#slenderman proxy

The lake was so still. The kind of stillness that made the air heavy, as if even the water held its breath in anticipation. Moonlight fractured across the surface in sharp, silver shards, illuminating the awkward shapes of two figures dragging something heavy across the moss-slick ground.

You and Toby.

The corpse hung between you like an anchor, its weight making your arms ache with each step. The smell of damp earth and decay was thick in your nose. Every time Toby shifted his grip, the body smacked against the ground with a dull thud.

“Careful,” you hissed, slipping on a wet root. “It’s not going to sink if you—”

“Maybe if you d-didn’t drop your end every t-two seconds,” Toby grunted, voice muffled under his bulky muzzle, “we’d be done a-al-already.”

You glared, tugging on your end. “Excuse me for not wanting to ruin my boots in swamp water.”

“Oh, right,” he shot back, sarcasm dripping, “because t-this job is about fashion.”

The two of you stumbled to the edge of the shore, shadows from the Slenderwoods curling around you. The trees loomed like sentinels, tall and skeletal, their branches swaying with a sound that was almost a whisper. You hated this place at night—the way the silence seemed alive, watching, waiting. Toby, of course, didn’t seem to care. He didn’t care about anything, as far as you were concerned.

You heaved the body once, twice, then shoved it into the water with a final grunt. It splashed hard, ripples spreading outward until the lake swallowed them whole. You didn’t know the man, didn’t even really care to, it was just another job from the Operator. For a moment, you both just stood there, catching your breath, staring at the dark water as the final inches of the body sunk into the abyss.

“Happy now?” you muttered.

“Real p-pro-professional,” he replied flatly.

Your teeth ground together. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a pain in the ass,” he shot back without hesitation.

The exchange was so familiar it almost felt rehearsed. Every mission ended like this: harsh words, rolled eyes, and the tension of two people forced into each other’s orbit who simply didn’t fit. The only difference is Masky wasn’t here to break it up.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried.

When Slender first made you both proxies, you’d done what Masky and Hoodie told you: learn each other’s strengths, cover each other’s weaknesses, trust is mandatory. And you tried. You really did. But from the very first mission, something had been off.

Maybe it was his immaturity—the way he cracked jokes in the middle of grim work, or the way he blew off orders to do things his own reckless way. Maybe it was your frustration—your need for control clashing violently against his chaos. Every step he took felt like it undermined yours. Every word out of his mouth made your patience snap just a little thinner. 

You weren’t blind, though. You saw how efficient he was, how quickly his hatchets moved, how easily he carried violence without hesitation. He was good—annoyingly good. Which made it worse. Because you should have worked well together. You were both proxies, bound to the same faceless master, trapped in the same mansion and forest. On paper, it made sense. In practice? You were oil and water.

Some people just weren’t meant to click.

“Guess we’re d-done here,” Toby muttered, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He lit it, the brief flare of orange glow painting his face in harsh lines as he unstrapped his muzzle to take a drag. “W-We’ll never get a-along, will we?”

You gave a humorless laugh, wiping splatters of mud from your jeans. “Not a chance.”

He exhaled smoke into the night, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “Fine by me.”

The lake was silent again, just as still as if there wasn’t a body sinking to the bottom now. You turned, hauling back toward the direction of the mansion and away from him, but the walk back was worse than the mission itself. The Slenderwoods closed in on all sides, branches scraping like claws, owls hooting too low, too human. Every shadow moved if you stared too long, but none of that was as grating as the boy trudging a few feet beside you.

“You could’ve at least waited before stabbing him like that,” you grumbled, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill. “The plan was to corner him—”

“The p-plan was slow,” Toby interrupted, his voice sharp and smug. “He was running. I stopped h-him. Problem solved.”

“Problem solved?” you scoffed. “You nearly blew our cover, dipshit. He screamed loud enough to wake the entire county.”

Toby snorted, kicking a stone off the path. “Still got h-him in the end, didn’t we? He’s f-fish food now. You’re welcome.”

You threw him a glare sharp enough to cut. “I didn’t ask you to play hero. There’s a difference between efficiency and being reckless, and you wouldn’t know it if it hit you in the face.”

He tilted his head, grinning as he puffed a dark cloud of cigarette smoke towards you. “Guess t-that makes me reckless, then.”

The banter didn’t stop until the looming silhouette of the mansion swallowed you both in its shadow. The Slendermansion sat hunched at the edge of the woods, its black windows like hollow eyes. The air grew heavier the closer you got, as if the walls themselves were listening, feeding.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you tossed your gear onto the table in the main hall. The familiar smell of stale smoke, mildew, and faint copper clung to the air, but it was the home you knew. Masky was already there, arms crossed, watching the two of you like a teacher sick of breaking up the same fight between the same students.

“You two done?” Masky asked flatly, eyes narrowing.

“Ask him,” you said at once.

“Ask her,” Toby fired back.

Masky groaned, dragging a hand down his mask. “Every damn time…”

From the couch, Hoodie let out a quiet snicker without looking up from his notebook he was sketching in. He never interfered much, but the slight shake of his shoulders told you he found your constant arguments entertaining. Infuriatingly entertaining.

Kate was sprawled in one of the armchairs, cleaning one of her knives with a rag. She raised her eyes just long enough to catch the tail end of your glare-and-growl routine. “You both need to grow up,” she said bluntly.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Toby beat you to it. “I a-am grown up,” he said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, flicking the final ashes from his cigarette onto the grimy floor before tossing it.

Kate arched a brow. “Mhm.”

You smirked at that, but it only lasted a second before Toby turned his mockery back on you. “D-D-Don’t get too fuckin’ cheeky—you’re not e-exactly winning any maturity awards e-either.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Says the guy who nearly fucked up tonight’s mission by charging in like a bulldozer.”

“And you would’ve l-let him get away while you m-made a speech ab-about ‘proper execution,’” Toby countered, mimicking your voice in a whiny falsetto that made Hoodie snort louder.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, throwing yourself into the opposite armchair with a huff.

Masky’s sigh was sharp, final. “I don’t care how you got it done. The point is, it’s done. Next time, don’t cause such a fuss and just get the damn thing over with.”

The words settled between you like a warning. But even warnings didn’t last long in this house. The air was too thick, the walls too close. You felt Toby’s eyes on you from across the room, smug, as if he’d won something.

You looked away first.

And that was the problem. Around Masky, Hoodie, and Kate, you could breathe. The dynamic worked. Missions went smoothly enough. The mansion felt tolerable, almost like a twisted version of family. But with Toby? It was always barbed words, tense silences, and the gnawing thought that you’d never, ever get along.

And yet… you were stuck together, whether you liked it or not.

── .✦

Life in the mansion was cramped, but not in the physical sense. The house itself stretched wide and tall, with too many rooms, too many halls that seemed to change direction when you weren’t looking. Space wasn’t the problem. People were. Or more specifically—Toby.

Morning started with a fight more often than breakfast.

You were standing in the kitchen, half-awake, nursing a chipped mug of bitter coffee when Toby barreled in, raiding the cabinet like a raccoon.

“Did you ta-take the last of t-the cereal?” he asked, voice scratchy from sleep.

“No,” you said, sipping slowly. “Kate did yesterday.”

Toby pulled the box down anyway, stared at the empty bottom, and turned on you. “So you k-knew and didn’t say an-anything?”

“Not my job to babysit your stomach,” you said dryly, turning your back on him.

By the time he stomped off, Hoodie was already leaning against the doorway, watching the exchange like it was a morning sitcom rerun. He muttered something about “placing bets next time” before pouring his own coffee and disappearing.

Later, it was weapons.

You had your knives laid out on the coffee table, sharpening them methodically, when Toby came over and plucked one up without asking.

“Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Relax,” he said, flipping the blade in his palm. “I was j-just looking.”

“Looking with your fingerprints all over it,” you snapped, snatching it back.

Masky’s sigh from the couch was loud enough to shake the windows. “I swear, it’s like living with children.”

Kate didn’t even look up from the book in her lap. “That’s because it is.”

Toby threw his hands up. “What, so s-she can throw a fit but I’m the p-problem?”

“Yes,” Kate and Masky said in unison. You couldn’t help smirking at that.

Dinner was the worst. 

The table was long enough for space, but somehow you and Toby always ended up across from each other. Tonight it was stew—Masky’s attempt at “normalcy,” though the meat was questionable at best. You didn’t eat together often, but it was a joint effort when you did.

“Don’t hog the b-bread,” Toby said, reaching across the table.

“I’ve had one piece,” you shot back, yanking the plate closer.

He lunged, you pulled away, and in the struggle the whole loaf toppled onto Hoodie’s lap. He froze, staring down at the mess, then at both of you with the slow, simmering irritation of a man two seconds from throwing something heavy. Kate snorted. Masky pinched the bridge of his nose.

Slender wasn’t around much, but you sometimes wondered if he kept you two paired just for his own amusement. Because every day, it was something. The fights were never big enough to break anything, never serious enough to leave bruises. But they stacked. They simmered. They filled the halls like static, humming between every word and every glare. And yet, for all the irritation, all the arguments, neither of you ever walked away for long. Missions still got done. The mansion still ran. Somehow, despite it all, the two of you stayed orbiting each other—gravitational pull you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.

── .✦

It was one of those heavy, still evenings where the Slenderwoods felt closer than usual. The air smelled like damp pine and smoke, a thick fog mist rolling over the dense grass underfoot. You and the others sat out on the creaking porch, ashtrays cluttered between boots and half-empty bottles of water. Masky smoked slow and deep, his mask balancing on the top of his thigh as he leaned back onto the wooden seat. Kate leaned back against the railing, picking at the chipping paint on the wood, eyes sharp but distant. Toby sat a little too close to you, tapping his leg like a drumbeat you couldn’t ignore.

You lit your own, trying not to acknowledge him, exhaling a sharp cloud into the humid night.

“So…” Toby finally said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Anyone e-else notice she always steals the li-lighter first?”

You shot him a look. “I do not.”

“Shut up, boy.” Masky started.

“Yeah, you do,” he said, grinning beneath the thick goggles that he had pushed up into his hairline. “It’s l-like a compulsion or something.”

“Or maybe you’re just too slow to keep track of your things,” you fired back.

Masky groaned low under his breath, muttering something that sounded like not this again. Before the argument could spiral, Hoodie pushed open the porch door and stepped outside, tucking his notebook into his jacket. His voice cut through the quiet with the weight of a dumbbell on your chest. “New mission,” he said simply.

Everyone straightened.

“All of us?” Masky asked.

Hoodie nodded. “Yeah. Orders came down. Tonight.”

The group exchanged looks. Missions that required everyone weren’t common—they usually split duties to keep the mansion covered. When all five were pulled, it meant something bigger, something messier.

“Guess family outing it is,” Kate said dryly, dumping her ashtray onto the gravel siding below.

── .✦

When darkness settled fully, the mansion stirred alive. Boots thudded against wood floors, gear clinked against belts, and weapons gleamed under dim light. Everyone had their rituals: Masky checked his sidearm three times at least, Hoodie adjusted straps across his chest, Kate wiped down her blade a final time. Toby spun his hatchets between his fingers like a magician showing off. You rolled your eyes and double-checked the knives at your thigh. The air was thick with anticipation. 

The pickup truck waited outside, dark paint faded from the sun, battered, and smelling faintly of gasoline and smoke. Masky slid into the driver’s seat without a word, Hoodie riding shotgun as he pulled up the map on his cracked cellphone. 

That left the back.

You climbed in, immediately pressed against the left side. Toby hopped up on the right, his knee bouncing instantly like he was vibrating with restless energy. Kate sighed and planted herself squarely between the two of you, arms crossed, glaring dead ahead through the windshield.  The truck dipped and squeaked on its hinges are you all settled in, then rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the black woods.

It only took a few minutes before Toby started.

“You’re sitting t-too close,” he muttered.

“I’m not even near you,” you said flatly.

“You do-don’t need that m-much space.”

“You don’t need to breathe, but here we are,” you shot back.

Kate’s elbows shot out, hitting both of your ribs at once. “Shut up. Both of you.”

You winced, rubbing your side. “Ow—”

“Don’t tempt me to hit harder,” Kate warned, eyes forward.

Masky’s voice floated back from the front seat, dripping with amusement despite himself. “This is going to be a long drive. Quit fighting and occupy yourselves.”

Hoodie didn’t even look up from the map. “Longest one yet.”

The engine hummed, the woods blurred past, and the truck rolled deeper into the dark. Despite Kate’s solid wall between you, you could still feel Toby’s presence—like static in the air, buzzing just out of reach. And you hated how much you noticed it.

── .✦

The truck rattled down the backroads for nearly an hour before Hoodie finally spoke.

“Target’s in the clearing past Miller’s Gorge,” he said, tapping the map image across his phone screen. “Couple of locals have been sniffing around the woods, talking about setting up cameras, trying to ‘catch something.’ Boss wants them gone one way or another.”

Kate exhaled a sharp breath. “So like, wannabe monster hunters.”

“Exactly.” Hoodie’s voice was calm but clipped. “They’ve already posted online. If they get anything solid, Slender won’t be happy. This isn’t one we can take half-measures with. We need it erased.”

Masky grunted. “So we wipe the whole camp.”

“Why all of us?” you asked, leaning forward from the back.

“Because there’s at least five of them,” Hoodie replied. “Armed. And cautious. Not idiots out for ghost stories—people who want proof. People who will fight back. They apparently realize that the stuff they’re hunting is more than just ghosts.”

The weight of his words settled in the truck. Everyone went quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and Toby’s restless knee bouncing against the truck bed.

“Should b-be fun,” Toby muttered.

── .✦

When the truck finally rolled to a stop, the woods were suffocatingly dark, thick with crickets and the distant sound of running water. Masky killed the headlights, and everyone piled out, boots crunching softly against dead leaves.

The air was tense but focused. The group fanned out at the tree line, eyes scanning the faint glow of campfire in the distance. Voices drifted—male, confident, laughing, the kind of laugh people made when they didn’t know what waited for them.

Masky handed out orders quietly. “Pairs. Hoodie with Kate. I’ll take her. Toby—” He paused, as if even he hated saying it. “You circle wide and cut off any stragglers.”

Toby scoffed. “Solo? Figures.”

“No one wants to deal with your noise,” Kate said bluntly, earning a sharp laugh from Hoodie.

Toby shot her a look, but Masky had already moved, tilting his head toward you. “Stay sharp.”

You fell in beside him easily. Working with Masky was… natural. His movements were measured, precise, and he didn’t waste time on unnecessary words. You mirrored his pace without thinking, both of you flowing silently through the trees like you’d trained together for years. Every signal he gave, you read instantly. Every shift you made, he accounted for. It was seamless.

Behind you, faintly, you heard the sound of Toby muttering curses under his breath as he hacked through brush on his solo path. You didn’t have to see him to know he was irritated.

Masky glanced your way briefly, as if he could read your thoughts. “Ignore him.”

You smirked faintly. “That’s the plan.”

Together, you and Masky reached the edge of the camp without a sound. You crouched low, watching the five men move lazily around the fire, rifles slung across the backs of their folding chairs, a camera rig propped against a log. Beer cans were littered everywhere, dozens of containers of eaten food and trash on the forest floor between their tents. They were unprepared.

Masky leaned close, voice low. “On my signal, we take the two closest. Hoodie and Kate will flank right. Toby will cut off anyone who runs.”

You nodded, knives already loose in your grip. The firelight flickered across the blades, and the thrill of the hunt tingled in your chest.

For the first time all night, you felt steady. Focused. Like the tension from the mansion and the truck ride had melted away into clarity. This—this was what you were good at.

Masky snapped his fingers, the unspoken signal.

The campfire crackled, throwing lazy sparks into the night. The men didn’t know they were being watched. Didn’t know that five shadows had slipped into their circle of light like wolves closing in.

Masky moved first. His pistol coughed quietly through the silencer, a muted pop, and the man nearest the fire slumped forward without a sound. At the same time, Hoodie slipped behind the next, arm locking around his throat, blade pressing in until the man’s gurgle faded. Kate was quicksilver, gliding from shadow to shadow before sinking her knife between ribs and twisting, her target crumpling into the dirt while her hand held tight over his gaping mouth. You were already in motion, your knives flashing as you closed the distance. Your target barely had time to look up before you drove steel across his throat. Hot blood spilled, spraying across the fire, sizzling as it hit the flames. You let him drop, pulse steady, breathing smooth.

It was clean. Precise. The four of you moved like clockwork.

Then a shout split the clearing.

You spun, heart lurching, eyes scanning. One of them had bolted—no, not bolted. He’d seen and decided to fight back. Toby’s voice rang out through the trees, strained, guttural. “Got one!”

Through the smoke, you saw him—locked in a brutal struggle with the biggest of the group. Broad-shouldered, stronger than the others, swinging wild fists that clipped Toby’s jaw and nearly sent him sprawling. Toby snarled, teeth bared beneath the thick muzzle, trying to drag the fight into control, but the man was too strong, too desperate. Toby couldn’t feel the punches that were thrown, but they still jarred him nonetheless.

Without thinking, you darted forward. You grabbed the hunter by the collar and yanked him backward off Toby, the two of you wrestling him to the ground. Your knee pressed into his chest, pinning him just long enough to shout—

“Get up! Now!”

Toby staggered to his feet, hatchet already in his grip. His chest heaved, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes wild and bright. He didn’t hesitate.

The hatchet swung.

It sank into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch, the force so hard it sprayed hot blood across your face, soaking into your shirt, spattering down your arms. The warmth hit before the shock did.

You gasped, jerking back in disgust. “Toby!”

He yanked the hatchet free, crimson dripping down the blade, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. For a second, he looked almost proud of himself.

“You—you just—” You swiped at your face, smearing blood across your cheek. “Are you serious?!”

“What?” he said, shrugging like he hadn’t just drenched you. “I-It worked.”

You stared at him, mouth open, hands sticky with blood. “You could’ve aimed! You could’ve waited until I—”

“There wasn’t time!” he shot back, bristling. “He was go-gonna throw you off. I finished i-it!”

“Finished it? You fuckin’ soaked me with it!” Your voice cracked, frustration boiling over. Blood dripped down your face, sticky, hot, stinking of iron. And Toby just stood there, smug behind his mouth guard, hatchet still wet, staring you up and down.

That was it. You lunged at him.

“HEY—” he barked, staggering back as you grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and slammed him into the dirt. You smeared bloody hands across his face, dragging thick crimson streaks down and across his eyes.

“There!” you spat, shoving harder. “How do you like it?”

Toby snarled and shoved back, the two of you tumbling into a heap of thrashing limbs. He rolled, trying to pin you, but you twisted, fist snapping across his jaw. The crack of impact echoed, sharp in the clearing.

“You’re insane!” he growled, throwing a hand that glanced off your shoulder.

“I’m insane?” you shouted, driving your elbow into his ribs. “You’re the one who—”

The words cut off when you shoved your hands to his throat, pinning him to the ground as he tried to sit up. Your fingers locked tight, squeezing hard. His body bucked beneath you, hatchet clattering out of his grip as he clawed at your wrists.

“Get—off—” he choked, his voice rough, broken. His head thrashed in the dirt, but your grip only tightened. The blood smeared across both of you now, sticky and warm, the world narrowing to the sound of his ragged gasps and the hammering of your pulse.

“Dammit!” Masky barked from somewhere beyond. “Enough!”

Kate’s voice cut sharper. “You’re gonna kill each other!”

But you didn’t stop. Not yet. Not until you felt his pulse falter beneath your palms, until his eyes widened—not with anger, not with panic—but something else.

Something strange.

Toby’s body trembled, his breath stuttering under your hands, but instead of pure desperation, there was… heat. A rush. A dizzying flood through his veins that wasn’t entirely fear. He should have been furious, terrified, clawing harder. But as your fingernails dug into his skin and the world blurred at the edges of his vision, something dark curled inside him. Something you could physically see stirring in him.

“You’re…crazy…” he rasped, the grip of your wrists faltering as his eyelids began to flutter. You felt your heart skip, but it wasn’t enough to register, not when Masky and Kate were on you in a second.

“Enough!” Masky barked, grabbing you by the shoulders and hauling you backward with a force that made your chest wrench from Toby’s throat. Kate shoved between the two of you, her knife still tight in her hand, eyes blazing.

“Are you out of your mind?” she snapped at you. “You’re both fucking children.”

You jerked in Masky’s grip, still seething, still tasting the heat of rage in your mouth. “He’s a fucking idiot!”

Toby rolled onto his side, coughing, ragged gasps rattling out of him. One hand clutched at his throat, the other dug into the dirt, nails carving furrows. Blood was smeared across his face, his hoodie, everywhere—but he wasn’t looking at you, only at the ground beneath him.

