grotesque. He had wept again as he wiped it up.

But he had thought, If I can just see you again and not give in, then I’m not a monster.

Because he had restraint before, he had shown you and himself that – more or less.

So here he was, returning to his shrine. He had arrived with hand buried in his pockets, eyes downcast, like a coward’s pilgrimage.

That’s why he hadn’t heard you approaching.

“Hey, you,” you say.

Edward startles hard enough to drop his book, and he immediately hates himself for it. So weak. His mouth goes dry, his throat locks. He slowly raises his head, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck.

There you are standing beside him. Close enough that he can see the stitching on your name tag. Your eyes are as kind as usual. Pitying, maybe? Did you see him freeze? Did you know?

Your hands are empty, like you came here just to speak to him.

His breath goes shallow, his brain feels like it will melt at any second. You shouldn’t be here, and you shouldn’t be talking to him. This is a trap, it has to be. It’s a test, a punishment. You know. You have to know. Why else would you come up to him?

He wants to disappear; he wants to rewind time and never set foot here again. He wants to look at you forever.

“Hi?” He cringes as it comes out.

You just smile like you’re trying not to laugh, and that’s when he notices the bags under your eyes. We seem to be matching, he wants to say about how sleepless you both look, but he’s not sure it’ll make much sense.

“What’s gotten your attention today?” You tilt closer to inspect the book he was gripping tightly.

“Um, it’s not—I just picked it up—”

“‘Plants That Kill.’” Your eyes gleam with something as you peer up at him. He’d never been this close to you. “Hm. Who are you killing?”

You smelled like nothing he’d ever had the pleasure of smelling before. His head feels as though it would swell if he truly realized how close he was to you at this moment. He could see every detail, each one fueling his heart to stutter. Since when had you worn that flower pendant? The chain wrapped around your neck, the petals glinting faintly under the lights. Your brow twitches, and he realizes—

Edward begins to sputter out, his eyes widening. “Kill? No—no! I’m not—not killing anyone. No, I’m just—it—work research! I swear. It’s just for, just for work—”

Your laughter stops him immediately. You take a step back, needing to brace yourself on a book rack beside you.

“I’m sorry,” you exhale, laughter still lingering as you rest a hand over your heart. “The question was a joke, but I think I’m now complicit in something.”

“No! Never! I wouldn’t—” His snaps his jaw shut, letting you laugh and praying you didn’t catch on to what he was saying. “No, of course… I knew you were, uh, joking.”

He forces a chuckle for good measure.

“So, it’s for work?” you ask after your laughter dies down. “That sounds really interesting.”

“Yes. Work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a forensic accountant.”

You blink.

Oh.

Edward realizes his mistake a second too late, and he hopes all the color didn’t drain from his face. That wasn’t his job’s research – it was his research. The other work, the real work.

He spits out the first lie he can think of. “Money laundering flower shop. Research for it. Money laundering… it’s what I do—uh, what look into.”

He tries to laugh again, but it comes out thin and strangled.

You smile anyway, mercifully, and his stomach knots at the way you tilt your head. It’s not condescending, and it’s not even confusion – just amusement. As if you were already used to his weirdness, and maybe a little fond of it.

“Well,” you say stepping back, “I guess I’ll steer clear of any flower shops with suspicious plants.”

He forces another laugh. “Yeah. Probably wise.”

You glance back toward the front desk, maybe to the pile of books you still need to work on. You let out a soft sigh. And then, you yawn. He sees the way you try to stifle it into the crook in your arm, how your eyes water just a little. Your shoulders curl inward, and his heart clenches. First the shadows under your eyes, now this?

“Rough night?” he asks, voice low and his brows knitting.

“Rough week, actually.” You give a soft laugh, rubbing a hand over your temple.

Something about the way you say it hits him directly in the chest; the honesty of it, the exhaustion. You’re always so patient with customers. You’re always smiling, always attentive. But you’re just a person, aren’t you? You get tired, you get overwhelmed. You come to work despite it all.

Just like me, he thinks, wildly.

“But,” you continue, waving a hand vaguely toward the scattered carts and stacks. “Still gotta keep going. Justice doesn’t take a day off, right?”

You laugh again, like you know it’s a silly thing to say. But to Edward – it sticks in his head like a knife in wood.

Justice doesn’t take a day off.

His breath catches in his throat. You hadn’t said it with any kind of seriousness. It was just meant to be tossed off, something people say when they’re running o caffeine and muscle memory. But it doesn’t feel like that to him.

To him, it feels pointed. It was something divine filtering through your mouth without you even realizing it. It was meant for him.

You begin to walk away, but you give one last comment over your shoulder.

“Anyway, let me know if you take down that flower shop. I’d like to read your expose – preferably before I accidently buy any deadly daisies.”

He can’t speak, only nod. A faint smile twitches on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

His body feels like it’s locked itself here, your words echoing through him with a strange kind of weight.

Justice doesn’t take a day off.

He came here to prove something to himself – that he could see you and not give in, watch you and not want your hands on him. But here he is, already unraveling from the smallest kindness.

And worse than that – he’s wasting time.

There’s work to do. Real work. He has names, faces, and systems to dismantle. He has messages to craft. The city still festers with filth and rot, and he’s been holed up in his apartment, mourning his own depravity like a fucking child.

What good is guilt if it only paralyzes?

What good is remorse if it doesn’t become something useful?

His leg begins to bounce, adrenaline kicking up behind his knees. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You believe in justice; he had heard it in your voice. Even if you didn’t act like someone like him, even if you think you were just being funny. You believe. That means something, it has to.

He needs to feel it again.

Not you – not your lamp-glow, your sighs, or the silver glint of that bookmark. He needs the mission. He needs the cold thrill of a new target, a new puzzle, a new thread to pull until it all comes crashing.

He presses the book shut, rising stiffly to his feet.

Edward blinks rapidly, swallowing the last of his cold cup of coffee. The blinds stay drawn, his lamp the only light. The pages bloom across the table like fungal growth. Scribbled notes on ledger paper, blueprints with no real scale. Headlines clippings. Threads connecting threads with slashes of green ink. Something ugly has begun to take its shape.

He circles a name, then a number, then a date. “False charitable write-offs,” he circles that too.

A page crumples.

Another gets pinned to a wall.

Red pen. Green pen. Circle. Arrows. Numbers.

He scrawls it across – big, messy, centered:

JUSTICE DOESN’T TAKE A DAY OFF

He maps a route through the building. He redraws it. The again, shorter this time – cleaner. He starts diagraming light fixtures.

A sticky note with “left elevator = slower”

A second note with “Janitor ID?”

A third with a doodle – an abstract bloom – petals shaped like razors.

He stops and stares at it. His hand trembles, his breath hitching.

He draws it again, this time a little neater. Silver pendant – exactly like the one on your throat.

He shouldn’t.

But, for now, he was fine with just watching over you from afar. He could still care for you from this distance – he could still learn about you from this distance. The book in his hands is just another front, just as it had been before.

Edward tries not to fall out of his seat when you walk over with a cart full of books to put away. Much to his dismay – and his quiet relief – you don’t notice him. He isn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, he would’ve been able to have your attention on him. On the other hand… he knew he would do or say something that would ruin whatever impression you have of him.

His skin prickles when you’re approached by a coworker, and he concentrates to pick up on your conversation. Your coworker – a man, roughly your age – is leaning a little too casually on a bookshelf near you. The grin plastered across his face makes Edward instantly decide that he loathes it.

Edward looks down at his book, overcome with emotion. His fingers brush over the page he isn’t even reading, his head tilting just enough to catch snippets of your conversation. His heart beats faster as your voice drifts over to him – familiar, musical.

“So, are you going to the festival this weekend?” the man asks. His tone is light, playful, but Edward hears the underlying intention in it. His hands clench into fists against the table.

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” you reply cheerfully. “I’m meeting someone after work, and we’re heading there together.”

Edward freezes, his breathing suddenly becoming shallow. Someone? His stomach churns, bile rising in the back of his throat. He has memorized so many details about your life, piecing them together like an intricate mosaic, but this – this is new. He swallows hard, willing himself to keep listening.

“Nice.” He can hear your coworker’s interest in you depleting as he leans closer. “Like a date?”

You laugh softly, the sound a melody Edward has played on repeat in his mind during long nights alone. “Kind of, yeah.”

It’s a direct blow to the chest – his grip tightens on the edges of the table, and he barely registers the splinter digging into his palm.

A date? His mind races, searching for an explanation. In all the hours he’s spent watching you through your webcam, you’ve never mentioned anyone. No social media posts, no messages, no emails, no late-night phone calls he could overhear. The possibility of you being with someone else feels like a betrayal, though he knows it is irrational.

Who could it be? What could that person possibly offer you that I cannot?

The coworker’s voice pulls him back to the present. “Well, have fun. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Edward’s teeth grind together, but he honestly felt like he was drowning. The idea of this man – this smug, self-assured boy – or any other worthless being ever thinking about you made his blood boil. He – and whoever it is that you’re going to see – doesn’t deserve to speak to you, let alone share a festival with you.

