lilzabunnies ꩜˚｡⋆

The cabin was small but it felt even smaller tonight, the walls closing in around you. The fire popped low in the hearth. Outside, the woods pressed against the glass, black and endless.

Toby had been restless all evening pacing, muttering, giggling to himself. Every few minutes his head jerked violently, hands twitching, fingers clawing at nothing.

You stayed on the bed, knees drawn up, watching him carefully. It had been like this before, but tonight there was something different in the way his eyes wouldn’t focus, the way his breathing came ragged and shallow.

“Y-you’re too quiet,” he stammered suddenly, turning to look at you. “Why are you s-so quiet? What are you thinking?”

You forced your voice to stay soft. “I’m just… worried about you.”

Something flickered across his face a crack in the mask. His lips trembled. Then he gave a sharp, barking laugh that made your skin crawl.

“You’re worried a-ab-about me?” His stutter dragged at the words. “You think I’m pathetic, don’t y-you? You think I’m some freak.”

“No,” you whispered. “I never said that.”

But it was too late. His breathing hitched, shoulders rising. His fingers dug into his own hair, yanking hard enough to make his scalp bleed.

“I c-can’t stop it, can’t stop it,” he muttered. “It’s in my head, it’s in my head—”

Before you could move, he grabbed his knife from the table. In one quick motion, he slashed his forearm. Blood welled up immediately, bright against his sleeve.

“Toby!” You scrambled off the bed, reaching for him. “Stop, stop—”

He ignored you, dragging the blade again. His breath came out in broken sobs. “I c-can’t do it, can’t be normal, can’t—”

You grabbed his arm, trying to wrestle the knife away. “Please, you’re hurting yourself—”

His eyes snapped up to yours. They were wild, unfocused, glinting in the firelight.

And then he turned on you.

With a violent jerk, he wrenched his arm free and grabbed you by the front of your shirt. In one movement he lifted you off your feet like you weighed nothing, slamming you back against the cabin wall. The impact rattled through your body, the air punched out of your lungs.

“You’re lying!” he screamed, face inches from yours, spittle hitting your cheek. “You d-don’t care about me, you’re scared of me, you hate me!”

His grip shifted to your shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He shook you once, twice, violently, your head snapping back against the wood.

“I keep you safe!” he howled, stutter turning each word into a jagged edge. “I feed you, I protect you, and you—y-you think I’m a monster?”

You gasped, tears blurring your vision. “I don’t—Toby, please, you’re hurting me—”

He slammed his fist into the wall beside your head, wood cracking. You flinched, expecting the next blow to be yours. But then his face crumpled.

“No, no, no,” he whimpered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it—”

His hands dropped from your shoulders and went to his head, clawing at his scalp, smearing blood across his face. He sank to his knees, curling in on himself, sobbing.

“I’m bad, I’m bad, I’m bad,” he chanted, rocking. “I hurt you, I’ll ruin you, I’ll kill myself—”

Your knees buckled but you forced yourself down to his level. “Stop, please stop,” you whispered, reaching for him. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around your waist so tight you could barely breathe. His blood smeared your shirt, his sobs shaking both your bodies. He pressed his forehead to your stomach, teeth clenching in the fabric like an animal.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, voice hoarse. “I love you, I love you, please don’t leave me, you’re all I h-have—”

You stroked his hair with trembling hands, pulling his head to your chest. “I’m here,” you murmured, rocking him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He clung tighter, pressing his face against you, his tears soaking your skin. You tried to keep your voice steady, whispering soothing nonsense as he hiccupped and cried, his body shaking with aftershocks.

Minutes dragged on. His sobs grew quieter but his grip never loosened. Eventually he shifted, curling fully into your lap like a child, his arms still locked around you. His breath hitched once, twice… then slowed.

His eyes fluttered shut. His mouth went slack, drool wetting your shirt as his whole body went heavy in your arms.

He slept like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t bled, or screamed, or lifted you like a ragdoll and slammed you into the wall.

You sat there on the floor, trembling, his weight pinning you down. Blood stained your hands, your shirt, the floorboards.

You kept stroking his hair anyway, murmuring softly to him, because you knew what would happen if he woke up alone.

Outside, the forest was silent. Inside, you realized you weren’t just scared of Toby.

You were scared of what you were becoming.

The cabin smelled of damp wood and cigarette smoke. Outside, the forest moaned under the weight of the coming storm, trees bending like supplicants. Wind rattled the windowpanes, and every gust sent a low whistle through the cracks.

Tim sat by the window, big shoulders hunched, cigarette glowing like an ember in the dim light. You could feel his mood building with the weather sharp, unpredictable.

You moved quietly around the kitchen, your bare feet whispering against the boards. You’d learned that silence was survival, especially on days when the sky itself seemed ready to break.

He didn’t turn his head as you worked. Just watched, the way he always did. He liked to see you moving through the cabin like a small ghost, busying your hands. You could feel the weight of his eyes on your back.

Another gust hit, making the cabin shudder. A thin crack appeared in the glass, snaking from the corner of the window.

Tim exhaled a long stream of smoke and muttered, “Damn weather. Place is falling apart.”

“I’ll fix dinner early,” you whispered, keeping your voice soft. “It’ll be ready before it gets worse.”

His eyes flicked to you, sharp as knives. “You don’t tell me what you’ll do. You ask.”

You froze. “I’m sorry. Should I make dinner now?”

His jaw worked, but then he grinned, smoke curling from his teeth. “That’s better. Good girl.”

The praise washed over you like warm water, even as your stomach twisted. You nodded quickly, turning back to the counter before he could change his mind.

The storm rolled in hard. Rain hammered the roof, branches clawed at the walls. The light dimmed until it felt like evening though it was still early afternoon. You stirred the pot on the stove, careful not to spill, listening to Tim’s pacing behind you.

He hated waiting. Hated storms. Hated anything that reminded him he wasn’t in control. His boots thumped against the floor in a slow, angry rhythm. Smoke from his fourth cigarette drifted past your shoulder.

“I said salt,” he growled suddenly.

You jumped. “I—yes, Tim.” You reached for the tin with trembling hands.

He came up behind you, towering, his heat radiating through your thin shirt. “Hands steady,” he said, voice low. “If you spill it…”

“I won’t.”

He stayed there anyway, close enough that the ash from his cigarette threatened to fall into the pot. His free hand slid onto your hip, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. You tried to focus on the spoon, not on the grip or the smell of smoke.

“Good girl,” he murmured when you didn’t spill. His tone was soft, but the grip on your hip tightened. “Always do as you’re told.”

“Yes, Tim.”

Thunder cracked, loud and sudden. You flinched before you could stop yourself. His hand left your hip, only to snap against the back of your thigh. The sting bloomed instantly.

“Don’t jump at noise,” he snapped. “Makes you sloppy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Try again.”

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

He exhaled, long and slow. “Better.”

Dinner was silent except for the sound of rain hammering the roof. You set his plate down exactly where he liked it and waited for his verdict, your hands clasped in front of you. He cut a piece of meat and ate without comment. Another piece. Another.

Finally he looked up. “Good.”

Relief flooded you. “Thank you.”

He smirked. “Thank me for not losing my temper. You’re learning.”

You nodded. “Thank you, Tim.”

The storm outside raged harder, like the world was trying to claw its way in. The door rattled once in the wind, and your heart leapt. You imagined someone out there another hunter, a lost hiker hearing the sound of cutlery inside, seeing the flicker of light through the curtains. But no knock came. No voice. Just rain and wind and the smell of smoke.

Tim lit another cigarette and leaned back, watching you with half-lidded eyes. “C’mere,” he said, crooking a finger.

You crossed the room, small and quiet. He reached up, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down into his lap. The weight of his arm closed around your waist like a shackle.

“You’re my calm little thing,” he said, almost affectionate. “Storm like this, and you don’t even cry.”

You swallowed. “I wouldn’t.”

His hand slid up your back, slow and rough. “Good girl.” He said it like a benediction, like a leash.

Outside, thunder rolled so loud it shook the floor. You sat still, heart hammering against your ribs, his hand heavy on you. You wanted to run. You wanted to hide. But you stayed, because staying was survival.

Tim pressed his mouth to your ear. “You know why I keep you, don’t you?”

