WolfDraw

You caught it in a hallway. Just a passing glance, a flicker of Toby's eyes toward you before he looked away. And that twitch, that almost-smile, settled into your bones like it belonged there. You didn’t smile back. You were too busy falling in love.

He looked tired. He always did. Restless hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, head low, a jittery edge in every step he took like his body was a cracked circuit. His movements were crooked. Unstable. Beautiful.

He was perfect.

You started following him. Not closely enough to be obvious—just enough to learn his patterns. How he’d disappear into the woods behind the mansion, dragging his axes behind him like a dog on a leash. How he’d sit near the creek and smoke until his hands stopped shaking. How sometimes he’d scream—ugly, broken, guttural, ragged things—like he was trying to rip something out of his own throat.

You never got scared. If anything, it made you ache for him. That kind of pain—it needed to be held. It needed to be cradled and worshipped, you thought.

You told yourself you weren’t being weird. It’s not like you were doing anything wrong. You were just watching. Learning. He was interesting. He was lonely. You could fix that.

You didn’t approach him. Not yet. He was skittish, like a stray, and you couldn’t risk scaring him off. No, if you wanted this to work, you had to play it right. You had to give him reasons to trust you.

To love you.

So you started small. A lighter on the step outside his room—one of those black Zippos with a flame etched on the front. You heard him mention in passing, voice low and fraying at the edges, how his last one got busted. You stole it from a gas station half a mile out.

Then the candy—peanut butter taffy, sticky and awful, the kind only freak kids liked. You knew because he said it once, muttered under his breath after a mission debrief that it used to be his favorite. It was old and half-melted when you left it near his room, but it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the perfume. Your perfume. Just a little spritz on every gift, every token of love. You wanted him to know. You wanted his nose full of you.

He tried to ignore it. You could feel him trying. But that didn’t stop him from pocketing the things. From taking the candy. From unwrapping the gum and chewing it like it didn’t come wrapped in the scent of your obsession. Like he doesn’t know it’s you.

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows. You’re not subtle.

You leave everything reeking of your perfume—heady, sweet, clinging like oil to his skin when he brushes against whatever you’ve touched. His pillow, one night. You only got a second in his room when no one was looking, when he wasn't around, but it was enough. You didn’t take anything. You didn’t leave anything.

But you couldn't help yourself. You just breathed the air he breathed, smelled him on his messy sheets, and your hand flew between your legs like it had a mind of its own. It was quick, but you swore that it was the best orgasm you've ever had.

You start writing notes next. Tiny, cryptic things. Folded tight and buried under the offerings.

“i like how you laugh when no one else is around.”

“i saw you last night. you looked tired. you should rest more.”

“you deserve good things, toby. i want to give them to you.”

You think you’re being sweet. Gentle. Loving.

He thinks you’re watching him.

Because you are.

He becomes... different. Quieter than usual. He walks faster when you’re in the same hallway. He twitches more violently when you’re near. There’s a nervousness in his eyes—like a dog expecting the boot. You think maybe he’s just shy. You think it’s cute.

So you don’t stop. You up the ante.

You start leaving things only someone close would know. His favorite pair of gloves—stitched back together where they ripped—left on his bed. A burned CD with a playlist of every song he’s ever lingered on too long in the common room. A pack of cigarettes, unfiltered, left on the ledge of his bedroom window... one of them already lit, smoke curling up like a kiss meant for his mouth.

He snaps one day. Not at you—yet.

Just in general. A loud “FUCK OFF—stop—stop giving me this shit!” that echoes through the hallway. You hear it through the wall and it makes you freeze. Then smile.

Because if he’s this upset... it means it’s getting to him.

You’re in his head now.

Right where you belong.

And then—

Tim.

Fucking Tim, of all people.

You hear him talking to Toby one night in the kitchen. Voice low and amused.

“She’s obsessed with you, dude. You should chill out, give her some attention. Get some bitches on your dick."

You hear Toby stutter, curse, throw something into the sink, voice hushed and paranoid, like he was expecting you to be close and listening. Fair.

“I d-don’t—sh-she’s f-freakin’ me out, man—fuck—sh-she’s everywhere!"

“Yeah, and? It’s not like she’s doing anything dangerous. Could be worse. Just let her crush burn out. Give her a cigarette or something. Jesus.”

And somehow—somehow—that works.

Because the next day, you’re out back, pretending to mind your business, and he shows up. Twitching, eyes flicking everywhere but your face, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

He lights one, doesn’t say a word.

Then holds it out to you.

You take it. You almost fucking cry.

Your lips touch the filter where his lips touched, so careful not to mess his bite mark on the filter. The taste of him, of nicotine and ash and heat, burns into your lungs like incense.