For the first time since you’d known him, Toby was silent.

No muttering. No insults. No half-crazed laughter at your expense. Just… silence. He sat up slow, pulling the mouth guard back into place, eyes fixed somewhere past you all. When he stood, it was without a word. He brushed dirt off his hoodie, hatchet hanging limp in his hand, and started toward the edge of the clearing.

“Toby,” Hoodie called after him, tone sharp, warning. But Toby didn’t answer. Didn’t even look back.

The rest of the night crawled like rot under the skin.

You all worked the scene in tense, heavy silence—dragging bodies, dousing blood with gasoline, scattering ash into the brush. Every now and then you caught a glimpse of Toby through the smoke, his shoulders hunched as he hacked the bodies into smaller pieces to fit into the bonfire you were throwing them into, his jaw clenched tight. No jokes. No muttered complaints. Just methodical, mechanical movements.

When you stripped out of your bloodied shirt near the stream nearby, scrubbing your arms raw in the freezing water, you could feel his eyes burning into your back from across the bank. Not glaring. Not mocking. Just… watching. Quiet.

By the time you trudged back to the truck, smelling of iron and smoke and death, Masky was rolling his eyes, muttering about “immaturity.” Kate looked like she wanted to strangle the both of you herself. Hoodie, as usual, said nothing—just kept his cigarette glowing, eyes narrowed.

But Toby? He climbed into the bed of the truck without a sound, hatchet propped against his knee, gaze fixed on the passing trees.

The silence pressed down heavier than the arguing ever had. And the longer it stretched, the more you hated it.

── .✦

The week that followed felt… off.

Toby didn’t pick fights. Not even little ones. Not the tiny jabs that had been part of your daily rhythm—the back-and-forth you’d grown used to, the words that always bounced off walls like sparks. He moved through the mansion like a ghost, quiet, methodical, focused only on smoking, weapons, and missions.

When he did speak, it was clipped, necessary. Orders, reports, directions—never aimed at you. His eyes flicked past, not meeting yours. You caught him glancing at you once or twice when he thought you weren’t looking, but it was fleeting, and every time the sight made your stomach tighten with a strange mix of satisfaction and unease.

The bruises on his throat were obvious even if you didn’t look close. Dark purple and angry against the pale skin, fading slowly but leaving deep, persistent marks. You’d caught him passing in the hallway once and remembered the weight of your hands around him, the raw heat of adrenaline and anger. A pang of guilt twisted in your gut—you’d let him get to you—but alongside it, a sharper, quieter thrill: for the first time, you had one-upped him. You had won.

At first, that smugness warmed you. You told yourself you’d earned it. You replayed the moment in your head, felt the power, the control. Toby hadn’t laughed at you. Toby hadn’t mocked you. He hadn’t even argued. For once, the scales had tipped.

But the relief didn’t last.

Toby didn’t bounce back. Not like every time before. The chaos that had defined him—the relentless teasing, the petty fights, the fire in his voice—was gone. He didn’t sneak into the kitchen and steal your lighter just to rile you. He didn’t flick ash onto your boots and smirk. He didn’t mutter under his breath or make jokes you’d spend the day wanting to punch him for.

The absence was strange. Hollow.

By the third day, it felt almost wrong. The mansion, which had been loud and infuriating, was quieter than it had ever been with him there. You realized you had grown used to his presence—not the violence, not the chaos itself, but the rhythm of it. The constant tension that had made your skin crawl was now a kind of anchor, a pulse you hadn’t realized you relied on.

And now? It was gone.

Every time you passed him in the halls, your chest tightened. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He wouldn’t speak. He didn’t react to your snide comments or half-hearted insults. You felt a creeping, uncomfortable feeling settle over you. Part guilt. Part frustration. Part… longing? The tension, the conflict, the constant sparring—it had been exhausting, yes. But now, without it, you were left staring at a quiet, withdrawn version of the boy who had once been the most unpredictable part of your day.

The deeper the week stretched on, the more you realized that what you’d thought was triumph had turned into something else entirely: a slow, gnawing emptiness.

You had won the fight. But you might have lost him.

But you should be happy… right?

── .✦

Another mission order came in from Slender. You were checking your gear in the corner of the mansion’s main hall when Hoodie appeared, silently sliding a small pack over his shoulder.

“You’re with me on this one,” he said, voice low, precise, as always.

You nodded, hefting your own weapons, already going through mental checklists. This was routine. Simple. Easy. Comfortable.

Then the door creaked, and Toby stepped in. You froze—just a little. The mansion felt a little smaller with him there. He moved quietly, deliberately, but there was an edge to his posture you hadn’t seen since… that fight.

“I should g-go,” he said.

Your hands stopped mid-adjustment, eyes darting to Hoodie.

“You?” Hoodie asked, brow raised, tone careful. “Like… you two?”

Toby didn’t answer at first. He just leaned against the doorway, faint shadows under his eyes, arms crossed. Then he met Hoodie’s gaze, and there was… determination there. A quiet insistence.

“I’ll handle it,” Toby said. “I need t-to go. Need to get o-out of the house.”

You blinked. Dumbfounded. Alone… with me? Your chest fluttered with a mix of nerves, disbelief, and something else you didn’t want to name yet. You stared at him, really stared, and realized the bruises on his throat were almost gone—just faint traces of pink fading into pale skin.

You exhaled slowly, running a hand through your hair. “It’s alright,” you said, finally. “I can go with him.”

Hoodie’s eyes shifted between the two of you, expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, resigned sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “But try not to kill each other before you even get there.”

Toby didn’t say anything to you immediately. He just stepped aside, giving you a narrow space to move past him. And then—your eyes met his for the first time all week. No words. No sarcasm. No fights. Just a look that was sharp, quiet, heavy. There was something in it—curiosity, tension, and maybe the barest trace of acknowledgment

You swallowed. He didn’t look like the Toby who laughed at your every irritation or goaded you endlessly. He looked… different. Still the same chaotic energy under the surface, but tempered. Careful. Watching. Waiting.

You nodded once, almost imperceptibly. He nodded back, then stepped out together into the night. The mansion grew smaller behind you, the faint glow of lights fading, and suddenly, the woods felt wider, quieter, trapping the two of you together.

After the mansion had long disappeared behind the two of you, you tried to break the silence first. “So… you actually decided to acknowledge me. Must be a full moon or something.”

Toby glanced at you briefly. A slow, measured nod. “Yep.”

You frowned, adjusting your grip on your pack slung over your shoulder. “And… you’re not going to pick a fight, bark something sarcastic, or pretend you’re better than me this time?”

Another nod. Short, clipped. “Nope.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Wow. Silent Toby. Real terrifying.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance your way. Just kept moving as you followed behind. The tension built like static. Every step you took felt heavier, filled with the weight of all the words unsaid between you. The heat of your own irritation grew, but it was tangled with something else—something that made your stomach twist and pulse.

Time passed, and you knew you were close to your destination when the scent of musk travelled around you.

“You know,” you muttered, testing the waters again, “we could at least plan this out before running in there and—”

But he didn’t wait for a reply. Not really. He veered slightly off the path, silent and purposeful, already moving ahead toward the dark silhouette of the warehouse you were assigned.

Your jaw tightened. “Seriously?” you snapped under your breath, jogging to catch up. “Do not pull this shit, Toby.”

He didn’t look back. Just a brief flick of the head, a nod toward the structure. No words. No argument.

The warehouse loomed as you reached the clearing—old, corrugated metal walls rusted, shadows pooling in every corner. Faint light spilled from windows shattered long ago, revealing crates stacked in uneven towers. The smell of damp wood, oil, and smoke drifted out to meet you. Someone had set up shop here, smugglers taking advantage of the abandoned structure, thinking no one would come. Unluckily, it was stirring commotion in the Slenderwoods, so they had to be rid of.

You stopped just outside, lowering your weapons slightly. “Okay. So—”

Toby was already moving. Hatchets swinging low in his grip, steps silent as he circled the side entrance, scanning, analyzing, slipping into shadows like he owned the place.

Your irritation flared. “I said we should plan—”

No response.

You ground your teeth. He didn’t even acknowledge your words beyond a brief nod to indicate he’d seen you. The careful, silent Toby—the one who had stopped fighting with you, stopped talking to you altogether—was moving without you, ignoring every attempt at control, ignoring the chaotic rhythm you had always relied on when paired.

And somehow, that made you feel even tenser than a shouting match ever could.

The warehouse groaned under its own weight as you slipped inside, shadows thick and stale air heavy with oil and dust. Somewhere deeper in the building, muffled voices echoed—low, muttering, careless. The smugglers thought they were safe.

You crouched low, pressing into the dark, and flicked a look toward Toby, ready to signal how to split. But he didn’t wait. He was already moving, sliding between stacks of crates and disappearing from your sights.

Your jaw clenched. Fine. You’d adapt.

The first smuggler came into view around the corner, cigarette ember glowing as he leaned against a crate. You tightened your grip on your knife and slid closer, focusing on quieting your movements, heart syncing with your breath—

—but Toby slipped in from the opposite side faster than you could realize. His hatchet rose and fell before you could reach striking distance, and the man dropped in silence, cigarette rolling across the floor as blood sputtered from his throat. He couldn’t even scream.

You froze, teeth grinding.

Really?

Shoving down the irritation, you darted toward the next shadow—another guard, pacing near the stairwell. You timed it, waited for him to turn, and lunged—

—but Toby’s arm shot out, shoving you back against a crate. You caught yourself with a hand before you made noise, eyes blazing as you turned on him—only to see him already driving into the man’s spine. The smuggler collapsed at his feet, blood seeping into the concrete. Toby held his mouth to keep him quiet, but the wretched coughing still echoed slightly.

Your pulse spiked hot. “What the fuck—” you hissed low.

Toby only gave a short glance, then moved on. No words. You stalked after him, every nerve on fire. This wasn’t an accident. He was cutting you off, stealing every strike, sliding into your space just a second before you could land it.

Another smuggler. Another opportunity. You adjusted your grip, prepared to move.

And then your foot hooked on something.

You stumbled, catching yourself on a crate with a dull thud. Looking down, you saw it—Toby’s boot had slid out at the last second, tripping you. He didn’t even look back, just stepped in and slit the throat of the smuggler you’d been aiming for.

Hot rage seared through you.

This wasn’t clumsy overlap. This wasn’t the two of you failing to mesh. No. This was intentional. Toby wasn’t just ignoring you anymore—he was playing with you. Undermining you. Pushing you, tripping you, cutting you off, every move designed to make you burn hotter, to make you snap.

The warehouse was a graveyard of broken bodies by the time you and Toby pushed deeper inside. Crates stood like crooked tombstones, the smell of blood thick and metallic in the air. Your knife hand ached from clutching tightly for too long, but not from use—because every time you moved in, Toby was there first. Every time you breathed, he was already cutting the air ahead of you.

You were shaking with it now. Rage crawling under your skin like fire ants.

It wasn’t just that he was faster. It wasn’t just skill. No—he was watching you. Waiting for you. Moving not around you, but through you. Blocking, tripping, shoving. Every chance you reached for a kill, his hatchet stole it from your grip at the very last second. And he knew. God, he knew.

The bastard was doing it on purpose. You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw hurt. Your breath sawed in and out, shallow, furious, your chest tight with the effort of holding yourself back. If you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure if words or a scream would come out.

Then you reached the last room.

The final smuggler was cornered near a busted loading dock door, fumbling with a pistol in shaking hands. His eyes went wide at the sight of you both, the whites bright in the dim light. Your grip tightened on your knife. Yours. This one is yours.

But Toby moved. Of course he did. He strode forward with that same unnerving calm, hatchet gleaming, as if this was just another tally mark to add to his collection. He didn’t even look at you as he raised his arm, claiming the kill before you could take a step.

Something inside you snapped. Before he could swing, you hurled your knife.

The blade hissed through the air, so close you heard the whisper of it graze Toby’s hoodie as it buried itself in the smuggler’s torso. The man crumpled with a strangled gasp, blood pooling as your knife jutted from his ribs. He was already dead by the time he hit the floor.

Silence rang out for a heartbeat. Then Toby turned. Slowly.

His head cocked, hair falling into his face, eyes burning from behind his goggles. His voice came low, rasping, edged like broken glass. “You almost h-hit me.”

“Good!” you exploded, stomping forward, your voice shaking as it poured out of you. “I should’ve aimed for you instead!”

His chest rose and fell, ragged. “What t-the fuck is yo-your problem?”

“You’re my problem!” you spat, closing the distance until you were nearly nose-to-nose. Your finger jabbed hard against his chest, smearing blood into the fabric. “You won’t stop. You cut me off, you trip me, you push me out of the way like I don’t matter!”

He shoved your hand away, heat sparking in his tone. “You don’t g-get it, do you? You ne-never fucking get it.”

“Oh, enlighten me then!” You threw your arms out, voice bouncing off the metal walls. “What exactly am I missing? That you’re such a big man because you can steal kills out from under me? That you think you’re the only one who knows what the hell they’re doing?”

Toby’s hands curled into fists, shoulders tense, body vibrating with contained rage. “You think t-this is about y-you?”

You laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “It’s always about me when you make it this way!”

His chest heaved as he stepped closer, hatchet still gripped in his hand though lowered, his voice raising to match yours now. “Maybe if y-you weren’t so busy proving yo-yourself every goddamn second, I-I wouldn’t have to clean u-up your me-messes!”

You shoved him hard, your palms slamming against his chest. He staggered a step but didn’t fall, coming back twice as hot, his own shove rattling your teeth as you stumbled back against a crate.

“Mess?!” Your voice cracked, raw with fury. “You’ve been sabotaging me since the second we stepped in here, and I’m the mess? You think I can’t see what you’re doing?”

Toby’s laughter broke then—sharp, ragged, almost unhinged, though there was no humor in it. He dragged a hand across his face, shaking his head. “You’re s-so goddamn blind.”

“Oh, screw you—” You lunged, shoving him again, and this time he grabbed your wrist, yanking you forward until your faces nearly collided. You could feel his breath hot against your cheek, could see every drop of blood spattered across his muzzle.

The room buzzed with it—your rage, his heat, the echo of all that pent-up chaos finally unleashed. The fight wasn’t about the smugglers, wasn’t about the mission. It was about the two of you, about everything that had burned too long without a spark to ignite it. And now, you were both on fire.

Toby’s grip on your wrist tightened, and before you could wrench free, you shoved him hard into another crate. The metal screeched as it shifted under his weight. He snarled and came back at you, tackling you full-force. You both went down hard, the concrete jarring every bone in your body. His hatchet skittered away with a clatter, forgotten in the heat of the struggle. You clawed at his hoodie, slamming your knee up to catch his ribs, and he grunted, twisting to roll you beneath him.

“Why now?!” you shouted, your voice tearing raw through your throat as you shoved at him. “Why the fuck this week, Toby?!”

His laugh came cracked, bitter, his breath hot against your face as he pressed you down. “Why do y-you care? You liked it better w-when I shut the hell u-up, right?!”

You twisted, bucking your hips, flipping the both of you onto your sides, rolling across the dirt-stained floor. Broken glass scraped your palm, but you didn’t let go. “You didn’t speak to me for days—nothing! Then suddenly you just have to come with me? Just so you can trip me and screw me over?”

He gritted his teeth, voice rough, guttural. “M-Maybe I wanted t-to see how you’d h-handle it. Maybe I w-wa-wanted to see you squirm for once.”

Rage spiked through you, sharp and white-hot. You slammed your elbow into his chest, forcing him onto his back. He gasped, coughing, but his hands were still at your arms, nails biting.

“Is this payback?” you snarled, your breath coming ragged. “For me choking you out? You sick little shit—you couldn’t just say something, you had to do this? Are you fucking five years old?”

He bucked up, trying to roll you again, and the two of you smashed into a half-rotted crate, splinters bursting. The smell of mold and dust coated your tongue, acrid and foul. You shoved harder, knee digging into his ribs until finally—you broke free of his grip and pinned him flat against the concrete. You straddled his waist, your hands pressed hard against his shoulders, forcing him down. Both of you were panting, sweat and blood smeared across your skin, breaths shallow with fury.

And then—something shifted.

Toby’s head tilted back, baring the flushed stretch of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, fast and strong. And he was looking right at you, eyes wide and unblinking behind the streaks of dirt and blood.

Not fighting. Not mocking. Just… giving. Exposing his throat, silent, his gaze locked on yours as if daring you to finish what you’d started last week.

You froze. The world narrowed to the hollow of his throat, to the heat rolling off his body beneath you, to the fact that he wasn’t pushing you away. He was waiting.

Your heart lurched, fury colliding with confusion. You ripped your hands off him and stumbled up, standing over him. “What the fuck are you doing?” you demanded, voice sharp, trembling.

Toby stayed on the floor, chest rising and falling, throat still exposed. Slowly, his familiar grin returned—thin, crooked, unsettling. But he didn’t answer. He just chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t steady. It cracked halfway out, like he couldn’t quite hold it together.

“Go on,” he rasped, voice roughened by the fight—and maybe something else. “Do it a-again. Thought y-you liked shutting m-me up.”

Your stomach flipped. Heat curled low in your spine, but rage fought its way back to the surface, blinding the confusion you felt. “You’ve been fucking with me all night,” you hissed. “Cutting me off, tripping me, stealing every kill. And this—” your eyes hovered over his throat, his pulse hammering beneath skin still faintly stained with last week’s bruises “—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

His grin faltered, but his eyes never left yours. Nervous. Hungry.

You almost laughed, disbelief bubbling sharp in your chest. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered. “You’ve been trying to piss me off so I’d choke you again?”

The silence was answer enough. His jaw worked, his breath shallow, silently chasing the contact he wasn’t brave enough to ask for.

Something ugly and electric knotted in your chest.

“You’re fucking sick,” you spat, standing to put space between you. “All this—what—just to get your little fix? You’re pathetic.”

He sat up slowly, tearing at the strap of his muzzle and shoving the piece off his face—the metal clattering against the cold floor, and finally let out a low laugh—broken, ragged. “Maybe. But you w-were gonna do it, weren’t y-you?”

You turned away, disgust coiling hot in your chest, but Toby’s voice followed—low and sharp, like a knife slipped between ribs. “Guess I w-was right. You only e-e-ever look good wh-when you’re on top o-of me.”

That was it.

You spun, fury surging bright and blinding, and launched yourself at him. You couldn’t care anymore if this was some perverted goade, he would get what he asked for now. He hit the floor hard, head bouncing off concrete with a dull thump, and before he could so much as blink, your hand was clamped around his throat.

“Oh, this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you snarled, leaning close, your words dripping venom. There wasn’t a muzzle to block you anymore, so your noses were practically inches from each other. “Poor little Toby, can’t get off unless he’s gasping like a fish. Pathetic.”

His grin widened even as your grip tightened, lips split and cracking, teeth flashing. His laugh jerked and stuttered, turning to wheezes under your palm, but he didn’t fight you off. Not this time. Instead, his hands slid down, fumbling and quick, finding your thighs where you straddled his abdomen. He gripped tight, fingers digging into your pants hard enough to bruise, like he was holding onto an anchor while you cut the air out of him.

You squeezed harder, your mockery coming in ragged bursts. “What, you like this? Huh? You want everyone to see those bruises again—so they’ll know exactly what I did to you?”

His laugh dissolved into a groan, his eyes glassy, unfocused, lips parted on shallow, rattling gasps. And then—his hips jerked up against you. Once. Twice. You lurched forward with the movement, your full weight pressing down onto his throat as his body bucked beneath yours, desperate, uncontrolled. Your palm bore down harder, your thighs pinning him in place, and his grip on you tightened until it hurt.

It was obscene. Violent. Maddening.

Your grip faltered when his hands crept higher on your thighs, rough palms sliding toward dangerous ground. You ripped your hand from his throat, throwing your weight back to keep yourself steady before you toppled forward.

The second you let go, Toby’s laugh cracked open, wild and desperate, spilling into something frantic. He shot upright against your weight, grabbing for your wrists, his voice ragged with need.

“No—don’t fu-fucking s-s-stop—” His words broke into a choked rasp as his chest heaved. “Do i-it again—p-pl-please—”

You shoved him down hard, eyes blazing. “You’re insane—!”

“Yeah?” he spat, his voice catching, body twisting under yours. “Then fucking b-be insane with me, h-huh? Don’t just s-sit there acting li-like you don’t get o-off on t-this shit too!”

Your rage spiked, white-hot. “Are you serious right now? I nearly killed you last time, and this is what you want?”

“Yes!” His shout tore from his throat, cracking halfway through, echoing off the warehouse walls. “Yes, fuck—goddamn i-it, you don’t g-get it—I need it!”

The words hit like a brick to the chest, and you froze just long enough for him to ramble on, his voice rising, frantic, like the dam had burst and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. He was panting for God’s sake.

