SnOrl@zzZ

You stumbled through the mansion’s front door, muscles aching, adrenaline still thrumming underneath your skin like heavy bass. The mission had been a shitshow. There was blood on your sleeves, grit in your teeth, and a migraine building behind your eyes. All you’d wanted was a scalding shower and ten fucking minutes where the world didn’t feel like it was trying to kill you.

You peel off your shirt, tossing it toward the laundry basket and missing. You rifle through your dresser for clean underwear, only to find nothing. Fingers paw at empty space. You swear you had at least one pair left.

You freeze, irritation only building further. You could feel all the grime, dirt, blood and sweat drying on your skin. It made you shudder.

You yanked the drawer open wider, shoving aside socks, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, nothing. A growl built in your throat.

"Motherfucker."

You kick an empty redbull can, crushing it underneath your boot, dragging a bloodied hand over your face. An irritated sigh left your lips as you dug through the overflowing laundry bin, tossing shirts and pants to the floor. Nothing.

You weren’t one to throw fits over small things, but today had been an absolute disaster. First, the target almost got away due to Toby’s entirely too eager attitude to sink his hatchets into something. Tim, for some reason had decided to give you both an earful over it, like you were Toby’s goddamn keeper.

Your temper flared at the memory, knocking over the laundry bin with a frustrated growl.

“Wow. Suh-someone’s upset.” Toby’s unmistakable grating voice came from the doorway. Your chest heaved with rage as you met the brunette’s eyes.

“Fuck off, Toby. I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit.” You seethe, picking up the scattered clothes and shoving them back into the hamper.

“Wh-what the hell happened a-anyways? D’you- hn- l-lose your vibrator o-or something?” Toby snickered, his neck jerking to the side with a crack. You glared at him hard, tossing another shirt into the bin with entirely too much force.

“No, dickhead. I’m outta clothes.” You grumbled, brushing your fingers through your hair with a sigh.

“C-completely? Nn-nothing left?” The older proxy grinned, leaning in the doorway to glance around the messy room. His eyes immediately locked onto the underwear drawer, empty, courtesy of him of course.

“D-don’t- hnk- get your p-panties in a bu-bunch about it.” His grin stretched into something that if you looked hard enough almost looked knowing.

“Oh, fuck off.” You grumble, turning back to the beat up dresser as you grab a clean tee shirt and shorts. “Move.” You mutter, pushing past Toby, storming off into the bathroom down the hall.

“Dumb bi-bitch.” Toby muttered to himself, his entire body thrumming with excitement as he padded down the hallway back to his bedroom.

You’d been vague on purpose, but Toby knew exactly what article of clothing the younger proxy was missing. Your last pair of panties. The brunette tried not to make a habit out of stealing shit directly from your room, but he couldn’t resist.

The prior week he had caught you in the kitchen in nothing but a tee shirt and a lacey pair of sage green panties. He got so hard he almost passed out. Before you could even register Toby’s presence, he quickly dashed back into his room to take care of the issue.

That night, he spent an embarrassing amount of time pumping his cock to just the brief glance he had caught of your ass. He had to bite his shirt to muffle the ragged moans and heavy breaths that escaped his lips as he drooled onto his pillows, grinding pathetically against the mattress.

Toby had made it back into his room, closing the door with a groaning creak. The brunette had one thought on his mind. Fuck, he needed to jerk off. His movements were frantic as he rummaged through the mess of his room, strewn about blankets and discarded clothes, until he found the aforementioned pair of panties.

He shuddered at the softness of the fabric underneath his fingertips as he held them up to his nose, the faint scent of your sweat and cheap detergent making his head spin.

His cock throbbed against his thigh, already leaking through his boxers. Pathetic. He knew it was pathetic, but god, he just couldn’t get enough.

Toby kicked off his boots, his movements jerky with urgency as he flopped onto his mattress. He didn't even bother undressing completely, biting down on the sage fabric as he fumbled with his belt buckle. A quiet groan escaped the brunette’s lips as he sucked on the fabric, a shudder coursing through his body.

Toby finally managed to undo his belt, unzipping his too tight jeans and shoving his hand down his boxers. His cock was already achingly hard and dripping like a goddamn faucet.

"F-fuck- hnng-" he slurred into the material of the stolen panties, drool already seeping into the fabric.