You whispered, “Because I belong to you.”

He smiled against your skin. “Say it louder.”

“I belong to you.”

Another flash of lightning lit the room like a camera’s flash. In that second, you saw your reflection in the dark window his big body, your small frame perched on his lap, his arm around you like a predator’s paw over prey.

The thunder swallowed the sound of your breath.

Tim’s fingers brushed your cheek. “That’s my girl. Always mine. Even when the world tries to knock at the door.”

“Yes, Tim,” you whispered.

He exhaled smoke against your throat, warm and acrid. “Don’t ever forget it.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his chest the way he wanted. Outside, the storm clawed at the cabin, but it never broke through. Inside, his hand stroked your hair in a motion that might have been tenderness if not for the bruises on your skin.

You stayed very still, the way you’d learned. You felt his praise settle on you like chains disguised as a blanket.

And though you knew the door was locked, and the storm was only weather, you realized you’d stopped hoping anyone would ever come.

The cabin was quiet except for the steady tick of the old clock on the wall. The woods outside were silent, smothered in stillness, and it made the small room feel even more like a cage. You stood near the dresser, fidgeting with the fabric Brian had tossed at you.

A sweater. Pale blue. Softer than anything else you owned here. You ran your fingers over the knit, confused, almost hopeful.

Brian sat back in the chair, long legs stretched out, one ankle crossed lazily over the other. His hood was pulled low, the cigarette between his fingers trailing thin smoke. He tilted his head, watching you with that unreadable half-smile.

“Well?” His voice was even, patient in that way that was worse than anger. “Put it on.”

You hesitated. “Now?”

He chuckled, low and amused. “What did I say?”

Your throat tightened. You slid the sweater over your head, tugging it down, the fabric clinging to your body awkwardly. It was too long in the arms, hanging past your hands, swallowing you whole. You looked ridiculous.

Brian’s eyes swept over you slowly. He leaned back further in his chair, smirk deepening. “Huh. Thought it would look cute. But it just makes you look small. Pathetic.”

Heat burned your cheeks. You dropped your gaze, pulling at the sleeves like you could hide in them.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You lifted your eyes. His were sharp, glinting under the shadow of his hood. He let the silence stretch until it became unbearable.

“You really thought you looked pretty in it, didn’t you?” he murmured, mocking. “Poor thing.”

The humiliation struck like a knife. Your throat ached, and before you could stop it, your eyes stung. Tears welled, spilling over hot against your skin.

Brian laughed, short and sharp, smoke curling from his mouth. “There she goes. My pretty little thing, crying already.”

“I—I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“Sorry for what?”

“For… for not looking right.”

His smirk widened. He stubbed the cigarette out slowly, deliberately, then leaned forward in the chair. “Come here.”

You hesitated. His brow arched, and you obeyed, shuffling toward him with your head down. When you reached his knees, he caught your wrist, tugging you down into his lap in one smooth motion.

The sweater bunched up awkwardly as you landed against him, small and trembling. He wrapped one strong arm around your waist, the other hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over the tears.

“There now,” he murmured, the same voice someone might use to calm a frightened child. “Don’t cry. Not your fault you’re clumsy. Not your fault you’re mine.”

He pressed a kiss to your damp cheek, then another at the corner of your eye. His lips were soft, his tone soothing, as if he hadn’t just made you cry on purpose.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” he whispered. “So damn pretty. That’s why I do it. Why I have to see it.” His thumb smeared a tear across your skin. “Can’t help myself.”

You shuddered in his lap, caught between shame and the fragile warmth of his touch. His arm tightened around you like a lock.

“That’s my good girl,” he said finally, rocking you slightly, as if he were comforting you. “Always so easy to break. Always mine to put back together.”

The clock ticked. The woods stayed silent. And you let yourself be soothed, because you knew better than to fight it.

Tim Wright

Tim is absolutely sadistic. He gets off on seeing you cry, on hearing you scream, on the way you beg him to stop even though you know he won’t. Power is everything to him the rush of knowing he’s in control and you can’t stop him is half the point. He thrives on degradation, on breaking you down with sharp words as much as with rough hands. Gun play? Definitely. He’ll press the cold barrel against your skin just to watch you flinch. CNC is a given with him he likes that push and pull, the fight, the reminder that your body is his no matter what you say. He’s got a thing for titles, too; “sir” or “daddy” makes him grin like the sadistic bastard he is. Has a thing for age gaps. Very controversial also probably had a corruption kink. You’re just so sweet and pretty, it drives him mad. Tim isn’t interested in gentleness. He’s a dom through and through, and he needs to be the one in control because losing it isn’t an option.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s more refined in his cruelty, but that doesn’t make him any softer. Weapon play is one of his favorites knives, guns, anything that makes your fear spike. He loves watching your face shift from defiance to terror, drinking it in like it’s a performance made just for him. He wants you in pretty things, frilly bra’s, lace panties. Absolutely feral. He’ll lace sharp degradation with sudden bursts of praise, keeping you off balance, making you crave his approval even when he’s tearing you apart with words. He’ll edge you until you’re squirming, gasping, begging then laugh and pull away just when you’re at your breaking point. Brian loves control, but he’s not rigid about it; if you ride him, he’ll let you, smirking the whole time, because he knows he’s still the one pulling the strings. Compared to Tim or Toby, he’s not as brutally rough, but he’s nowhere near Jack’s eerie gentleness either. He plays with you, like a predator batting around prey, just to see how long you’ll last before you shatter.

Toby Rogers

Toby’s a mess when it comes to intimacy. He wants to cherish you, to make you feel good, but he doesn’t know how and he gets carried away every single time. He craves your praise more than anything. Tell him he’s good, tell him you love him, and he’ll unravel in your hands. He’s needy, desperate, a little bit wild. TOTAL munch. He’s big on biting and scratching, and if you scratch him back he completely loses it. He’s obsessed with marking you, making sure no one else could ever look at you without seeing him written all over your skin. Maybe has some sort of breeding kink? There’s definitely a power dynamic at play he wants to be in control, to prove himself, but the second you push back he falters, slipping from dom to boyish desperation and back again. It’s rough, clumsy, and sometimes overwhelming, but that’s Toby: intense, chaotic, and so hopelessly eager that it borders on dangerous.

EJ

Jack is… unnerving. He doesn’t come at intimacy with chaos or noise; his darkness is quieter, heavier. Predator/prey dynamics are his bread and butter he likes the chase, the cornering, the fear. Knife play, blood play, CNC all of it fits him perfectly. He’ll tie you up with methodical precision, binding you until you’re completely helpless, and then take his time exploring every reaction. He doesn’t want to make you cry, but if it happens? He’ll tilt his head, watch you silently, and keep going. His gentleness is unsettling because it doesn’t feel like care it feels like examination, like he’s testing how much you can take before you break. He’s deliberate with every movement, never rushed, never careless. Jack’s the kind of man who would murmur about breeding you, about the thought of you swollen with his child, not out of love but as another way to stake his claim. With him, intimacy is ritual, ownership, and submission carved into your skin.

Tim Wright

Tim doesn’t make love, he takes it. There’s nothing soft or romantic about the way he handles you it’s rough, sharp, like he’s punishing you for something you didn’t even do. He’s not above using his strength against you either, holding you down, pinning your wrists, forcing you to move at his pace whether you want to or not. He doesn’t care if it hurts, doesn’t stop if you ask him to slow down if anything, that edge of fear only feeds him. It’s about power, always about power, and proving to you over and over again that you’re his to use. Afterwards he doesn’t comfort you he’ll light a cigarette, wipe the sweat from his face, kiss your forehead and throw you a compliment like he’s doing you a favour. He expects you to clean up, to fall in line, to lay back down and press yourself against his chest. For Tim, intimacy is just another way to remind you he owns you, body and soul, and there’s no escaping it.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s cruelty comes dressed in silk. He knows exactly what he’s doing, every calculated touch designed to pull you apart while keeping you under his thumb. He whispers sweet things just to see you melt, then mocks you for being so desperate. He’ll slow down just when you need more, pull away when you’re begging, laugh when you cry. It’s all a game to him dangling what you want just out of reach and watching you break. He doesn’t lose control he doesn’t even raise his voice. He keeps himself perfectly calm, perfectly in control, like a cat toying with a mouse. When it’s over, he doesn’t hold you or even look at you like a person just smirks, dismisses you with a cold “that’ll do,” and goes about his night. To Brian, your body isn’t yours at all. It’s his stage, his entertainment, and you exist to perform for him whether you like it or not.