Like a flame catching on dry tinder, his anger shifts into something more insidious. Whoever this “date” is, they can’t know you the way Edward does. They couldn’t have seen the quiet moments you share with yourself when you think no one is watching. They don’t know the way your brow furrows in concentration when you read, or the little sigh you make before falling asleep.

This person – whoever they are – is irrelevant. They are temporary. Edward can still have you.

The thought roots itself into his mind, a twisted kind of reassurance. He forces himself to calm down, to release the edge of the table. He was shaking, how mortifying.

You’re mine, he thinks, the words echoing

He continues to stare, unblinking, at the book before him as the conversation with the coworker ended. You disappear into the back of the store, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

In his mind, the fragments of your life he’s collected begin to shift and rearrange themselves. He imagines you at the festival, laughing and smiling, but this time – it isn’t some faceless stranger. It was with him – you’re with him. He pictures himself at your side, his hand brushing yours as you stroll through colorful booths. He’d buy you something – cotton candy, perhaps, or one of those little trinkets they sold at stalls. He pictures the way your eyes would light up when you looked at him, your eyes full of warmth. He imagines you pulling him close, your laugh filling the air as you teased him for being awkward.

You’d drag him through the featureless crowd, in search of somewhere private and quiet. Edward pleads for you to slow down, a big grin spreading across his face, making his already round cheeks appear fuller and redder. He towers over you; he knows he can stop and pull you to him. But he loves the look on your face when you glance at him over your shoulder – determined, excited. So, he would let you drag him behind a booth to wrap his arms around your body, to invite your tongue into his mouth. He would let you take him wherever your beautiful heart desired.

Edward’s chest tightens, the fantasy so vivid that he could practically taste you. But a dark cloud creeps over the bright sky in his mind, doubt seeping in.

What if you don’t want me? What if you only look at me the way you look at that coworker – like a stranger?

The thought is agonizing. He has to prove to you that he is more than a stranger – that he is someone you can trust, someone who understands you better than anyone else ever can.

As he sits there, lost in his thoughts, the anger and jealousy that burned in him earlier begins to fade, replacing with something colder. He isn’t just upset about the idea of you being with someone else – he is terrified of losing you before he ever truly had you.

Edward exhales shakily, running a hand through his hair. He can’t let that happen – he wouldn’t.

You deserve better than the faceless someone you are meeting. You deserve someone who can see you, truly see you, for everything you are.

And Edward? Edward deserves you.

It pains him that he can’t see you tonight. His chest ached, nausea had settled in his throat, and no matter how close his fan was – he was still a sweaty mess. He doesn’t even know if you went out because he couldn’t even bring himself to check. He felt terrible about not seeing you off, for not making sure you would be safe. But the thought of you dressing yourself up to be in someone else’s arms? He was almost to the point of gagging at the thought. It was almost nine, he was sure you would have already been out by now. Edward knows that if he checks your footage, he’d feel lonelier than he already does.

And yet, his finger hovers over the keyboard, trembling with anticipation.

For hours, he’s been staring at his monitor – at nothing. When he’d get tired of that, he would pace around, muttering half-formed reassurances to himself.

“You wouldn’t do that to me,” he’d whisper, his voice cracking. “You wouldn’t leave me for…”

The thought of your date burns like acid in his chest. He clenches his fists so tightly his nails leave crescents in his palms. He wipes the sweat pooling above his lip with a shaky fist. He shouldn’t look – he promised himself he wouldn’t check the webcam tonight. He wants to believe in you, to trust you, even if you didn’t know he was watching.

He drops into his chair with a frustrated groan, burying his face in his hands.

“I can’t do this.” His voice is barely audible, muffled by his palms. “I just…”

The temptation wins. It always does.

With a shaky breath, he presses the power button, and it feels like an eternity before the feed loads. The buffer symbol spins, mocking and taunting him. His breath comes in gasps as he leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of his desk. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, a frantic rhythm that seems to grow louder with every passing second.

And then—

There you are.

The feed stabilizes, and your apartment materializes before him. It’s quiet, calm – bathed in the warm, amber light of your lamp. His vision narrows, tunneling to focus on you, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe.

You’re there. You’re there.

His chest tightens, not with relief, but with something raw and unbearable – an overwhelming surge of emotions that threatens to tear him apart. You’re sitting on your couch, your legs tucked beneath you, a blanket draping over your lap. You’re reading, the soft glow of the lamping casting a halo of light around you.

Edward exhales, his breath trembling as it escapes his lips. The sound catches in his throat, almost a sob. His eyes sting, and he blinks rapidly to clear out his blurring vision.

I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t go. I knew you wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t leave me.

He’s still tense, though. Even now, as he watches you, his mind races with questions and doubts. His gaze flits over the screen, searching for any signs that someone else could be there – another coat hanging on your couch, an extra glass on the table, a shadow that doesn’t belong.

But there’s nothing. Just you.

For a long moment, he simply stares at the screen. He drinks in every detail of this scene, finding the beauty in it. A faint smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as something in the book amuses you, and he can’t help smiling back. Edward’s heart swells, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “You don’t even realize it, do you? How perfect you are?”

He imagines himself there with you, sitting on that couch. You’d be curled up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder. He’d hold you close, his fingers brushing against your soft skin. You’d laugh at something he said, and the sound would fill the room and chase away the silence that so often haunted him.

This is right. Everything about this scene is right.

Edward sits stiffly on a weathered park bench, his mind racing. As a failed attempt to clear his mind, he decided that a day spent out of his apartment would do him some good. But his fingers twitched, and he would check his watch every few seconds. He hadn’t checked in on you all day, and it was your day off. He should be at his desk, watching over you. But this was good for him – good for the both of you. People that loved each other needed breaks to refresh the relationship, he read that somewhere.

He tells himself that this is progress. Getting outside, breathing fresh air, and trying to disentangle himself from the growing knot of obsession in his mind. But even as he watches the distant chatter of families and the soft sway of trees, his thoughts circle back to you. Always to you.

He’s staring down at his shoes, the uneven laces, when something catches his attention out of the corner of his eye. It’s the kind of movement that feels significant, like the universe aligning in some inexplicable way. Slowly – almost fearfully – Edward lifts his gaze.

And there you are.

You’re walking along the park’s winding path, walking with an ease to your movements that he’s never seen before. This isn’t the you from the bookstore, hunched over a register or pushing a cart of books. This is something new – untethered and radiant.

Edward’s breath catches in his throat as his mind struggles to reconcile the version of you he’s constructed with the tangible presence of you here – now, within his reach. His heart pounds violently, a drumbeat of disbelieving exhilaration.

Then – impossibly – you glance his way.

Your steps falter, and for a brief moment, your brow furrows in thought. You almost pass him before recognition sparks across your features. And then there is your glorious smile.

“Oh, hey,” you greet casually, stopping just four feet in front from him. “Edward, right? Thought I recognized you.”

The sound of your voice – directed at him, speaking his name – almost has him choking on the air struggling to fill his lungs. His stomach lurches, his carefully curated sense of control crumbling in an instant. You’re not supposed to see him, not like this. Not when he’s unprepared, vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he manages to stammer, his voice unsteady. “Uh, it’s me.” He forces a weak smile, his lips feeling like an alien on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You smile lightly, closing the gap between you as you approach the bench.

“Small world, huh?” You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m just taking a walk on my day off. What about you? Just enjoying the abnormally good weather?”

Edward’s mind races, searching desperately for a response that won’t betray the storm inside him. You said that lightly – you made a joke – so, he should respond with the same tone.

“Yeah,” he says, but the word feels hollow and flat. “Trying to get out more. You know, clear my head.”

His hands twitch in his lap, and his blood runs cold. He forces them to stop and prays you don’t look down and notice the tent in his pants. For God’s sake, all you did was say my name.

You nod, your eyes scanning the park. Good - he has time to slowly cover his lap with his bag.

“It’s a nice day for it.” You sigh, looking back down at him. “I love this spot – feels like a little escape from the city.”

He clings to your words, filing them away as though they’re pieces of a puzzle he’s desperate to complete.

“Yeah,” he says again, cursing himself for the repetition. “It’s, uh, peaceful. Clean.”

There’s a pause, and Edward’s pulse quickens. He’s hyperaware of everything – the rustle of the leaves, the loud clash of traffic, the way the sun is hitting you. It’s overwhelming – a sensory overload that he both craves and dreads. Edward quickly thinks of anything that could ground his mind back down to earth and not how he wishes you would put your hands between his knees—

“So, how’s work been?” you ask, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen you at the bookstore a few times. Are you a big reader?”

He swallows hard, his throat dry. “Uh, yeah. I’ve been reading a lot lately. Keeps me busy.”

It’s a half-truth, but he’s not sure how to navigate this conversation without unraveling completely at your feet.

You smile again, and it’s almost too much for him to bear. “That’s great. Reading’s such a good escape, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for something fresh to read – something completely new for me.”