You tell yourself it means something.

And God help him—he lets you sit beside him that day. Not close. Not touching. But enough.

You retreat back to your room and shake through your whole body like you’ve been baptized. You think about it for hours. Days. Replay it. Rewatch it in your head until it’s burned behind your eyes.

And then, you leave something else. Something too personal. Too real. Something that proves how deeply you know him—how intimately.

You thought it was your best idea yet.

You’d waited for the perfect moment—when the mansion was dead quiet, everyone gone or distracted. You crept into his room like a ghost that belonged there. Your hands didn’t even shake. You knew exactly where he kept it—tucked inside the false bottom of a drawer, in an envelope that had been folded so many times it was nearly soft.

A photograph.

Old, bent at the corners. Him—before everything. Sitting at some cracked skatepark bench, legs sprawled, hoodie too big, grin just barely visible. His cheek barely chewed through at that point. No blood. No weight under his eyes, not as heavy as it was now anyway. It was the kind of photo you’d press to your lips at night if it were yours. The kind of photo you’d keep safe under your pillow, like a secret that made your chest hurt to remember.

But it wasn’t yours.

It was his.

And you ruined it.

You glued your own picture—cut out carefully, a selfie you once thought he might like—on top of it. Not fully covering him, of course. Just enough that you were beside him now, nestled into the same moment. Like you belonged there.

On the back, you wrote:

“we’ve always been meant to be together. you just didn’t know it yet.”

You sprayed it with your perfume. Folded it tight. Left it sitting on the windowsill next to his cigarettes like it was just another gift.

You waited.

You waited and waited.

And when it happened—when he finally came back and found it—you felt it like a siren going off in your blood.

The sound was unreal.

Glass breaking. Something crashing. Then heavy, pounding footsteps in the hall. You barely had time to turn before he was there, eyes wild, shoulders trembling with every breath.

“Toby—” you started, smiling, voice soft like you could soothe him.

But his scream cut through you.

“W-What the FUCK is wrong with y-you?!”

Your smile faltered.

He was in front of you in two strides, fists clenched like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His whole body was twitching, spasming, like his rage was trying to crawl out of his skin.

“Th-this is— Y-you're fucking s-sick—fuckin’ moron! You t-took that—you TOOK that photo, th-that wasn’t yours—fuck!”

“I—I thought it would be sweet—”

“Sweet?!” he barked, spit flying. His laugh was humorless. Ferocious. Neck jerking to the side so hard it cracked.

“You don’t k-know me, you d-don’t know shit!” His eyes were glassy, his voice rising with every word. “Y-You sneak into my r-room, you—you f-follow me, l-leave this perfumed trash—wh-what the fuck is wrong with you, huh?!”

Your mouth moved but nothing came out.

“You t-took the one fucking thing I had l-left,” he seethed, voice breaking. “Y-You ruined it. Just like everything e-else. You j-j-just keep fucking—FUCKING TAKING—”

He shoved the photo against your chest so hard it crumpled. “I h-hate you. I h-hate that you m-made me start looking forward to this shit, th-thinking m-maybe it’d stop, maybe you’d fuck off—but no. No, you j-just keep digging. You just keep—fucking—taking.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “But I love you—”

“LOVE?!”

His voice cracked—high, raw. Something inside him split. You saw it happen in real time—the exact second the anger flipped into something crueler, uglier, more dangerous.

He stepped closer.

You stepped back, but he caught you by the hair—fingers twisted so tight at your scalp that your knees almost gave out. Your breath hitched in a strangled gasp, heart slamming.

“Y-You want me th-that—THAT f-fucking badly??” he spat, face inches from yours, eyes bloodshot and manic.

His other hand moved fast—unbuckling his belt with shaky, furious fingers, yanking the waistband down enough to bare himself to the cold air between you.

“H-Have it, b-bitch.” His voice was venom. “F-Fucking suck it.”

He shoved you down hard, your knees hitting the floor, the pain shooting up your legs like an electric jolt.

You looked up at him, dizzy from the violence of it. From the rage. From the realization that this was finally real.

This was love.

It was twisted. Broken. Boiling. But it was his. It was his.

Your scalp screamed under his grip, but your mouth dropped open the second his hand clamped around your jaw. There wasn’t time to breathe, wasn’t time to beg—not that you would’ve dared. Not when he was finally touching you like this. Not when he was finally looking at you like this.

Half-hard, his cock slapped against your lips as he forced his way past them, teeth scraping his skin before your jaw stretched wide. His hips stuttered forward, shallow at first, but fast—angry—as if your mouth had insulted him.