Toby Rogers

Toby is chaos in the flesh. He clings, bites, scratches his desperation is suffocating, and he doesn’t stop even when it hurts. He’ll beg and whimper, then suddenly snap, holding you too tight, forcing you into whatever rhythm he wants like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he lets go. He says he loves you, over and over, but it comes out like a threat. He doesn’t know when to stop doesn’t even realize when he’s hurting you and by the time he notices, it’s already too late. He’ll cry after, shaking, begging for forgiveness, saying he only did it because he loves you too much. And you’ll end up soothing him, brushing his hair back, telling him it’s okay even though it isn’t. With Toby, intimacy feels less like being loved and more like being consumed, broken down until you don’t know where you end and he begins.

EJ

Jack is the most terrifying because he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t rush, doesn’t lose control. He moves slow, deliberate, like he’s dissecting you piece by piece. He’ll hold you in place, force you to take whatever he gives you, ignoring your tears like they’re irrelevant. He doesn’t use affection, doesn’t bother with comfort his silence is worse than any cruelty because you can’t tell what he’s thinking, only that he’s in complete control. He doesn’t need to shout or strike you; the stillness, the precision, the weight of his gaze is enough to break you. When it’s over, he doesn’t hold you, doesn’t kiss you he just lies there, staring, as if he’s memorizing every inch of you for later. With Jack, intimacy isn’t passion or even desperation it’s a ritual of ownership. He’s not loving you he’s claiming you, and there’s no part of you left untouched by it.

Tim Wright

Tim’s “rewards” come in bursts, like storms breaking. When you do what he wants, when you’re quiet and obedient, he suddenly becomes generous in a way that almost feels like whiplash. He’ll take you into town for a day, buy you something small but expensive, cook your favorite meal, or hold you close on the sofa as though nothing bad has ever happened. He’s rough even in his tenderness his hands heavy on your shoulders, his kisses firm enough to bruise but there’s a warmth underneath it that makes you crave it anyway. That’s the trap. He’s violent, unpredictable, but when he gives you praise, when he calls you a “good girl” and tells you how proud he is, it feels like sunlight after weeks of rain. You start working for it without even realizing, molding yourself to earn those fleeting moments of calm.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s rewards are calculated, almost ritualistic. When you’ve pleased him, he becomes indulgent new clothes, new perfumes, little luxuries you never asked for. He’ll bring you coffee just the way you like it, light a cigarette and hold it to your lips, let you sit on his lap in his office while he works. It feels like being let into a private world, and that’s exactly what he wants you to think. His praise is quiet, murmured under his breath “that’s better,” “good girl,” “just like that” and the approval is so rare that when it comes, it hits like a drug. He rewards obedience with attention, gifts, and glimpses of softness that make you forget how cold he can be.

Toby Rogers

Toby’s rewards are messy but sincere. When you’ve been “good” in his eyes, he becomes almost childlike clingy, affectionate, desperate to touch you. He’ll cook you a meal (badly), bring back a random trinket from the woods, or sit at your feet while you brush his hair, mumbling about how lucky he is. Sometimes he’ll take you to his “special places” in the forest, little clearings or streams only he knows about, like he’s showing you a secret. He doesn’t really know how to show gratitude without overdoing it, so his rewards come as smothering attention and sudden acts of kindness. It feels sweet on the surface, but it’s also a reminder of how much he needs you and how much of your life is tied up in keeping him calm.

EJ

Jack’s rewards are subtle, but they cut deep. He’s not affectionate by default, so when you meet his standards, when you’ve done everything “right,” he lets the mask slip just enough to show you warmth. A quiet “thank you,” a rare smile, a hand brushing your hair back as you sit by the lake together. He might cook you something himself for once, or bring back a bottle of wine and insist on a meal at the table, just the two of you. He’ll buy you elegant things a coat, a necklace, a book he thinks you’ll like but it’s never random. Every gift is deliberate, tied to an action he’s pleased with. His rewards feel like rituals: if you do X, you get Y. It trains you without him having to raise his voice, turning his rare affection into something you’ll do anything to earn.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s punishments are mind games, pure and simple. If you slip up, he’ll twist it into a lesson not by yelling, but by showing you just how powerless you really are. He’ll lie without hesitation, convincing you of things that never happened, gaslighting you until you’re unsure what’s real anymore. Sometimes he’ll leave you waiting for him for hours, saying he’ll be back at sunset and not showing until dawn, just to watch how anxious and desperate you get. Other times, he’ll withhold something you need: food, warmth, comfort. Not in an obvious way, but subtle enough that you question if he’s really doing it on purpose. He punishes by eroding your sense of reality, by making you feel like you can’t trust your own mind until the only thing you can trust is him.

Toby Rogers

Toby punishes with chaos. If you upset him, you’ll find yourself in the middle of one of his spirals, and there’s no predicting how far he’ll take it. He might tear through the house, smashing dishes, breaking furniture, throwing things in every direction until you’re forced to clean up after him like a child. Or he might turn it inward, cutting or burning himself right in front of you, making you watch, making you panic, until the guilt crushes you. Sometimes he flips it completely he’ll lock himself in a room and refuse to come out for hours, even days, leaving you terrified something’s happened. His punishments aren’t planned, they’re raw and messy, but that makes them worse. You’re always on edge, waiting for the explosion, knowing that whatever happens, you’ll be the one left patching the damage to him, to the house, to yourself.

Jack

Jack punishes with discipline, like he’s training you into the version of yourself he wants. If you displease him, he’ll assign you tasks scrubbing the floors until your knees ache, standing in silence until he gives permission to sit, redoing chores over and over until they meet his impossible standards. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t hit. He just makes you work. And if you complain, the punishment doubles. Sometimes he’ll even make you sit across from him at the table in total silence while he eats, forcing you to watch, not allowing you to touch your own plate until he says so. It’s cruel, but in a way that feels deliberate, methodical. He doesn’t want to scare you into obedience he wants to train you into it, shape you like clay until you break yourself trying to live up to what he demands.

Tim Wright

Tim punishes with force as much as control. If you step out of line, he doesn’t just lock the doors or take away your freedom he makes sure you feel it. He’s not above grabbing your arm hard enough to leave bruises, slamming you into a wall to remind you how much stronger he is, shouting so close to your face that your ears ring. Sometimes it’s quick, a shove or a strike that takes the air out of your lungs, other times it’s a drawn-out storm him dragging you back inside, throwing things, tearing the room apart just to make you cower in the corner. When he calms down, he’ll act like it wasn’t that bad, like you provoked him and he had no choice. And then he’ll flip brushing the hair out of your face, kissing your forehead, telling you he loves you too much to ever let you go. With Tim, punishment is violent, immediate, and terrifying. He wants you to remember the bruises every time you think about testing him again.

Tim Wright

You know when guys say they don’t want a dog and act like it’s the dumbest idea in the world, but then you catch them secretly loving it? That’s Definitely Tim, except way moodier about it. He’ll talk endless shit, complain about the noise, the mess, the money it costs, but then you’ll catch him outside throwing a ball like he’s having the time of his life. Totally hated the idea at first and honestly, you probably just found it wandering the woods (because where else would you even get one?) and he swore it was a waste of time. But if you take full responsibility, keep it trained, keep it quiet, he won’t put up too much of a fight. Still, he’ll hold a grudge over it, the kind he’ll drag into every argument. “I let you have that damn dog, remember?” As if that makes up for all he outed you though. He’s so off-and-on with it that the poor dog gets mixed signals all the time. One day he’s fine, slipping it scraps under the table, and the next he’s shoving it away like it’s the worst mistake you’ve ever made. And when his temper’s bad? He won’t hesitate to lash out. The loyalty of an animal means nothing to him it’s just another reminder that his control over you isn’t as absolute as he wants it to be.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s the type who’d just come home one day with a kitten like it’s no big deal. Maybe you’d mentioned it once in passing, maybe he just got the idea in his head and decided it was happening. He’s not exactly an animal lover, but out of all of them, he’s probably the most proactive about it. At first, he’d feed it, maybe let it curl up beside him while he works, absentmindedly stroking its fur when he’s in the mood. But Brian gets bored fast, and novelty wears off quicker than he’ll admit. Before long, the kitten’s care falls entirely on you. Unless you’re meticulous cleaning up after it, making sure it’s fed, giving it the attention Brian won’t the poor thing’s neglected. He won’t outright hurt it, but he’s cold about it, detached, treating it more like furniture than something alive. And yet, there’s something unsettling in the way he watches you care for it as if the animal’s just another test, another way to measure how far your patience, and your loyalty to him, will stretch before breaking.