He’s about to respond, to offer a suggestion, when you glance at your phone and let out a small sigh.

“I should get going. Meeting a friend for lunch.”

The words knock the wind out of him. A friend. Of course. The rational part of him knows it’s nothing, but the darker corners on his mind churn with unease.

“Oh, right,” he says, forcing a tight smile. “Well, it was nice seeing you.”

“You too, Edward,” you say warmly. “Take care, okay?”

And then you’re walking way from him, your figure retreating down the path. Edward watches you go, a resonating ache spreading through his chest. The encounter was brief, fleeting, but it leaves an undeniable mark on him. You’ve crossed a boundary in his mind, stepping out of the realm of fantasy once again and becoming something else entirely.

 As he sits there, the world blurs around him, Edward’s thoughts spiral. The thrill of hearing his name on your lips – and the physical evidence of its effects on his body – is tainted by the fear of what it means to be seen. He’s spent so long observing, cataloging, being overlooked, controlling the narrative in his head. This – you – are unpredictable.

And yet, there’s something almost divine about the moment. The sunlight had wrapped around you like something heavenly, and for an instant, Edward felt the weight of his devotion crystalize. It was as though God Himself has placed you in his path today – a reminder that Edward’s reverence isn’t misplaced. How silly of him to believe that it was for a second. You are the altar at which he worships, and this meeting – this chance – was another sign for him to wake up. Another sign that he should believe and be forever grateful for you and what you have blessed his life with – your presence, your existence.

He just hoped his jacket covered his erection on his walk back home.

Edward sat on the park bench long after you’d disappeared from view. His shoulders remained hunched, his hands gripping the strap of his bag. The word around him moved on – the sky bled crimson, dogs barked – but Edward remained motionless.

You’d said his name so normally – his name. You’d said it twice, hadn’t you? Each time, it had felt like a jolt of electricity through his veins, a confirmation of your acknowledgment.

Oh, hey, Edward. Thought I recognized you.

You recognized him, you’ve thought of him. The words were simple – ordinary – but to him, they were profound. You had noticed him. You had spoken to him. Even now, as his chest tightens at the memory, his pulse quickens as he lets the moment expand in his mind.

Edward’s grip on his bag tightens. He glances down, ashamed to realize that his physical reaction to your presence still hasn’t entirely subsided. He feels filthy for it, disgusted by his lack of control. But isn’t this proof of how deeply you affect him? How utterly and completely you have him in your grasp without even trying?

He draws an unsteady breath, forcing himself to stand. He can’t stay here forever. Not when there are things to do – plans to make. He needs to make sure you arrived home safely.

But even as he sits at his desk and prepares to tune into your feed, he’s back to doubting.

What did you really think of me?

Sure, you’d smiled and spoken kindly, but you were nice to everyone. That’s just who you are. What did he do to stand out? To make you see him as anything more than a customer or a fleeting acquaintance? He needs to do more – to be more.

Edward stares at the cluttered desk in front of him. His gaze lands on a photo he’d printed of you weeks ago, one that he’s taken from your webcam feed. He picks it up carefully and smiles at it – at you.

I’ll make you see me, he thinks to himself as he smooths a finger over your face. Not just as… this. But as someone you can trust. Someone who can make you happy.

He traces the edge of the photo with his thumb, his mind already racing with possibilities. What would it take? Flowers? Gifts? Or something simpler – something more intimate? He would offer to you whatever you would want. He thinks of the way your eyes softened when you spoke to him, the way you lingered for just a moment before saying goodbye.

The next time Edward stepped into the bookstore, his heart almost leaped out of his mouth. The bell above the door chimes, and you are standing behind the counter, sorting through a stack of books. You glance up, and your face lights up again.

“Oh, hey, Edward!” you greeted.

His chest swells with something close to pride as he hears his name on your lips again.

“Hi.” He tries to keep his voice steady. “Good, good to see you again.”

You laugh softly. “Twice in one week. Nice habit we got going here.”

He clings to your words, twisting them into something deeper. A habit – you want this to become a habit.

“So.” You lean closer against the counter. “Nice bumping into you at the park.”

“Yeah,” Edward replies, tucking his hands in his pockets. “It was… nice. Seeing you outside of here.”

You smile, nodding. “It’s good to change up routines, right?”

Edward hesitates, unsure of how to respond. He wants to say something clever and make you laugh or think of him later. But all he can succeed in is mumbling another, “Yeah.”

You don’t seem to mind. You continue chatting, asking him about his recent reads and sharing a few of your own – ones he already knew you were reading.  Edward soaks in every word, every gesture, storing away the treasure you were handing to him.

And then, all too soon, the conversation was over. Another customer had approached the counter, and you’d turned your attention to them with that same kind smile. Edward lingered for a moment to watch you, before finally tearing himself away.

As the weeks passed, these encounters became more frequent. Edward was visiting the bookstore more often, always timing his visits to align with your shifts. Each interaction felt like a step closer to something. Hopefully – he prayed – he was getting closer to his goal of having you. But with every smile, every shared laugh, every unintended touch of your hand as you handed him a receipt, Edward can feel the lines between his fantasy and reality blur further. He needed to tread carefully.

He imagined a future where these moments weren’t fleeting, where he wasn’t just the stranger that you’d see but something more. Talking to you would be a casual thing, maybe you’d even reach the point where you’d both let a comfortable silence hang over when you’d be together. You’d be content with just his presence, just as he was with you. You’d hold his hands, pepper his face with kisses, tell him your every thought because you knew he would listen. He was here for you, if you’d have him. He wanted you to know that he saw you – for who you really were. That he could be someone who saw you as you could see him – fully, deeply, and irrevocably.

In the quiet of his apartment, Edward stares at the photos and notes he’s collected over the weeks. He’s traced your name on a piece of paper about a hundred times, his mind swirling with thoughts he can’t quite articulate.

This guy had no living family, you tell yourself.

But there is someone clanking things together in the kitchen. Was the information you received about the victim wrong, and he did have a family?

Or – even worse – he had come back to life.

“Good morn—”

Thwack – the blade hits the doorframe just next to the head of an unbothered Toby.

“—ing, huh-honey!” he beams, holding a stack of charred pancakes on a floral plate.

He’s wearing a frilly apron over his usual hoodie – stained cuffs and all. You’re reigning in that shake from your survival instincts before you can fully connect the dots on what the fuck was happening. Toby cooking. Toby calling you honey. Toby wearing an apron. Toby waking up before you?

“Why are you a housewife?” You can’t help but ask, voice still a little shaky.

“Just trying this place out.” He shrugs. He’d said it so plainly – like you two were playing house at every home you’d broken into.

But in reality, none of this is normal. At least, it isn’t normal for you two. These extended jobs would usually end after the second night after some stealing or even fooling around. You didn’t think twice about it at this point. These people were dead, most of their items had no use to you, and neither of you had ever used the stove. It is beyond stupid to leave evidence of further life after the death of a homeowner.

But the rustling of the duvet being pulled down by your boyfriend has brought you back. He is still beaming (and you’d just noticed he wasn’t wearing his mask or goggles) and holding up his mountain of pancakes like a prize.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you lament as the realization that you’d have to leave the most comfortable mattress you’ve ever been on hits you.

His grin only widens, blinking rapidly. “What, cuh-can’t a wife… make breakfast for her-her hardworking spouse?”

“You’re my wife now?”

“Uh. Duh.”

You don’t question it – you can’t. Because something about this display is way too endearing for you to really complain about. He kissed your cheek when you finally had the strength to get out of bed, and led you to the mess he’d made in the kitchen. You take and eat as much of the burnt pancakes that your body allows. And to your surprise – and dismay – watch as he takes out a carton of eggs. Like the pancakes weren’t already a nightmare to swallow, you sigh internally. You insisted on letting you help him, and he only obliged if you taught him how to do it himself… while hugging him from behind. And, yeah, you got elbowed a few times thanks to his tics, but it was still… sweet.

And when everything was settled – five ruined eggs later – you two sat at the small table in the kitchen.

“We’ll have to burn some documents today,” you remind him, stabbing at the yolk. “Saw some blood on the mantlepiece, but, otherwise, clean-up will be—”

“You m—… mean house chores?”

Easy, you want to correct him. It took you a second to realize he meant he wanted to call the usual routine of cleaning up evidence house chores.

Your lips twitch, and you try to tone down the dryness in your tone when you reply. “‘House chores?’ Yeah, we can call them ‘house chores.’”

You really tried, but Toby still caught on to the way your shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.

He scoffs, eyes narrowing and lips parting. “I sl-slave over a hot stove, make your-your eggs sunny-side up like you like ‘em—”

“I never said I liked them that way.”

“You do n—… now.”

You push the last unidentifiable chunk of burnt pancake or egg around your plate, eyeing him. His grin is all teeth, chin tucked down like he’s waiting for you to admit something.

“I’m begging you,” you mutter, dropping your fork. “Don’t ever cook again.”

Toby gasps, clasping a hand to his chest at your insult to his very honor.