“E-Ever since that night—when you h-had your hands on me—” His eyes flashed wild, glassy with something more than anger. “I-I couldn’t fucking s-stop thinking about it. I’d lay th-there staring at t-the bruises—every g-go-goddamn night—touching mm-myself to the thought of you choking me out, and it w-was the only thing that worked—”

You reeled back, disgust curling sharp in your gut. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned—broken, shameful, desperate. “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I know. But when t-they faded—when the bruises were gone—” His voice cracked again, lower now, almost pleading. “I couldn’t finish an-anymore. Nothing worked. I’ve been going o-out of my fucking m-mi-mind—”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. “So you pulled this stunt tonight? Just to piss me off enough to do it again?”

“Yes! Jesus fuck! Yes!” he barked, eyes blazing with a feverish light. “I had to! I don’t c-care if you hate m-me, I don’t care if you th-think I’m pathetic, I just—fuck—” His hands clawed at his own throat now, red scratches blooming under his nails. “I need y-your hands here. No o-one else’s. Yours.”

You stared down at him, chest heaving, every nerve screaming between fury, disbelief, and something darker curling beneath. “You’re seriously telling me you’ve been choking your dick every night to the thought of me almost killing you?”

His grin faltered, teeth bared like he was half-laughing, half-breaking apart. “I wanted i-it. I still want it. I-I need you to finish me off, or I’m go-gonna lose my fucking mind.”

The words hung between you—hot, filthy, and raw. And for the first time since you’d known him, Toby wasn’t hiding behind his immaturity or his smirk. He was laid bare, trembling under you, begging with every cracked word.

“I hate you, Toby.” Your breath hissed out between your teeth, sharp and electric, as you slammed your hand back around his throat. His body jolted like you’d lit a match to it.

Toby’s moan tore out of him, shameless and guttural, the sound vibrating against your palm. His eyes rolled halfway back, lids fluttering, and he arched up into your grip like a starving man finally fed. “Fuck—yes—” His voice rasped high and broken, and the sheer relief in it made your stomach twist. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You leaned down, sneering inches from his flushed face. “Look at you. Pathetic little freak. Can’t even look at me without getting hard.”

His laugh cracked, feral, desperate, his mouth curling wide even as his breath stuttered in ragged gasps under your pressure. He coughed once, then sneered closer into your grip, gritting his teeth. “Say it a-again—fuck—say it—”

“Pathetic,” you hissed, tightening your grip, your thumb pressing against the thick veins running up his throat. “Sick little bitch.”

His hips bucked up violently, knocking you forward again, and this time he didn’t hold back. His hands shot past your thighs, fumbling frantically at his belt behind you. The buckle clattered against the concrete, his jeans yanked open with a clumsy desperation that made your blood thrum. You couldn’t see, but you could hear the moment Toby’s hand shot into his boxers and began jerking his cock wildly, moaning through labored chokes.

“Jesus Christ,” you spat, half a laugh, half a curse. “You’re actually jerking yourself while I choke you?”

“Not—j-jerking,” he wheezed, his grin splitting wider even as his face flushed red under your grip. “Just—getting ready—” His laugh broke into a cough, then another moan. “Fuck—I don’t care i-if you hate me, just k-keep squeezing—”

Your stomach knotted, fury clashing with something darker as you pressed down harder, feeling the frantic pulse hammer beneath your hand. You should have pulled away. Should’ve shoved him off and ended this disgusting display. But the way his voice cracked when you snapped at him, the way his body writhed beneath yours, hands trembling as he shoved his jeans lower—it sparked something hot and unsettling in your chest.

“I can’t stand you,” you breathed, voice low, sharp, and shaking with something you didn’t want to name. “You’re nothing without me.”

His moan bled into a laugh, high and frantic. “I k-know. I fucking know. That’s w-why I need you.” And god help you—your lips curled, the power surging through you like fire. You were enjoying it, too.

Your palm pressed harder against his throat, pinning him flat, your thighs tight against his ribs. Toby’s grin broke into something wrecked, lips trembling as his groans spilled shamelessly between shallow gasps.

“That’s it,” you hissed, leaning close, breath hot against his ear. “Choke on it. That’s all you’re good for.”

His hips jerked up violently, jeans shoved halfway down his thighs now, his cock straining free into the cool air. His hand wrapped tight around the base, already slick, already trembling. You could hear the sound of skin-on-skin, his fist moving insanely fast and brutal.

“F-Fuck—yes—” he choked, voice torn to ribbons under your grip. “Keep talking—don’t s-stop—please—”

You sneered, pressing your weight down harder, and he let out a strangled cry that almost tipped into a sob. “Look at yourself,” you spat, mocking, eyes blazing as you looked back to see him rut up into his own fist like a man possessed. “Wheezing like a dying dog. You’re disgusting.”

“Uh—hnn—f-fuck—yeah,” he rasped, grin stretching bloody and wild. “Say it a-again—call me that—”

“Disgusting. Pathetic. Useless little freak.”

His eyes rolled, breath rattling, hips pumping faster. You heard his boots scuff and slip on the ground below, kicking dust with every jerk of his body. His free hand clawed at your thigh, nails biting hard into your skin, grounding himself in your weight, in your hold on his throat.

“Harder,” he begged, voice splintering, a desperate whine breaking loose. “Please—please, don’t let g-go—don’t stop—fuck, I’m so c-close—”

And God help you—you squeezed tighter. You felt the pulse stuttering beneath your palm, his throat straining, his moans breaking into guttural wheezes as his body arched up beneath yours.

“You need me for this,” you hissed, lips curling in something that was no longer just anger. “You can’t even come without me choking the life out of you. Need me to make your little dick come.”

His hand blurred on his cock, hips bucking helplessly now, eyes glassy and unfocused as drool slicked the corner of his mouth. “Y-yesmmn—fuck, yehmmn—need you—need your hand—don’t let go—hnn—hah—”

And then he broke.

His whole body jolted beneath you, a strangled moan tearing from his throat as his hips bucked up hard. Hot release spilled across his abdomen and into his fist as he writhed, every vein straining under your hand while you squeezed him through it. His cock twitched violently in his grasp, his moans pitching higher, wetter, delirious. “Fuckfuckfuck—yes—” he gasped, trembling, his grip on your thigh bruising as he rode the high, every thrust messy, erratic, desperate.

You held firm until he sagged under you, chest heaving, throat raw and flushed purple where your hand pressed. Only then did you release him, wiping your palm against your jeans with a sharp sneer. “Fucking hell,” you muttered again, though your heart was hammering just as hard as his.

Toby lay there, grinning up at you with glassy, wrecked eyes, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He coughed once, rough and raw, then laughed—a cracked, unhinged sound. “Worth it.”

The warehouse smelled like iron and smoke, the floor sticky with blood, bodies slumped where they fell scattered throughout the halls. Normally you’d have cleaned—burned the place down or dragged the corpses to the woods. That was protocol.

But not tonight.

You shoved yourself off Toby’s chest, breath ragged, disgust curling sharp and hot in your gut. You wiped your palm against your pants until the skin burned, as if you could scrub off the memory of his throat thrumming beneath your grip, the moans spilling out of him, the mess he made of himself under you.

“Fuck,” you spat, turning on your heel. “Fuck this.”

Toby scrambled upright behind you, fumbling with his belt buckle, tugging his jeans back up with clumsy, shaking hands. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his hoodie damp with it too.

“W-Wait—hey—” he stammered, voice still rough, strained. He grabbed his hatchet and muzzle from the floor and scurried after you, footsteps uneven on the concrete. “Don’t—don’t make i-it a thing, okay? Just—forget it h-ha-happened.”

“Forget it?” you snapped, not slowing. “You’re sick, Toby.”

He laughed nervously, breath catching on the sound. “Yeah, well—you al-already knew that.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your stomach twisted too tight, too hot, your chest buzzing with something you didn’t want to settle on. You shoved through the broken door, the night air slapping cold against your damp skin, and started the trek back to the mansion. Behind you, Toby’s boots scuffed the dirt, never too far, dogging your steps like a shadow.

“C’mon,” he tried again, voice softer this time, more nervous. “Don’t g-go all weird on m-me. It doesn’t have to mean an-anything.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “Shut up.”

Silence stretched between you after that, broken only by the crunch of leaves, the distant cry of some night creature in the woods. You didn’t look back, not once. But no matter how far you tried to walk ahead, he stayed just behind you—close enough to feel his presence crawling against your skin. Your chest heaved, every breath tight. Anger, shame, disgust—all of it roiled inside you, twisting lower until your stomach was burning, your thighs aching where his hands had dug into you.

Warm. You felt too warm. And you hated yourself for it.

By the time the mansion lights came into view through the trees, your jaw ached from clenching it so hard. You’d marched fast, hard, like if you moved quick enough, you could outrun the heat coiling in your gut, the way your pulse jumped at the memory of Toby’s voice breaking under your hand, at his eyes watering so easily.

But when you reached the porch steps, he was still there. Still trailing you. And no matter how you tried to bury it—your body still hummed with the echo of his moans.

“J-Just don’t say anything to t-them—”

“Shut up, Toby.”

The mansion’s door creaked open, hinges groaning into the quiet of the hour. You stepped in first, blood dried on your clothes, boots heavy with dust. The air inside smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old leather, warmth clinging to the walls after the chill of the forest outside.

Masky looked up from the couch where he sat sipping from a steaming mug. Hoodie was leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, while Kate perched on the armrest, picking at her fingers.

Three sets of eyes landed on you and Toby at once.

You kept yours on the floor, brushing past with a muttered, “It’s done.” Your voice was flat, clipped, nothing like the normal back-and-forth bickering they were used to hearing spill through the door after missions. Toby hovered behind you, shifting from foot to foot. His hatchet dangled loose at his side, his hoodie wrinkled, belt crooked like he’d thrown it back together in a rush. His mouth opened once, twice, but no words came.

Masky’s eyes narrowed. Hoodie straightened. Kate blew a huff of air through her nose, brows furrowing as her gaze bounced between you both. You didn’t wait for questions. You strode past them, your chest tight, your pulse hammering, Toby’s nervous fidgeting prickling against the back of your skull like static. Your boots echoed faint up the stairs, and when you reached your room, you shut the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Finally—silence.

You pressed your back against the wood, chest rising and falling, staring blankly into the shadows of your room. Your knees felt weak, like the fight had dragged out hours longer than it really had.

“What the fuck,” you whispered into the stillness. Your mind replayed it whether you wanted it to or not: his face slack with need, his body bucking beneath you, his voice breaking when you called him pathetic. The sound of him moaning your name. The way he’d begged you not to let go.

Your pulse jumped hard, traitorous, and you wrapped your arms around yourself as though that could cage it. How? How had this boy—the one who needled you, cursed you, fought you at every corner—made your stomach twist and your core ache with just his wrecked voice and shameless grin?

You growled under your breath, shoving off the door, moving on autopilot. Stripping out of bloodied clothes. Cleaning the grime from your skin in the dim light of the bathroom mirror. Your reflection looked wrong—flushed, unsettled, eyes too wide.

You tried to ignore it.

Back in your room, you tugged a shirt over your head and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them tight around yourself. The sheets were cool against your skin, the house humming faint and low in the background. You shut your eyes, forcing yourself to think of anything else.

But your mind betrayed you.

Every blink brought back Toby—the heat of him, the frantic way he’d clawed at your thighs, the rasp of his moans under your palm. You could almost feel his throat again, the thrum of his pulse weakening against your grip, the desperate way he’d pushed into your hand as if he couldn’t live without it. The way he insisted only you could do this for him—only you.

Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together beneath the sheets. “Goddamn it,” you muttered, low, ashamed.

But your hands moved anyway. Sliding down, curling over your stomach, lower, until your fingers pressed against the ache that had been building since you walked away from him on that filthy warehouse floor.

Toby’s voice played in your head, raw and broken—Harder. Please. Don’t stop.

The sheets were stifling, heat curling in every inch of your body, but you burrowed deeper under them anyway, cocooning yourself as if that could keep the shame in. Your breath was uneven, pulse climbing higher the longer you tried to resist. Your hand slipped lower, into the waistband of your shorts, finding the slick heat between your thighs. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the realization made your stomach flip.

“Fuck…” you hissed under your breath.

But your fingers moved anyway. Slow at first, just circling, teasing, trying to convince yourself you weren’t really doing this. Except the moment you closed your eyes, you saw him again—Toby’s head tilted back, throat bare to you, his lips parted in a desperate grin as you squeezed down harder.

The memory made your hips twitch, your hand quicken. Your breathing grew rougher, sharper, filling the stillness of your room. The friction wasn’t enough—you needed more. You slid two fingers against your entrance, pressing inside and gasping at the sudden stretch, your body clenching tight.

And your mind betrayed you again.

You imagined it was his hands, not yours—rough, calloused palms pushing inside, desperate and greedy. You imagined the way he’d been bucking against you, hips jerking, like he was trying to fuck the air just to get relief. What if you had fucked him then? Would it have been as fast and desperate as his fist was?

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it. Your free hand clutched the sheets by your head, knuckles whitening as your pace picked up. Each press, each thrust of your fingers had your body curling tighter, chasing something you didn’t want to admit you wanted. Your thighs trembled. Sweat dampened your temples.

And then Toby’s voice flooded your skull, unbidden: Harder. Please. Don’t stop. I need you.

Your body jerked. A moan tore from your throat. You slammed your fingers deeper, grinding your palm against your clit until the ache sharpened into something blinding. Your orgasm ripped through you like fire, your body arching off the bed, breath caught, the sound of his pleading still ringing in your ears.

You stayed there, quivering, your hand still buried between your thighs as the aftershocks trembled through you. The sheets were tangled, your skin slick with sweat, your chest heaving. And when your mind finally cleared, disgust hit you like a wave.

You ripped your hand away, burying your face into the pillow, your body still thrumming with unwanted pleasure.

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you whispered to the dark, voice breaking. But no matter how tightly you curled into yourself, no matter how hard you tried to will it away, the memory of his moans and the feel of his throat under your palm stayed burned into you.

“I hate that boy.”

── .✦

The mansion was never quiet, not really. Floorboards creaked, the woods whispered, doors groaned when opened. But between you and Toby? Silence had become the loudest thing of all.

You ignored him. Flat-out, stone-faced ignored him.

When he leaned against the doorway of the training room, flicking his pocket knife open and shut, waiting for you to snap? You kept punching the heavy weight bag, not giving him so much as a glance.

When he dropped some smartass remark during meals, fishing for the rise he always used to get? You chewed slowly, eyes fixed on your plate, not even flinching.

When he “accidentally” bumped your shoulder in the hall? You walked on, didn’t miss a beat.

It drove him mad—you could see it in the twitch of his jaw, the way his tics flared sharper, faster when you didn’t bite back. But it drove you mad too, in a way you didn’t want to admit.

Because the bruises were back. 

Dark, blooming fingerprints circling his throat like a necklace only you could’ve left. They were darker than last time, more intense. They peeked from under his collar when he tilted his head back, caught the light when he twisted just so. And every time you saw them, your stomach clenched.

You couldn’t help imagining him again, in that messy sprawl on the warehouse floor—eyes glazed, lips split, gasping for air under your hand. The memory tangled with the fact you knew he was jerking off to it every night, chasing that high you’d given him like some addict.

And then came the shame.

Shame because you’d done the same. Shame because your own fingers had dug into yourself with his voice in your ears, his body pressed against yours in your mind. Shame because it made you warm now, just thinking about it in broad daylight. You hated yourself for it.

The others noticed.

Masky groaned and rolled his eyes whenever the silence stretched too long in the room, muttering about “finally shutting the both of you up.” Hoodie, quiet as ever, glanced between you two with something unreadable in his gaze, like he was tracking pieces to a puzzle he didn’t want to put together. And Kate? She smirked. She didn’t say anything—yet—but her eyes lit up with amusement every time Toby walked in, bruises stark and ugly, your gaze flickering before you could stop it.

The mansion wasn’t built for subtlety. Everyone could feel the tension brewing.

And Toby? Toby basked in it. Even when you ignored him, even when your face burned with shame, you could see it in the edge of his grin, in the way he let his collar hang just a little lower. He liked that you saw the bruises. He wanted you thinking about them. Thinking about him.

── .✦

The porch was cold, even with the smoke curling warm in your lungs. You leaned against the railing, staring into the stretch of black trees. The woods whispered with wind and crickets, an endless, empty hum that should’ve eased your head but didn’t.

You were halfway through your cigarette when the door creaked behind you. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. His uneven footsteps, the scrape of his hoodie against the doorframe—Toby.

You stiffened immediately, flicking ash into the night, already crushing the half-finished cigarette against the rail. The second he stepped outside, you pushed off the porch, muttering, “Nope.” But before you could make it to the door, his hand shot out and grabbed your arm.

You spun on instinct, your fist colliding with his chest, hard enough that it would’ve left anyone else wincing. He didn’t even flinch. His head just tilted, eyes flicking from your hand to your face.

“You probably liked that too, didn’t you?” you spat, ripping your arm from his grip. “Bet you’ll jerk off to that later too.”

For a moment, the corner of his mouth curled up into a grin like he was about to shoot something smart back. But then it faltered. He swallowed, shifting his weight. “You can’t k-keep being mad at m-me,” he said, quieter than you expected.

You barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, that’s rich. What’s this—gaslighting me now? Pretending I imagined all your bullshit? You baited me into it, Toby. You made me—”

“I’m not saying th-that.” His voice cut through, sharper this time. He stepped closer, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting. “I’m saying… you d-did it too. You wanted it. D-Don’t dump all the blame o-on me like I’m the only fucked up o-o-one here.”

You blinked at him, the words burning hotter than the smoke simmering in your lungs. The laugh that came out of you was dry, ugly. “Wow. That’s your angle? Turn it around on me so you don’t feel like a creep?”

He shook his head quickly, stammering, “No. That’s not—fuck—” He scrubbed a hand through his messy curls, his tics pulling his shoulders tight. Then his voice dropped, raw and stripped. “I just… I hate i-it when you’re quiet.”

That stopped you.

His eyes flicked up to yours, no grin this time, no mask. Just something bare. “I can handle y-you being pissed at me. You c-can scream, throw punches, call me every name in the book—I don-don’t care. I’ll give it right back. That’s what we do.” He took a step closer, the porch creaking under his boots. “But this? Y-You ignoring me? Acting like I don’t exist? That’s wo-worse than any fight we’ve ever h-had.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse suddenly pounding in your ears.

“You always bounce b-back,” he went on, voice rough with an edge of desperation. “No matter h-how ugly it gets, you always come back a-at me w-with something. And now you’re just—gone. Silent. And it fe-feels like I’m fucking… nothing t-to you. And I can’t stand that.”

The words hung between you, heavy as the smoke drifting in the night air. You clenched your fists, struggling to breathe steady. Your chest felt too tight. His words were still in your ears, rattling around, refusing to leave. You dragged a hand through your hair, then crossed your arms hard, locking yourself in. Your gaze flicked down—just for a heartbeat—to his throat, where the bruises were stark against pale skin, then to his hands fidgeting at his sides. A sigh slipped out before you could swallow it down.

“God, you’re annoying,” you bit out, venom dripping. “You stand here begging for scraps of my attention like some whipped fucking dog.”

Toby’s lips twitched, but he didn’t fight back. He just nodded once, sharp, almost eager. “Y-Yeah. I am.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. Then the anger surged hotter. Even still, even as you tried to push him away, he was still enjoying it.

“You don’t even try to deny it? That’s how low you are? That’s how little self-respect you have?”

“Mmhm.” Another nod. His boots creaked closer against the porch boards.

Your arms tightened across your chest. “You’re disgusting, Toby. You make me sick.”

“Yeah.” Another step closer. His grin was small now, faint, but his eyes were locked on you like he was drinking it all in. Your nails bit crescents into your arms. You should’ve walked away—you knew you should’ve walked away—but the way he was letting you tear into him only made your pulse race faster.

“Say it,” you snapped, stepping forward yourself. “Say you’re a fucking disgusting waste of space.”

“I’m di-disgusting,” he echoed, nodding. “Waste of space. All o-of it. Go on.” He was right there now, only inches away, and still coming closer.

“You’re nothing,” you spat, your voice trembling with how hard you forced the words out. “I hate you.”

He nodded again, eyes bright, voice low. “Then hate me.”

And then he leaned forward. Not quick, not sharp—slow, steady, like he was giving you all the time in the world to stop him. His breath brushed your lips, his bruised throat bare and tempting, his whole body a dare.

Something snapped in you. Your hand shot up and clamped over his mouth. Hard.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growled, glaring into his eyes.