The panties were damp. Ruined and stretched between his teeth as he choked back another whine.

His hips jerked into his fist, his thumb smearing precome over the flushed head of his cock. Every drag of his hand was punishing, his knuckles bumped against the zipper of his jeans, the bite of metal only spurring him on.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but an image burned behind his lids. You, face down in his bed, riding him, it didn’t matter- your body trembling with every thrust of his hips.

He arched off the bed, the elastic of your underwear snapping against his lips as he bit down harder. His free hand clawed at the sheets, bunching the stained fabric. "S'good, s'fuckin' g-good- nngh-"

A ragged moan punched out of him as he imagined your voice, sharp and judgmental. ‘God, you’re so fucking disgusting.’

Toby's stomach lurched. He was such a pervert. A drooling, pathetic mess, grinding into his own hand as he pictured your cunt fluttering around his cock.

His teeth sawed into the lace until his jaw creaked, spit smearing down his chin. His hips stuttered, fucking up into his fist like it was your hand and not his own. Like you had him pinned against the mattress, forcing him to rut against it.

"Ha-ahh!- fuck, ff-fuuuck- "

The fantasy shifted, warped. You beneath him now, thighs trembling, those pretty panties ruined, shoved to the side as Toby shoved his cock into you with a brutal thrust.

"L-look a-at you," Toby moaned into the fabric, voice cracking. "T-takin’ it l-like a- hnn- like a fuh-fuckin’ whore- "

His own words sent a jolt through him. He was the whore here, wasn’t he? Jerking off to the younger proxy’s stolen panties. He was disgusting, repulsive, any word that came to mind, he was it.

The thought made his stomach twist with a sharp coil of arousal.

He rutted faster, the bedframe squeaking with his erratic thrusts.

"Wish y-you- hnng- w-wish you could s-see yourself." He gasped, imagining your disgusted stare. ‘Fucking disgrace. Couldn’t help yourself? Had to take my shit ‘cause you’re too much of a coward to make a move, Rogers?’

His eyes closed once again as he pictured your eyes locked onto his gaze completely blank, bored even. Not even pity, let alone interest. Like he was a joke. A pathetic waste.

The vision made his stomach lurch. It made him so much fucking harder.

"D'you- d-do you think I-I'm s-sick?" He whined around the spit-soaked fabric.

"Do you- haah.. think I'm a f-freak?"

The words came out strangled, his hips snapping up harder, the guilt choking him even more.

He didn’t want to imagine what you'd think if he saw him like this. That was a goddamn lie, and he knew it.

He was a disgusting, pathetic freak, drooling over the underwear of a guy he despised and obsessed over while he fantasized about his contempt. He was sick.

“T-tell me I'm a ff-f-freak..” Toby almost whimpered, his eyes clenched shut. The brunette was panting heavily, breathing in the fading scent of your cunt on the fabric as he jackrabbited into his hand.

“Pleasepleaseplease-“ He let out a pathetic whine as drool dripped down his chin, his cock leaking so much precome he thought he had pissed himself.

Toby was practically teetering on the edge, grinding shamelessly against the mattress before he let out a frustrated whimper. His hand wasn’t enough, it never was.

His fingers trembled as he peeled the soaked panties from his mouth, saliva strings dripping down his stubble. The lace was stretched beyond recognition, damp with spit and speckled with flecks of blood where he'd bitten through his lip.

“O-oh, shit.”

His chest heaved as he stared at the ruined fabric, his cock pulsing against his stomach in approval. In a swift motion, Toby threw himself back against the bed, a shuddering moan tearing through his chest as he slowly dragged the soaked panties down his stomach to wrap the lace around his shaft.

The fabric clung to his skin, slick with spit as it mixed with the still dripping precome from his tip. Toby’s breath hitched as his hips jolted, fucking up into the completely soaked fabric.

The sensation was filthy. The lace scraped against his over sensitive tip, a pathetic whine escaping his lips.

“Mmh- ah, p-please! I-I’ll be g-good. Y-y’won’t even haah-have to u-use the muzzle!-“ A loud moan threatened to tear through his chest, opting to bite down on his hand to muffle it.

‘Pathetic. You wanna wear ‘em next time? Hm?’