You snort and lean forward to kiss the pout off his face, ignoring the crumb at the corner of his mouth. He still tastes faintly like syrup and smoke. His tics make the moment stutter – shoulders twitching, head giving a sharp jerk – but you just kiss through it.

After breakfast, you both move into your so-called “house chores.” The body’s already starting to smell from the corner you’d left him in, so you get to work. Toby hovers at the edge of the living room, head tilted, watching you drag the tarp with practiced ease.

“Need huh-help with that?” he asks, strangely sheepish.

You glance up from where you’re crouched. “I wouldn’t want my wife getting dirty.”

Toby grumbles something, but the way his ears flush pink says enough. He grumbles all the way to the window instead, broom in hand.

“Fuckin’ raccoons,” he mutters under his breath as he starts sweeping up the glass.

You don’t have the heart to correct the story he’s decided on. The dead man in the tarp certainly isn’t going to argue. And, honestly, it’s easier to get through the day when you treat it like a bit. Toby’s always been good at that – leaning into the performance of it all. Like if he laughs while scrubbing blood off the floor, it’s not really there. Like if he calls it “spring cleaning,” then the fireplace isn’t currently burning someone’s mortgage, passport, and evidence that could lead to public discovery of that T̷̡̠̥͓̠̲͇̏H̴̳̥̝́̽I̶̢̮̙̥̘̹̩̰͙͒͒̏̽͋͠ͅN̶̛̼̋̄͆͌͜͝G̶̡͇̝̠̬̖̺͓͔̼͒̂̓̎͊͝ ̵̱͈̞̼̺̩̙͙̐͑̿T̶̛̳̰̳͚̬̩̲̕͜͠ͅȨ̶̡̼͇̱̣͋̇̆́̽̑̕͠͝T̴͈̹̈́͗̽̎̓͋̍͘H̸̭̬̽́̅̉͋͆͝͝E̸̫͔͈̥̥̘̳̔͝͝͝R̸̛̝̮̾̓͆̆̀̂̈́E̷̮̱̜̮͎̠̪̹̺̊͑̈̓D̵̥̱̬̮̦̂͒͋͒̑̾͑̄ͅ ̶̮̠͈̳̈́̉̑̀̉͘͜͝͠͝T̵̢̝̮̼̳̠̝̉ͅO̶̪̻̱͉͓͑͛̃̐̓͌̒̓̽̈́͜ͅ ̵̢̢͔̲̺̓̇̔̉̒̆͜Y̸̹̯̱̖͕̋Ơ̵̲̳͉̝̺̳̟̏̆́̔͜Ů̷̜̩͛̓́̀Ŕ̴̡̓̽͒̌̉̽̊̎̈́ ̴̛̥͋͛̉̓̒͗͒͠S̵̡͔̖̰̹̮͕̅̓̈́̊̃Ǒ̵̢̖̤͙͉̲̹̕͠U̵̢͈̟̜͉̓̈́̕L̵̨̡̬̭̠͓̩̼̑̿̀S̸̳͈͉͕̈́͐͊.

Toby glances over at you every few minutes, face glowing like he’s waiting to be praised. Every time you pass each other, it’s always something new.

“Don’t forget the-the receipts, babe,” he calls, flicking an old envelope into the fire. “You know we duh-don’t wanna… get audited.”

“Right,” you reply sarcastically.

Later, as you’re scrubbing the mantlepiece, you hear him behind you.

“If I m—… mop the floor, he starts casually, “do I get a kuh-kiss on the cheek like a-a good little homemaker?”

You turn and are met with him batting his lashes, his lips puckered shamelessly. You want to shove his face away and laugh out a “You’re unwell,” but you let him have you anyway.

You walk over, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek, and mutter, “You’re dumb.”

“Kn-knew you loved me,” he says way too loud.

But the next time you catch him in the kitchen, he seemed to suspend his performance. He stands quietly near the sink, staring down into a chipped porcelain mug. His thumb moves slowly across the faded floral print. He follows the raised vines like they’ll reveal whatever question floats in his mind.

You don’t say anything. You just watch him trace something he can’t quite name, remembering a version of a life he never got. And how badly he wants this one to be real.

The bathroom is too small for the both of you, especially like this – half-naked, damp with sweat, hunched over the porcelain tub. The only light comes from the flickering fixture above the mirror, just enough to catch the faint red stains swirling through the suds. The blood’s mostly out of your clothes now… mostly.

Toby’s hoodie and undershirt are bunched in the corner of the tub, soaked and marbled with pink foam. His cargo pants are hung above your heads to dry, leaving him in a pair of dark boxers hanging low on his hips. Your knees and middle are sore from leaning over the edge, fingers raw from all the scrubbing and chemicals. Still, you work in tandem. Even as he (after giving up) perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, legs spread like he owns the place.

It’s gross – humid – quiet, save for the soft splash of water and Toby’s occasional vocal tic.

“M-missed a spot,” he says at one point, voice light. He points to a dark red smeak near the armpit of your hoodie.

“You gonna do it?” you ask without looking up.

“Nope,” he chirps. “Wife’s off duty.”

You huff out a laugh, and it echoes strangely between you. The walls are too close, the air too still. The mirror – fogged-over – watched you both like an eye that’s seen far too much.

Eventually, the tub’s full of pale pink water, and the worst of the stains are gone – at least enough to pass. You wring out the final shirt, your hands aching from the cold, and drape it across the bent shower rod.

And now… you wait.

Toby stands slowly, joints cracking. His skin is pale, mottled in places, and scabbed in others. You sit side-by-side on the edge of the tub, damp knees bumping once, twice. And, for a while, it’s quiet.

You’re not even sure why you say it.

Maybe it’s that hanging silence, or it’s the surreal feeling settling over your skin like a second layer. It’s wet fabric clinging to damp flesh – a reminder that the blood on your clothes was real, that someone died here, that your boyfriend is humming under his breath in a dead man’s house and calling himself your wife. Maybe it’s the way Toby keeps glancing at the mirror like he’s waiting to see something reflected that isn’t there.

Or maybe it’s the fact that you can see him clinging to this fantasy with a grip so tight it’s starting to leave marks.

You say it – you can’t wait any longer.

“You know this isn’t real, right?”

Toby’s still smiling, lips curled up at the corners and twitching more obviously where his gash exposes most of his teeth. It’s like you’d just told a joke he already knew the punchline to. But then it falters – barely, but it does. A flicker. Another twitch. It’s enough to expose the frayed edge underneath his composure. Like something inside him just tore a little.

His voice, when he speaks, is too soft to be teasing. “Why not?”

It has you hesitating. “Toby…”

He shifts on the lip of the tub, spine going ramrod straight, his shoulders pulled tight like a puppet’s. his fingers flex and curl against his thighs. The smile’s still there – but now it looks too sharp and stretched beyond his left cheek. It’s not quite manic or performative, just wrong. It’s a mask that’s beginning to peel away from the skin.

And when he looks at you – eyes wide – his whole body trembles. Not with the erratic tics and spasms that come and go without warning, but something quieter. It quakes beneath the surface, too deliberate to be a symptom.

It’s not his body reacting – it’s him.

He leans in, breath ghosting your jaw. He’s close enough you can feel the heat from his skin, close enough to smell the scorched sugar from those god-awful pancakes. His voice is low and trembling.

“Doesn’t… doesn’t it f-feel… good pretending?”

And – fuck – it does.

You want to deny it. You want to remind yourself what you’ve done, what he’s done, what you’re passed the point of. But the lie is too sweet. It’s in the softness of his hands when he passed you the dish soap. It’s in the way the fireplace crackled when you burned old bank statements together. It’s in the way his thumb lingered on that mug when you caught him.

It’s in the way he tucked you into bed last night with a soft kiss not meant as a joke.

You look around; the damp clothes, the ruined bath, the sound of water dripping from the tap into the silence. And it does feel good – horrible, fake, beautiful.

The quiet. The clean floors. The mattress with just enough give to feel like comfort. Toby sweeping up glass. The apron. The kisses. The food you choked down on because he made it with a kind of sincerity that frightened you more than his violence ever could.

It’s twisted. It’s yours.

He watches you now like a stray waiting to be told to leave. His beautiful brown eyes are hooded now, his chin tilted up just enough, waiting patiently for a slap or the meeting of your lips. Because if you say the wrong thing, he could vanish in a puff of smoke – or worse, he’ll stay and never quite come back from where he’s gone in his head.

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

“Let’s go to bed, honey.” It’s silly as it whispers out of your lips, like you were some husband in a sitcom.

But that’s all it takes.

His hands find your face, his fingers too rough and clumsy from years of scar tissue and nerve damage. He can’t feel the heat in your skin, but he whimpers against your lips like he can. His lips crash into yours, crooked and open and too wet. Your teeth knock, tongues licking into each other. All need, no finesse. Like he’s been married to you for decades and just clawed his way out of the grave to find you again. He’s not kissing you; he’s devouring you – starved of you. His hands grab at your shoulders, your waist, your arms, like he’s checking for seams. Like if he finds a zipper, he’ll uncover this moment was just a costume. You know he’d be devastated if it were true, but it’s the morbid curiosity of the moment. You feel his chest shake as he presses against you, and you don’t know if he’s laughing or sobbing.