For a heartbeat, the night was silent, only your ragged breathing between you. His lips moved against your palm, hot breath searing your skin, but he didn’t try to pull away. He just looked at you, wide-eyed and unblinking, as if you’d given him exactly what he wanted.

Then his arms came up.

Before you could react, he wrapped them around you, hauling you flush against him. Your body collided with his, hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs, and that’s when you felt it—his bulge thick and insistent against your hip.

Your heart jumped. You recoiled, but he only crushed you tighter, his muffled voice spilling hot against your palm. “Can’t—fuck—can’t help i-it,” he mumbled under your hand, words slurring but frantic. His eyes were wild, pleading and burning all at once. “You don’t understand how good i-it sounds. The way you talk to me—how mean you a-are—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped, pressing harder against his mouth, like you could shove the words back down his throat. And then—warm, wet, obscene—his tongue dragged across your palm. You jerked your hand back instantly, grimacing. “Motherfucker—”

The slap cracked sharp across his face before you even thought about it, your palm stinging from the impact. He didn’t even blink, face jerking to the side for only a moment. His laugh tore out, jagged and breathless, like it was the best gift you’d ever given him. “More,” he goaded, his voice breaking with a tic as his grin split wide. “C’mon—hit me again—”

Something boiled inside you. Rage. Heat. Hunger. You couldn’t name it, couldn’t separate it. You fisted his collar instead, yanking him down hard enough his head snapped forward. Your lips crashed into his in a violent, messy collision—more teeth than anything else, half-kiss, half-bite.

He made a noise deep in his chest, caught between a moan and a growl, and bit back. Your teeth scraped his lip, tearing it raw, copper flooding between your tongues as you devoured each other like a fight you couldn’t win. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was violent, greedy, your mouths clashing, biting, swallowing each other’s breath until you were dizzy. His hands gripped your waist, bruising, desperate, dragging you closer still.

The porch boards creaked under your stumbling steps as you shoved him back, and he only laughed against your mouth, teeth clacking yours, his breath ragged and burning hot as he kissed you like you were both still trying to draw blood.

Your teeth clashed again, the taste of copper thick on your tongue, and Toby groaned like it was ecstasy. His hands roamed rough, not searching but taking—fingers digging into your hips hard enough you swore he’d leave bruises through your clothes. You shoved at his chest, trying to push him back, but he turned you violently, pinning you against the porch railing. The wood bit into your spine. His mouth crashed against yours, sloppy and biting, like he was trying to consume you whole.

“Fucking—” you gasped between kisses, your nails clawing into his shoulders. “I hate you.”

“F-Fuck yeah you do,” he growled, teeth dragging along your jaw before sinking in just hard enough to sting. His hips ground forward, rough, shameless. His bulge pressed against your hip so hard you could feel every inch. “Show me just h-how much, baby.”

Your laugh broke into a moan, guttural and unwilling, as he rocked against you. That only pissed you off more. You tangled a hand in his curls and yanked his head back hard, exposing his throat. “Pathetic little pervert,” you spat, glaring at the bruises you’d already put there. Your free hand wrapped around his throat again, squeezing until his breath stuttered, and his eyes rolled for just a second.

He moaned just as loud and whiny as he had the other night. The sound made heat coil tight in your stomach. You pressed harder, relishing the way his pulse hammered under your fingers. He choked out a laugh, lips swollen and red, trying to lunge forward again—but you held him just out of reach.

“Say it,” you hissed. “Say you’re nothing. Say you’re mine to break.”

His grin split wide, voice raw and ragged as he rasped, “I’m nothing. I’m—fuck—I’m y-yours to break.”

That was all it took for you to slam your mouth back onto his, devouring him. Your bodies ground together in a messy, furious rhythm, every movement as much a fight as it was a touch.

Toby’s hand slid down, gripping the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up around his hip. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound greedily, bucking into you. Your nails raked down his chest, and he shuddered, growling against your lips. He bit at your bottom one hard enough to make you taste blood again.

The porch creaked, your breath echoed, and for a moment, the whole world was just this: violent mouths, grasping hands, and the line between hate and want blurring until there was no difference. You tried to shove him off, but he anchored himself against you with his hands—one gripping your waist, the other sliding lower, hot and slick, brushing over the waistband of your shorts.

You stiffened immediately, pressing back, but he didn’t stop. He shoved his hand down past the hem, his warm palm pressing flat against your fluttering cunt. You hissed, digging your nails into his shoulders. The pad of his thumb traced along your slick folds, the subtle heat radiating from your body under his touch making him groan low and uneven.

“Right—so defensive, but you’re soaked—” he panted against your jaw, dragging his fingers through your slick and probing against your entrance. You wanted to curse him, but your hips were too busy chasing after his hand, mind too muddled with want. “Y-You’re not very good a-at playing pretend.”

And then—careful, deliberate—he slipped a finger inside. The movement was slow at first, testing, curling just enough to brush the spot that made you gasp, hips bucking despite your effort to stay rigid. Your breath hitched, caught in your throat as your hands clamped over his shoulders, nails digging in hard, and yet your stomach tensed, core aching in unwanted, feral need.

“Goddamn it, Toby—get the fuck—” you tried to snap, but the words came out a whimper as his fingers moved in perfect rhythm with the heat coiling between your legs.

“Can’t stop,” he rasped, teeth grazing your jaw. “Your hands—your words—f-fucking kill me. I can’t help it.”

You clawed at him, nails digging into skin. He moved another finger in, slick and warm, curling expertly, pressing, rubbing, and suddenly the fire coiling low in your belly blazed out. You arched up, fighting, hissing at him through your teeth, but the sound only seemed to make him smirk against your jaw.

“You piss me off,” you spat, pressing back harder, rocking your hips against his hand in a mix of resistance and desperate need. Every nerve in your body screamed, every pulse of blood seemed to thrum straight down into the ache he was cultivating with each careful, greedy curl of his thick fingers. “You’re so fucking gross.”

“Yeah,” he moaned, the word rattling through him. “Gonna make you cum. I h-have to. Ne-Need to.” The sound—raw, desperate, unashamed—made arousal coil tighter in your belly. Your free hand tangled in his hair, yanking his face to yours again. Teeth clashed, lips smacked, and he grunted as you bit him, tasting yourself on him, smelling the deep earthy tones of him.

He bucked into you, nails digging into your hip, sliding his fingers faster, curling them deep, teasing you, testing you, making you gasp and growl your frustration into the night air. You tried to glare, tried to snap insults, but your body betrayed you, trembling, hips pressing against him, sliding back onto his fingers despite the growl of anger and disgust still catching in your throat.

“Told you,” he rasped, voice ragged, “I l-like it better when you’re pissy.”

You hit him on the chest, hard enough to make him grunt, and he chuckled, throat choked and vibrating under your hand. The contrast—his rough, hungry laugh and the slick heat of him inside you—sent fire lashing in your veins, spreading down and low, making your nails dig deeper, your chest rise faster, your body tremble like you were breaking apart. You tried to pull away, tried to scream insults, tried to shove him off, but every movement only made him grip harder, curling fingers deeper, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he held you flush against him.

“Fuck—Toby…” you gasped, teeth clenching, nails digging into the fabric of his hoodie as heat roared through your body. His hand moved faster, rolling you expertly against him, pressing and curling until every nerve in your belly lit up. You clenched, tight, shivering, and suddenly the wave hit—sharp, overwhelming, and completely consuming. Your body quaked as your orgasm ripped through you, muffled gasps caught in your throat. Toby didn’t falter; instead, he held you steady, rolling you just enough to ride it out, keeping you flush against him, your arousal spilling all over his palm.

Your chest heaved, and you grabbed his jaw with both hands, pulling him down roughly into a kiss that was desperate and messy. His mouth moved against yours, hot and slick, teeth nipping as tongues tangled, groans muffled and raw. And then, just slightly, the feral edge simmered into something slower, almost tired—your bodies still flush, hearts hammering, lips pressed together as you clung to him, fingers gripping his shoulders and chest. Your legs threaded around him, your nails dragging along his back, and you shivered against the warmth of him, still trembling from release and the cold air outside.

Finally, he pulled his fingers out, slick and glistening, and tilted his head back just slightly. His eyes locked onto yours, dark in the dim porch light, and he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking and sucking them clean with a low hum that made your heart stutter.

“Fuck,” you panted.

You don’t let him think. You take his wrist like it’s a leash and pull, hard, the way you used to when dragging him out of some stupid accident—only this time your grip is charged, hungry. Toby stumbles after you, mouth parted, eyes bright and unsteady, like he’s both surprised and exactly where he wants to be. He tries to say something—stammer a protest, some jagged joke—but you yank him faster and his words die in the cut of your stride. You pull him through the mansion’s doors and into the warmth of the house, dragging him up the stairs like a toy.

Upstairs creaks under your boots; the house is quiet but for the ragged sound of his breathing close behind. When you shove the door to your room shut, it slams. The sound is satisfying, final. You press back against it, feel the cheap paint bite into your back through your clothes, and the world narrows until it’s only you and him and the hungry strain between your bodies pressed tight.

He drops to his knees without being told. You haven’t even made a sound and he’s already obeying—fast, focused, hands fumbling as he works the waistband of your shorts. He tugs them down slow, reverent, as though he’s unwrapping something sacred and volatile. The fabric slips over your hips and slides to your knees, and you can feel the cool air lick at your skin. Toby’s head dips, lips brushing the inside of your thigh first like it’s a courtesy, then moving with increasing boldness.

You’re in control. You know it. You feel it in the slick press of your bodies, the steady drum of your pulse at the back of your throat. You lean forward, hands braced on his shoulders, and you start to talk down to him.

“Look at you,” you say, each word deliberate. You’re quieter now inside, trying your best not to disturb Masky and Hoodie only a few doors down. “On your knees for me. So ready.” Your fingers rake through his hair, rough enough that he gasps, chin lifting to give you access. He nods, desperate and grateful, eyes glossy. The motion is small, but it’s permission, and it makes something molten shift deeper inside you.

Toby’s face is close, warmth and breath and that wild laugh caught somewhere between fear and worship. He’s trembling—hands shaking as they find your hips, thumbs stroking, mapping, sliding up and under your shirt. He lifts his mouth and your name slips off his lips like a prayer. The sound is intoxicating. He’s pathetic on purpose: he knows that’s exactly what you want to see, and he gives it fully.

“You like the way you look when you beg?” you murmur, leaning down to press your forehead to his. “Like how it feels?.”

He swallows. His voice is a thin thing when it comes. “I—please. I like—hnngh, I like w-when you—” He breaks, breath hitching. “I like when you make me—when y-you choke me—when you sa-say those things.” His fingers curl into your hips like anchors, digging into your flesh.

You grin, and it’s all teeth. You like that he admits it. You like that he’s helpless to stop himself from wanting more, and you take your time making that want work for you. Hell, he couldn’t even cum without your help a week ago. One hand slides down his scalp, tilting his head, the other ghosts lower until the pad of your thumb brushes the tint in his jeans. He pants, a sharp, eager noise, and when you press that thumb—just a tease—he moans and jerks, hips lifting on their own.

“Good boy,” you whisper, the title slipping out like a command. “Work for me.”

He obeys like he breathes—fast. His hands grip your thighs, pull you closer, and he uses his mouth this time—not gentle, not careful, but greedy. When his lips close around your clit, and your back immediately hits the door, rattling the frame. He’s competent; his mouth knows how to coax sounds from you, how to lap his tongue through your folds, how to curl it in the right place. He sucks, he sucks hard, and you can feel it all rolling through you—the tug and the release, the heat pooling and then building again.

You press a palm flat to the crown of his head and drive him harder, encouraging, demanding, not letting him take the easy route. You want him raw, you want him ragged; you want him making up for every single ache he’s caused you. You lean your weight into him, hips rocking as his mouth works miracles, and you start to bark orders—softly but stiff.

“Faster.”

“Mhmn—” he hums, wrapping his hands behind your thighs, pulling you closer.

“Keep your eyes up, Toby.”

He answers by sinking his tongue into your cunt, forcing the muscle into the sticky sweet slick of your last arousal. His eyes flutter and roll, his nose pressing against your clit as he swallows every taste of you.

He’s shameless now, hands slamming up your thighs, hauling you closer until the pads of his fingers dig into the soft of your waist. He crushes his face between your legs, breath hot and urgent, tongue darting, exploring. When his fingers slide from your leg to between them, worming their way to your entrance with his tongue, you clench, eyes rolling with the stretch. He moans against you, the sound vibrating right up into your pelvis, and the crude, honest worship of it makes heat flare up into your throat.

You keep talking, degrading in that perfect, stinging way that makes him whine harder, do more. Each insult you throw is an instruction, each barb a route to deeper compliance.

“You want this,” you tell him, voice low and hard. “You want to be thrown around. Admit it.”

He lifts his head, face flushed, lips slick. He meets your eyes and says it plain, breathy and broken, “I wa-want you to hate me. I want you to hit me and h-hurt me.” He nods, like a man confirming the one truth he lives for.

“You don’t even—hah—even feel pain.”

“Let’s play pretend.”

That’s all you need. You press him back with a casual force, pressing down on his shoulders and forcing him flat to the floor. His back hit the wood, hoodie riding up, and you didn’t give him the chance to keep talking. You climbed over him, straddling his chest, knees planted on either side of his shoulders, the weight of you pinning him like prey.

“Shut up,” you spat, leaning forward just enough that your shadow swallowed his face. “You want to fuck me so bad? You’re gonna fucking earn it.”

Toby’s grin only widened. His hands went to your thighs automatically, not pushing, not resisting—just holding, squeezing like he was anchoring himself to you. His eyes, those wild, fractured things, were locked on your cunt hovering above him. His mouth fell open on instinct, tongue flashing out in a shaky, eager swipe across his lips.

“Fuck—look at you,” you muttered, rolling your hips forward until you sat fully on his face. His nose pressed firm against your clit, his tongue sliding up and tasting you with a hunger that sent shocks all the way down your spine. “On the floor, exactly where you belong.”

The sound he made against you was half-moan, half-chuckle, and the vibration shot straight through you. You fisted his messy curls, forcing his head back into the wood, rocking yourself harder against his mouth.

“Open wider,” you ordered, voice sharp, breath catching. “You’re gonna take every bit of me.”

He obeyed instantly, mouth parting, tongue flattening and dragging in long, desperate licks. He was sloppy, unashamed, drowning himself in you. Every time your hips rolled down, he groaned like he was savoring it, like he’d starve if you moved away. You ground against him harder, chasing the rhythm, riding his face with purpose. The slick sounds of his tongue working you filled the room, obscene and perfect. Toby’s hands clamped tight on your thighs, pulling you down harder, like he wanted to suffocate under you.

“Stupid weirdo,” you hissed between gasps, yanking his head tighter into your heat. “This is what you’ve been begging for, isn’t it? My pussy—fuck—my fucking hands on you.”

His answer was a muffled, ecstatic noise, hips bucking up from the floor uselessly. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t joke, couldn’t bite back. He could only take it—your weight, your rhythm, your degradation. He moaned into you again, and you felt the sound rip through your core.

You leaned back slightly, fingers twisted cruelly in his hair, your thighs trembling as his tongue curled just right, hitting that spot over and over. You threw your head back, breath breaking into ragged gasps, staring up at your ceiling just like you had a couple of nights ago—imagining how he would feel against you. It made your heart burn.

“God—fuck, Toby—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. His mouth latched tighter, tongue flicking, sucking, devouring like it was oxygen. You rode him through it, thighs squeezing against his head, grinding down until the pleasure crested sharp and overwhelming.

When it hit again, it was violent. You clamped down around his tongue, body shuddering, a cry tearing itself from your throat as you came hard, grinding his face through the waves. Toby moaned with you, greedy for every second, every twitch, every slick pulse. The overstimulation was already building, your body growing so tried. You slumped forward on shaking thighs, chest heaving, still tugging his hair, forcing him to lap at you while aftershocks rolled through. Only when your muscles gave did you finally lift off, dragging your heat from his face and watching as he gasped for air, lips and chin wet, eyes glazed and wide.

You smirked down at him, breathless but still sharp. “Look at you. So pitiful.”

Toby laughed—hoarse, shaky, half-mad—licking his lips like he couldn’t bear to waste a single taste. “Do it again,” he begged, voice raw. “Please—ride m-me again.”

“Nah.”

Your thighs trembled as you rose off of him, knees shaky, breath uneven. Toby’s hands pawed uselessly at the floor, still reaching, still begging—but you ignored him. You staggered to your bed, hips heavy with the ache he left behind, and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against your burning skin, and you stretched out, lazy and languid, your feet still dangling over the edge, your back arching with the natural curl of exhaustion and satisfaction.

Behind you, you heard him scramble up—the shuffle of knees, palms on the floor, the frantic sound of him scurrying like a dog chasing its master.

“Stay.” The single command cracked through the quiet like a whip. He froze. “Don’t you fucking move.”

You didn’t need to see him to know he was obeying—you could feel the tension rolling off him, could almost taste the way he wanted to lunge forward, to drag his mouth back where it belonged. You felt his eyes bore between your legs, onto the mess he had created now cooling on your skin.

“P-Please…” Toby’s voice was a rasp, thick with need. “Please, let me—let m-me touch you—”

“I said no.” 

Your words were final, and they cut. You heard him groan, guttural, muffling it into his fist. A second later, the sound of teeth scraping against knuckles filled the air—he was biting down hard just to keep himself quiet. You turned your head slightly, gaze dragging to where he stood, and what you saw made a laugh roll out of you, low and cruel.

Toby was doubled over, one hand fisting in his hoodie, the other clawing at the waistband of his jeans. The bulge strained hard and obscene against the denim, and he rocked into it like he could grind the ache away. He looked half feral, pupils blown, mouth wet, hair hanging in his face. Pathetic. Perfect.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” you teased, voice lazy with amusement. You knew it didn’t really hurt him, but he wanted to play pretend, didn’t he? “Can’t even move without thinking about me, huh?”

He groaned again, louder, his body jolting with the effort of restraint. His knuckles were slick with spit where his teeth dug in, and his free hand gripped his jeans like he could tear them open. You laughed again, sharper this time, and rolled onto your back. Your legs hung off the edge of the bed, feet brushing the floor, and you spread your knees wide, lazy and taunting. The motion was deliberate—an invitation, a cruelty, a display he couldn’t resist. It didn’t matter if he had already made you cum twice, you needed him to fuck you right now just to prove a point.

You were going to make this boy cum all by yourself. Not the idea of you, not his imagination—yourself.

“Go on, Toby,” you murmured, voice dripping with control. “Come here.”

Toby nearly tripped over himself getting to you, stepping between your dangling legs like he belonged there—like he had been waiting his whole life for it.

You leaned up onto your elbows, reaching a hand out to the edge of his waistband. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in jagged heaves as your fingers toyed with his belt, tugging it open with a cruel kind of patience. The metallic clink of the buckle rang loud in the quiet room, and Toby’s hands twitched at his sides, useless, trembling, aching to reach for you.

“Keep them there,” you warned without looking up. “If you touch me without permission, you’re done.”

He whimpered softly—pathetic and desperate—and forced his arms straight at his sides, fingers flexing, curling into fists as though nailing himself to the spot.

You unzipped his jeans with a sharp tug, knuckles brushing the hard swell pressing against the fabric. Toby hissed through clenched teeth, head falling back, the veins in his throat standing out under the dim light. You smirked, tugging the thick fabric apart, and then slid your hand under his waistband, under the last barrier.

The heat of him hit you first—feverish and pulsing. You pulled him free, and your breath caught despite yourself.

Toby’s cock was flushed, angry red, the skin tight and stretched, a bead of slick shining at the tip. His breath came out in a stutter when the cool air touched him, his thighs trembling under your gaze. He was thick in your hand, twitching, the veins standing out like cords beneath your grip. His pubic hair was just as messy and unkempt as the rest of his hair, running up in a smattered patch to his belly button, coaxing your eyes to the mouthwatering crease of his v-line.

You let go of him, rubbing that hand between your legs, wetting your hand with your own slick. Toby’s teeth practically chattered as he thrummed, watching you.

And you didn’t give him mercy. Not even a second. You dragged the same hand you’d just rubbed against your soaked core up his shaft, coating him in your slick before your fist wrapped around him fully. Toby nearly folded in half, a broken noise tearing from his throat as his knees buckled.

“Fuck—” his voice cracked.

You stroked him hard. Fast. Cruel. Your hand pumped with purpose, each stroke wet, obscene, loud in the heavy silence. His cock twitched violently in your grip, swollen and desperate, precum smearing across your knuckles as you worked him like you were wringing every ounce of need out of his body.