“Th-this wh-what you wanted? Huh?” he snarled through his teeth, twitch rolling through his shoulders, “F-Fucking whore—s-so goddamn desperate you had to steal from me—h-had to crawl into my skin like a fucking parasite—”

He thrust deeper, and you gagged around him, the back of your throat constricting tight as spit poured down your chin. He didn’t let up. Didn’t slow. His hand stayed in your hair, twisting harder until your eyes watered.

“You l-like this?” he hissed, hips snapping forward. “Y-You like me like this?”

You couldn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Not when your lips were suctioned tight around the base of his cock, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth, throat spasming around him as he fucked deeper, rougher, like he could pound the sickness out of you through sheer force.

He groaned—sharp, guttural—and yanked you off by the hair so hard your neck cracked, a thick rope of spit trailing from your lips to the head of his cock.

You gasped, lungs burning, tongue out as you panted like a dog at his feet. Your nails dug so deeply into his hip bones that his skin scraped off under them like dirt, not that he could feel it anyway.

“F-Fuckin’ pathetic,” he spat, literally—right in your face, his saliva mixing with yours, dripping down to your chest. “L-Look at yourself, b-bitch. You're f-fucking d-disgusting."

Your eyes—glossy, blown wide—stared up at him like he was God.

He hated it. He fucking hated how it made his dick throb.

“You’re sick,” he muttered. “Y-You need help.”

You only opened your mouth wider.

“F-Fucking freak—”

He shoved himself back in without warning. You choked, sputtered, spit flying as he drove himself deep into your throat again. His thighs trembled against your face. His rhythm faltered, just for a second, hips jerking like his body betrayed him.

You felt it—felt the way his cock twitched, the way his knees buckled when your throat tightened just right.

And you latched on harder.

Your lips sealed, suctioned, like you could pull his soul out through his cock. You moaned around him with every loud, obnoxious slurp, vibrations rippling up his spine. He growled, a raw, broken animal sound that rumbled from his chest.

“St-Stop—s-stop enjoying this, fuck,” he snapped, voice cracking, panicked almost.

But it only made you suck harder.

It only made you hungrier.

And that only made him meaner.

He slammed his cock into your throat again, until your nose was crushed into his pelvis and his balls hit your chin. Until you could barely breathe.

“Y-You’re n-not getting sh-shit else from me,” he hissed. “Y-You’re not special. You’re n-not loved. You’re just a hole.”

You whimpered around him, ashamed and deliriously turned on. Your cheeks were burning, soaked in spit and tears and humiliation. But your hands stayed behind your back, obedient, like you were grateful just to be on your knees for him.

He twitched again.

God, you tasted him.

Because no matter how hard he hated you, his body wanted you. And that was enough.

You could feel his cock throb in your mouth—so fucking close. So fucking perfect. You were dizzy with it, soaked in spit, eyes rolling, heart pounding, waiting, so fucking eager to swallow every drop of his cum—

—and then he ripped himself out of you.

You gasped, air slicing through your raw throat, but he didn’t even give you a second. His hand cracked across your face with a wet smack, jerking your head sideways, and the sting lit your skin up like fire.

“F-Fuckin’ look at you,” Toby growled, yanking your head back again, spit glistening on your chin, his cock still wet and twitching just inches from your face. “Y-You’re disgusting. A d-deranged, fucked-up psycho s-stalker bitch. You think this means anything? You think this—this—” he slapped your other cheek, open-palmed, sharp enough to make spit fly from your mouth, “is love?”

You blinked up at him, smears of red in the shape of his hands on your cheeks, a hot trail of spit connecting your lip to your chin, breath hiccuping like a kicked dog. And still—you smiled.

He fucking despised the face that looked back at him, your eyes blown out, glassy and still obsessed. He spat at you again, hard, mean, disgusted, right between them.

“You think this is love? You th-think you know me? You d-don’t know SHIT. You'll NEVER b-be n-nothin' more than a f-fuckin' cumrag. NEVER. Y-You deserve to be p-put down like a f-fucking rabid animal.”

You didn’t even flinch. You could barely even hear the filth thrown your way.

You just licked your lips—slowly. Deliberately. Dry tongue swiping up the spit, the precum, everything he'd left behind like it was holy. Like it was proof he touched you.

Toby froze, tics seizing out of pure shock, chest heaving, eyes wide with something like hate and horror and disbelief all at once.

You were wrecked—utterly—mascara melting in grey streaks down your clammy cheeks, nose red and swollen, hair stuck to your wet mouth, knees bleeding underneath you. And you still looked at him like he hung the fucking stars.

Something inside him snapped all over again.

He lunged—grabbed your shoulder and threw you down, face-first into the floor. You yelped, arms scrambling to catch yourself, the skin on your knees scraped off by the floorboards, but he didn’t wait. Didn’t ask.