Toby came hard, spilling into the lace and painting his stomach as his orgasm crashed over him, but he didn’t stop grinding against the fabric until tears pricked his eyes and his thighs trembled so hard it shook his bedframe.

He finally managed to settle down, slowly regaining control of his erratic breathing, only occasional tics stirring him. “Hahh- sh- shit.” Toby huffed, grasping your cum soaked panties with shaking fingers as he pulled the fabric away from his cock and let out an almost pained hiss at the overstimulation.

He dropped the garment next to his head and let out a shuddering breath, his head still fuzzy with lingering arousal.

you're frozen in place, hand hovering above the door handle as you process what you're hearing. you scooch closer to the wood, ear pressing against it to eavesdrop. but there's nothing but the moans of the characters that are likely gracing his screen with big busts and crevices.

were your ears playing tricks on you? there's no way that armin has a thing for you, right?

you're waiting, pressed against the door, when you hear the padding of footsteps. you stumble forward as the door swings open, revealing a panting, sweaty, and slightly confused armin.

his rectangle glasses are slightly foggy, and he's looking back and forth at you and the door before putting two and two together.

"were you spying on me?" he asks incredulously, stepping back as if he were a cowering rabbit. the horrified look on his face causes you to avoid his gaze.

"no," you lie out your ass, voice rising in pitch. you clear your throat. "i was just about to ask if you wanted to go see that new titan movie."

he's raising an eyebrow at your excuse. "right now?"

"yes, right now." you nod. you pull out your phone with swiftness, eager to change the topic. "next showing starts in 30, so we gotta leave now if we wanna catch it."

he's nodding along, seemingly unconvinced, but agrees. you let out a sigh of relief as he shuts his bedroom door again, mumbling a, 'just give me 5 minutes.'

the evening goes by swiftly, and the incident is pushed to the back of your mind for the rest of the week. armin's ramblings and theories about the series flood your head, and his moans from that day seem to be the least of your worries as midterms approach.

it's only a day before your chemistry exam, and you're approaching your roommate's door to ask him for help with the study packet.

it's closed, as usual, and you lift your knuckles to leave a knock on his door when a pitchy, strained moan makes you stop in your tracks.

"ngh- y/n, fuck..."

your jaw drops. that's not real, is it? before you can think, your hand is turning the doorknob, swinging the door open.

it's a mess. lube on the floor, fleshlight discarded on the desk, tissues scattered across the carpet. you don't even have time to analyze the setting you've just barged into before the blonde-haired boy is stumbling out of his gaming chair, mouth gaping like a fish as he stammers an excuse, hard, reddish cock still exposed in his hand.

"w-what the fuck?!" he's turning away now, attempting to shield his nudity. he's still donning his green top, and he struggles to stuff his cock into his khaki pants as he panics. "don't look!"

you cover your eyes, but an image from the corner of your gaze peaks your curiosity. "armin..." you start, slowly lifting a finger to point at the object. it's tiny, almost hard to miss, but it was stuffed messily into the drawer, causing the face on the polaroid to be exposed. "is that my picture?"

he yelps, hands darting out to snatch the photo from sight, hiding it behind his back. he's fully dressed now, but anxiously avoiding your curious gaze. "that's...private." he says, shifting his weight. "now what do you need? i was clearly in the middle of something."

"no, no." you're shaking your head, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. you're not going to let him off this time. "you were jerking off to my photo."

armin looks like a child who just got caught with their mother's makeup. he shuffles, eyes trained on the floor. "i wasn't."

you take a step closer to him, and he steps back cautiously. but before he can get any farther, you dart past him, snatching the polaroid from his fingertips.