Toby ripped his hoodie off like it was strangling him, yanking it over his head and tossing it blindly aside. His chest was pale, scarred in streaks that caught the dim light of your room, his stomach taut and flexing with every jerk of your hand. His hair clung wild to his forehead, his lips slick, swollen, parted in ragged gasps. He looked ruined—an animal panting, feigning for you.

And fuck, you hated him. You’d always hated him. Hated the way he laughed, the way he berated you, the way he made everything harder than it had to be. But now—seeing him above you, trembling, literally begging for the mercy of your hand—something deep and feral cracked open inside you.

You tightened your grip and stroked faster.

Toby’s whole body jerked. His hands shot forward instinctively, clamping around your wrist, not to stop you, but to slow you down. His face was wrecked, eyes glassy and pleading, mouth falling open around broken words. “Please—please slow d-down—fuck, I—” He groaned, panting above you, chest heaving with every groan. “You’re—you’re gonna make me—fuck—too fast—”

Your grip went iron-tight for a moment, jerking him so hard his hips jolted forward—then you stopped. Let go.

Toby gasped, his body shuddering as the sudden loss ripped through him. His cock bobbed helplessly in the air between you, slick and flushed, veins throbbing as if the blood inside him had nowhere else to go. His chest heaved, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief.

You stared up at him, pure venom in your gaze, lips curling into a cruel little smile. “What did I say, Toby?”

His gaze shot down to where his hand still gripped yours.

“I told you not to touch me,” you hissed, shaking off his hand like it disgusted you. “But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? Can’t listen to anything.”

The mockery in your voice carved him open. He whined, stepping back an inch as if it physically stung, his cock twitching painfully in the air between you. Then, without warning, you sat up. Toby’s eyes darted down, confused, hopeful, but then widened when your hands went to the hem of your shirt. You peeled it off in one slow, deliberate motion, baring yourself, and tossed it carelessly aside.

His breath stuttered. He looked like you’d punched him in the gut. You leaned forward again, close enough that your breath fanned against his chest, eyes locked on his ruined face. You didn’t touch him. Not a single brush of your hand. You just sat back a little and watched. Watched as his hips twitched, as he tried to will himself not to reach for you again, as his cock leaked and throbbed helplessly, straining toward the heat of your body.

He writhed in it like it was killing him. His hands fisted at his sides so hard his knuckles cracked, his chest heaving with harsh, uneven gasps. His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing in his temple. The desperation turned sharp, ragged.

“F-Fuck you,” he spat, the words rough, guttural. “You—you fucking t-t-tease—you think you’re—gah-goddamn better than me?”

You tilted your head, smirking cruelly. “I don’t have to think it.”

His huff came out half a snarl, half a whimper. He shifted on his feet, cock jerking violently, his whole body tight with the strain of keeping his hands off you.

“Don’t—don’t fucking d-do this,” he begged through gritted teeth, but even his curses broke into something needy. “Goddamn bitch—you can’t—fuck—you can’t just stop—”

“Oh, I can,” you murmured sweetly, leaning back on your elbows so your chest arched and his eyes dropped helplessly. “I told you not to touch me. You broke the rules. Now you get nothing.”

He actually growled, low in his throat, head dropping forward as he cursed again. His words were broken, a tangle of hatred and begging, teeth grinding as though if he didn’t use them to form insults, he’d cry out something weaker. “Fuck you—fuck—you’re s-so goddamn—” He groaned, thighs trembling. “Please, please—I’m begging you—don’t l-leave me like this—I’ll d-do anything—you h-hear me?”

The sound of his voice like that—shattered, strung out, caught between curses and pleas—shot straight through you. It stirred something low and hungry in your gut, made your skin prickle with heat. You smirked lazily, stretching your legs a little wider, making sure he saw everything. “You hate me so much, Toby,” you taunted, voice low, sultry. “So why are you begging me like a dog?”

He stared at you, jaw twitching with irritation. You tilted your head at him, lips curling into something cruel. His chest was heaving, his cock red and leaking, his fists trembling at his sides, and you knew he was about to break.

You dragged the knife in deeper.

“Aww,” you cooed, sliding off the edge of the mattress and rolling over onto your stomach. You crawled forward a little, your hips swaying as you moved further up the bed. Toby’s eyes followed every inch, wide and wild, his whole body shaking like an animal straining against its leash.

Then you stopped, sank down onto your elbows, your chest pressing to the sheets. You arched your back so hard it burned, your ass high in the air, cunt fluttering in time with your heartbeat. You glanced back at him over your shoulder, your voice low.

“Then come here, puppy.”

The word cracked him in half.

Toby didn’t hesitate. He scrambled up onto the bed so fast it shook under his weight, knees digging into the mattress as his hands clamped down hard on your hips. His boots scuffed the sheets, twisting them under his knees as he pressed behind you. His grip was bruising, frantic, like he thought you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you. 

He slammed into you without hesitation, the force brutal and reckless. His cock drove deep, fast, urgent, and you gasped from the sharp, animalistic impact. He was panting, growling, releasing all the frustration, all the rage he’d been holding back, smashing into you like he’d intended on tearing you open.

“God—fuck!” he hissed, voice ragged, teeth clenched. “You—you’ve ruined me—stupid—fucking—”

You gritted your teeth, holding the bedspread tight, letting him feel your every shiver and thrum, every gasp and muffled cry. You pressed back against him just enough to meet each brutal thrust, riding his anger as much as he rode you. His hands clenched your hips tighter, dragging you back onto him with each slam. His motions were messy, desperate—no care for rhythm, only a need to fuck, to bury himself inside you, to release everything pent up in the past week. The bed creaked and groaned under the weight of you both, sheets twisting, skin slapping against skin.

“You—fuck—you f-feel so—God!” he cursed again, voice breaking. “So good—stupid b-bitch, you’re mine—”

“Yours?” you spat back, tone sharp and mocking. “You’re the one—hah—the one begging to fuck m-me—”

That stoked something further in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, reckless, as though trying to drive every ounce of need into you and make you feel his desperation. His growls turned to raw moans, voice trembling as he ground into you without restraint. One hand pressed against your back, the other gripping tight into the sheets beneath.

You could feel the stretch of him, hot and hard, sliding inside you in short, punishing jolts. Your stomach twisted, thighs pressed tight together, arching deeper with every slam, taking his animalistic pace.

The bed rocked under you, nails clawed into the sheets, every movement messy, filthy, primal. He was broken, panting, utterly at your mercy, and you turned your head to watch, smirking as he cursed and groaned, burying his face in your neck for support.

His lips found purchase, dragging wet, sloppy kisses along the sensitive skin there. A shiver ran through you, and a low, involuntary moan escaped your throat. Your hands shot up, tangling in his hair, yanking him closer to you, forcing his mouth against your skin as you pressed back against him, matching each thrust, each grind, each slick slide with your own desperate, hungry movements.

He groaned against you, teeth grazing your neck, and you bit back—literally—snapping your teeth down on his lower lip as he kissed you, mouth opening against yours in a collision of teeth and tongues. The kiss was violent, messy, consuming—an echo of the chaos that had always defined your dynamic. You shoved your body flush against him, hips rocking, back arching, dragging him as close as you could manage, fingers twisting in his hair like you were trying to tether him to you entirely.

“Fuck, I’m—” Toby rasped against your lips, breath rough, voice trembling. “I-I’m about to—shit, don’t stop—”

But you weren’t having it. Not yet. Not when you had the power, not when you could control him fully. With a sudden, deliberate push of your hips, you shoved him off of you, rolling the two of you until he landed on his back with a soft thump, sheets twisting beneath the force.

You straddled him immediately, knees planted on either side of his hips, pressing down with calculated weight. The shift of power was instant—Toby’s hands went to your hips instinctively, trying to find purchase, but you leaned back slightly, letting gravity work for you as you sank down onto him, his eyes watching as your cunt sheathed him.

“Mine,” you murmured, voice low, sharp, and all teeth and heat as you began to rock, rolling your hips forward and back with controlled, measured force. “This is mine from now on.” 

He gasped, gripping your thighs, still trying to reclaim some sense of command, but you moved faster, harder, hips pushing down and pulling back like a pendulum. Toby’s head fell back against the mattress, hair tousled, lips parted in ragged moans, eyes glazed and desperate. Every thrust from you hit him with a sharp, relentless rhythm that had him gasping, shivering under your control. His hands gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin, begging, pleading, but you were merciless. You refused to move up and down, only dragging your hips back and forth, catching your clit on the tone of his pelvis.

“You like this?” you spat, leaning forward, pressing your chest against his, teeth brushing along his collarbone. “You like being mine, don’t you? Finally listening.”

“Yes! Fuck—yes!” he rasped, voice breaking, hands clinging to you. “You’re—fuck—you’re killing me—god, I’m y-yours—please—”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a wild, consuming kiss, tongue slipping inside to tangle with his as your hips rolled again, faster now, driving him closer to the edge. 

“You whine too much, puppy.”

You leaned up slightly, pressing your palms flat against his chest, letting your fingers wander over the taut planes of his abs. The heat radiating from him was insane, skin burning, muscles tight under your touch. Slowly, you dragged your hands higher until your fingers latched onto the familiar groove of his throat—the place where all of this had started, where this little game had started between you.

Toby’s breath hitched immediately. His hands shot to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you as he thrust upward into your cunt. You gasped at the sharp, thrilling impact, the way his body forced yours down, bouncing you against him. He didn’t even hesitate—he wanted it, craved it, and he wasn’t holding back.

“Did you jerk off like this—hnngh—the first time I choked you? This fast?” you spat, voice low and sharp, watching his eyes begin to water.

“I—fuck—yes!” he rasped, tilting his head back, mouth open in ragged gasps. His hands slid higher, cupping your tits roughly, thumbs teasing, squeezing, forcing your movements to match his rhythm of jerking his hips up into you.

You grinned, biting down on your bottom lip as the chaos of it hit you. He was giving, he was taking, every motion messy, raw, and beautiful in its recklessness. You bounced down onto him, hard, each bounce of your hips shoving his cock deep, his hands clawing and forcing your body to meet his own.

“I hate you,” you hissed, brushing teeth over his collarbone, letting your grip tighten around his throat. “I hate you. I hate—hah—hate you. Fuck—don’t stop.”

Toby choked, face flushing against the grip on his neck, his breathing becoming labored. “Fu-Fuck—Fuck you bitch. Feels s-so—mmmnh—so good—” His hand reached around and slapped across your ass, grabbing the flesh in his palm and forcing your hips faster, forcing your pace to match his desperate thrusts.

You responded in kind, hitting his face with your palm once, twice, letting the sharp sting mix with the slick, hot heat between your bodies. He didn’t care. He couldn’t feel the pain, the slap, the rough hands on his chest, and it made him buck harder, moaning and growling in pure, unfiltered need. You slapped him again.

Toby’s growls turned sharp at that, low and dangerous, cutting through the thick, humid heat of the room. His hands gripped your hips with bruising force, nails digging into your flesh as he thrust up against you. “You feel too fu-fucking good,” he spat, voice rough, teasingly cruel. “I’m gonna m-make you cum fi-first, bitch.”

“Oh, are you kidding?” you shot back, slamming down hard on him, hands wrapping tighter around his throat, eyes wild. “You’re gonna cum like the pathetic little pervert you are.”

His laugh was harsh, raw, vibrating against your hands. “You always h-have to—fuck—have to have a comeback—can’t j-just be quiet—”

You cut him off with another slap, your nail cutting his cheek where you hit him. A thin line of blood welled, and Toby stared at you through wide, frantic eyes. He grabbed harder, leaving dark purples across your hips and waist where his nails dug deep, tracing patterns only he could leave, marking you as his even as you marked him.

The room was chaos: skin slapping against skin, groans and curses tearing from both of you, bodies slick with sweat, hair wild and tangled, breaths ragged. Each thrust, each grind, each sharp slap or bite escalated the tension between you, a dangerous dance of dominance and pain and raw, primal need.

“C-Cum” he growled, tilting his hips, driving into you with bruising force, knocking the head of his cock against your cervix.

“Not before you,” you shot back, grinning fiercely, rolling your hips to match his pace, nails digging into the taut plane of his stomach as you leaned down to bite at his jaw, licking up his cheek to the spot you nicked him. Blood and sweat mixed, hot and sharp on your tongue, and it only pushed you both harder.

His hands dug into your thighs and waist, leaving angry red marks, dragging you down, forcing you to ride him with every ounce of strength and ferocity. You matched him blow for blow, bite for bite, scratch for scratch, until the two of you were a mess of raw, gleaming skin, bruises and blood painting the chaos of your struggle.

“I’m—fuck, Toby—fuck I’m coming—” you cried, digging your nails into his chest.

He whined, staring at the heavy way your eyes looked, his beginning to flutter shut. “Mhm—I c-can’t—hnn, I can’t stop—I’m gonna—”

Teeth sank, nails scraped, hips slammed, and finally the tension broke in a violent, shuddering peak. You both came together, voices strangled, wet, raw, bodies shaking, muscles trembling, bruised and marked and utterly wrecked. He snapped his hips one final time, and your cunt clenched against him so hard you felt the way he pulsed inside you. Every rope of hot cum filling you, claiming you. You milked every drop from him.

You collapsed against him, chest pressed to his, hearts pounding in furious synchrony. His breath came in ragged gasps, head tilted to the side, lips red, eyes glazed. You looked at him, smirk twisting across your lips even through the haze of post-climax heat.

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured, voice low, laced with satisfaction.

“And you’re worse,” he shot back, voice hoarse, smiling anyway despite the blood and mess.

For a moment, the fire between you softened just enough to let something else creep in. Your lips met his, sharp at first, teeth grazing, tasting the sweat and salt—but then, slower, gentler. The anger and frustration that had fueled you for the past two weeks melted, just for a second, into something almost tender. You kissed him, ignoring the slick heat still clinging to your thighs, the marks you’d left on each other, the bruises that would ache for days.

When you finally pulled back, your chest heaving, you allowed yourself a smirk, wet and satisfied. Slowly, achingly slow, you sat up, straddling him for one last lingering moment. He watched as your hips rose, his hands brushing your knees as you pulled him out, hissing at the tug before the final pop.

You felt the warmth slipping down your thighs immediately, his cum and your arousal making your cunt uncomfortably warm and sticky. You groaned.

“Fuck you,” you hissed, hitting his chest, Toby’s eyes nearly damn sparkling at the sight of his cum dripping out of you.. “You really are a damn dog.”

You collapsed onto the bed next to him, letting your arms fall across your chest. Your foot connected sharply with his side in a lazy, spiteful push. “Go away,” you muttered, tone sharp but breathless, still buzzing from the aftermath.

Toby groaned softly, but he didn’t move. Instead, he kicked his boots off with a quick, clumsy motion, then tugged the remnants of his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, surprised how they had managed to still stay on at all. He tossed them onto your floor. His eyes flicked to yours—but there was no pleading, no frantic edge this time. 

Without a word, he crawled up next to you, chest brushing yours, arm draping loosely over your waist. You flinched slightly at the contact, the lingering warmth between you both still slick and potent, but the anger had faded into something heavy, intimate. Tense. The air was thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and the raw, unspoken agreement that had finally, messily, solidified between you.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. You could feel him, warm and pressed against your side, heartbeat rattling in sync with your own. Your hands twitched, itching to push him away or move out of his reach—but instead, you let the silence settle, letting his arm lay limp across your waist.

Toby shifted slightly beside you, his fingers rubbing against your skin absentmindedly, a small smirk playing on his lips. “You know,” he muttered, voice low and tired, “I re-really don’t like being c-called a dog.”

You arched an eyebrow, smirking, reaching for your pillows and placing one under your head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t beg me like one.”

He rolled his eyes, but his gaze stayed locked on yours, sharp and intense, and you felt a flutter in your stomach you hadn’t expected. “Stop staring at me like that,” you said quickly, voice catching slightly. “You’re being weird. Go back to your own room already befo—”

He cut you off with a soft chuckle, leaning a little closer. “Can I k-kiss you again?” His tone was cautious, different from the heated demands of earlier, almost vulnerable.

Your heart thumped, and you stared at him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth, searching for something you couldn’t quite name. The air between you thickened, tense and electric.

Finally, you shook your head slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I hate you, Toby. That’s not going to change,” you said, flat but not cruel, voice almost a whisper.

Toby’s smile widened, slow and knowing, as if he’d been waiting for that. “Then hate me,” he murmured softly, leaning in.

And then he kissed you. Not hot, not frantic, not messy and angry like before—just a kiss. Soft, slow, a quiet brush of lips, a grounding anchor in the aftermath of a hurricane. It was a moment of connection, a fleeting affirmation that despite the violence, the teasing, and the mess of the past weeks, there was… something between you. Affection, of a sort neither of you had admitted until now. A weird type of longing.

When you pulled back, your foreheads brushed together for a second, eyes flicking to one another with something like understanding. No words were needed—just the weight of what had passed, and the subtle promise that, messy and complicated as it was, this was far from over.

But then you palmed his face, pushing his head away from you with a grin. He smiled against your hand, kissing it, too. His arm around your hip pulled you closer, and if you leaned into it, that’s nobody’s business but your own.

── .✦

The mission site was scattered with debris, slick blood, and the lingering metallic tang that you knew you’d have to clean up. The proxies moved efficiently, hauling bodies, wiping down surfaces, and gathering evidence, but you and Toby, as usual, couldn’t go five minutes without trading insults.

“God, you’re useless at this,” you snapped, throwing a wet rag at him that stunk of bleach and vinegar.

“I’m sorry Ms. Fucking Perfect, d-do it your damn self,” he shot back, voice sharp. You both glared at each other, daring the other to keep going.

Masky groaned behind you, rubbing his temples. “Are we still on about this? Just clean the goddamn blood.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you stood and grabbed Toby by the arm mid-retort and yanked him up, dragging him with you. Masky shouted something, but you were already climbing the stairs and dragging him to the first storage closet you saw. His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could react further, you shoved the door closed behind him.

He barely had a moment to process before his hands were on you, lips crashing against yours in a fast, rough kiss. His tongue darted in, claiming, and your hands tangled up into his hair as he slid one hand down the front of your pants, fingers immediately finding their mark and pressing against your aching clit.

You gasped into the kiss, teeth clashing against his in a way that was half challenge, half need. His other hand clutched at your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for a moment, the chaos of the mission, the others, the world outside that small, cramped closet, ceased to exist.

And in that moment, you realized just how much had shifted between the two of you.

The bickering, the arguing, the constant pushing each other’s buttons—it was all still there. You still drove him insane, and he still managed to get under your skin in ways no one else could. But instead of letting it spill over, instead of making everyone else deal with the fallout, you’d found a… solution.

You snuck off during missions, hearts racing, to bite, lick, and fuck the tension out of each other. After dinner, when the others were distracted, one of you would find the other and drag them to some quiet area of the mansion and use their hands on the other, letting the frustration and irritation turn into heat that left you both gasping and sticky. At night, sneaking into each other’s rooms to whisper insults, spurring the other on just so they’d grab you and fuck you through the mattress. During missions, your trips taking longer because you’d have to stop and fight over who was going to give the other head first.

It was messy. It was reckless. It was everything the two of you had always been—and now, for the first time, it was satisfying. The anger became fuel, the hate became lust, and the fights that had once been a thorn in everyone else’s side became an intimate, electric game of control, dominance, and pure, unfiltered need.

And even as you found yourself pressed against him in this closet, hands gripping, hips sliding together, teeth clashing, gasps mingling with curses, you couldn’t help but smile.

Eventually, the door clicked open, and you both staggered out, breath still ragged, hands sticky, hair wild, but the world had resumed its usual pace. Toby followed a step behind, straightening his hoodie, adjusting his belt, hands now conspicuously idle. You fixed your hair, wiping the slick from your lips, tugging your shirt back down.

Without a word, the two of you fell back into your roles, hauling gear, wiping surfaces, and cleaning up the aftermath like the chaos of a few minutes ago had never existed. You moved in tandem with him only because necessity demanded it, but there was a subtle electricity in the air, just enough that you both noticed—but neither spoke of it.

Masky and Hoodie exchanged a look across the room, each raising an eyebrow. Hoodie whispered something inaudible, and Masky shook his head, muttering, “I don’t care. They’re quiet.” They were confused, but grateful that the usual bickering had been replaced by quiet efficiency. They didn’t care how it got to that point.

Kate leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing look in her eyes. She watched as you and Toby moved through the cleanup with the barest hint of coordination, eyes occasionally flicking toward each other in a way that suggested familiarity… maybe even fondness, if one squinted.

Sliding closer to you as you scrubbed a particularly messy patch of floor, she whispered, teasing, “What’s changed? I didn’t know you started liking him.”

You froze mid-swipe, wiping at the surface with one hand, and let your gaze drift lazily toward Toby. He was kneeling a few feet away, straightening a chair, annoyed and fidgeting as usual, completely oblivious to Kate’s question.