Toby Rogers

Toby is such a baby he would get jealous of the dog, no question. He’s clingy enough with you, so the second your attention shifts to anything else, even a puppy, he’s sulking. The only reason he brings one home in the first place is guilt he feels bad for leaving you alone, so he shows up one day with this wiggly thing in his arms and instantly regrets it. He’s not a good pet parent at all. I don’t even think he likes animals honestly, he probably goes out of his way to hurt them when no one’s looking. Sick fuck. He and the dog would basically be enemies, locked in a constant silent battle of stink-eye and growls. And because Toby already hates when you leave the house, the fact that you have to walk the dog just sets him off even more. It all builds until one day he suddenly offers to take it out himself super suspicious since the only time he’s ever acknowledged the thing was to insult it. Hours later, he comes back alone, blank expression, claiming it ran off. You know better, though. The way he brushes off your questions, the way he refuses to meet your eyes it’s obvious the dog never stood a chance.

EJ

Jack’s probably the most chill about pets, but “chill” doesn’t mean affectionate. He just… doesn’t care. Out of all animals, he’d only tolerate a cat anything messier, louder, or needier would be out of the question. He can’t stand the chaos, the hair, the barking. A cat, though, fits into his routine. Quiet, clean, unobtrusive. He won’t help look after it, not even a little, but unlike the others, he doesn’t openly resent it either. It’s just there. He’ll ignore it most of the time, watching with mild disdain when it jumps onto the furniture, but sometimes he’ll surprise you by coming back from a trip with a toy or a bag of treats, like it crossed his mind in passing. Still, it’s not about affection it’s more like practicality. A cat is self-sufficient, like him. He doesn’t want to bond with it, doesn’t even want it near him most of the time. But he doesn’t mind it either. To Jack, the cat is acceptable background noise in a life where everything else is carefully measured and controlled.

How i imagine the creeps living situation:

I think there’d be a mansion somewhere, buried deep in the american wilderness. Somewhere big, unforgiving and spooky. But honestly, most of the creeps wouldn’t live there maybe a few of the entities, sure, but not the rest. It feels impractical, almost tacky. Like some gaudy display piece that doesn’t match their lives at all. It gives me the ick just thinking about it. I picture most of them scattered instead, tucked away in little isolated houses half-hidden in the forest or pressed up against the mountainside. A few more “normal presenting” ones would probably blend into nearby villages, living undercover, keeping their heads down. The rest? Off on their own, minding business you’d rather not know about.

Tim Wright

Tim feels like the type to keep a cabin that’s still somewhat accessible, not completely cut off. Out of the proxies, I imagine he’s the one who gets the most visitors usually hunters or junk collectors passing through. No one comes specifically for him; it’s too out of the way for that. But every now and then you’ll see strangers drifting by, asking after “that big boy of yours,” and you learn to smile and send them off quick. There’s a little barn out back, too, and you’ve seen him dragging bags into it late at night. You don’t ask, and you don’t go near it you know better. Tim’s one of the most controlling, no question. Strong, masculine, possessive, he’s determined to be your provider. In his head, you don’t need anyone else, and he doesn’t trust what others might try. Safe to say you don’t leave the cabin often, and your interactions are limited to Brian, Toby, or the occasional hunter who doesn’t know what they’ve stumbled into. He’s traditional to the core: expects you to handle the housework, the meals, the laundry. Affection isn’t really his thing, but sometimes he’ll come home at dusk, shoulders heavy, jacket thrown down on the couch. He’ll give you a rough kiss, a muttered praise, and then expect his supper waiting for him at the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I said it in my last head cannon, but i don’t think Tim would have a problem ‘putting you in your place’ if you upset him. Has absolutely no problem backhanding you across the face or shoving you over when he thinks you aren’t giving him enough respect.

Brian Thomas

Brian’s house is even more tucked away than Tim’s smaller, quieter, and more carefully kept. It’s not much, but he takes pride in it: a compact kitchen, a plain living room, a small office that he treats like it’s off-limits, your shared bedroom, one bathroom, and an attic you never climb into. The place sits in a clearing with fields stretching just far enough to make you feel exposed, even though you’re still surrounded by trees. Unlike Tim, Brian actually likes going into the nearest village, blending in, testing how invisible he can be. He isn’t as controlling as the others he’ll let you socialize here and there, though he doesn’t want you wandering far without him. What he does instead is spoil you. He’ll come home with pretty clothes in your size, ribbons and bows for your hair, luxurious toiletries and perfume that’s far too expensive to have just come from “the shops,” though that’s all he’ll ever tell you. He wants you to be soft, polished, beautiful dressed up like a doll for him. Brian isn’t traditional in the same sense as Tim or Jack he doesn’t demand a housewife. Still, he won’t complain if he comes home to things neat and tidy. He likes order, he likes control and if he comes home to you wearing the things he brought you, looking just the way he wants, ready to satisfy his ‘needs’ that’s engraved for him.

Toby Rogers

Almost completely isolated, Toby still has access to nearby towns and villages, though you never get visitors other than his colleagues and that’s just how he wants it. It’s not that he’s trying to cut you off, at least not in his mind he just doesn’t want anyone putting “silly ideas” in your head. He’s insecure, jealous to the bone, and he convinces himself it’s safer for you this way. The cottage you live in? He probably built it himself. It’s small, cozy, almost painfully homely. The most advanced technology you’ve got is a boxy old TV from the late 80s, all static and fuzzy channels, or the temperamental landline he insists on using to call whenever he’s away for more than a few hours. He’s not a tech guy never has been, never will be and he likes that you don’t have easy access to anything beyond him. Like Tim, Toby gets off on being your provider, but his version is twisted in a different way. He doesn’t just want to give you things, he wants to do everything for you. He needs you completely reliant on him, so he’ll dress you, wash you, brush your hair with careful hands, even spoon-feed you if you let him. Some days it feels tender, almost sweet, but there’s a sharp edge underneath because it’s not really about care, it’s about control. He needs to know you couldn’t function without him, that you wouldn’t last a day if he walked out and never came back. He clings to that dependency, sometimes to the point of smothering. And when he spirals when his mood swings hit and he decides you don’t appreciate what he does the comfort of the cottage turns on its head, and suddenly you realize how trapped you really are.

EJ

Jack doesn’t even really know where his own house is, that’s how deep in the wilderness it sits. It’s so isolated that even he gets irritated sometimes by how far out of the way it is. The trek back home is long, brutal, and he hates making it which is why when he goes hunting, he does it in big batches, storing up meat and supplies so he can stretch them out over weeks. Practical to the bone, everything he does is about efficiency, about not wasting energy. And while he’s not particularly bothered about you socializing, the truth is there’s no one around to socialize with anyway. Unlike the proxies, he doesn’t have any obligations pulling people toward his home. You get no visitors. No one’s going to stumble across the cabin by chance. You’re completely alone with him. The cabin itself is placed beside a small, glassy lake. Peaceful, almost deceptively so. In summer, if you like swimming, it almost feels like paradise but it’s the kind of beauty that feels wrong, like you’re the only people left in the world. Jack’s standards are sky-high, and he makes no secret of them. He expects the housework done by you, his food to be prepared by you, no matter how grim the meet might be after sitting in storage. He has no interest in lowering himself to chores. Still, he does spoil you though not in Brian’s indulgent, playful way. For Jack, it’s calculated. He’ll keep you stocked with elegant clothing that he thinks befits you, expensive toiletries or perfumes you’ve mentioned off-hand, but never too much, never excessive. He wants you to be beautiful in a way that reflects him polished, poised, refined a quiet extension of his own taste. And if you fall short of that expectation, he doesn’t need to scream or rage. He’ll just go cold, dismissive, leaving you to twist in the silence until you force yourself back into the mold he’s set for you.