"hey!" he's jumping, and you're tackled down onto his star-trek bedsheets as he attempts to wrestle the image out of your hands. when you catch a glimpse of it, you gasp.

it's a candid photo of you, short pajama shorts riding up so that the flesh of your ass is peeking out, and you're donned in a thin tank top that leaves little of your cleavage to the imagination. you had been seated at your desk, a mouthful of ramen puffing up your cheeks as you turned to face the sound of the camera with a shocked expression. heat creeps up your cheeks as you shriek. "why do you have this?!"

armin huffs, collapsing over you. "stop..." he grumbles, pushing his face into your chest. "you look hot in that."

his shy demeanor has your expression softening. you reach up to pat his hair soothingly. "it's alright, i'm not mad."

his head darts up in realization, eyes wide. "i swear 'm not a pervert, though!" he's defensive, lifting himself off your chest. "i-it's only because i like you a little!" he's rambling now, squirming in anxiety. "and the feelings will go away, so don't worry..." he trails, noticing your silence. he follows your gaze down to...oh.

his movement had landed you two in a rather precarious position, with your legs spread, him kneeling between them, and his crotch pressing against your core. with an obvious tent, of course, as it was still bulging from his...activities. and now that he's noticed this, his pants almost seem to get a little bit tighter.

also, his hand is on your boob.

he groans, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. blush creeps onto his cheeks, and he almost feels like he's going to get a nosebleed from how perverse this scene is.

is this...his lucky pervert moment?

no. nope. nope! he shakes the thought from his head, springing up from the bed and drawing himself away from you. he had lowkey just confessed, and now he's thinking about your body? what a douchebag. he scolds himself internally. "i'm so sorry," he repeats frantically, arms waving in front of him. "i didn't mean to, i'm so sorry, i just--"

you cut him off with a wave of your hand, sitting up on his bed with a laugh. "armin. it's okay, trust me, i know it was an accident. and honestly, you can keep the photo. it doesn't bother me, but..." you eyes trail up his fidgeting figure as he attempts to cover his boner by pulling down his shirt. "will you be okay?" you say pointedly. your gaze is fixated on the bulge in his pants.

"y-yeah." he stutters, sweat dripping down his temple as the heat on his face rises. "sorry, can you get out now? i need to...take care of it." he mumbles ashamedly.

you cock your head curiously. you'd be lying if you said you never had a thing for your nerdy roommate, but all hope had long been lost since you determined his waifus would come before he'd set his sights on any real girls in his life. but now that his interest in you is real and tangible...

in that second, you make a decision.

"want me to help you out?"

part 2 here

a/n: should i continue this? (i will)

Blurry white was clouding all sense of your peripheral vision. Everything was blending into the same damn color. You were in the clouds.

“You comin’ or what, puddin’?” Tim calls out to you from about five steps away. He walked to you, but it looked like there were rocks in his old loafers. “Little ol’ legs couldn’t keep up, huh?”

A flashing smile twitches on your face— but disappears in grimacing pain when the familiar sharpness in your sides return.

“Come on– let’s get you over there,” Tim holds half of your frame to keep you upright. The bench was only another few steps away- you felt pathetic.

The hard cedar wood of the bench presses against the bottom of your thighs. You feel the creases on your skin starting to form. Tim had set his guitar somewhere near already before helping you.

He was always a gentleman.

Gruff, yes. Cold, a little, but yes. A gentleman. A gentle man.

Tim had earned that title the night he held you after you cried. You were snug against his chest, and as calloused as his hands may be, his fingers combed through your hair like smooth butter while he whispered of sweet nothings in your ear.

No yelling like he did when he had to get the mansion’s living room empty. No barking orders at Toby or Jack or anybody else. Just you, him, his hands, and his heartbeat.

He had kissed your tears away that night. Wiped them away with his thumb, looking into your eyes and saying It’s okay. I’ve got you, my darlin’.

I’ve got you.

The trees looked beautiful today. Bright green and healthy– and the sun was perfect. Breeze was kissing your skin and it prickled a little— you hadn’t gone out of the house for a good while.

Tim’s guitar strings sound you out of reality. It was always kind of out of tune, and the strings weren’t in mint perfect condition- but it was your favorite, and his.

He’d had this guitar all the way back in high school. Tim always said he wished he had met you way sooner. The guitar was in its perfect performance at the time: he would've played non-stop for you everyday, even if you never had ears to begin with.

It wasn’t much: the guitar was left to him by his father as a lackluster gift before he croaked and died after years of bitter abuse. Since then, Tim had played a song or two on there– only Brian, and in the more recent times you, were the ones who witnessed him play. He wasn’t pro-rockstar good, but he was just good enough to make the notes sound decent.

Tim was sitting closer than usual next to you. You didn’t mind. He felt nice.

You watched him tune the strings once again. Not really tune– but just tightening the strings that are loose enough for him to notice. Speaking of noticing, he sticks a bit of his tongue out while doing it.