You nearly trip over a towel trying to stand, and he’s already pulling at you, pulling you out of the bathroom by your wrist. You’re leaving wet footprints in your wake, and you don’t even make it to the bedroom before a folding table buckles under your backs as you slam into it. The collision sends a stack of unopened letters fluttering to the ground.

Toby doesn’t stop kissing you. His mouth is frantic, wet, bordering on painful with the way he’s gripping your face like it’s the last solid thing ina  burning building. His breath comes ragged, nose brushing yours, moaning softly into your lips every time your hips shift and something presses against him just right.

His hips rut into you – again, again – like he doesn’t know what else to do. Not even with any rhythm, just pure instinct. Just needing to feel you, push into you, smear himself over you like he can fuse your skin to his and finally be safe somewhere. He fumbles at your waist, then your chest, then your hair. His twitchy fingers dragging, grabbing, squeezing you. He wants to touch everything at once and has no idea where to start.

You gasp when his teeth catches your lip too hard, and he jerks back instantly, pupils blown.

“Shit—s-sorry—fuck—I’ve never… done this as a wuh-wife before.”

“You’re terrible at it,” you manage to whisper, smiling and flushed from the sting and the heat coiling between your legs.

“Rude,” he pants. “Ungrateful bastard.”

You bark out a laugh, somehwhere caught in a moan and a choke. He groans, crashing his mouth back into yours like your laughter drew him in. You’re not sure if he wants to shove something down your throat or take something out at the same time.

He presses his forehead to yours – shuddering – and you feel his fingers twitch where they’ve curled into your damp waistband. His voice is unsteady, stuttering even in his breathing. He murmurs something that could’ve been your name, another apology, or a curse. But he lowers his mouth to your throat all the same.

Every kiss is hot and open-mouthed, dragging along your skin as if attempting to warm you from the outside in. His tongue flicks against your collarbone, glides up to your jaw, then back down to leave little gasps and twitches in his wake. He bites, then soothes, then kisses.

Your hips grind together – slow, awkward, messy. There’s not enough friction, and yet it’s still too much. You can feel him through his boxers, already straining, rutting into the thin fabric between you with mindless, embarrassing desperation. He pants your name into your neck.

“I’d-I’d be s-s-so good at it,” he whispers hoarsely, stammering. “If we h-had a real p—… place. If we ev-ever got out.”

You already are, you almost tell him.

Because he’s a mess above you, his body trembling with effort, his voice caught between sobs and laughter, mouthing at your skin like he can leave marks until the world is something better. For just a second, you believe it’s real. That Toby is really all yours, and you can go wherever you two decide. You can get that dog he’s always wanted. You can let him kiss you into embarrassment in public. You could get married at a stupid young age, or maybe even not ever. You’d have all the time in the world that you pretended you had now.

Pretending hurts less than the truth. And isn’t that obvious? Toby sure seemed to master it.

And you love him for that. For all of it.

For now, it’s enough to let him keep going. To push his boxers down his thighs and hiss against his mouth. To guide his hand between your legs and let him touch you like he’d learned to. And when you arch up and shudder, he sobs your name like he’s dying with you.

You don’t bother getting out of bed today, not when you know you’d basically be a ghost. That slow, insidious shadow of insecurity has won you over. Whoever you talk to, they’ll only lose interest the second you open your mouth. The slightest shift of their gaze to something else would certainly send you down a spiral. It was exhausting. You only want to save yourself from that disappointment, you tell yourself. It’s so cloudy in your mind that you don’t even notice the soft click of your door opening.

As you stare at the wall, the hollow ache in your chest tightens, Jack lingers in the doorway for a long moment.

“Feeling tired today?” he asks, the air shifting around him. His voice is low, with an unnatural smooth stillness to it. There’s curiosity laced between his words, he’s making sure there’s no demand for you to spill what you’ve been bottling up. You swallow, debating whether to answer at all or pretend to be asleep instead. What was the point?

“I guess,” you mutter, turning your face into your pillow.

Jack doesn’t move, weighing his options. Then, soundlessly, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. The room feels significantly smaller with him in it, but not in a suffocating way. You’re hit with the urge to tell him everything, but you’re not sure he’ll understand.

He doesn’t push or pry – instead, he sits beside you on the bed. You can feel the weight of him near you, and you slowly turn to lay on your back. For a while, the only sound in the room is the quiet hum of your own breath.

You sigh, rubbing at your tired eyes.

“I just… I feel like no one actually… listens,” you admit. His silent patience working to make you spill your words before you can stop them. “Like… I could disappear and no one would notice.”

The silence that follows is different from before, and you swear you saw him flinch. Jack doesn’t react immediately, but you feel the tension in him. His fingers twitch where they rest on his knee.

“I would notice,” he says in the same steady, deliberate tone.

Your breath hitches.

Jack isn’t one for unnecessary words. He never speaks just to fill space; never said things he didn’t mean. And now, as his voice settles and soothes you, you know with certainty that it is the truth.

He shifts slightly, his head tilting as he continues. “I hear you. Even when you don’t speak.”

You turn your head toward him, searching for something in the expressionless mask he always wears. The dark voids where his eyes should be give away nothing, but his voice holds a quiet sincerity that makes your vision blur.

“I listen,” he says, softer now. “Because you listen to me.”

Your voice cracks. “Jack—”

“I know I don’t always say things out loud,” he interrupts, as if anticipating your doubt. “But I notice everything. I notice you.”

You swallow the lump formed in your throat, the tears streaming down the sides of your face. No one had ever said that to you before – not like this.

“You don’t have to be loud for me to hear you.”

Something in you finished cracking at that, the exhaustion pressing against your ribs suddenly lifting. Jack’s presence has always been quiet, but now you realize that his silence isn’t indifferent. He existed in the background like you did, unnoticed by most, but never by you. You shut your eyes tight, letting out a shaky exhale.

Slowly, cautiously, his gloved hand moves over to your face. The rough texture of his thumb glides over your warm cheek to wipe your tears. Jack isn’t one for physical affection, but this silent reassurance moved you beyond words.

You swallow hard, then shift to lift the edge of your blanket.

Jack hesitates, then, without a word, he slides under the covers beside you. His body – steady and solid against you – runs cooler than yours, but you find the contrast comforting. You cuddle up to him, and he inclines his head to press it against yours.

A small giggle bubbles up while you finish wiping at your tears as you feel the smooth, cool material of his mask pressing against your cheek.

Jack tenses slightly at the sound. “What?”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just… your mask.”

He lets out a low exhale, something close to a chuckle. You hesitate for only a moment before lifting your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the surface of the mask. It isn’t much – just a light brush of your lips against the material – but it is enough to make Jack go completely still beside you. He leans his mask closer to you, as if deepening the kiss, earning another soft laugh from you. Hie hand tightens ever so slightly around yours, and neither of you speak after that. There is no need. For the first time in a long time, you feel heard.

pairing: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

contains: angst (but not a lot i dont think), hurt/comfort, fluff

word count: 834

The silence in the cabin presses against your ears, making you hyperaware of every creak in the floorboards. You had tried – again and again – to interject into conversations with the others, but each time, someone else spoke over you. It was a familiar feeling by now, one you are used to. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You had joked about it before, played it off like it didn’t bother you. “Guess I’m just too easy to talk over,” you laughed once, expecting nothing from it. But Toby had tilted his head at you and said, “If you-you really had s-s… something important to suh-say, you’d just say it louder.”

You hadn’t said anything, but what he said stung. It solidified all your fears and insecurities because it had come from your boyfriend, of all people. He hadn’t meant to hurt you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t echo in your mind every now and then. It would sit heavily in your chest even now, as you sit there, arms wrapped around yourself in the dim cabin light.

Toby seemed oblivious. He was busy fidgeting, his foot bouncing where he sat on the worn-out couch beside you. He was always talking, always moving. It’s easy to assume he doesn’t really pay attention to the details of things – especially not you.

Then came the final straw. You had finally worked up the nerve to say something, to try again. You had barely gotten the first few words out before Toby, not even realizing, barreled over your sentence with his own tangent. And that was it. You shut down.

Your shoulders slump, and you press your lips into a thin line. You stop trying – looking at the floor instead. Toby doesn’t notice at first, and he keeps talking like nothing happened. But something must have clicked. The way your face went black, the way you had been trying all night and now you weren’t saying anything at all.

Toby tilts his head at you, squinting. “Hey-hey, you’re doing that sad thing. Stop… that.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

Toby goes still.

For anyone else, that wouldn’t mean much – but Toby was never still. The jittery, twitchy energy that hums under his skin suddenly settles, his dark eyes staying locked on your face. “Bullshit.”

You try to wave him off, but he grabs your wrist.

“C’mon,” he presses, his voice just a little softer. “Wuh-what’s wrong?”