A slow, amused smirk curved your lips. “Nah,” you said, voice light as you stared at him. “I hate that boy.”

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ back to my masterlists

ticci toby

loves a good sloopy makeout session

likes to see cum drip out of you

loves to be choked

and also loves to have bite marks on him

enjoys semi-public sex, he likes the adrenaline of being caught.

will be embarrassed if he doesn't get caught tho

he mostly likes fucking in the slender woods.

doesn't mind having a partner who's taller than him

is into hair-pulling, both receiving and giving.

heavy on eye contact, grabs your face and makes you look at him.

its such an intimate thing for him. especially when you look up at him while jerking him off.

he loves seeing your eyes flutter as you take him

loves to give you creampies

his favorite spot to cum on you is your face

he thinks you look so cute with his cum on your face <3

masky

hes a brat tamer

doesn't like dealing with you being teasing, annoying shit

dont give him attitude unless you want to end up like a mess.

has a spit kink

has a habit of tugging your hair harshly and spitting in your mouth.

very much into facefucking

and he's so mean about it, too

calls your favorite sex toy

treats you like one too.

always has a hand on your neck

puts you in a headlock sometimes

HEAVY on mocking your moans

loves degrading you

out of the three, he's the only one who really has a bad size kink

loves to tower over you and manhandle you

always has you on his lap.

hoodie

had a thing for cock warming

likes holding your body close to him

also loves your warmth

is so into dry humping

orgasm denial. hes such a dick about it though

he makes you think you can finally cum, finally having mercy on you but he quickly pulls away

is into bondage.

something about seeing you tied up and helpless really does something for him

body worship you, he's so in love with you.

kisses every inch of your body

hes so also just as rough as tim, but it only happens when he needs to fuck his frustrations out.

accidentally ends up overstimulating you

The invitation arrived few days afterward.

It didn't come in person; that would have been too normal and expected. No, it arrived concealed behind your dorm door when you just came back from your 8 a.m. class, just a plain sheet of paper from a notebook, folded haphazardly into thirds.

We're having a thing. You should come. Toby drew a map. Don't get lost. —T (but not the T you're thinking)

Below it, in different handwriting—neater, more careful—someone had added: Bring snacks. Red bags only.

And below that, smaller, softer: It's safe. We'll be there.

You'd stood in the parking lot for a long time, staring at those words while other students shuffled past with their coffee and their backpacks and their completely normal lives. The map was chaotic—arrows pointing at trees, a square labeled gas station (u r here), and an X in the middle of nowhere with CAMP written beside it in wobbly capitals. But beneath that X, someone had scratched out another word. You held it to the light, trying to read what had been there before.

Home. They'd written Home first. 

Then crossed it out.

You should've thrown it away. Every instinct honed by true crime podcasts and late-night documentaries screamed at you to crumple it up and forget any of this ever happened.

Instead, you bought a bag of red chips and walked.

The gas station looked different in daylight—smaller, somehow, less menacing, following Toby's chaotic arrows down a dirt road that might have been a road and might have been a suggestion. The trees closed in around you, their branches knitting together overhead until the sky became fragments rather than a whole.

You had assumed they’d be at the cabin—that little run-down place they’d mentioned in passing on the long walk back to campus, their base of operations as they’d passed through this area. But Toby’s arrows continued to sail harmlessly past where the cabin would have been, into the forest, down a path that was so overgrown, you almost hadn’t seen it.

And that’s when you saw them.

Four of them, at the edge of the forest.

Tim, slumped up against a birch tree, bad leg folded beneath him, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the gray air. Brian, motionless as a photograph, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. Toby, bobbing up and down on his heels, spotting you immediately and waving like a madman. Kate, slightly behind the others, headphones hung around her neck, eyes locked on yours.

“Ayy you made it,. Toby bounded toward you as you parked. "Knew you would. Tim owes me five bucks."

"I don't owe you anything," Tim muttered, pushing off the tree. His limp was more pronounced today—the cold, probably. His eyes swept the tree line behind you before settling on your face. "You follow the map alright?"

"Barely. You know I have a phone, right?”

“Don’t have your numder, plus the means the map worked." Toby grinned. "Come on. We gotta go deeper."

"Deeper?"

"There's somewhere we wanna show you." Brian's voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—careful, measured. "Someone we want you to meet."

You should've asked more questions. Should've pushed. But Toby was already tugging at your sleeve, and Kate had drifted closer, her presence quiet but encouraging, and before you knew it, you were walking.

The trail seemed to disappear about a quarter mile in. Not fade out, either, but snap. 

One minute you had a series of footholds, the next nothing but thick underbrush and the silent, watchful trees. Brian went on ahead, moving with that strange, precise motionlessness, never hesitating even when the trail disappeared entirely. The rest of you trailed along behind him, Tim at the back, his limp making him slower but not stopping him.

"How do you know where you're going?" you whispered.

Toby glanced back. "We just do."

It wasn't an answer. It was the only answer you were going to get.

The forest changed as you walked. The pines gave way to older trees—oaks and maples so ancient their branches twisted together overhead, blocking out whatever weak sunlight had managed to filter through. The air grew colder. Damp. It smelled of moss and decay and something else—something sweet and wrong, like flowers left too long in water.

And then, suddenly, the trees opened.

You forgot to breathe as you drew in a house that clung to the biggest oak you’d ever seen, like a wooden growth on the trunk, as if the house had grown there rather than been built.

The cedar shingles on the sides didn’t look like shingles, more like scales, each one overlapping the last, irregular, weathered gray where the sun never reached. The curved windows seemed to bulge from the house, like bulging, blinking eyes, the glass so dark you couldn’t see through, reflecting nothing except the leaves that surrounded them.

Stairs led up to the door, narrow, steep, disappearing into a dark entrance that seemed to fold back on itself the more you looked at it. The doorway wasn’t inviting, just waiting.

"What is this place?" you heard yourself ask.

No one answered for a long moment.

Then Tim stepped past you, carrying himself toward the base of the stairs. He pulled a key from his pocket—old iron, the kind that looked like it belonged to a cathedral rather than a house—and held it up.

“Base,” he said quietly. "Sort of."

"It belongs to someone," Brian added. His eyes swept the tree line, the windows, the dark door. "Someone we want you to meet."

"They're not here yet," Kate said softly. It was the first time she'd spoken all day. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the absolute stillness. "We have to wait."

"Inside?" The word came out smaller than you intended.

Toby's hand found your shoulder. Squeezed once. "It's okay. We'll be with you."

You went up the stairs, quietly. The door opened, soft as a whisper.

Inside the tree house, space was distorted, curving and twisting in impossible ways, as though the inside was breathing. The central room was wrapped around the trunk, which ran straight through the middle, a living backbone, its bark polished in places from years of touch. The furniture was arranged here and there: sofas, mismatched chairs, a table stacked with papers, candles, and unidentifiable items. 

Shelves lined the walls, containing not just books, but jars, bones, and unidentifiable items that caught the light and distorted it.

And everywhere, plants. Dangling from the ceiling, growing up the walls, spilling out of pots and covering every available surface. They were meant to add a sense of life to the space, but in reality, they just gave the impression of hunger.

You stood in the center of the room, your eyes moving slowly as you took in the scene. The others had spread out a bit: Brian examining the windows, Tim lighting candles, Kate running a hand over the books on the bookshelf as if reacquainting herself with old friends. 

Toby was close to you, his bouncy enthusiasm somehow endearingly calming in the thick, oppressive silence.

“Guys, deadass, whose house is this?" you asked.

Toby's ticks increased. Tk. Tk. "Someone important. You'll like them."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one we got right now."

Tim straightened from the candles, wincing as his back protested. He looked at you across the room, those tired eyes unreadable. "We gotta wait," he said. "Could be a while. They're... far out right now."

"So we just... sit here?"

Brian turned from the window. Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. Or an idea.

"We could play a game," he said.

Toby perked up immediately. "Yes. Game. Good idea."

"What kind of game?" you asked, suspicious.

Brian's mouth twitched. "You ever play seven minutes in heaven?"

You blinked. "Like... the party game? From the fifties?"

"The very same." He crossed to a corner of the room, where an old-fashioned hourglass sat on a shelf—large, wooden-framed, filled with dark sand. He picked it up, tested its weight. "We found this here. Never used it. Seems appropriate."

Tim groaned. "Brian."

"What? We're waiting anyway. Might as well pass the time."

"It's stupid."

"It's tradition." Toby bounced on his heels. "Come on, Tim. For the new person. Make them feel welcome."

Kate had drifted closer, her dark eyes fixed on you. She didn't speak, but something in her expression was almost... hopeful.

You looked around the room. At the strange house. At the four people who'd somehow become important to you in the span of a single night. At the hourglass in Brian's hands, dark sand waiting to fall.

"What are the rules?" you asked.

Toby's grin could've lit the whole forest.

The bottle appeared from somewhere—a green glass beer bottle that Toby produced from his bag like a magician revealing a trick. He placed it on the floor in the center of the room, spinning it experimentally. It wobbled, circled, settled.

"Perfect," he declared.

You'd all arranged yourselves in a loose circle on the floor—the worn wood cool beneath you, the candlelight flickering across everyone's faces. Tim got up from the couch with reluctance, sliding down to the floor with a grimace and a muffled curse. Kate leaned in close to you, her shoulder pressing against yours warmly. Brian sat opposite, unruffled and calm, the hourglass cradled in his lap. Toby was buzzing with excitement.

"Okay," Brian said. "Rules are simple. Someone spins the bottle. Whoever it lands on picks a partner. Both of you go in the closet." He nodded toward the small door near the kitchen—dark wood, brass handle, old and slightly crooked in its frame. "We flip the hourglass. Seven minutes. When the sand runs out, we let you out."

"That's it?" you asked.

"That's it." His eyes met yours. "What happens in the closet is up to you."

Tim snorted. "This is so stupid."

"You're just mad 'cause you know you're gonna get picked."

"I'm not mad about anything."

"You're always mad."

"I'm not—" Tim stopped, rubbed his face. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

Brian handed you the bottle. "You're the guest. You spin first."

Your heart jumped. The glass was cool in your hands, smooth. Everyone was watching you—Toby with eager anticipation, Kate with quiet attention, Brian with calm interest, Tim with barely concealed resignation.

The bottle took its time, wobbling, then circling, then stopping, and—finally—pointing its neck at Brian.

Brian raised an eyebrow, unsurprised by the turn of events in the least. “Alright.” He surveyed the small group. “I pick—”

Toby interrupted, his voice louder, more enthusiastic. “Let me spin the bottle for the partner. It’s only fair.”

Brian shrugged. “Fine.”

Toby picked up the bottle and gave it a dramatic spin. It spun, rang on the floor, and came to a slow, slow stop.

It pointed at Tim.

The room was instantly silent.

Tim glared at the bottle, his face a mask of shock, as though the bottle had betrayed him personally. Brian’s face didn’t betray his thoughts, but a spark, a glint of something, appeared in his eyes.

"No," Tim said flatly.

"Yes," Toby crowed. "Rules are rules."

"The rules are made up."

"By who?"

"By—" Tim stopped. Rubbed his face again. "This is stupid."

"You're just mad it's you."

"I'm not—" He broke off, muttering something under his breath that might have been a curse.

Brian, of course, was already there, hourglass in hand, and went to the closet door, pushing it open with a soft sigh. Inside, it was darker and cosier than any real wardrobe, more like a pantry tucked away in a corner. There were shelves along the walls, mostly bare, with a few dusty jars to catch the dim light.

“After you,” Brian said, waving a hand towards the darkness.

Tim looked at the closet as if it had personally wronged him. Then, with a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his own soul, he hauled himself up and began to limp towards the doorway.

“This means nothing,” he said, passing by Brian. “Nothing, okay?”

“Of course not,” Brian said, following him in. Tim glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with anger, then disappeared into the darkness. Brian followed, shutting the door behind him. It clicked with a heavy, significant sound.

Toby flipped the hourglass.

For a long moment, no one said a word. The grains of sand began to fall, black on glass, steady and unstoppable. The candlelight danced. There was a soft creak from deep in the walls.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” you whispered.

Toby shrugged, his smile fading to something softer, something more contemplative. “Probably just sitting. Being awkward. Tim isn’t exactly good with feelings stuff.”

"Brian is."

"Yeah, but Tim makes it weird." He ticked. "Tk. They've known each other forever. It's probably fine."

Your hand was in the dimness, and Kate’s touched yours. A single pressure, and then nothing but the passing of the minutes, the steady flow of the grains of sand falling from the hourglass.

At last, the last grain fell away, and Toby stood up and walked to the door. He rapped on it once. “Time’s up.”

The door creaked open, and Brian came out first, as calm as ever, passing by Toby as though nothing had ever happened. Tim came out a second later, his face unreadable, his limp a little more pronounced. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he slumped down to the floor.

“Hey, you okay?”

He looked at you, and for a second, there was something in his tired old eyes, something that might have been gratitude, or something else, something more.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Fine. It’s just... dark in there.”

Brian slipped back into his chair on the other side of you, his eyes locking on yours, a question, or perhaps the answer, in his gaze.

“Your turn,” he whispered.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

The bottle spun, slow and careless, like it had a secret you’d never know. Everyone watched. Toby had a look of satisfaction. Kate said nothing. Brian played it cool. Tim acted like he couldn’t care less.  

The bottle spun some more, then came to a stop. 

Facing Tim. 

Tim’s feelings were a jumble of surprise, annoyance, and something else, something buried beneath his surface. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

Toby chuckled. “Rules are rules, old man.” 

“They’re not—” Tim began, but trailed off. He rubbed his eyes, looked at you, and you looked back. 

And in that look, something unseen passed between you. 

Brian stood up, his hourglass in hand. “Seven minutes. You know the drill.”

Tim hauled himself upright, shuffled toward the closet, paused beside the door, and looked back at you. His eyes, tired, held something else, something warmer.

“You comin’?” Tim rasped, his voice low.

You rose, went to him, the closet door swung open, and you both went inside.

The darkness closed in around you, not an empty space but a presence. Your shoulder bumped the shelves, the jars stacked neatly in rows, the old things in the darkness, the things you could not identify by sight. 

Dried herbs, bunches of sticks, something that reflected a faint light, metal or glass, you could not tell. The air was filled with the scent of lavender, dust, and something older, the breath of the forest outside as if it had inhaled a breath and held it in.

Tim stood close to you, the warmth of him passing through the darkness as he shifted position. A jar made a soft noise as his elbow brushed against it.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s all right,” you said.

The silence closed in around you from every direction.

“I didn’t think it’d land on me,” he whispered.

“Me neither,” you said.

He breathed in deeply, the sound slow and measured, as if he was trying to calm himself down.

“You know,” he whispered, “I really didn’t want to bring you here.”

“To the house?” you asked, squinting in the darkness.

“To any of it,” he said. “This life. Whatever this is. It isn’t—” He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. “It isn’t safe. Not for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” you asked.

“Someone good,” he said, the words rough and honest. “We’re not good people. Not really.”

You thought of that. The memory of Toby’s laugh, Kate’s gentle, unobtrusive way, Brian’s steady, steady self. And you thought of how Tim always stood between you and the dark.

“You seem pretty good to me.”

He didn’t answer. But you felt him move closer, the warmth spreading across space until space itself disappeared.

His hand on your waist, big, warm, careful. His fingers spreading across the hip, as if measuring, feeling for permission.

“This okay?”

You’d nodded, reminded that he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

His other hand had found your face. His palm had been rough and calloused, yet somehow gentle enough to make your chest ache. His fingers had explored your jaw as though memorizing every inch of it. His thumb had caressed your cheekbone, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

You’d reached up and found him in the darkness. Your fingers had followed the sharp jawline and scratchy beard and thick sideburns. Thick and defined and the kind of sideburns that framed a face and made him look like every inch of the southern dad type. Your fingers had drifted down to where they met his beard and touched him and he’d shivered beneath your fingers.

“Those’re somethin’,” you’d breathed.

He’d huffed out a laugh. “Been growin’ ’em a long time.”

“They’re nice.”

“Yeah?” His tone had been infused with happiness. “You like ’em?”

“Maybe.”

His thumb had touched your lower lip. “What else you like?”

You didn't answer with words. You tilted up and found his mouth in the dark.

The first kiss was soft. Testing. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and his beard scratched your skin in a way that sent heat curling through your stomach. He kissed back slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

When you pulled back, he followed. Chased your mouth.

"More," he breathed.

You gave it to him.

The second kiss was deeper. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and he kissed you like he meant it—like he'd been thinking about this since the gas station, since the car ride, since you first looked at him without fear. His tongue traced your lower lip, asked permission, and you opened for him.

He tasted like cigarettes and coffee, with a hint of something else, something deeper, something warm, something human, something real.  The other hand grasped your hip, pulling you close so that there was no space between you. You felt his warmth, his solidity, his strength in his chest, his leg moving to accommodate you both.

A jar clinked somewhere behind you. You didn't care.

His mouth left yours, trailed along your jaw, your neck. He found that spot where pulse beats hard and pressed his lips there, slow and deliberate.

"You smell good," he murmured against your skin. "Like outside and that cheap soap from campus."

"You noticed my soap?"

"I notice everything about you."

His hips shifted, pressed closer, and you felt him—warm and hard and wanting. A small sound escaped you, and he answered with a low hum of approval.

"Feel that?" he whispered. "That's what you do to me."

You pulled back just far enough to see his outline in the dark, to trace his sideburns again, to feel the shape of his face under your fingers.

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"I want—"

He cut you off with another kiss. Deeper this time. Hungrier. His hand slid down your back, pressed you closer, and his hips rolled against yours in a slow, careful grind that made your knees weak.

"Like that?" he murmured.

"God, yes."

"Yeah?" Another roll of his hips, slower this time, letting you feel every inch of him. "You feel so good. Been wantin' to touch you since that first night."

"You hid it well."

"'Cause I'm old and stupid." He kissed your neck again, teeth grazing gently. "Didn't think someone like you would—" He stopped. Shook his head against your skin.

"Would what?"

"Would want someone like me." His voice was rough. Honest in a way that made your heart hurt. "Broken old man with a bad leg and too much baggage."

You pulled back. Found his face in the dark. Held it between your hands.

"You're not broken," you said. "And I want you. Okay? I want you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hands found your waist again, pulled you close, buried his face in your neck. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

You stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the dark soft around you. His hands traced slow patterns on your back. Your fingers played with his sideburns, beard, his hair, the warm skin at the nape of his neck.

Then he shifted. Grinded against you again, slower now, more deliberate. His mouth found yours, and you kissed like you were both trying to say everything you couldn't put into words.

A jar dropped somewhere, and it exploded into shards. Neither of you stopped.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, warm skin meeting his touch, rough fingers mapping your spine. You leaned into him, and he breathed a low groan.

"Shit," he whispered. "You're gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hips kept that slow, perfect rhythm—grinding, pressing, making you feel exactly what you did to him.

The sand kept falling. Neither of you cared.

The knock came too soon.

"Time's up!" Toby's voice, muffled through the door.

Tim pulled back slowly. Resting his forehead against yours. Breathing hard.

"Damn," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"We gotta—" He gestured vaguely at the door.

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you one last time—soft, sweet, a promise.

"When we get outta here," he murmured, "we're talkin'. About this. About us."

"Okay."

"Good."

He pulled back. You heard him straighten his clothes, run a hand through his hair. You did the same, smoothing down your shirt, catching your breath.

The door opened.

Light flooded in. Toby's grinning face, Brian's knowing look, Kate's quiet smile. Tim stepped out first, face carefully neutral. But his hand found yours in the light, squeezed once.

You and Tim both rolled your eyes. Serious duo.

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓈

The bottle spun slow, lazy, catching the candlelight as it wobbled across the floor. Counting had been meaningless now. Toby, Kate, Tim... each round left you breathless in a different way. 

And now it was your turn, the green glass spinning of its own accord, as if with a will of its own, one you couldn’t shake off. All eyes were fixed, each one attuned to a different pace. Toby, grinning from ear to ear. Kate, silent and still, lost in a world of her own. Tim, fidgeting with a careless glance at his nails. Brian, unmoved, his eyes fixed on the bottle, lost in a world of his own, in that almost still way he has. 

And then, suddenly, it stopped. And the nose of the 

bottle pointed... at Brian.

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, satisfaction, a hint of heat you hadn't seen before.

"Well now," he said quietly.

Toby cackled. "Ohhh, this is gonna be good."

Tim groaned. "Do we have to—"

"Yes," Brian interrupted him, already standing up. "We do." He extended his hand to you, his quiet smile of reassurance playing at the corners of his lips. "Shall we?"