Giggling, you place your hand on his knee. “Play something for me, my love,” you started. “I want to hear your voice.”

Tim turns to you, grin half-stretched. “Ain’t you hear me enough, puddin’? Or are you just going plain deaf, now?”

You smack his shoulder and he snorts. “Don’t you mistake me for some old crook, mister,” you grin. “Plus,” you lick your lips. They feel drier than ever before. “That’s why I married you.”

Tim stops, staring at your face for a minute. His eyes wander around your features: your lips. Your nose. Your cheeks.

Your eyes. God, he loved your eyes.

They were the first thing he noticed when he met you at that damn convenience store. So wide and so pretty asking for just one cigarette, please, mister?

Tim had given a stick to you, no doubt. Lighting it up, even, with his very own lighter. You mentioned you liked his hands. He remembers laughing. Then you apologized and said you weren’t trying to be weird.

You exchanged numbers that day: yours on a gum wrapper paper, his on a cigarette stick.

Cliche.

“That’s why you did, huh?” Tim rasps. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a heavy lock behind your ear. “Not ‘cos I got superstar value?”

You snort this time. “If I married you for that, I would have left years ago.”

Silence.

Then, laughter.

You swat at his chest. “Now play the song! I don’t wanna walk all this way for nothing.”

“What song, puddin’?”

“You know what song. Come on, just do it! I wanna hear you.”

Tim sighs, then chuckles, then positions the back of the guitar against him.

He plays the intro you know so very well. Tim’s eyes kept on you the entire time. He wanted this song to be for you.

You stare at him back. Breathing in everything.

Tim starts singing.

And you forget every problem you’ve ever had in the world.

The strings carried his voice the way the tide carries moonlight: gently, naturally, as if they had always belonged together. Every vibration from the strings settled somewhere beneath your ribs, but it was Tim’s voice that made your heart answer.

If love had a sound, you imagined it would be the space where his voice dissolved into the trembling of six strings, leaving behind something too beautiful to call either music or speech.

You listened. You listened until you couldn't separate the grain of the guitar from the grain of his voice. By then, both had become part of you.

You rest your head on his shoulder. Everything in your head had become calmly heavy the moment the music blended into harmony in your head.

Beautiful. Everything was so beautiful.

The day Tim wanted to marry you was the day not when you had met Masky. Not the day when you had to stitch him up after a fight gone haywire. Not the day you invited him to live in your home rent-free.

It was the day you caught him with a knife in his hand, the gun in the other, and his mask drenched in blood. Actually, he was drenched in blood. Not only the mask.

You had forgotten to bring your extra set of keys, but what you hadn't forgotten, was that you had a back door if you would just go over the fence around your yard.

Doing that with 5 pound bags of groceries wasn’t so easy— but you made it over. All you needed to do was walk to your back door and everything would be fine—

If not for your boyfriend huddled over a stranger that had allegedly tried to break inside.

Masky heard the bags drop from your hands– and his heart dropped lower.

The stranger laid lifelessly, leg still twitching in response to whatever after-death reflexes he had.

Tim– Masky, stood in front of you, waiting for you to flee, to scream and threaten to call the police. He didn’t mean to take over this time. He just wanted you to be safe.

But you recognized that dark brown hair. You recognized those sideburns. You recognize that muscular build. Those boots. That jacket. Those hands.

You take small, small steps forward. The bags are left in the grass.

You knew you got close enough when you saw his eyes through the abyss called the eyeholes of his mask. They were flipping frantically, seemingly looking for signs of panic or fear or anger or disgust—

But what you did wasn’t in panic or fear or anger or disgust. What you did was, you pulled out a handkerchief from your back pocket, covered it with the tip of your finger, and started wiping the blood off of him.

It barely did anything, if you were being honest. In fact you were only smearing the blood further. But you weren’t scared. You weren’t scared. You were wiping the blood off of him.

Your eyes flickered between his. You didn’t want him to be scared either.

You’ve got as much blood as you can get off of him. Blotches of dirty red stained your handkerchief. But you didn’t mind. You loved Tim, all of him.

Even if there were a body in the ground.

Tim choked. Then he sobs.