You pause. Maybe it’s the way his usual chaotic energy had faded, or maybe it is the way he sounds like he cares – really cares.

You test him, letting the silence drag out. To your surprise, he doesn’t press, sensing that you are truly upset.

“I just... feel like no one listens to me,” you reveal, finally looking at him.

He’s still silent, waiting for you to continue. But years of keeping to yourself have constricted your throat, and all you want to do is cry instead. You quickly regret saying anything, your mind scrambling for any way you could turn this into a joke. But then, his mouth pulls into a frown.

“That’s stupid – of course, I listen to you.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Do you?”

His frown deepens. “Yeah, I… do. I mean… maybe I s-s-suck at showin’ it, but I do.”

His hands twitch against his thighs before he leans forward, eyes bright with something fierce.

“You always com-complain about wanting to p-…pick out something new when we go out to-to eat, but you never do. You act-act like you will, but you… you don’t. You hum when you’re ner-nervous. And-and that dumb joke you…made about elephants the other day? I stuh-still think about it. It was funny.”

You blink. “…What?”

His knee starts bouncing again, his neck twitching to the side for a moment.

“You think I… don’t hear you juh-just ‘cause I talk a lot? I hear everything.” His voice lowers to a more serious tone. “I hate being-being ignored. Hate it. And you—” His breath hitches, and he swallows before continuing. “You shuh-shouldn’t have to feel l-like that.”

The sincerity in his voice creates a warmth that spreads through your chest. Tears well up for a moment because of how seen you felt.

Toby watches you for a moment before launching himself across the couch. You barely have time to react before you’re tackled into a bone-crushing hug. He wraps his arms around you so tightly that it steals your breath. He peppers your face in loud, dramatic kisses as he rocks you back and forth.

“You’re s-so-so dumb,” he mutters into your shoulder, his words muffled. “Thinkin’ no one…listens to yuh-you. I listen. And if any-anyone else ever ignores you, I-I’ll cut their tongue o-off. No one ignores… my person.”

You let out a half-exasperated, startled laugh. “Toby.”

“Not jokin’.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, a grin tugging at his lips.

The room stretches upward, spiraling to an unseen paradise. The air feels thick, and his view of the world is heavy. The shelves move never-endingly; they were no longer neat rows of books but towering spirals getting sucked into a luminous void behind your figure.

His breath catches as you finally turn to look at him, a kind smile on your face. You approach him with the grace of someone who already knew his every thought, every longing—someone who had chosen him. Your steps are soundless on the polished floors, and he feels an impossible pull to be closer to you, as though his soul is tethered to yours. He can almost not feel the pain in his chest. A throbbing, pulsing hurt that recedes once you get close enough. Or maybe it was that the pain had consumed him enough that he grew numb to it. It doesn’t matter in the end, you’re here now. You are warm, kind, and comforting – a stark contrast to the strange, twisted cathedral around you.

Your hands are soft, the kind of touch that felt both maternal and intimate. You cup his face like you were cradling something precious. Your thumbs graze over his cheeks in a way that makes his eyes sting. He is too afraid of you disappearing if he blinks. Your face tilts, studying him like he has any worth. He is fragile and tender, so tender. Edward feels cherished – safe. His knees shake slightly under the weight of this moment, but he fights it. He should be on his knees before you, but he wanted to stay between the warmth of your hands. As he gazes up at you, he can’t help but tremble.

For a moment, there is only peace – a powerful, sacred peace.

A whimper escapes him as you apply pressure to his face, fingers digging into his skin. Your nails sting while you grip him tightly, the smile on your face unwavering. Your fingers press harder, squeezing so hard that his mouth falls open with a sharp cry. And just as the pain started to become overwhelming, your grip loosens.

One of your hands slides down, dragging your nails over the curve of his neck, down his chest, and it burns. Edward shudders under your touch, the sensation not entirely painful, not entirely comforting – just too much. He swallows hard. The heat of desire and shame tangle together in a painful knot.

Then, the words came. Soft, lilting, but slicing through him.

“You’re disgusting.”

The words – so cruel – come from a place where malice and sweetness are one and the same. Your smile, still welcoming and pleasant, belies the puncture of your statement. His confusion makes him dizzy. There is nothing that feels right about the words, nothing logical about them, and yet… they are the only thing that make sense. They are what he needs to hear. He flinches, his body responding involuntarily.

His heart hammers in his chest as you tilt his chin up, your thumb pressing into his skin in a way that makes him ache. He feels small and insignificant under your gaze. The hand that wasn’t on his face travels lower, palming and pressing against his groin with deliberate force. His mind screams at him to reject the sensation, but his body betrays him. He jerks, hips twitching into your palm – seeking more of that sinful pressure. He can’t breathe, can’t think as his chest heaves. The shame twists inside him as his eyes widen.

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice cracking as the smallest shift in your hold on him causes him to moan.

You lean in, your face hovering just inches from his. Your beath was warm on his trembling lips.

“Filthy, filthy thing,” you whisper, the words ghosting against his skin.

The bookstore around you both begins to collapse, the arches crumbling into darkness. The shelves twist, warp, bend in on themselves. The golden light dims to an abyssal void – yet you remain bathed in a holy light. He is consumed by you – by your presence, by your touch, by the haunting words. You hold him in place, your smile syrupy and mocking as you get closer to him. He reaches for you just as your lips brush his.

Edward wakes up with a strangled cry, drenched in sweat. He bolts upright, wide eyes attempting to make out anything in the darkness of his apartment. His heart pounds like a drum, and painfully. The sensation of your touch still scorches his skin as his mind races. He touches his face where your hands had been.

There is a purpose to that dream, he rationalizes, you’re calling to me – touching me beyond this plane of reality.

Edward sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the empty coffee mug on his desk. The remnants of the dream still cling to him like a phantom touch. He’s spent the better part of an hour replaying it in his head. The way your voice had curled around that single phrase – “You’re disgusting” – makes him shiver even now. He is repulsed by the fact his body seems to enjoy how you insulted him with such a loving tone.

He needs to get out of his apartment.

It was suffocating him now. It was logical to get out, wasn’t it? He has been cooped up here for too long, buried in the glow of his monitors and the labyrinth of code he’s been pouring over for weeks. Normal people went out to public places. They sat in cafes, walked in parks, and – yes – they read in bookstores. It wasn’t suspicious for him to do so. It wasn’t strange.

I need to take care of myself.

The thin veneer of his words failed to hide the truth he is unwilling to admit. His attention drifts to the books relevant to his research on his desk. And now, here he is, preparing to go back to the same bookstore under the flimsiest of excuses.

Edward stands and moves to his closet, fingers brushing over the very few neatly hung shirts as he tries to decide what to wear. It wasn’t like this was a date – it wasn’t – but he can’t help the flutter of nerves in his chest as he debates between the gray sweater that makes him look softer or the green button-up that matches his eyes.

He settles on the sweater. Soft was better. Non-threatening. Approachable.

Next comes his hair. He stands in front of the cracked mirror, meticulously combing it into place only to muss it up again. He runs his fingers through it over and over, muttering under his breath how it refused to cooperate. Finally, he gives up and leaves it as it is. He wipes his glasses clean on the corner of his sweater, holding them up to the light to check for smudges. He can’t help but picture you noticing them, leaning in close with a teasing smirk to point out a speck he’d missed. The thought makes his cheeks flush, and he shoves the glasses back onto his face almost frantically.

“Okay,” he whispers, taking a deep breath and facing his mirror again. He attempts at practicing a warm, friendly smile – but it seems too unnatural on his face. He raises a hand and waves, practicing what he’d do if he saw you. “Hello. How, how are you today?”

It was completely normal for me to rehearse like this. I’ve seen it in movies.

Doubt creeps in as he assures himself.

He sits back down on his mattress, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Was this really okay? As self-reproach gnaws at him, he replays the dream – your voice just as sharp and cutting as you call him disgusting.

Edward’s stomach churns. Maybe he is disgusting. He shuts his eyes tight, trying to block out the image of your kindhearted, smiling face from the dream. The image of your hands had roamed over him, one of them traveling lower and lower until—

“No,” he snaps, standing abruptly. He can’t let his mind go there; he can’t let his body failing him again before he stepped out the door. He doesn’t have time to touch himself – to relieve himself – again.

He paces the room, his steps uneven and hurried. He mutters to himself that it’s fine to go to your bookstore with no other reason than to just be there.

With a determined breath, he grabs his coat and slings it over his shoulders. He hesitates only once more at the door. His hand stills over the knob as your voice echoes in his mind again, soft and cruel all at once. “Filthy, filthy thing.”

His grip tightens, his knuckles whitening around the doorknob as he shoves the memory aside. Instead, he focuses on the warmth of your touch – the comfort he felt as you held his face in your hands.

Edward steps out into the deafening silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him with a resolute click. He tells himself that he isn’t walking toward you. He isn’t trying to chase the fleeting connection he felt in the dream. He is only going to read.