He went hollow the moment you stopped moving like a thing someone could tuck into a corner and forget.

Panic carved his face deeper, made the clean side look raw with grief.

For a second he sat so still,

almost frozen in thought,

breath coming short and brittle,

as if he’d been running and refused to stop.

Then he moved,

frantic with a motion that thought it could stitch the world back together.

Hands too eager,

too sure.

He yanked a scarf from the drawer without asking and wrapped it around your wrists. Tight to tight: the way someone would slam a door to hard.

The fabric smelled of him cedar, stale smoke, the small dirt of him and every pull of the knot sent a little electric prickle along your skin: no slipping away. “F-f-for now,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “J-just for now. I c-can’t… I c-can’t let you go when I’m scared you’ll vanish.”

His fingers fluttered along your forearms like a man checking for a pulse that might lie to him.

When his thumb brushed the sensitive inside of your wrist he flinched as if scalded and then laughed high, shaking, breathless.

“S-see? S-still you,” he said, like a benediction.

He wouldn’t stop touching you.

It wasn’t tenderness so much as inspection: a mania of proof.

He smoothed the hem of your dress with careful, frantic motions, rearranged the blanket across your knees as if making you into something holy.

He took your hand and pressed it flat to his chest

hot,

rigged,

damp,

“I r-remember everything. Every smile. Every look.” The way he said it made the words feel like a binding.

When you reached, testing the knot with a finger as if the scarf were for your safety, he jumped and shoved a chair hard against the door.

His hands were all motion then: sealing and clearing, a contradiction he could not sit with. “I w-won’t let them take you back,” he said without looking up, voice a rush of air. “I w-won’t let them put you through their hands again.”

He fetched scissors from the kitchen and sat on the floor across from you, knees nearly brushing. He cut, not at you but at the frayed ends of the blanket, the loose strands of the scarf, the threads of the dress. Each snip sounded enormous in the candlelit hush. Then, unexpectedly, he began to braid.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Fingers working with an intimacy that made your stomach twist because it was control masquerading as care.

He picked the lock of hair he’d kept in the bouquet the one he said he slept with and braided it into the rest of your hair.

Fingers that had dug into your waist now knotted,

tug by patient tug,

turning your hair into rope.

He looped the braid twice and tucked the end into the knot binding your wrists, as if fastening you to yourself, as if your own hair could be another cuff.

“You b-bel-ong to me,” he whispered, forehead coming to rest against yours so close you felt the hitch of his breath; the contact was small and terrible static running through bone. “I’ll k-keep what’s m-mine.”

Tears came, hot and sudden, unbidden.

He panicked.

He tossed a basin under the tap,

ran cold water over a cloth,

and dabbed at your face with exaggerated gentleness,

the sort of performance people mistake for healing. The cloth smelled faintly of detergent the tiny human delight you grabbed onto like prayer.

He hummed, low and tuneless, and stitched promise and apology into the same breath.

The edges of the room buckled as he oscillated between worship and jagged bursts of something ragged. A photograph landed face-down on the table with a slam when he rasped about “them” faceless others who had laughed,

who had taken.

He pressed palms to the wood until his knuckles bled white.

For a time you thought he might break open.

Instead he slid down the wall and wept ugly, ragged sounds that swallowed the candlelight. “You h-hear?” he slurred at last, voice shredded. “Y-you s-sa-id you wouldn’t go. Y-you s-sa-id you’d stay.” He crawled back to you on his knees and curled around you like a child, forehead tucked into your shoulder. His body was a tangle of contradictions: muscle and missing flesh, the unwashed smell of him and the tenderness he could summon when terrified.

You let him hold you. Untie you. Cradle you. You let the numbness in your limbs dull to a soft ache. His breathing ragged, then steady became an anchor.

When he finally fell asleep exhausted, drooling, spent you lay awake mapping everything he didn’t know:

The way the wind hit the cabin,

the cadence of his pacing,

the place he hid matches.

You traced the scrape of floorboards and the way the candle stub always leaned left.

You practiced small compliance as camouflage:

smooth voice,

lowered eyes,

obedient movements,

all the while planning in the small hollow a body keeps for escape,

which you refused to name.

Morning came low and gray.

He woke with his arm flung heavy across you,

as if he could press you into being.

He said nothing at first, only breathed, the slow intake that means a man is reassembling himself.

Then he stood and moved through the room with exhausted ceremony.

He dressed you himself socks, skirt, shirt every touch a claim.

He fed you like a child, spoon to lips, eyes glued to your throat, measuring.

He looked at you in a way that made you feel both cherished and exhibited. “I have to go,” he said suddenly, each syllable jagged. “F-few days. I’ll be b-back. I’ll be—” His voice broke, swallowed by a cough. He lit a cigarette took a few long drags and tossed it into the ashtray like a promise and a threat at once. “I need to.. check. Food. T-town. Things. Keep the—” He trailed off, fingers worrying the hem of his sleeve.

You stood very still. That small, fragile knot of panic the first night without him tightened in your chest.

You reached, reflex, for his hand.

He caught your wrist, thumb pressing a small blessing into the bruise that the scarf had left there, then let go with a tenderness that felt like a verdict.

“D-don’t try anything,” he said finally, staccato and certain. “D-don’t leave the room. N-not the porch. N-not the kitchen. I’ll be back. I’ll be b-back. D-don’t—” He swallowed soundlessly and, as if to prove he meant it, he put the key to the drawer where the phone and your coins lay locking it. The motion was domestic, ritual, ownership.

He walked to the door, paused, and looked at you one last time. The look was all hunger and pleading and a sort of feral pride. “W-wait,” he begged, voice small. “W-wait for me. D-don’t go.” Then he locked the door behind him and his boots thudded down the hallway, down the porch steps, and away into the wet hush of the trees.

You listened until the sound was nothing but memory. In the quiet that followed, his absence stretched like a taut wire. You realized with a cold, new clarity that when he left you felt both utterly exposed and dizzy with longing. For three days he’d be gone; for three days the cabin would be its own kind of test. You sat on the bed, hands folded over the braid he’d woven onto your wrist, and waited because waiting had become a thing you knew how to do, because the knot felt both like a chain and a promise, and because the world beyond the door had become too bright, too dangerous, to face alone.

if a anyone has any recommendations on how they would like the story to keep going lmk, do you want to stay with toby? see what life with him could be like? or do you want to escape? what would happen if he found you? anyway i hope you enjoyed this part!

The cabin walls pressed in tighter with each passing hour. The air was thick with candle smoke and mildew, the same recycled breath of a room that had forgotten the world beyond its door.

You shifted under the blanket, restless.

Watching Toby watch you.

Always watching.

His eyes tracked every move the way your fingers tapped the wood grain, the way your throat worked when you swallowed.

It wasn’t just staring.

It was consumption.

Like he was memorizing you,

cell by cell.

“Toby,” you said finally, your voice softer than you meant it to be.

He straightened immediately. Alert. Like a dog hearing its name. “Y-yeah?”

Your tongue felt heavy, but you forced the words out. “Can I… go outside? Just for a little while.”

The effect was immediate.

His smile faltered.

His fingers twitched against his knees.

For a moment,

the silence was sharp enough to cut.

Then he laughed. Short. Nervous. “Y-you w-want to leave me?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. His eyes narrowed. You swallowed and tried again, slower this time. “No. I just… I need air. I’m not leaving. I promise.”

He stared at you, searching your face for cracks. His knee bounced, erratic, until finally he stood too fast, like he’d startled himself. He paced, muttering, fingers dragging through his hair.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

Over and over. “M-m-mine. Mine. If you go out there, you’ll forget. They’ll t-t-take you from me. I can’t—”

He stopped suddenly.

Turned.

And then he was on you.

Not violent.

Not yet.

Just… close.

So close his breath warmed your cheek. His hands gripped your shoulders, trembling with restraint, then slid down arms circling your waist, pulling you into his lap like he couldn’t help himself.