Tim Wright was crying on your shoulder. You embraced him almost immediately– acceptance– no, a promise. A promise to love him for him, all of him.

And for a while, you felt your heartbeat sync with his. A rhythm unbreakable by bond, love, and a little blood.

Tim found a way to steal your ring size. He waited for 2 hours for you to fall asleep– but to him, it felt like nothing, nothing when it comes to the absolute love of his life.

He swore he could already hear the bells ringing. The stained glass shining in his eyes. The priest saying the iconic line of I now pronounce you: husband and—

“ —wife,” the words were barely uttered before Tim smashed his lips into yours, your body completely in his embrace while close friends and available family were there to celebrate, throwing white and pink petals into the air.

Tim pulls back.

You were ethereal. He thought if god really did exist– he was standing right in front of her.

Tim thought the moment the veil fell away, the world committed the gracious act of disappearing. There was only you—as though every beautiful thing he had ever known had merely been preparing him for this single breath. Your smile unraveled every careful vow he had rehearsed. Love was no longer something Tim intended to promise—it was simply the only thing he knew how to be.

The veil had hidden nothing. It had only delayed the miracle.

You were carried into bridal before you knew it. You felt like a mascot parading down the marble aisle, and you hid your face in between his neck.

“Tim! They’re watching us–”

“Good,” he kisses you on the cheek. “Let ‘em bastards know you’re stuck with me now.”

And stuck with him you’ve been. Stuck with him for five fantastic years.

The song was still going. How much could you remember in a span of a few minutes?

You snuggle against Tim. His warmth envelopes you immediately, and you breathe in a good amount of his scent.

Pine and tobacco. Classic.

You smile up at him, and he smiles back. Your eyes feel heavy, so so heavy.

Everything felt like it was slipping away into another world, and so did you.

You think you feel something wet drop on your cheek– but you didn’t mind. Tim would keep you covered in the rain. He always did.

The song went on forever, it seemed like. Forever’s not such a bad thing.

You were in the convenience store. Then you were in your bloodied yard. Then in your house. Then on your couch, watching Tim on one knee. Then in front of the altar.

You were there. You were there, and now you’re here.

Here, in Tim’s arms, in his protection, in his watch, his love.

You’re here. You’re here.

Your eyes finally close. Like how they would when you would sleep beside Tim after a long day: in his arms, basked in his warmth, hearing his voice— all for one, last time.

Tim couldn’t bring himself to stand in front of your casket.

The casket stood only a few steps away, yet it might as well have been the edge of the universe. His feet remembered how to walk beside yours, but never how to walk toward a world without you.

Tim lingered at the back of the chapel, not because he was afraid of death, but because he was afraid you would look too still to be the woman who had once laughed his name into something sacred.

He had promised to stand beside you until death did them part. No one had warned him that death would ask him to stand beside you without you standing back.

Tim couldn’t bear to see silence wearing your face.

He kept searching the room for the impossible—for the familiar sound of your footsteps apologising for being late, for your gentle voice telling everyone there had been some terrible mistake—

If Tim looked upon you now, he feared the last image of your laughter would surrender to the stillness before him. He wasn't ready to lose you twice.

So he remained at the threshold, suspended between devotion and denial, loving you with every fibre of his being, yet unable to take the few steps that would make your absence irrevocably real.

The day you were buried was the day everyone in the world heard Tim tear himself apart.

Brian had to hold him back while Toby stood eerily still from the sidelines. Tim was like an uncaged animal, screaming and thrashing and sobbing into the wind, begging to whatever gods up there cruel enough to take her from him to bring her back, just for one second.

Brian had given him his wife’s ring on a bloodstained cushion on his wedding day. Brian had been the one to give it to him back.

Tim wanted to climb into the silence after you, to spare you from facing eternity alone, forgetting for a fleeting moment that love could not follow where breath no longer could.

Long after everyone else had gone home, he remained beside the fresh earth. Tim spoke to the mound as though you were simply lying behind a closed door, apologising for leaving before you had answered. The sky dimmed, the flowers stirred in the evening breeze, and for the first time since meeting you, Tim turned away knowing there would be no familiar voice calling him back.

The months after were no better.

Tim had started wearing your ring on his pinky finger, along with his own wedding ring. The diamond looked awkward on him, and passersby who would spot him near the bridge would laugh and point and say it makes him look stupid.