And that isn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Edward pauses in the doorway of the bookstore for a moment, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of paper. There were a decent amount of patrons this evening, the distant hum of conversation creating a low symphony of activity. Edward’s gaze sweeps the room until he catches sight of you. You stand behind the counter, your back to him as you help someone. Even from this distance, you are magnetic. Your presence commands his focus with the same intensity as the figure in his dream—

His heart beats so fast it feels like it might bruise his ribs. The dream! It was vivid and consuming, filling his chest with reverence, dread, and arousal.

“Just… sit,” he tells himself, forcing his legs to move away from you.

He wanders through the aisles, feigning interest in the messily arranged books but barely registers the titles. His sole focus was finding the perfect vantage point. At last, he finds it – a small table tucked into a corner with a direct line of sight to the counter.

He sinks into the chair with a small smile, placing the book he’d grabbed at random on the table in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edges of the pages. His eyes flick up to you every few seconds despite his best efforts to focus on the text.

Stop staring, he berates himself. You’re making it obvious.

But your pull is too strong. Each glance was a sin, a stolen moment of connection.

Edward’s mind begins to betray him as the dream bleeds into reality. In the dim bookstore light, your form seems to glow faintly. The edges of your silhouette blur and he blinks hard, trying to dispel the illusion.

“You’re disgusting.”

He whips his head to the right, a soft gasp on his lips. You were not there – nobody was. The words echo in his mind and his stomach twists. He snaps his attention back to his book, suddenly feeling like all eyes were on him. You didn’t say that. You wouldn’t – not to me.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he feels your hands snake all over his body. He was starting to feel remorseful again, but it isn’t enough to make him leave.

Then it happens.

You turn, making eye contact with him almost immediately, as if you had felt his presence. For a moment, your eyes meet, and you smile. A smile that was merely a polite gesture to others, but to him, it was as inconsequential as it was devastating.

Edward’s heart hammers so loudly that he is certain you are able to hear it. His face flushes, and he quickly looks back down to read the words swimming before his eyes in a meaningless blur.

You saw me.

The thought reverberates in his mind, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. He clings to the image of your smile. It is everything to him. A slow smile spreads across his face, eyes wild and glued to a single word on the page. “Passion.” It is almost fitting – actually, it is perfectly fitting.

The minutes tick by, stretching into an eternity as he sits there and sneaks glances when he thinks you won’t notice. He can’t stop – not even when each look feels like a delicious risk.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a darker thought begins to spread. This isn’t enough. Sitting here, watching you from afar. It is a poor substitute for what he truly wants. What he truly needs.

Edward swallows dryly, his hands gripping the book as his imagination runs wild. He pictures you looking at him the way you had in the dream – not with polite indifference. But with a look of intensity of someone who wanted him.

You’re touching yourself – or touching him, he can’t tell from the proximity – breathing heavily and looking at him with half-lidded eyes. Neither of you are wearing any clothes. He can feel your skin, but his mind refuses to conjure up what your body might look like even as he desperately tries to look down at you. You both moan, sweat covering both of your bodies in a sticky tangle of limbs. The fantasy spirals, painting an intense picture of you closing the distance between you. What he believes is your perfect, naked body on top of his – thighs caging his hips and grinding sensually as you throw your head back in pleasure. He's embarrassingly loud, sputtering and panting like a dog while you’re mewling softly and elegantly.

He grunts in frustration, trying to squint and make out your peaked nipples or how your heat rides his length in vain. His hands grab onto your hips to bring you impossibly closer to his stuttering hips – he was so close. You look down at him to smile sweetly. It softens into something fond as you lean down to whisper in his ear. He can almost feel your breath on him, hear the saccharine venom of your words—

“Stop it,” he says under his breath, shaking his head to dislodge the fantasy.

He needs to leave. He’s throbbing with a discomfort that borders on pain.

Edward stands, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he pushes it back. He grabs the book and returns it to the nearest shelf, his movements clumsy. As he makes his way to the door, he can’t resist stealing one last glance at you. You are busy again, helping yet another customer with the same warm grin that had shattered his composure moments before.

The bell chimes violently as he steps outside, the cold evening air hitting him like a splash of cold water. That’s what he needs – a cold shower. He shoves his hands into his pockets, his mind buzzing with visions of him and you. He was disgusting.

The water steams down Edward’s back in scalding rivulets, but it does little to wash away the lingering sensations of the day. His shower was supposed to be freezing – a penance to purge himself of the memory of your smile and the fantasy that followed. Yet, it hadn’t taken long for his resolve to crumble.

Edward had given in – his mind stuck on every detail of your fleeting glance at the bookstore, every imagined touch from the dream and fantasy. He’d cursed himself through gritted teeth even as his body betrayed him, chasing an unbearable high that left him slumped against the shower wall. He felt ashamed and hollow.

Steam fills the small bathroom, the heat now oppressive as his mind begins to clear. Edward slides down on the wet tiles, burying his face in his hands. The sound of water drowns out his sobs.

The words from his dream ricochet through him, cutting through the fog of his exhaustion. He winces, stomach feeling like it’s coiling at the memory – no longer making him feel aroused.

No, you’re wrong, he protests pathetically. I’m not disgusting. This isn’t disgusting.

He clings to the threadbare justification like a lifeline, dragging himself back to his feet as the water cools to a lukewarm drizzle. Edward shuts off the shower, the sudden silence amplifies the turmoil in his mind.

He dries himself and avoids his reflection in the mirror, unable to face the pale figure staring back at him. Instead, he focuses on his hands – hands that had sinned against you. The same hands that would someday cradle your face like you had done his. If only he could make you understand.  

Back in his room, Edward plops down into the creaky chair at his desk. Like a robot, he searches for your computer. The webcam feed blinks at him, and there you are again. At the sight of you, he almost wants to cry once more. The smile from the bookstore lingers in his mind. His eyes drank in the soft curve of your lips, the way your hands moved as you organized something on your desk. The image of your hands from his fantasies resurfaces, making his heart ache.

“Thank you.” Edward wets his lips, his voice a dry whisper in the quiet room. “For bringing this angel into my life.”

He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocking tightly in prayer. He isn’t sure who he was thanking – a god he’d long since abandoned, fate, or perhaps the dream itself. All he knows is that he feels chosen, as though your existence is a message meant solely for him.

Everything was perfect. Your unawareness made the connection so pure. If you knew, it would ruin everything – turn his devotion into something you might reject.

But tonight, the feed flickered.

It was a subtle thing at first, the kind of anomaly that Edward might have brushed off on another night. A momentary glitch, a lag in the stream – that was normal. But when it dared to happen again – this time accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible pop-op in the corner of the screen – his focused sharpened. And so did rage. The muscles in his jaw tighten as a cold prickle of unease crawls up his spine.

“What the hell…” he murmurs, leaning closer to the screen. His fingers dance across the keyboard precision born of obsession. He pulls up the backend of the hacked website, bypassing its layers with a practiced ease. The usual thrill of discovery that accompanies his hacking was absent, now replaced by a gnawing anxiety.

The truth hits him like a physical blow. Someone else was accessing the feed.

Edward freezes, his breath suddenly catching in his throat and refusing to return to normal. The very idea was an affront, a desecration of something sacred. Who would dare? Who would dare intrude on you – and him – like this?

His mind races, paranoia sharpening into anger. His hands tremble as he navigates through the data logs, tracing the IP addresses of recent visitors. There were multiple intrusions, but one stood out. Most of the other ones have only been there for a minute or two – seemingly getting bored and moving onto the next webcam. But a single, persistent user has been accessing your webcam feed almost as consistently as Edward has. The thought of it made Edward’s stomach churn. Someone else was watching you, seeing what he saw. The idea was unbearable – sickening. They wouldn’t respect you like he would, they were monsters. It was as though someone had entered a confessional and stolen his absolution, twisting his holy act of devotion into something profane.

They don’t deserve you.

His vision blurs as a flood of possessiveness surges through him, dark and unrelenting. The sacred connection he has cultivated, the bond he believes fate has bestowed upon him, was being violated. This is wrong. This isn’t fair.

But then, a darker thought starts to take root. What if they hurt you?

His pulse quickens. Of course, that had to be it. He wasn’t the only one capable of hacking into a camera, but most people don’t do it for the same reasons he does. He wasn’t like them. He wasn’t some predator – he was different. He is different. He was meant to protect you, and he has finally been given his chance to.

“Yes.” His hands tighten into fists. “I’m protecting you. I’m going to.”

He repeats the words like a mantra, each syllable solidifying his resolve. This isn’t about jealousy – not entirely. It’s about your safety. If someone else was watching you, it is his duty to stop them. They don’t see you the way he does – they don’t understand how special you are. They won’t respect you, or your privacy. They won’t, they won’t, they won’t. Not like he did.

Edward’s anger crystallizes into a cold, calculating determination. He is going to find this intruder, and he will eliminate the threat.

