✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It's sweet, in their eyes - a little reminder of each moment they've spent with you, though it's not like they truly need it. The memories of you are permanently imprinted onto the back of their eyes, burning into the skin as he eagerly replays them over and over again in the dark quietness of his far too lonely bedroom.

But still, the idea's nice, isn't it? And for the most part, it really is meant to be that innocent - he's keeping reciepts of the grocery trips you go on. (Of course, one could make the argument that he's not really going with you - following ten feet behind you with a gray hoodie pulled up to his ears is hardly condusive to the domestic fantasy of shopping together, but it's close enough.)

He's snapping small photos of you as he watches the way you lounge about on your bed, phone clutched in your hands and eyes glued to the screen. (Internally he's cringing - you know better than to hold the phone so close to your face, or to spend hours scrolling through it in the dark. You're so careless with taking care of yourself - something that won't be a problem for much longer, of course.)

Each slip of paper, photo, and item of memorabilia gets carefully sorted away into a drawer, catalogued with exactly what the object is, when it was taken, and a few notes jotted down about what he was thinking, how you looked.

It's sweet, in some fucked-up, twisted way. But of course, not everything in their collection is so sweet - oh no.

The first time it happens, you'll be confused but won't know how to even bring up the question. What are you doing? You're panting too hard to even get the words out, spit dribbling down your chin and your throat feeling hoarse and tired.

The scissors glint in the dim lighting of the room, his own breath ragged as he carefully caresses your head, fingerpads brushing against your scalp, before picking out a small collection of hairstrands. The snip snip noise happens before you can even react, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

So pretty... He murmurs as he thumbs at the pieces, his cock bobbing in front of you slightly. You're still on your knees, looking up at him with confusion and a small prick of anger settling in.

What are you-

He interrupts you with a boyish, too-wide smile, bringing the bits of hair up to his lips and inhaling deeply. It's not long before he settles them against his tongue, lips closing and exaggerated sucking sounds filling the room and making you squirm in discomfort and disgust.

You watch as he slowly grows hard again, mere inches from your eyes.

Eventually he pulls the pieces out of his mouth, the strands wet with saliva and clumping together, a shiver running up his spine.

His free hand comes down to cup your cheek as he looks down at you, his own face flushed a rather rosy pink.

You did so well for me, he starts, thumb toying with your bottom lip. Made me feel so good, didn't you?

His words make you want to bite at his finger, to cut it clean off, but the memory of your last 'bought of misbehavior' is still fresh in your mind, the phantom stomach pain from no food making you nearly wince.

Unwilling to give him a verbal answer you only shakily nod, still eyeing the bundle of your spit-soaked hair. He looks down at you thoughtuflly, as if pondering, before sighing softly.

With a final tap of his still-wet tip against your lips with his free hand, he turns around, digging thorugh the nearby drawer to find the clear plastic bag.

Just as you're rising to your feet, knees feeling stiff and jaw aching, he puts down the marker he'd been scribbling with. Inside the plastic bag lays your hair, the bag sealed and stripped of extra air. Your eyes catch on the label, and for a moment you're frozen in disgust.

June 25, 2026. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. Deep-throated, finished inside her mouth. Swallowed, minimal gagging.

He turns to face you with that same almost shy grin on his face, holding up the baggie and pressing a soft kiss over your hair.

For safe-keeping, he starts, pressing a matching kiss against your cheek. It lingers, wet and hot.

He leaves you standing there as he walks to the other side of the house you've been trapped in for weeks, pressing a fast code into the cabinet lock that you can't quite catch and setting the baggie on one of the shelves.

With a small sense of horror you see the depth of the shelf - at least a foot deep and two wide, with the seams of some twenty other plastic bags visible.

What - what is that? You whisper, but he closes the door before you can move forward to get a better look.

He turns to face you, one hand idly returning down to his navel. Calloused fingers wrap firmly around his base, giving himself a long stroke as he holds eye contact with you.

Ways to remember this by. Us, I mean.

His flush grows slightly redder, and he licks his lips.

It's my collection. Of you.

He kisses you before you can respond to that, tongue pushing inside your mouth and silencing any protests of yours. A hand finds its way between your legs, pinching and groping. He parts for air for a brief moment, licking at your lips along the way.

And you're the star piece.