“You d-don’t need outside,” he whispered into your hair, voice shuddering. “You have me. I’ll give you air. I’ll give you everything.” His nose pressed against your temple, dragging down to your jaw. “S-smell like rain already. Like you belong here.

You sat frozen,

heart pounding hard enough to bruise.

His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was absolute.

His whole body wrapped around yours,

clinging.

When you didn’t push him away, he let out a sound not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

His lips brushed your ear when he spoke again.

“B-but if it makes you happy…” His voice broke, then steadied. “I’ll think about it. L-l-later. When I know you’re ready. When I know you w-won’t run.”

“You don’t need the world out there,” he said again, softer now. “The world out there never wanted you. But I do. I w-w-want you more than anything.”

You were small against him, barely reaching his shoulder, he folded you into the breadth of his chest. He dwarfed you. Six feet of restless muscle pressed tight around your body, his scent of sweat and mildew filling every inch of air between you.

He buried his face in your hair.

Inhaled.

A shudder rolled through him, heavy enough that you felt it in your spine.

“S-so soft,” he whispered, his breath warm against your scalp. “So small. P-perfect.” His nose traced down the side of your head, along your temple, until it brushed your cheek.

You turned your face away, instinctive and he flinched, fingers digging into your waist. “D-don’t hide,” he muttered, voice cracking. His honey-brown eyes found yours, wide and wet, lashes trembling. “You don’t have to hide from me. N-not you. N-never you.”

Before you could answer, his hand rose to cup your jaw, thumb trembling as it skimmed the curve of your cheek. He tilted your head toward him. The ruined side of his face caught the candlelight teeth and gums exposed where skin should’ve been, a grotesque smile carved into something once handsome.

You froze.

Not because of the wound.

But because of the hunger in his eyes.

“I w-watch you sleep,” he confessed, his voice low and feverish. “M-memorize every blink. Every breath. Your heart, it b-beats like it’s made for me.” He pressed your hand to his chest, hard, until you felt the frantic hammering beneath his ribs. “See? M-matches mine.”

His lips brushed your hairline. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not. His breath trembled against your skin as his mouth wandered lower your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw.

You stiffened, but his arms only cinched tighter, locking you in. “So warm,” he whispered, almost weeping. “So alive. I c-could keep you here forever. I w-will.”

The stubble on his jaw scraped your skin as he pressed his mouth against the curve where your neck met your shoulder. Not gentle. Not forceful. Just… desperate. He stayed there, breathing you in, lips parting like he wanted to taste but didn’t dare.

And then he laughed soft, broken, almost tender. “You f-fit so perfect,” he said, rocking you slightly against him, like a man cradling something fragile and sacred. “L-like you were made for me. No one’s ever gonna hold you like this. No one’s ever gonna love you like this.”

You wanted to fight.

To scream.

To claw your way free.

But his arms were iron,

and your body traitorous,

exhausted stayed limp in his grip.

So you didn’t resist when he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut, whispering, “M-mine. F-forever mine.”

His breath hitched against your skin, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back. But he wasn’t holding back anymore.

The hand on your waist slid lower, fingers splaying across your hip, anchoring you in place as though you might vanish if he let go. His other hand still cradled your jaw, thumb brushing over your lips now, trembling, reverent.

“P-p-perfect,” he whispered. “S-so soft. I’ve w-waited so long.” His honey-brown eyes, fever-bright and glassy, darted between your mouth and your eyes.

His cheek twitched with a smile that showed too much teeth,

gum,

desperation.

Then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was frantic all teeth and breath,

a man starving after days without food.

His lips moved against yours clumsily, hungrily, dragging you into a rhythm that wasn’t yours to choose.

You tried to turn your face away, but his grip on your jaw tightened, pulling you back. He groaned low in his throat, pressing harder, like he thought you might disappear if he didn’t fuse himself to you.

When he finally pulled back, his breath came ragged, shaky, spilling into your mouth as he whispered, “See? S-see? Y-you feel it too.” He pressed quick, frantic kisses to your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth again. “I knew it. I knew y-you were mine.”

He rocked you in his lap, clutching you so tightly your ribs ached. His face buried in your neck again, wet from his tears, hot from his breath. “No one else gets this,” he muttered, his words muffled against your skin. “N-no one else sees you. N-no one else loves you like I do.”

His teeth grazed your shoulder, a scrape more instinct than choice, and he gasped like he’d scared himself. But then he laughed high, shaky, almost giddy.

“I c-can’t stop,” he admitted, pressing his forehead hard into the hollow of your throat. “I don’t want to stop. You m-make me… you make me whole.”

His hands roamed now, restless along your arms, down your sides, clutching, stroking, shaking. He couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop proving to himself you were there.

You stayed still. You had to. Fighting would break him. And if he broke, you weren’t sure you’d survive what came after.

So you let him kiss you again harder this time, teeth knocking yours, his breath sour and hot. You let him shudder against you, groaning like a man at prayer.

And as he held you there, wrapped tight in his arms, you understood the real horror:

He wasn’t kissing you to claim you.

He was kissing you because, in his mind, you already belonged to him.

His kisses turned frantic wet, clumsy, almost punishing in how desperately he pressed his mouth to yours. Your breath caught, trapped beneath the weight of him, the heat of his chest, the tremor in his hands.

He broke away only to scatter more across your cheeks, your jaw, your throat. Each one landed with the ferocity of a man branding his territory. His stubble scratched your delicate skin raw, his ruined cheek brushing your temple with every movement.

“C-c-can’t lose you,” he babbled, the words spilling between ragged breaths. “C-can’t—won’t. Y-you’re mine. Y-you were made for me. Look at you… s-s-so soft, so p-p-pretty. P-perfect. My perfect girl.”

His hand gripped the back of your head now, fingers tangled in your hair, holding you still as he kissed you again. Harder. His other arm crushed your waist against him, every muscle taut with possession. You could feel his heartbeat through your ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm hammering against your frame.

When you flinched, his hold only tightened. “D-don’t pull away,” he whispered, his voice breaking, eyes wide with panic. “D-d-don’t hide from me. Please. P-please. I can’t—if you leave I’ll—” His words dissolved into a sob. He buried his face against your neck, wetting your skin with tears, gasping like he was drowning.

“I’ll be good,” he choked. “I’ll be so g-good for you. J-just don’t leave me. Don’t—” His teeth scraped your collarbone, unintentional, a tremor turned into a bite. You gasped, and he froze. Then he shivered. Moaned.

“I c-can’t stop,” he admitted, trembling. “You m-make me… crazy. C-can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t b-breathe unless I touch you.” His lips dragged across your throat again, desperate, reverent, worshipping. “You’re mine. All mine. And I’ll never let you forget.”

He leaned back just far enough to see your face. His eyes shimmered with obsession, the candlelight catching on his long lashes, on the raw ruin of his cheek. He cupped your jaw with both hands now, holding you still, trembling as though you might slip away.

Then, with a trembling, broken laugh, he kissed you again slower this time, but deeper, pouring every ounce of his need into the press of his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t love.

It wasn’t lust.

It was possession.

please feel free to request hc’s or fic ideas, thanks for reading!

Tim Wright

He wouldn’t be chill about it in the slightest. Tim feels like an all-or-nothing kind of guy when it comes to relationships—there’s no middle ground with him. Controlling, manipulative, and smart enough to pull it off, he knows when to turn on the charm and when to drop it like a switch. I doubt he’d let his s/o have much real freedom; he’d limit your interactions until the rare occasions he “lets” you socialize. And even then, it’d be with people he already considers untrustworthy. He doesn’t actually trust anyone except Brian. Toby’s too unstable, EJ’s too cold and calculating, Jeff’s violent, and the way Ben looks at you? He won’t stand for it. The second someone tries to test boundaries, Tim’s in their face and yours shouting, dragging you home, furious, screaming, shoving. Doors slamming, his voice sharp enough to rattle your bones. He wouldn’t be afraid to put his partner in there place he wouldn’t be afraid to back hand you across the face. He’d burn out his rage alone on the porch, smoking until the sun comes up, only to come back inside and kiss your bruises, hush you with sweet nothings while you cry. He’d never apologise Tim’s too proud for that but he’ll make you believe it wasn’t his fault.