If Tim looked stupid for loving you, then he had been a proud fool.

He hadn’t fixed the cabin up for weeks. Cobwebs started to grow in the corners. Mold started festering between the floorboards from spilled coffee. Shards of glass still remained on the floor from his meltdowns.

Likewise, your things remained untouched as well.

The leftover invitation cards from your wedding. The expired fried chicken you meant to microwave. The dirty laundry spilling over the basket.

Tim stared at the medbox blankly. Angrily. Seething.

He was mad at the doctors. Mad at the medicine he thought he would work. The countless sleepless visits you had to endure because the hospitals didn’t give a single shit.

The pill bottles were spilled on the floor in a span of 3 seconds.

Tim drank. And he drank. And he drank. Then, he’d vomit his already tiny breakfast (everything in your fridge grew mold. He couldn’t go outside. He didn’t want to.). After that, he’d plunge his face into his pillows and cry so much more. Then vomit again because he did that.

He’d stare at your wedding picture on the nightstand every time he fades to sleep.

Everything cycled. Spiraled. Everything in between.

No pain, no gunshot wound, no knife fight would ever amount to this, he thinks. Tim would rather get eaten alive by the void than to lose you all over again.

The years were patient where grief was not.

They settled into the lines of his face, silvered his hair, bent his back, and softened the strength in his hands. Seasons arrived faithfully, one after another, carrying springs that begged flowers to bloom and winters that insisted even the strongest trees could survive another cold. The world kept moving with an almost offensive certainty, as though it had forgotten the day it asked him to bury you.

He never did.

Not truly.

People told him time would heal him. It didn't. Time simply taught him how to carry an absence without dropping it.

They encouraged him to love again. They spoke gently, believing they were offering mercy.

Every quiet morning still belonged to you. Every empty chair across the table still waited for you. Every birthday, every anniversary, every first rain of the year found Tim instinctively turning his head, prepared to tell you something before remembering the conversation would have to remain unfinished.

The house became a museum curated by devotion.

Your books remained where you left them. Your favourite mug sat untouched in the cupboard. Your side of the wardrobe never welcomed another coat. Dust gathered where your fingertips no longer could, yet he could never bring himself to erase the last places that still looked as though you might return to them.

He feared that if he changed too much, you would come home one day and no longer recognise the life the two of you had built.

Age didn’t do Tim exactly too well.

Sometimes he would visit your grave and speak for hours, telling you about ordinary things. The neighbour's cat had become fat. The roses had finally bloomed. He had burned dinner again because he still never learned to cook your recipes quite right.

“How many cups of garlic did I really need, puddin’? — Ah, fuck- it’s a teaspoon.”

Anyone passing by might have mistaken him for a lonely old man talking to stone.

Hell, some even caught him playing his guitar in front of the damn thing.

Tim would even go out of his way to curate his own songs, maybe even plagiarizing some of the notes because grief didn’t allow creativity to spark him. Not that he even had any to begin with.

He’d “perform” in front of you, then ask if he did good and if the lyrics sounded sappy. They did. But Tim wanted you to say it. One last time.

As though somewhere beyond the reach of clocks and calendars, beyond the silence that had followed your last goodbye, you were waiting with the same patient smile you wore on your wedding day.

And if eternity granted him one final mercy, he imagined it would not be angels, or golden gates, or songs beyond human understanding.

It would simply be hearing your voice call his name again.

After all those years...

As though you had only been waiting for him to come home.

Giggling, you place your hand on his knee. “Play something for me, my love,” you started.

“I want to hear your voice.”

Tim wants to hear it, too.

Toby has always been very clingy, it was clear to anyone. The boy had absolutely no problem giving up his own autonomy if it meant he could be closer to you, becoming more like an appendage rather than a boyfriend. Something you now wielded as your own, which came with the responsibility of sustaining and caring for.

Due to his CIPA he didn’t feel the need to eat leading him to become very malnourished, in all his years being a proxy it didn’t appear to be getting any better. So that’s where you stepped in, as his partner it is your duty to care and look after him right? Though caring for Toby comes with many a problem; He can be very very stubborn. Which leads you to unconventional ways of nurturing that boy.