You accepted his hand, and his fingers wrapped firmly but warmly around yours, leading you towards the closet.

Behind you, Toby flipped the hourglass. "Seven minutes! Make them count!"

The door closed quietly behind you.

At once, the room was consumed by darkness, absolute and complete. You stood there, blinking, trying to accustom your vision to the sight of nothing. Brian was motionless, silent, waiting for you to find your bearings in the darkness. You knew he was there, his presence, his patient waiting.

And then he was moving, his hand on your waist, soft and exploratory, his fingers tracing the contours of your hip as if seeking permission. In the same movement, he turned you, his fingers and the pressure of his body slowly pivoting you, your back against the shelves, the jars softly humming where they stood on the shelves. Something rustled, perhaps the herbs, against your shoulder.

The closet was small, almost holy, in its closeness, the scent of lavender and dust and something old, something ancient, seeming to cling to the air, as though the forest itself had breathed into this space and never left.

"There," Brian murmured, his voice low and close. 

"That's better."

"Better?"

"Now you're where I want you."

Your heart skipped. His hand stayed on your hip, warm and heavy, not moving, just... present.

"You know," he said quietly, "I was wonderin' when we'd end up in here."

"You were?"

"Mm." His thumb traced a slow circle on your hip. "Been watchin' you all night. The way you laugh at Toby's jokes. The way you look at Tim like you're figuring him out. The way you make Kate feel safe enough to show her face."

"That's—"

"Don't." His voice was soft but firm. "Don't deflect. I'm payin' you a compliment."

You swallowed. "Okay."

His hand moved from your hip to your face, finding your cheek in the dark. His palm was rough, calloused, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

"You're curious about us," he said. "I can tell. You wanna know why we're here, what we're doin' out in the middle of nowhere, who we're waitin' for."

"You make it sound like an interrogation."

"Not an interrogation." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "Just... observation. It's what I do."

You leaned into his touch without meaning to. He noticed. You felt him smile. "Yeah," he breathed. "You're curious. And curious people are my favorite kind."

You found his face in the dark—traced the strong line of his jaw, the slight stubble, the shape of his mouth. He let you, patient and still, until your thumb brushed his lower lip. "Can I ask you something?" you whispered.

"You can ask me anything."

"Why here? Why this house? Who are we waiting for?"

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful—measured, like he was choosing each word.

"They're... important. To us." A pause. "Sort of a manager, I guess. Organizes things. Missions."

"Missions?"

Another pause. Longer this time. You felt him shift, felt the weight of whatever he wasn't saying. "Tim's a little afraid of them," Brian admitted quietly. "Finds 'em creepy. Which is—" He huffed a soft laugh. "Well. Tim's not wrong. They're... a lot. But they're good to us. Good for us."

"And you wanted me to meet them?"

"Wanted?" He tilted his head. "Needed, maybe. If you're gonna be—" He stopped. Started over. "If you're gonna stick around, they need to know you. Approve of you."

"And if they don't approve?"

His thumb found your lips in the dark. Traced them gently. "Then we got a problem." His voice was soft. Serious. "But I don't think that'll happen."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I already approve." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your mouth. "And I got good instincts about people."

You kissed him before you could think about it.

He came at you halfway, slow and deliberate, as though each movement was calculated and considered. His fingers touched your hair, tilted your head back, and he kissed you as though time was standing still, as though you were the only thing that mattered in this small, dark room. He tasted of coffee, and something beneath that, something warm and sweet, like honey, like bourbon, something he’d been saving up for you alone.

When he pulled back, you were both breathing harder.

"Damn," he whispered. "Been wonderin' what that'd be like."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His lips found your neck, trailing slow kisses down to your collarbone. "You taste even better than I imagined."

Your hands found his shoulders—broad, solid under his hoodie. You pulled him closer, and he came willingly, pressing you back against the shelves. Jars clinked. Something fell. Neither of you cared.

"Brian," you breathed.

"Right here." His mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. His hands slid under your shirt, warm palms against bare skin, tracing up your spine, your sides, your ribs. "God, you feel good."

You grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it upward. He came along, lifting it off in one fluid motion, and suddenly his skin was pressed warmly and solidly against yours.

His lips lingered on yours. He kissed you with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, slow and deep and a little bit dirty. His tongue found yours, his teeth brushing your bottom lip. His hands moved over your body, tracing every inch of you as if memorizing you, your waist, your hips, your back.

You let out a small moan into his mouth, and he swallowed it, as if it was something precious.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you." His hips pressed forward, pinning you against the shelves. You felt him—hard and wanting—and rolled your own hips to meet him. He groaned low in his chest. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hands found your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lifted you—picked you up like you weighed nothing, settling you on a sturdy shelf behind you. Your legs wrapped around his waist. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, and he rocked against you slow and perfect.

"This okay?" he murmured against your mouth.

"God, yes."

"Yeah?" Another roll of his hips, careful and teasing. “If so, come really close and show me…”

You got close to him, and kissing him was like finding a new pace, deeper, softer, with sounds you never knew you could make, and it was all his.

He kissed you back, chuckling in your mouth, a sound of warmth and knowledge. The kind of sound that says he’s been waiting for this, thinking about this, since the moment you locked eyes in the gas station.

“That’s mine,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you again, but this time, a little slower. “Mine.” The word felt good and solid in the space of your chest. “Mine,” he whispered again, savoring the word on his tongue. “Say it.”

“Yours.”

“Good.” His hips moved, slow and easy, a rhythm that made your breath catch in your throat. “Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”

He kissed you as if you were a reward, a good girl, a good student, a good lover. His tongue danced in your mouth, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place, exactly where he wanted you. The shelf creaked in protest. “That’s right,” he whispered, nuzzling your mouth. “You’re mine. I’m going to take my time with you.”

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing for a moment at the pulse point, which was beating wildly. He breathed in the sensation of you, of your pulse pounding in your neck, and you felt him smile as you sucked in a breath in surprise.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “You like that?” 

“Brian—”

"I know." Another kiss, lower. "I know what you like. Been watchin' you all night. The way you bite your lip when you're nervous. The way you lean in when someone gets close. The way you looked at Tim when he came out of that closet all flustered." He chuckled, low and dark. "You got a type, don't you? Older guys who don't know what to do with themselves."

"That's not—"

"It's okay." His hand slid up your back, warm and sure. "I ain't jealous. Tim's my brother. But right now?" He pressed closer, let you feel exactly what you did to him. "Right now, you're with me. And I'm gonna make sure you remember it."

His mouth found yours again, hungrier now. His hands roamed your body like he was mapping territory—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. He kissed like he owned you, like he had every right to take you apart piece by piece.

And God, you let him.

"Brian," you breathed between kisses.

"Mm?"

"I want—"

"I know what you want." His voice was silk and smoke. "But we got time. Seven minutes, remember?" His teeth grazed your earlobe. "I'm gonna use every second."

His hips rolled again, slower now, teasing. You felt every inch of him through the layers between you, felt how much he wanted you, how hard he was trying not to rush.

"You're so good at this," you whispered.

"At what?"

"Making me wait."

He laughed—that low, pleased sound. "Baby, the waiting's the best part. Gets you all worked up, thinkin' about what's comin'. And when I finally give it to you?" He kissed your neck. "You're gonna fall apart so pretty."

Your hands found his shoulders, his back, the warm skin under his hoodie. You pulled at the fabric, needing more of him, and he helped you tug it off. His chest was warm against yours, solid and real, and the sound he made when your skin touched his was almost vulnerable.

"Shit," he breathed. "You feel even better than I imagined."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His lips touched yours again, but softer this time. "Been thinking about this since the gas station—the way you looked at me, the fact that you didn’t flinch."

"Why would I flinch?"

"'Cause I’m weird. Quiet. Watch too much." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Most people find it creepy."

"I don’t."

"I know." Another kiss, a little warmer. "That’s why you’re here." His hands went to your thighs, and he pulled you towards the edge of the shelf. You hooked your legs around his waist, and he groaned.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You’re gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hips found that rhythm again—slow, careful, perfect. You moved with him, matching him, and the sounds you made were swallowed by his mouth.

"Brian," you gasped.

"Right here, baby. I'm right here."

His hand slid under your shirt, warm palm against your stomach, tracing up to your chest. He was gentle—always so gentle—but there was fire underneath, waiting.

"You wanna—" he started.

"Yes."

"I didn't even ask yet."

"Whatever it is, yes."

He laughed against your mouth. “Shit, you're perfect."

The kiss deepened. The dark wrapped around you. The shelf creaked. Jars fell. Neither of you cared. 

His hand found your waistband, fingers tracing the edge. "This okay?"

"Yes. God, yes."

He kissed you again, and his hand slipped lower—

And then the knock came. Loud. Insistent. Toby's voice muffled through the door: "TIME! SEVEN MINUTES! GET OUT HERE!"

Brian froze. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged. His hand was still where it was, warm and promising.

"Shit," he whispered.

He didn't move. You didn't either.

"Brian." Toby's voice again, grinning. "I know you hear me."

Brian groaned—low, pained, hilarious. "He's gonna be insufferable about this."

"Probably."

Another knock. "I'm not leavin'! Tim's timing you!"

Tim's voice in the background: "I'm not timing anyone!"

"You are now!"

Brian laughed into your mouth—real, warm, human laughter, like he couldn’t help it, like he’d been surprised.

“We gotta go.”

“I know.”

He then suddenly kissed you again, soft and sweet, like a promise pressed to your lips. “When we get outta here,” he whispered, “we’re finishin’ this conversation. And I mean finishin’ it.”

“…Really?” You smirked a little.

He smiled against your lips. “Good.”

He helped you down from the shelf, hands on your waist when your legs shook. You found Brian's hoodie on the floor and handed it to him. He put it on, and you both tried to straighten out your clothing and run fingers through your hair, like you hadn’t just spent seven minutes making out and ruining each other.

“Ready?”

“No.”

He grinned that calm, knowing look and opened the door.

Light poured in. Toby stood there, grinning like the cat who got the canary, practically buzzing with excitement. Tim stood behind him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Kate stood back, looking amused, her dark eyes taking in every detail.

“Finally!” Toby exclaimed. “What took you so long?”

You and Brian just looked at each other. Freaky duo.

✑ 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 

The bottle twirled, lumbering across the floor like it had a life of its own. Rounds swam through my mind—Tim’s labored breathing when we came up, Brian’s sly smile, Kate’s pale cheeks. Now it was my turn to spin, the green glass drinking in the candlelight as it made a lazy turn.

Everyone’s eyes locked onto it. Tim tried not to look, I knew. Brian watched it with an intent stare. Kate retreated into herself, but still kept an eye on it. Toby was like a fly buzzing around him.

The bottle slowed, then stopped.

And it was pointed directly at Toby.

He lit up like you'd given him the world. "YES. Okay. Okay okay okay—" He grabbed the bottle, spun it for partner with way too much enthusiasm. It whirled, clinked, spun again, and finally came to rest.

Pointed at you.

Toby’s smile, however, had lost some of its sharp edges and had begun to slide into something else, something more vulnerable, maybe, in his dark brown eyes. It was as if you could feel it hanging there in the air. 

“You good with that?” he whispered, his voice just above a breath.

“Y-Yeah…” you stammered, your next breath a little tangled. Your heart was somersaulting, all kinds of complicated.

Brian already had the hourglass in his hand. “Seven minutes.” He handed it over to Toby with a look that said a number of things, all at once. “Behave, you two.”

“No promises.”

Tim made a face, Kate’s lips curled into a half-smile.

Toby took your hand, beginning to lead you towards the closet.

The instant you stepped into the closet, darkness enveloped you, complete and absolute. You stood there, blinking, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the new environment. Beside you, Toby seemed warm, alive, twitching a little as he stood still, breathing a little more rapidly than usual.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We're in the closet. We're together. In the dark. This is—" he paused. "Tk. This is fine. This is normal. This is—"

"Toby."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

He laughed, a little surprised. "Right. Breathing. I know how to do that." A pause. "Mostly."

You felt him move, felt his hand search for yours in the dark. When his fingers finally made contact with yours, they wrapped around them with a quiet, intense grasp, not a wild one, just a deep need to connect.

"You good?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Better now." His thumb made soft circles on your hand, a soothing motion that seemed to center him. "Better now that you're here."

The space between you stretched out, not awkwardly, just a pause that seemed a fraction of a second too long. It felt full, full of everything that had been unsaid, everything that had yet to be said.

You felt him turn, felt the warmth of him move closer. His breath touched your cheek.

"Can I—" He stopped, shifted, started again. "Okay. Can I try something?"

You nodded, knowing he couldn't see you. "Yeah."

His other hand touched your face in the dark, a gentle, almost reverent touch, as if you were something fragile. His fingers trailed across your cheek, paused at the corner of your mouth. They were rough, from careless habits, from nervous habits, yet they touched you with a gentleness that made something inside you twist.

You felt him lean in, his warm breath against your lips.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. A little bit clumsy because he was smiling too much to do it properly. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, and his head ticked once against yours—tk—but he didn't pull away. Didn't apologize. Just kissed you like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

His hand found your hair, his fingers wrapping through it, and he pulled back just far enough to say, “Been wantin’ to do that since the gas station.”

You laughed against his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kissed you again, this time quick and hard. “I saw you come in. Saw you looking at all of us. And you didn’t—” He ticked against your lips. “Tk. You didn’t pull back, not at me, not at Kate, not at any of it.”

“You’re not scary.”

He pulled back, and you could feel his shock, even in the dark. “I’m not?”

"No." You located his face, the shape of his jaw, the scar that you knew was there. "You're just Toby."

He stopped, still, for a long time. Then, softly, "Nobody's ever said that before."

"Said what?"

"That I'm just... anything. I'm always too much or not enough." There was a wobble in his voice, a small one. "But you just... you take me as I am."

And then, “Besides, you should really be a little scared of me, bade.”

You kissed him again, a little harder this time. When you finally broke apart, both of you caught your breath a little harder than usual.

"Hey," he said, a little more quietly. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything.”

He moved, settling into the space between the shelves. The jars made noises, quiet sounds all around you. They rattled, bumped each other. Something fell, broke, and no one noticed. There was lavender, dust, and something else, something older, wilder, like the forest had breathed in, had touched this place, and had not left.

“So, the person we’re waiting for?," he teased, batting at you with a lazy smile. "Tk. The one who lives here?"

"Yeah?"

"Tim and Brian call ’em the manager. Which is—" He let out a soft chuckle. "Which is funny, because they’re not really a manager. More like… an observer, I guess. Someone who watches. Keeps track."

"Keeps track of what?"

"Of us. Of stuff. Of—" He gestured into the dark, vague and casual. "Things that need doin’. Missions, Brian calls ’em. Jobs." You didn’t press for details about what kind of jobs. Something warned you not to. "But here’s the thing," Toby went on, his voice dropping a notch. "They’ve got a soft spot. For me and Kate especially."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know why. Maybe 'cause we're the broken ones. The ones who got found instead of just... showed up. But they're—" He paused, searching for words. "They're good to us. In their own weird way. And I think—" Another tick. "Tk. I think they're gonna like you."

"Why?"

"'Cause I like you." Simple. Direct. No sarcasm. "And I talk about you. A lot."

You smiled in the dark. "You talk about me?"

"Shut up." But he was grinning, you could hear it. "Brian's been makin' fun of me for it. Says I got a crush."

"Do you?"

He kissed you instead of answering.

This one was different—hungrier, more urgent. His hands found your waist, pulled you closer, and you stumbled back against the shelves. "Toby—"

"I got you." His mouth found your neck, kissing, nipping, making you gasp. "I got you. Just—I need—"

You knew what he needed. The same thing you needed. To be close. To be wanted. To be held like you mattered.

You pulled him closer, and he came willingly, pressing you back against the shelves. His body was warm against yours—lean but strong, that sleeper build hidden under all those layers. His hips pressed against you, and you both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—" He kissed you again. "You feel so good."

"So do you."

"Yeah?" Another kiss, sloppier now, desperate. "Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"You. Just you."

He made a sound—low and desperate and so honest it made your heart hurt. His hands slid under your shirt, warm palms against bare skin, tracing up your sides, your ribs, your chest.

"Been thinkin' about this," he mumbled against your mouth. "Since that first night. The way you looked at me. The way you didn't care about the—" He ticked. "Tk. The noises. The weird."

"I like your noises."

He pulled back. Even in the dark, you could feel his shock. "You do?"

"Yeah. They're you."

He kissed you again, and there were tears on his cheeks—you felt them, warm and wet against your skin. But he was smiling. You could feel that too.

"You're special," he whispered. "You know that?"

"So are you."

He laughed, a wet, real, almost holy sound, and then he yanked you close, spun you around, and suddenly you were slammed to the floor. The floor was cool and lumpy, made of shattered glass, dried herbs, God knows what, but Toby was hovering over you, warm and real, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

"Hi." he breathed.

"Hi." you returned.

He kissed you again, this time slower, more careful, like the world had just stopped for the two of you and no one else existed. His body was against yours, and you felt it all, the rapid beat of his heart, the soft ticks, the shiver that ran through him when he found you.

"Toby."

"Yeah?"

"I want—"

"I know." He kissed your neck. "I want it too."

He was moving against you, slow and teasing, and you gasped, and he swallowed the sound.

"Yeah?" He was looking at you, his eyes dark and hot and interested. "You like that?"

"God, yes."

"Good." Another roll, harder this time. "'Cause I've been wantin' to do this since—" He kissed you. "Since—" Another kiss. "Since forever."

You laughed against his mouth. "It's been few days."

"Forever." He grinned. "Same thing."

His hand slid lower, tracing down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. He was gentle—so gentle—but there was fire underneath. He kissed you again, and his hand found what it was looking for. The dark wrapped around you. The sand kept falling. And Toby held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

The knock came too soon.

"TIME!" Tim's voice, muffled through the door. "Seven minutes! Get out here!"

Toby froze above you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged. His hand was still where it was. "Shit," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"I don't wanna move."

"Me neither."

Another knock. "Toby! I know you hear me!"

He groaned—low, pained, hilarious. "Tim's gonna be so annoying about this."

"Probably."

"He's gonna make dad jokes for a week."

You laughed. Actually laughed, there on the floor of a strange closet, surrounded by broken jars and scattered herbs, with Toby on top of you. 

He grinned against your mouth. Then he kissed you one last time—soft, sweet, a promise. "We're finishin' this later. Okay? I don't care how long it takes."

"Okay."

He helped you up, steadying you when your knees wobbled. You found each other's clothes, straightened what could be straightened, ran fingers through hair. Toby picked a leaf out of your collar and grinned.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Noooo. I’m not.”

He laughed—that real laugh—and opened the door.

Light flooded in. Tim stood there with his arms crossed, trying to look stern and failing. Brian watched with quiet amusement. Kate's lips twitched.

"Finally!" Tim said. "What took you so long?"

Toby stepped out, calm as a cucumber. "Jars fell."

Tim stared at him. "Jars fell."

"Yeah." Toby ticked. "Tk. Lots of jars. Very fragile."

Behind him, the closet was absolutely destroyed. Jars everywhere. Herbs scattered. A shelf completely pulled down. Two bodies' worth of indentations on the floor.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. Brian actually laughed—a real laugh, low and warm. Kate's smile grew.

And Toby's hand found yours in the light. Squeezed once. Held on.

"So," he said quietly, just for you. "Later?"

"Later."

You and Toby just grinned at each other. Feral duo.

✑ 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓈-𝓂𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓈

The bottle spun slow and lazy across the floor, catching the flicker of candlelight as it wobbled past Brian's knee, past

Tim's outstretched leg, past Toby's bouncing feet. You'd lost count of how many rounds now—each one leaving you more breathless, more tangled up in these strange, beautiful people who'd somehow become the center of your world.

All eyes were on that bottle. Toby was grinning from ear to ear. Brian was steady as a rock. Tim was being busy, looking at his nails or something like that. Kate was being quiet and still, her dark-rimmed eyes fixed intently on that bottle.

It slowed down, spinning, and came to a stop.

And pointed at Kate.

She blinked once, slowly, as if considering what that bottle sign meant.

Toby shouted, “Kate! Kate! Kate! Yes! Go, Kate!”

Tim made a sound of annoyance, and Toby responded similarly.

Kate looked at you across the circle. Those dark eyes held yours for a long moment—searching, asking.

You nodded. She stood, extended a hand.

You took it. Her hand was cold, small in yours, yet it gripped with a stubborn intensity.

The closet door closed behind you. Instantly, darkness enveloped you, complete and total. You blinked, giving your eyes time to adjust to nothing. Kate, beside you, seemed a small, steady presence, still, watchful, her breathing tranquil, unhurried.

You didn’t let go of her hand. Neither did she.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The dark wrapped around you like a blanket, soft and heavy. Somewhere above, you heard the faint rustle of the house settling, the whisper of wind through branches.