Brian Thomas

Brian, though, is colder. Confident, charismatic, but detached in a way that feels worse. He knows how to steer a conversation like it’s a game, moving pieces until he gets the reaction he wants. Manipulation is second nature to him, and affection is something he doles out like a punishment or reward. If he catches someone flirting with you, everything in him freezes his blood runs cold, jaw twitching, eyes hard. He won’t lash out with anger like Tim; he’ll dismantle you with cruelty instead. He’ll humiliate you, mock you, twist the knife until you’re crying, asking why he’s being so harsh. And he’ll laugh at you, call you a baby, act like you’re ridiculous for feeling anything at all. Then he’ll light a cigarette and walk away, leaving you alone with the silence, with yourself, with the need for him. That’s how he gets you—isolated, desperate, begging for scraps of his attention, waiting for him to finally look at you again.

Toby Rogers

Toby’s unstable as hell. Constant mood swings, clinginess, dependency it’s suffocating. That’s also what makes him so scary: you never know which version of him you’ll get. Sometimes he has a predictable set of go-tos he sees someone talking to you and he explodes, shouting, shoving, even hitting. He’ll punish you for things you didn’t do, merciless and red-faced. Other times he completely collapses, clinging to your legs like a desperate dog, sobbing and begging, asking why he’s not enough. He’ll scream and cry and even go so far as to hurt himself because he can’t imagine you leaving you’re everything to him. Either way it takes hours to calm him down. The worst part is it’s not calculated manipulation; he genuinely doesn’t know how to show it any other way. It’s unhealthy and terrifying: a grown man screaming and crying in front of you while you end up soothing him like a child.

EJ

Jack’s reaction would probably be the “most normal” similar to Brian but less surgical about it. Jack expects a lot: intelligence, elegance, poise. His standards are absurdly high, and living up to them would be exhausting. If he catches someone flirting with you, he’ll just switch off, throw you a disgusted look, then he turns and walks away. After that he’s cold as ice toward you, brushing you off and withholding affection until you feel sick with insecurity. It escalates to the point where you’re begging, crying, asking what you did wrong. He’ll watch you and snarl something like “wipe your tears,” tell you to go to bed, and when you do he’ll pull you to his chest and brush his hand through your hair until you fall asleep. He’d never admit it, but the guilt eats at him afterward messy, private, and heavy.

The road was long and winding, carved deep through the woods like it had forgotten how to lead back to civilization.

The headlights cut through the trees, branches twisting like black veins across the windshield. The car rattled with every bump in the road, an old engine growling beneath the weight of its stolen passenger.

Toby was humming.

Softly. Tunelessly.

Like a child rocking themselves to sleep.

You were slumped in the passenger seat, muscles heavy, head lolling to the side, but your mind… your mind was starting to wake up. The drug hadn’t worn off completely, but cracks were forming.

You could feel your fingertips now.

You could feel the cold bite of the seatbelt across your chest.

You could feel him — watching you from the corner of his eye, smiling.

“I… I kn-know you’re still sleepy,” he said, voice thick and soft like syrup. “B-but that’s okay. Y-you d-don’t have to worry about anything anymore. N-not work. N-not bills. N-not th-those people who n-never cared about you.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

“They d-d-didn’t see it. Wh-what you are.”

He glanced at you. His lips twitched.

“But I did.”

You wanted to scream. To hit him. To move. But your body dragged behind your thoughts like it had sunk into mud. All you could do was listen. Breathe. Try not to vomit as his scent — sweat and something decaying — filled the the car like fog.

After what felt like hours, he turned off the road.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car bumped down a narrow, overgrown path. The trees closed in, swallowing what little moonlight remained.

Then a clearing.

And in the center of it, the cabin.

A small, sagging thing made of wood and shadows. Curtains drawn tight. No light. No life. Just a single porch light flickering like it wasn’t sure it should be on.

He killed the engine.

For a moment, there was silence. Just the ticking of the cooling car and your heart pounding inside your ribs.

Then Toby moved.

He got out. Came around to your side. Opened the door slowly, reverently, like this was some twisted ceremony. He unbuckled you with a low, satisfied sigh, his hand brushing your chest as he did.

“C’mon,” he murmured. “H-home now.”

He picked you up again arms under your back and knees like a groom carrying a bride and carried you through the night air toward the house. You could feel the tremble in his muscles. The excitement. The heat of him.

The door creaked open.

And you saw it.

Inside, the cabin was dim just a few low-burning candles flickering on mismatched furniture. The air smelled like mildew and sweat, like dust and old food, like him.

But the worst part was what you recognized.

Your belongings scattered carefully throughout the space.

Your favorite mug on the nightstand.

Your shampoo in the corner of the tiny bathroom.

A photo of you, printed off a social media page, framed in cracked plastic on the wall.

He’d been planning this.

He hadn’t just stolen you.

He’d built a home around you.

He carried you to the bed a thin mattress covered in a floral sheet that used to be yours and laid you down like porcelain.

Then he sat beside you. Watching.

His hand hovered just above your stomach, not quite touching, shaking with restraint.

“I kn-know you d-don’t understand yet,” he whispered. “But… y-you will. I’ll show you. H-how much I love you. H-how safe you are here.”

He looked down at you, his face slack with emotion awe, need, something deeper.

“You’re m-mine now. And I’m g-g-gonna take care of you.”

His voice dropped lower.

“F-forever.”

It had been days. You weren’t sure how many.

There were no clocks in the cabin. No calendar. No windows large enough to tell the time. Just flickering candlelight, the low hum of the space heater, and Toby’s voice always Toby’s voice muttering or humming or talking to you like none of this was strange.

Your body was beginning to cooperate again. You could sit up now. Move your arms. Speak, though your voice was rough and slow, like it didn’t belong to you.

You hadn’t screamed. Not yet.

You were saving it.

Waiting for the right moment.

This morning or night, you couldn’t tell he came in carrying a tray.

Oatmeal. Warm. Not poisoned, you guessed. You’d been eating what he brought. You had no choice.

“F-f-figured you’d be h-hungry,” he said with that shaky, breathless voice, setting the tray down on the bed beside you. “M-made it h-how you like. L-l-little bit of honey… no raisins.”

Like he knew you. Like he remembered.

He sat beside you. Not too close like he was proud of himself for giving you “space.”

His eyes scanned your face like he was drinking you in.

“Y-you’re looking b-better today,” he said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. “C-color’s back in your skin.”

You didn’t respond.

Just picked up the spoon and ate. Slowly. Mechanically.

He lit up like you’d kissed him.

“I… I picked out something f-f-for you,” he added, voice shy now, hopeful. He reached down to the end of the bed and lifted a folded pile of clothes. “Th-thought it might… m-make you feel more like yourself.”

It was a dress.

Your dress. Soft cotton, pale blue — one of your favorites. From your own closet. It felt like a violation just seeing it here, clean and folded like a gift.

He held it up with trembling hands.

“P-p-pretty, right?” he smiled. “Th-this one’s always b-been my favorite. L-l-like it was made for you.”

He waited.

Waited for you to nod. To thank him.

You didn’t.

He placed it gently beside you anyway.

“T-take your time. I-I’ll help if you want.”

He stood, walked around the bed, and opened a small drawer. You could see a brush in his hand before he even said anything.

“I-I like your hair d-down,” he said quietly, like it was a confession. “S-soft. Like d-doll hair.”

He sat on the edge of the bed again and began brushing slow, careful strokes through your tangled strands. His touch was gentle. Reverent.

And the worst part?

You didn’t pull away.

You were too tired. Too far from home. Too surrounded by him.

And in that stillness, you felt it that awful, creeping thought settling at the back of your mind:

He’s the only one here.

He’s the only one who feeds you.

The only one who talks to you.

The only one who hasn’t let you die.

And when he leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder and whispered,

“Y-you d-don’t have to b-be scared anymore,”

for just a second

You almost believed him.

The cabin had a rhythm now.

Quiet mornings. Dim candlelight. Meals brought on a tray.

And always, him orbiting you like a moon around a dying star.

He rarely left the room for long. When he did, you held your breath, unsure whether you felt relief or panic. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.