Leaning back in his chair, he adjusts his glasses and stretches his neck. His fingers move with mechanical precision as he begins the hunt. IP logs, data packets, shared streams – Edward dissects them all, his mind working faster than it ever has before. Each clue brings him closer and closer to his target. The rage simmering beneath his skin makes it harder to think clearly. He pauses for a moment, running a hand through his hair. He huffs, hoping that he would release some of the steam. He needs to focus. This isn’t about rage; it was about justice. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, imagining your face as he had seen it earlier this evening. The calm the image brought him was fleeting, but it was enough.

Edward’s hands resume their work, the faint clicks of the keyboard punctuating the silence. Time is of the essence.

And Edward knows one thing with absolute certainty: by the end of the night, you would be his to guard – completely.

He knew he shouldn’t, but Edward was starting to look at this like a game. A game where he could prove to himself how devoted he was to you. A part of him felt the thrill of a challenge, the rush of problem-solving. But it was all muted beneath the weight of his purpose.

He wasn’t breaking into your computer for fun. This isn’t just another project – another puzzle to solve. It was for you.

“Almost there,” he mutters under his breath. He had spent hours piecing together fragments of your life in his journal, studying the details you had unknowingly offered him: the name of your childhood pet (gleamed from an old blog post), your favorite numbers (a recurring theme on your profiles), and the song lists you’d referenced in passing on your social media. Each clue led him closer, narrowing down the possibilities until he eventually found the key.

Edward is all smiles when he finally gains access. With a triumphant click, your computer’s desktop blinks into view on his screen. The modest, organized space is filled with folders and icons that felt distinctly, intimately you. His heart races as he leans closer, his glasses catching the light. He begins to hesitate. This was a threshold, a boundary he hasn’t yet crossed – though he’s gotten close before. But something always held him back, something he was feeling now. He told himself that this was for your own good, but deep down, he knew this was about making you his.

I’m not like them, he assures you in his head.

His fortitude hardens as he navigates through your system. It didn’t take him too long to find the exploit – a vulnerability that had allowed someone else to access your webcam feed. Edward’s lips press into a thin line as he disables it, erasing the traces of intrusion with ruthless efficiency.

There. No one else will see you now. Only me.

But… this isn’t enough. Edward needs more than just the satisfaction of locking others out. He needs to make sure he can always watch over you somehow. His fingers move swiftly as he sets up a secure backdoor, embedding himself into the heart of your system. The code he is writing is elegant, seamless—a private key that only he can use.

He pauses to stare at the lines of code on his screen. This was his signature, his mark upon your world. It was as if he was carving his name into the edges of your existence – claiming a piece of you for himself. And you would be protected because of it. The tension in his shoulders eases as a wave of pride washes over him. He did it – he protected you, just as he vowed to do.

Still, Edward wasn’t finished. His fingers start to move again, installing anti-malware software onto your system and setting up subtle security measures to keep your webcam undetected for good. He adjusts your settings so that no one—not even you—would notice anything out of the ordinary. When he’s done, Edward sits back to stare at the screen. The webcam feed is still there – still live – but now it feels different. It is not just a window into your life anymore; it is a fortress, a sanctuary that only he can enter.

You’re safe now.

There was something deific about you in this unguarded state. The flicker of your laptop screen against your skin, the way you rub your neck absentmindedly as you work – it all struck him with the force of revelation. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way – it wasn’t right to claim you, not like this. But wasn’t it inevitable? Wasn’t it fate that had drawn him to you? He had been chosen – guided by something greater than himself – to find you and watch over you. This world was undeserving of you, and he would make sure you knew your importance as much as he could. Even if you weren’t aware of his efforts.

Edward’s gaze lingers on the feed as he watches you type on your laptop, blissfully unaware of the lengths he has gone for you. And he knows in his heart, you would be proud of him if you knew. You’d thank him – maybe even kiss him. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He stayed there – watching you – for hours, eyes never leaving the screen. He barely moved; his breath shallow as he watched you go through your nightly schedule. The intensity of his focus was almost meditative, a sacred act that left no room for distraction. By the time you had turned off your laptop and left the room, Edward felt the strangest mixture of satisfaction and longing. The feed was dark now, but that didn’t matter much. He could still see you – still feel you in his mind’s eye.

Edward’s heart is still buzzing with the afterglow of victory – but now he couldn’t sleep. You had long since gone to bed, and nothing but darkness appears from your webcam feed. His glasses sit crooked on his face, pushed askew during the hours of relentless focus. He didn’t fix them like he usually would. Instead, his mind wanders, unraveling a thousand threads of thought that all began and ended with you. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how natural this all felt. Protecting you wasn’t just an impulse; it was his duty, his purpose.

His fingers drum lightly on the desk as ideas begin to take shape in his mind – the online world isn’t enough anymore. He had secured your digital existence, locked down your safety where others couldn’t reach, but what about the rest of your life? What about the people you interacted with every day, the places you went, the dangers you didn’t even see while walking through Gotham?

Edward sits up straighter in his chair, his gaze sharpening. He could just imagine how many people had lingered for too long at your counter. How their eyes looked over you as though they had the right to admire you. Maybe a coworker of yours would laugh a little too hard at your jokes, as though he could ever understand the complexity of your mind the way Edward did. It appalls him.

They don’t deserve to be near you.

It wasn’t just unbridled possessiveness, it was love – pure, selfless love. He is the only one who truly understands you, and he would go mad for you if he had to.

His imagination wanders further, unfurling visions of the ways he can guard you more closely. He pictures himself trailing behind you on your walk home, staying far enough away that you wouldn’t notice but close enough to intervene if some animal approached. He imagines slipping into the bookstore unnoticed, keeping an eye out if your coworker or a customer smiled at you, ready to step in if it ever went too far.

Edward’s breath quickens as the fantasies grow darker, more vivid. He imagines greedy hands snatching you into the shadows of grimy alleys, someone sneaking into your home. The thought has him clenching his teeth. But the anger melts into something softer and sweeter: the vision of him stepping in to save you. You’d look up at him with gratitude, maybe even love.

The rational part of his mind—the part that had once questioned the morality of his actions—was now silent. It was drowned out by the growing tide of his obsession. This wasn’t about morality anymore – it was about what was right. And what was right was ensuring was your safety. He could almost feel your presence as he closes his eyes, letting a shiver run through him. He can hear your sweet voice in the back of his mind. If protecting you meant crossing more lines, pushing further into the shadows, then so be it. He was going to do whatever it took.

His hands keep you firmly planted in his lap as he nuzzles closer, grabbing at you – your thighs, your hips. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. He hums in response, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw, sending heat pooling low in your stomach. You let your head tilt to the side, granting him more access as your hands lightly scratch at his hair.

“You’re gonna wear me out,” you murmur, though there isn’t an ounce of compliant in your voice.

“F-five more… more min-minutes,” he whines, his words slightly muffled from his spot on your neck.

You huff in response, still feigning annoyance, but you know you’re not going anywhere. Not when he’s being like this – clingy and affectionate. Wanting to see his pretty face – and to torture him a little – you pull his head back by his hair. He moans, but it’s his lips that your eyes zone in on. His lips, already so red and swollen from all the kissing, curve into the faintest pout. Your gaze lingers on his flushed face – on the way his brows knit, on the way his eyes are still closed in anticipation. You know you’ll never get enough of him.

You press another unhurried, deliberate kiss to his lips, savoring the way his breath hitches and the pleased sounds you swallow. His lips move against yours in a lazy rhythm, warm and slightly chapped, but perfect all the same. You can feel the slight tremor in his breath every time you press closer, his mouth molding to yours. There is something desperate in the way he kisses you – like he could never get you close enough.

You feel his fingers curl into your sweater, holding you closer as his kisses become more insistent. He lets out a quiet, broken sound when your teeth scape against his lip, and you feel your stomach flip when his hand slips up your back. His other hand squeezes your thigh, sending a jolt up your leg.

His kisses move again from your lips to your jaw, trailing down your neck in a languid, heated path. The transition from lips to neck was now seamless, his mouth moving with such ease that it leaves you breathless. The taste of him lingers in your tongue – faintly sweet – as his tongue glides against your neck again.

Toby lets out another small whine when you try to shift in his lap, his arms locking tighter around your waist. You’re about to tease him when your laugh turns into a startled gasp as Toby shifts beneath you, rolling you over onto the couch. Toby’s grin is unrepentant, his fingers skimming over your sides as he pushes your sweater up.

“Oops,” he mutters, the corners of his lips quirking up.

He leans to your lips to leave a quick kiss on your lips, pulling a giggle from you. He kisses the side of your mouth, nibbles at your jaw, and leaves a hot trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck. His teeth scrape gently against your skin, followed by the soothing press of his tongue – leaving ticklish tingles in their wake. His hands continue their work, bunching up the soft fabric of your sweater.

When his lips finally reach your stomach, you can’t suppress the shiver the rips through you. Toby lingers there, kissing above your navel then over the sensitive skin just above your waistband. His nose brushes against you as he nuzzles closer.

“Toby,” you murmur as you squirm.

He glances up at you through his eyelashes. “Hmm?”