Then you tugged her hand gently. Pulled her closer.

She came willingly. Her body warm against yours in the chill of the closet, her head tilting up toward you even though she couldn't see.

"Hi," you whispered.

A pause. Then, barely audible: "Hi."

Her free hand found your face in the darkness. Cold fingers traced the shape of your jaw, your cheek, the bridge of your nose. Gently. Curiously. As if she were committing you to memory.

"You're real," she whispered.

"So am I."

She made a small noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between. Something soft.

"I'm glad," she whispered.

"Glad I'm real?"

"Glad you're here." Her thumb traced the shape of your lower lip. "Glad you stayed."

You kissed her thumb without thinking. She froze. Then, softly, "Can I—"

You replied by leaning down and finding her mouth in the darkness. The kiss was gentle. Exploratory. Her lips were chilled at first, warming to yours as the seconds passed. She kissed like she was practicing—tentative, aware, paying attention to every small detail.

When you broke the kiss, she followed. Pursued your mouth. "More?" you asked.

She nodded against you. "Please."

You gave her more.

The second kiss was more passionate. Her hands rose to your chest, around your neck, pulling you closer. She made a small noise—surprise, pleasure—and you felt her smile against your lips.

"You're good at that," she whispered.

"At kissing?"

"At making me forget to be scared."

Your heart squeezed. You pulled her closer, wrapped your arms around her, holding her against you in the darkness."Never be scared of me," you whispered into her hair. "Okay? Never."

She nodded. Her face pressed into your chest. Her warm breath against your shirt.

For a moment, you simply stood there. With your arms around each other. Breathing in sync. The darkness enfolding you.

Then she moved, pulling away just enough to look up at you. Even in the darkness, you could sense her eyes on you.

"I want to tell you something," she whispered.

"Okay."

"The person we're waiting for. The one who lives here." She hesitated, collecting her thoughts. "They're... important. To all of us. But especially to me and Toby."

“Soo like a manager?"

A soft noise—almost a laugh. "Tim and Brian call them that. Observer, sometimes. Watcher." She paused. 

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Maybe they forgot it. Maybe they never had one." Her fingers drew patterns on your chest. Absent-minded and soothing. "They've been here a long time. Longer than any of us. They can't leave the forest."

"Can't?"

"Won't. Both." She shook her head slightly. "It's complicated. They're tied to this place. To the trees. To the—" She stopped. Searched for words. "To whatever lives here."

You didn’t ask what that meant. Something told you not to.

"But they have a soft spot," Kate went on. "For me, and Toby especially. The broken ones." She said this without any bitterness, just the facts. "They watch over us. Make sure we're safe. Give us a place to go when we need to hide."

"That’s like a family."

She didn’t speak again. Then, quietly, “Yeah. I guess that’s true.” Her hand touched your face again. Traced your cheek. Your lips.

“I like being near them," she whispered. "Even when we don’t talk. I can feel that they care. Feel it. Like warmth from far away.”

“That’s beautiful.”

She tilted up. Kissed you again—slower this time, more deliberate. Her lips parted against yours, and you felt her tongue trace softly, asking. You answered by deepening the kiss. Your hand slid into her hair—soft, slightly tangled—and she made a sound that went straight through you.

"Kate," you breathed.

"Yeah?"

"I really like you."

She didn’t say it aloud, though. She kissed you instead, and you could feel the smile in it. Her hands moved underneath your shirt, cold against your skin, and you inhaled sharply. She giggled at this, the sound soft and slightly startled.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” You pulled her in closer. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m weird.”

“So am I.”

She kissed you again, this time more uncertainly, and more certainly after that. Her hands explored you, slow at first and then more adventurous, over your ribs, across your chest, and around your back. It was almost as if she was trying to catalog you, memorize every inch of you.

So you did the same, your hands finding her waist, her hips, and the line of her back. She was so small under all those clothes, but there was something quiet and strong about her, something lean and quick and fully present.

“Can I—” She started to say.

“Anything.”

Her lips found your neck. Soft at first, then braver. She kissed her way down to your collarbone, and you felt her smile against your skin when you shivered.

"Good?" she whispered.

"So good."

She kept going. Lower. Her hands found the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, and her lips followed—warm against your stomach, your chest, your—

"Kate."

She paused. Looked up. Even in the dark, you felt her question. "I want this," you said. "I want you. But—"

"But?"

"I don't want to rush. Not with you."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she crawled back up, settled against you, rested her head on your chest.

"Okay," she whispered. "We can go slow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach. "I like slow. Slow means we have time."

"We have time."

The dark wrapped around you. Her breath evened out against your chest. Somewhere above, the sand kept falling. Neither of you cared.

The knock was too soon. 

"Time!" Toby's voice, muffled through the door. "Seven minutes! Get out here!"

Kate didn't move. Neither did you.

Another knock. "Kate! I know you can hear me!"

She sighed against your chest—a tiny sound of protest, soft and warm.

"We gotta go," you whispered.

"I know."

"I don't wanna."

She smiled against your skin. "Me neither."

But she moved away slowly, reluctantly. Her hand found your face in the dark, tracing your features one last time like she was committing them to memory. Then she kissed you—soft, sweet, a promise pressed against your lips. "Later?" she breathed.

"Later."

She helped you straighten your clothes, fingers gentle as she smoothed your collar. You picked a leaf from her hair, tucked a stray strand behind her ear. She leaned into your touch for just a second—and opened the door.

Light flooded in. Toby stood there with a massive grin, practically vibrating. Tim behind him looked relieved it wasn't his turn. Brian watched with quiet amusement.

"Finally!" Toby crowed. "What took you so long?"

Kate stepped out, calm as ever. “Nothing.”

Toby blinked. "Nothing?"

“Yeah we just talked.”

Toby squinted past her at the closet—perfectly neat, not a thing disturbed. “You guys kiss, didn’t you?”

Kate shrugged. “And?”

Brian actually laughed—low and warm. Tim hid a smile behind his hand. Toby looked between you both, suspicious but absolutely delighted. And Kate's hand found yours in the light. Squeezed once. Held on.

You and Kate both tilted your heads. Quiet duo.

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓀 (𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒸)

You kept your distance from the circle, and let the game continue without you.

The bottle landed again on your lap, what felt like the tenth time, and you shook your head again. “I’m good. I’d rather just watch for a while.”

Tim readily agreed, no questions, no pressure. Brian’s eyes had a spark of understanding. Toby pouted for exactly three seconds, but Kate’s squeeze of his hand made him perk up again. Kate gave you a small, understanding smile.

They respected your boundaries. They did not pry. They did not pressure. It was all so strange, really, how easily they gave you space. As if they knew, perhaps better than anyone, the cost of staying present.

You saw Tim and Brian step up, serious and quiet, and leave with the same world, just a little more at peace within themselves. Then it was Toby and Kate’s turn, quiet as a whisper, quieting Toby’s own ticking away. The hourglass continued to tilt, spilling its sand as though time itself did not care what we were doing.

You leaned back against the wall, warm and drowsy, candlelight casting quick and aimless shadows on the room, which felt strange in all ways. There was a tree trunk nearby, old and wise, watching us. The plants hung motionless, heavy.

At last, you fell asleep.

You awoke to a stillness that felt almost palpable, like water pressed against your ears. Everything seemed complete, absolute. The candles burned, yet the room seemed empty, eerily so. The circle seemed empty, devoid of Tim, Brian, Toby, Kate. Simply the burning flame, the heavy, dark stillness pressing close about the house.

“Hello?” Your voice seemed small, lost within the stillness.

No answer.

You moved, your heart rate accelerating with a quicker tempo. The main room, once so familiar, now seemed unfamiliar, wrong. The closet door hung slightly ajar, an invitation to trouble that you knew you shouldn’t answer.

Every instinct was telling you to keep it shut, to call out again, to rally the others.

But your feet kept moving, stubbornly forward.

The door groaned as you nudged it open.

Inside, darkness. Thick, heavy. Not the closet you’d spent seven minutes in earlier; this felt deeper, older, as if the space had grown while you weren’t looking.

You stepped over the threshold.

The door slid shut behind you, quiet as a secret.

You turned, and the room disappeared into utter black. No line of light, no hint of the frame, nothing. Darkness pressed against you, heavy as a hand on your eyes. It felt alive—hungry, waiting.

You could not see your own hand in front of your face. The shelves, the floor, the walls—gone. Just an endless, swallowing void.

Then, almost in slow breath, something began to glow.

A pale purple, shimmering and soft. It didn’t light the space so much as stain it, a stain that seeped through like ink thinning in water. It came from ahead of you, nearby.

Two eyes opened in the dark. They didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all except to watch—ancient, patient, with pure black pupils that swallowed light rather than reflecting it. A halo of purple glimmered around them, making them seem to drift, detached, within the void.

You could not move, could not breathe, could do nothing but fix your gaze back.

And then, from the shadows, a shape began to emerge.

It started small—a face emerging from shadow. Dark, pale brown, and sharp to the touch, beautiful in a way that made your skin prickle. Above each eye, three dark circles, like permanent marks of constant observation. One swirling mark was positioned centrally on the forehead, just above the nose, with designs that appeared to shift when you looked directly at them.

From her dark, curly hair, two long things extended—feathery, delicate, twitching slightly as if sensing the air. Antennae. They curved backward, catching the faint purple glow and making it shimmer.

And behind her—behind everything—the wings.

Massive, iridescent, they unfurled from her frame like a revelation: purple, black, with swirl patterns on the lower edges that seemed to pulse, breathe, drift. They hung heavy on her shoulders, a living cloak that trailed on the floor as she moved. Every step caused the patterns to quiver, smoke curling in slow motion.

She was small. A little shorter than you, even. Compact. Almost delicate. And yet, she filled the room. Filled all the corners of the space around you.

Her face came into view in full, the eyes standing out: solid black, without any whites, without any pupils, but with an unending darkness surrounded by a purple light. They looked at you with an intensity that was almost surgically precise, as if she could sift through all the thoughts, all the fears, all the desires, and file them away in a folder.

Her mouth opened slowly. A soft purple light appeared there, coloring her breath, her teeth, her tongue.

“You're awake.”

Her voice was soft, almost melodic, with a touch of sweetness. But there was something underneath, a shiver, like it passed through water and static to get to you. Like it wasn’t really hers, just borrowed.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t form words. You stood there, frozen, as she moved closer.

The wings struggled, whistled. The antennae twitched, selecting you.

“I've been watching you.” A pause. Her eyes never left yours, dark, intent. “Since the gas station. Since before.”

"Watching... me?"

"Mm." The sound was almost a hum. Almost a purr. Content. Pleased. "Interesting. Very interesting. That's why they brought you here."

"The—" You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. "The others? They brought me to—"

"To me." She tilted her head. Those eyes. Always those eyes. "This is my home. My forest. My house."

You looked around at the dark, at the space that shouldn't exist, at the impossible wings that filled it. 

"This is... your house?"

"My home." She said it simply. Like it was obvious. Like the concept of home for something like her was so far beyond human understanding that she was simplifying for your benefit. "They stay here sometimes. When they need shelter. When they need to hide." A pause. "When I ask them to bring me interesting things."

"Things?"

"People." Her glow brightened slightly. Those antennae twitched again. "Specimens. Guests." A soft sound—maybe a laugh, maybe something else entirely. "You."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "I'm—I'm not—"

"You are." She stepped closer still. Close enough that you could see every detail—the impossible black of her eyes, the patterns on her skin, the way her pupils seemed to shift, to multiply, to become something other than human when you looked too long. 

"Th-they're my friends."

“Friends.” She savored it, rolled it around her tongue like it was an unknown thing. A small smile played on her lips—and it was perhaps the most unsettling thing she had done so far, because it was almost... almost like it was real. Almost... almost like it was warm. “Yes. They think so too. That’s why they brought you.”

“For you to… what?”

“Evaluate.” Her glow pulsed with emphasis. “Document. Decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you should stay....” She took another step closer. Her face was almost touching yours. That purple glow was floating in space, suspended between you. “If you… fascinate me. If you last.”

You should run. You should scream. You should do something, anything, instead of standing there, frozen, watching those eyes bore into you like you were a specimen in a jar under a microscope.

But you couldn’t.

And somehow—impossibly—you didn't want to.

Her breath curled close, warm and sweet, with a faint purple light, like pollen or spores, that would settle deep within your lungs. It touched your arms, your chest, your throat. Not choking, not trapping. Just there. Just holding. Filling you with a sense of weight and lightness.

“I’m glad they brought you,” she whispered, her voice low and husky, intimate, like a secret shared in the dark. “I’ve been watching you for so long. Wondering. Waiting.”

Her hand rose, small, with fingers streaked with ink-dark patterns that seemed to shift with her movements. “You’re even more interesting up close.”

"Please," you breathed. Your voice sounded distant. Fuzzy. "I don't understand—"

"Aww." Her thumb traced your lower lip. Tone giving gentle, possessive. "You don't need to understand. Not yet. Not now." Those black eyes held yours, and you felt yourself falling into them. 

"Stay still. This will make sense soon."

The words settled into you, just sank deep into your chest, your mind, your bones. You couldn't have moved if you wanted to. Couldn't have fought if your life depended on it. The purple glow in her breath had filled you, coated you, made you pliable and soft and willing.

She leaned closer. Her lips parted. That purple glow brightened, staining her mouth, her teeth, her tongue with luminous light.

And then she kissed you.

Deep and easy, the kiss went—warm, soft, and sure. Her mouth radiated heat, and it spilled into yours, honeyed and whispered, like smoke or something alive. It filled you up, filled your lungs and throat and brain. Not choking, just warmth. Like ink in water. Like light in fog. Like something digging in.

You tasted her. Sweet and old and a little strange. She tasted like the forest after rain, like the space between heartbeats, like falling asleep in a warm room after the longest day.

Your hands came up—to push, to protest, to do something. They pressed against her shoulders, her chest, the soft fabric of whatever she wore. But she was warm. So warm. And her wings curled forward, enclosing you both in darkness and that soft purple light, and your hands... softened. Still there. Still pressing. But not pushing anymore.

Just holding.

She felt it. You knew she felt it. The corner of her mouth curved against yours, and the kiss deepened.

Her tongue traced your lips. The glow intensified. You felt it behind your eyes, in your fingertips, in the space where thought used to live. It was dissolving you. Rebuilding you. Making you hers.

You tried to remember why that should scare you.

You couldn't.

Her hand slid into your hair, gentle and possessive. Her other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you went willingly—eagerly—pressing against her small frame like she was the only solid thing in a dissolving world.

Her wings enclosed you fully now. Complete darkness. Complete warmth. Just her lips on yours and that glow filling every part of you.

"Shh," she whispered against your mouth. Her voice was everywhere. Inside you. Around you. "Shh. I've got you."

I've been watching you.

Since the gas station. Since before.

The thoughts blurred. Melted. Became something else.

You're mine now. My interesting thing. My specimen. My—

The thought stalled in its tracks. Or maybe you just quit being able to follow it. Your lips still touched theirs—soft, purposeful, unhurried. The light had enveloped you fully now—encompassed your lungs, your blood, your thoughts. You felt yourself drifting, falling, dissolving into something thick and cozy and endless.

The thought went away. So did you.

You opened your eyes to candlelight and worried faces peering down at you. Toby bent in, his dark brown eyes wide with excitement. “They’re awake! They’re awake!”

Tim’s figure materialized next to Toby, his face weary and apprehensive. “Hey, you with us?” 

You blinked. You were on the floor in the main room, and you were on something comfortable—maybe a blanket. Kate knelt next to you, her hand squeezing yours.

“Wha—” Your voice was rough, distant. “Wha—happened?”

“You passed out,” Brian said quietly, a little distance away, examining you with his intent, steady gaze. “Found you on the closet floor. You were just... asleep.”

"The closet?" You tried to remember. There was something—someone—a glow—a kiss—?

"She was there." The words came out before you could stop them. "The observer. The one who lives here. She was in the closet."

Everyone went still from your words alone, Tim and Brian shared a glance. Toby’s tics are on arrested, as if the world had been paused. Kate’s grip on my hand increased.

"You saw her?" Tim asked quietly.

"She—" You swallowed. Your mouth was sweet. Unusual. "She kissed me. She said she was glad you brought me here. She said she had been watching."

Another long silence. Then Toby expressed curved, just slight. Softly. Astonished. Truly. "Wait... doesn't that mean she likes you. Like she actually liked you."

"Liked me?" Your words was hollow. Distant. From your own voice.

“Well… she doesn't kiss just anyone," Kate said, her dark eyes filled with a soft, prideful light. "That means you're in."

"In what?"

"In." Brian’s voice was gentle. Careful. As if he were explaining something simple to a child, clearly something that you ain't. "With us. With her. With all of it."

You stared at them. At their calm faces. At their easy acceptance. At the way they all seemed to understand something you absolutely did not. Something was cleary wrong, very, very wrong.

"She said it would make sense," you murmured. "When I woke up."

"And?" Tim asked. Those tired eyes watching you like he was waiting for you to finally get it.

You thought about it. Thought about black eyes and ink-stained fingers and a kiss that felt like falling into somewhere safe. Thought about the glow still warm in your chest. Thought about how you couldn't quite remember why you'd been scared.

But you were scared now.

The fog in your mind started to clear—just a little, just enough. The sweet taste in your mouth turned sour. The warmth in your chest felt wrong. Invaded. 

"What the fuck," you said.

Everyone blinked. "What?"

"What the fuck." You pushed yourself up, swaying. Kate's hand fell away. Toby's grin faltered. "What the fuck is going on?"

Tim held up his hands. "Hey, hey—easy. You just woke up. You're disoriented—"

"No." The word came out sharper than you intended. "No, I'm not. I'm confused and I'm scared and I just—" You stopped. Swallowed. The taste wouldn't go away. "That thing in the closet. That wasn't human."

Again, more silence.

"She's not," Brian said quietly. "We know."

"You know?" Your voice cracked. "You knew there was some—some creature in there and you just—you just let me—"

"She wouldn't hurt you." Toby's voice was soft, urgent. "She wouldn't. Not if she kissed you. That means she likes you—"

"I don't care what it means!" You were on your feet now, stumbling back, putting distance between yourself and all of them. "I don't care what any of this means! I came here because I thought—I thought you were my friends—"

"We are." Kate stood slowly, hands raised, like she was approaching a frightened animal. "We are your friends. That's why we brought you here. That's why she wanted to meet you—"

"She?" You laughed—hysterical, broken. "She has a name? Of course she has a name. Of course this is all—" You pressed your hands to your head. The glow was still there. Still warm. Still wrong. "I can still feel her. In my head. In my chest. She did something to me—"

"She kissed you, nothing more.” Tim's voice was steady. Grounding. "That's all. She kissed you."

"That's not all and you know it."

No one disagreed with you. More silence built, a long, heavy pause, the candles flickering, your heart pounding. And then, softly, from the darkness near the closet...

"Such a fascinating display."

You froze. Everyone froze from the sudden soften of a tone.

It's like the shadows shifted. Curled.

Became something more as she stepped out of the dark like she'd always been there. Like she owned it. Like she was it. Those same black eyes you saw in the closet. Those large, beautiful wings folded against her back. That small, knowing smile. "You're afraid," she observed. Her head tilted. Those antennae twitched. "Good. Fear is... clarifying. It shows me what's underneath."

“Stay back.” You said it, the words trembling out, “Stay the fuck back.”

She didn’t, of course, she didn’t, but came closer, slowly, purposefully, the wings dragging along the floor.

“You’re upset,” she said, not unkindly, but almost clinically, almost cataloging, “you’re upset, you’re angry, you’re scared, you’re violated, you’re confused, the kiss—” Her mouth curved, a small, wise, merciful, mischievous curve, “the kiss was a gift, but you don’t understand that yet.”

"A gift?"

"Acceptance. Interest." Another step. "You are the first in a very long time who has made me want to observe closer."

"I didn't ask for this."

"No." Those black eyes held yours. "But you will thank me for it. In time." Her breath curled toward you—that same purple glow, that same sweet weight. You tried to back away, but your body wouldn't move. Wouldn't listen.

"Stop," you whispered. "Please—"

"Shh." She was close now. Too close. Her hand rose, those ink-stained fingers tracing your cheek. "This is hard. I know. But fighting it will only make it worse."

"Please—"

“Rest now.” Her voice curled around you like smoke, like silk, like something that already claimed you as theirs. “When you wake again, you’ll understand. You’ll see.” Her lips brushed your forehead, giving soft, almost kind.

Then the world softened once more, and you drifted away. The last sound you heard, before you were consumed by darkness, was her voice—soft, pleased, possessive:

"I'm going to enjoy documenting you, human."

♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