You were sitting on the bed again. Dressed now the pale yellow frilly dress he picked out. You hadn’t fought it. Not because you wanted to wear it, but because it made him calmer. And calm Toby was better than anxious Toby. Or angry Toby. Or the version of Toby that whispered to himself in the dark.

He sat beside you with the same careful reverence he always had, like the bed might crack if he moved too fast. He’d just finished brushing your hair a ritual now. One of many.

You watched him. Really watched him.

He looked… tired.

Skin pale and blotchy.

Eyes rimmed red.

Handsome in a way. You cursed yourself for thinking it.

He hadn’t shaved. You wondered if he ever did.

He smelled a little less like rot today. Like he’d tried, somehow.

He caught you staring and smiled so wide, so hopeful, like a child being praised.

“I l-l-like when you look at me,” he said, almost shy. “D-don’t have to hide it. I kn-know you’re st-st-starting to see.”

You opened your mouth dry, unsure.

And then, for the first time since the cabin,

you spoke.

“Why me?”

Your voice barely made it out. Just a whisper. Fragile. Almost afraid of being heard.

He froze.

His eyes widened. His whole body stilled. For a moment, he looked like he might cry.

Then he laughed short and breathless.

“You t-talked to me,” he said, like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Y-you spoke.”

He leaned closer, too fast, too eager.

“Wh-why you?” he repeated. “B-because… you’re not l-like them.”

You didn’t ask who “them” was.

You didn’t need to.

“You d-don’t hide,” he said, staring straight through you. “You see people. You smile even when you’re s-sad. I saw you… I watched you for months.”

There it was again. The cold coil of fear. But smaller now. Duller.

“And you n-never looked at me like I was b-broken. Not like the rest of them. N-not like they did. Y-you smiled. Just once. Just a l-l-little.”

Your stomach twisted.

“That’s all it t-took,” he whispered. “I knew. K-k-knew I had to save you. B-before they… b-before they ruined you.”

He reached for your hand.

You let him.

Not because you wanted to but because it made the room stop spinning. Because maybe, if you held still, you could stay in control.

Because you needed him to stay calm.

“I don’t smile much anymore,” you said, voice flat, empty.

He nodded. Pressed your hand to his chest, over his heart.

“I-I-I’ll make you smile again,” he promised. “I’ll give you everything. J-j-just need you to s-stay. T-to stop being afraid.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t pull away.

Because in that moment, you realized something terrifying:

He didn’t want to hurt you.

He wanted you to love him.

And he’d do anything to make that happen.

Even if it meant breaking you down until you forgot who you were.

It was raining again. You could hear it soft and steady against the roof, tapping out a rhythm that made the silence in the cabin even louder.

You were sitting in the corner now, wrapped in a blanket that Toby had brought you earlier. Warm. Clean. Smelling faintly of cedar and smoke.

He was across the room, pacing. Muttering.

You’d learned to recognize the signs. The twitch in his hands. The erratic shifts in his voice. The way he stopped looking at you, like something else was clawing its way up behind his eyes.

“T-they think they’re s-s-so smart,” he mumbled, voice shaking. “L-l-laughing at me. W-watching me like I’m f-freak—”

He stopped suddenly. Fists clenched. Breath ragged.

Then he slammed both hands against the wall.

You jumped.

His whole body trembled. Shoulders heaving. Breath catching on something sharp in his throat. He slid down slowly, crumpling to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

For a long time, he just sat there back against the wall, head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp like he was trying to rip something out.

“I-I-I d-did everything right,” he choked. “I w-w-was good. I waited. I watched. I didn’t hurt you, I n-never… I just wanted to be w-worth something. T-to someone.”

His voice broke.

And for the first time, you saw him cry.

Not the quiet, movie kind of crying.

Ugly crying. Shaking, gasping, sobbing like a child who didn’t understand why the world hurt so much.

You should’ve stayed silent.

You should’ve watched, cold and distant, memorizing the moment so you could use it against him later.

But you didn’t.

You stood. Moved slowly, cautiously across the room. Every muscle in your body screamed for distance, but some deeper instinct took over the same one that makes a person pet a snarling dog just to prove it won’t bite.

You knelt beside him.

“Toby,” you said softly.

He flinched. Looked up at you through wet lashes, eyes wide and red and desperate.

And then he said it.

“You’re g-g-gonna leave me… aren’t you?”

You hesitated.

Your heart thundered in your chest not just from fear now, but from the unbearable weight of what came next.

So you lied.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something shattered behind his eyes.

He reached for you like a drowning man, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him, face buried in your chest, sobbing harder now but not from pain.

From relief.

“I-I-I knew it,” he whispered. “I kn-knew you’d understand. Y-you see me. Y-you see me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

You just held him.

Because in that moment, his arms around you felt safer than the idea of him unraveling again.

And that was the most terrifying part of all.

Toby hadn’t spoken in hours.

He sat at the small table across the room, hunched over something you couldn’t see, whispering. His hands moved like he was working on a puzzle, or sorting something delicate. Every few seconds, he paused to glance up at you, his lips still moving too quiet to hear.

You didn’t ask what he was doing.

You’d learned not to ask.

Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed in your too-thin nightgown another one he’d picked out for you. It used to be yours, though it looked older now. Like it had been washed too many times by the wrong hands.

Eventually, he stood.

“C-c-close your eyes,” he said, his voice light. Almost playful.

You didn’t move.

His smile faltered. Then returned. Wider this time.

“I said… c-close your eyes.”

You obeyed.

Your heart beat hard against your ribs.

You heard him walking slow, steady footsteps across the creaking floor. Then the shift of weight as he sat beside you again.

Something soft brushed your lap.

“O-open them.”

You did.

Resting in your lap was a small bouquet wildflowers, freshly picked, stems still damp. Beautiful, delicate. And nestled in the center, tied with a bit of red string, was—

Your hair.

Long strands of it. Yours. Tied like ribbon.

You stared at it.

“I k-k-kept it,” Toby said, smiling so wide it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fr-from when I brushed it the first time. D-don’t worry — I only t-took a little. You didn’t even n-notice.”

He leaned close, voice dropping.

“I sleep with it,” he whispered. “S-s-smells like you.”

You tried to stay still, tried to swallow the rising nausea.

He took your silence as affection.

“You’re g-g-getting better,” he said. “More like yourself. You’re c-c-calm now. I can see it.”

He touched your wrist, his fingers icy and twitching.

“I-I know when you’re scared. Y-your pulse goes all fast. L-l-like a rabbit. But not now. N-not tonight.”

His gaze locked onto you.

“You trust me.”

You didn’t correct him.

That night, he didn’t sleep.

You felt him at the edge of the bed, watching you. Breathing slow and steady, like he was trying to sync with yours.

When you opened your eyes sometime after midnight, he was still there. Kneeling beside the bed. Hands folded neatly in his lap.

Just… watching.

You shifted slightly. His eyes lit up.

“Y-you’re awake.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at him in the candlelight, the sick glow casting strange shadows across his face. He looked younger like this. Or maybe emptier.

“I had a dream,” he said softly. “You were running. D-down the road. Screaming for help.”

He tilted his head.

“I woke up before I caught you.”

He paused.

“I d-don’t like those dreams.”

He reached out, brushing a hand down your arm slow, possessive.

“Y-you’re not going anywhere,” he said. “Not unless I take you.”

And then he did something that made your blood run cold.

He pulled something from his pocket and held it out.

A small charm. A keychain.

Your house key.

“I-I like having it,” he said. “Makes me feel like I’ve always belonged.”

You wanted to scream. To slap it from his hand. To run.

But instead, you just said:

“Can I have it back?”

His smile faltered.

And then he laughed. Quiet. Gentle.

“N-no,” he whispered. “But you can touch it, if you want.”

He gave you a spoonful of honey the next morning.

“F-for being brave,” he said, like you were a child.

And you thanked him.

Because he needed you to.

Because it made him smile.

Because if he smiled, he didn’t cry.

And if he didn’t cry, he wouldn’t fall apart.

And if he fell apart again… you weren’t sure he’d let you live through it.

i don’t super duper love this chapter but i’ve got tons in my drafts so lmk if anyone would be interested if i turned this into a story!