“Im not hungryyy.. Stop trying to make me eat.” Toby whined, literally rejecting some lightly salted crackers you attempted to feed him. Turning away and covering his mouth, being such a brat. “You HAVE to eat, you literally fainted earlier, I don’t even remember the last time I saw you have some food.” You attempted to rationalize with Toby, but he just looked at you and rolled his eyes. “I’ll eat when I feel like it.” That wasn’t going to do because HE NEVER FEELS LIKE IT. “I swear Toby if you don’t start eating I’ll chew this shit up and spit it into your mouth like we’re birds.”

Toby’s eyes suddenly lit up, and he looked back at you. “Really?” a smirk grew on his face, and you were instantly regretting what you just said. “What..?! No I was just kidding!! That’s so gross, I would never feed you like that.” Toby shrugged. “Then I guess I won’t be eating at all.” Your patience was beginning to wear thin with the boy, you weren’t angry but worried. Not eating obviously can fuck up his health, and put him in serious danger being a proxy and all. You didn’t really wanna do this, but if it’ll get him to eat then maybe.. “If I do it will you eat?” Toby’s smirk came back and he nodded. “What the hell sure, if it’s coming from you it might be kinda hot.” Slowly you reached for a cracker from the box, as you did your mind was racing. “Am I really about to do this?” That sentence circled through your thoughts, but it was too late. Toby sat on the edge of the bed, his knees touching your legs as you stood in front of him. That boyish smile and the glimmer in his eyes, he was way too cool with this. But you were caving in as you took a cracker and began chewing it, the cracker slowly broke apart in your mouth. You could feel tiny specks of salt on your tongue, the dry crumbly texture soaking up the moisture and saliva from your mouth, followed by a subtle buttery flavour. It didn’t take long for the cracker to turn into a smooth paste-like texture, it should be real easy to swallow now. Toby was watching in anticipation, the corners of his lips twitching, he’d been smiling the whole time. It annoyed you a little how casually disgusting he was, you roughly grabbed his jaw, squeezing his cheeks until he popped his mouth open. You then spat the mush into his mouth, watching it land on his tongue before he closed his mouth. Toby’s face contorted a little, it probably didn’t taste great but he managed to swallow it in one gulp. The boy looked at you sheepishly, a tint of blush on his cheeks as he coyly said. “Thanks honey.. Can you do it again?” Your brows furrowed while you crossed your arms. “Why can’t you just eat like a normal person.” Toby put his hands on your hips, pulling you a little closer as he looked up at you. “Well maybe instead you could put some peanut butter on your nipples and your-“

You made him shut his bitch ass up by slapping your hand over his mouth and picking up another cracker placing it into your mouth. “You are so gross..” You said while chewing. Toby opened his mouth and licked your palm, wouldn’t be the first time. He gently chewed on your hand as he waited, maybe you should have offered him human flesh, not your own though that would hurt. You grabbed his jaw again and he opened his mouth, taking what you had to give him with that stupid grin. You spat the chewed up food into his mouth and watched him swallow. “Thank you..” Toby said, you glared at him response before speaking. “Is this really what I have to do? Just to make sure you won’t die?” Toby’s smile dropped. “Uh- I um..” You two crackers and popped them into your mouth. “You’re so needy..” You said your voice muffled by the food into your mouth, Toby’s face started to go a little red. “Uhh.. S-sorry..?” The boy was getting all flustered, how cute. “I bet you’re getting off to this aren’t you?” Toby’s eyes widened and his brows furrowed. “Maybe a little..” He said as he squeezed his thighs together, you then forcefully opened his mouth, but this time you slowly inserted the crackers into his mouth rolling the slop into his with your tongue, lips brushing up against each other before you pulled away. “Swallow bitch.” Was all you said before he obeyed. “Good boy, why don’t I give you a little treat for cooperating? Open your mouth again.” Toby nodded and opened his mouth, you then spat right inside, just with your saliva. “There you go filth, don’t waste a drop.” Toby swallowed that too, literally licking his lips as he looked up at you with droopy puppy like eyes.

“Thank you thank you.. Please don’t stop, I’m having a lot of fun..” He snaked his arms around your waist, resting his face in your stomach. You gently pet his hair, as if he were your pet. “Of course hun, I wouldn’t let my baby bird starve after all.” <3