“Y-You want to be used so bad?” he growled, yanking your pants down and baring you to the air, “F-Fine. I’ll ruin you, you f-fucking c-cunt."

His belt hit the floor. He spat again, right between your shoulder blades, thick and hateful.

“B-Bet this is what y-you wanted all along. T-T-Take it, freak.”

He knelt behind you, one hand braced on your lower back, the other lining himself up, skipping your pussy without as much as grazing it with the tip—and shoved inside past the tight muscle rim of your ass, merciless.

Your eyes flew wide as white-hot pain shot up your spine. Your scream cracked in your throat as his cock split you in two, raw and soaked in spit but no less brutal.

You arched into it.

Toby growled something feral and shoved deeper. You were clenching so tight, your muscles spasming, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t care.

“Y-You feel that?” he panted, slamming into you, each thrust brutal, punishing. “Th-this isn’t yours. Y-You don’t own me. T-this dick will never b-be fucking yours."

Your face was pressed into the floor, spit pooled beneath your cheek, mouth open in a dazed, wet moan as he fucked you like garbage—like nothing, cock ramming in your ass with single-minded violence. Your body jolted with every slam of his hips, ass meat rippling like angry tidal waves, every punishing thrust shoving his cock deeper, harder, until it felt like your brain would melt out of your ears. You stayed silent.

Silent and fucking grateful.

He slapped your ass hard enough to leave a mark.

“Stupid f-fucking bimbo—l-living in some wet d-dream where you matter. You don’t. Y-You’re just a—f-fuckin’ hole.”

Another slap—across your back this time.

You whimpered, and your fingers dug into the floorboards like you could crawl inside them, but you didn’t stop him. You wouldn’t. This was your heaven.

“C-Crying now?” he sneered, voice cracking. “Wh-What happened to the whore who l-liked sucking dick so much, huh? G-Got what you wanted, and now you c-can’t even take it?”

He spit again—right on the back of your head.

And you came, so hard that you could see stars bursting behind your eyes.

No warning. No build. Just humiliation, pain, and his voice melting your brain into static.

Toby didn’t even notice. Too lost in his rage, too gone to feel anything but fire and shame and loathing at how good you felt around him.

He didn’t slow.

Didn’t give a single fuck about the sobs clawing out of your throat, the raw, ugly sounds echoing in the room like music to his rage.

“F-Fuckin’ disgusting whore,” he snarled, his breath ragged, lip curling like the sight of you made him sick. “B-Betting you like this shit. L-Like being split open like a f-fuckin’ animal.”

You nodded.

God help you—you nodded.

He barked a laugh. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief. Pure, furious, exhausted disbelief.

He yanked you back by the hair again, your bloody knees slipping out from under you as he pulled you upright against him. Your arms hung limp, your ass and thighs flushed red from the impact, and his cock popped free from your ass with a slick, humiliating noise.

You didn’t even have time to catch your breath before he shoved you down again, spine hitting the floor with a painful thud.

"F-Fuckin' look at me."

You blinked up through tears, your lashes clumped, black streaks down your cheeks like a doll left out in the rain.

"You l-like this? Th-That I’m using you like a fleshlight? You g-get off on being a d-dumpster, huh?"

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he slapped your face again, then straddled your chest, cock dripping with spit and slick, flushed and angry red.

"Open."

Your jaw trembled, but you obeyed, and he shoved it in.

Ass straight to mouth. Thick and filthy. The taste was obscene.

You gagged instantly, throat constricting around him—but he held your head in place with both hands now, his fingers bruising your cheeks, palms cradling you like a goddamn trophy as he fucked your throat, teeth gritted, low snarls bubbling out of his chest.

"F-Fuck you— I'll f-fucking kill you, I'll— I fuck-fucking HATE you—"

Your eyes rolled. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t feel anything but him.

And then—he tensed. Not a warning. Not a pause.

Just a growl, a violent yank of your hair, and a final, punishing thrust so deep it made your vision go white.

He ripped out of your throat with a wet pop—and came.

Everywhere.

Hot spurts splashed across your cheek, your mouth, your eyelids, your lashes. He pumped another streak into your hair, and one more shot down over your chin, his spit joining the mess as he leaned in close to snarl.

"Y-You can choke on that. It's all you're ever f-fuckin’ getting from m-me."

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just laid there. Face covered in cum, spit, tears. Mouth open, tongue out, lips twitching as you tried to taste every drop.

Toby stood there for a second, staring, just enough to squeeze the leftover drool and slick and cum from his softening cock, and flick it at your face.

And you smiled. Tired. Broken. Elated.

His stomach turned.

“You’re fucked in the h-head,” he said, barely a whisper now. “S-So fucked it’s pathetic.”

He turned without another word, without another glance. He buckled his belt with trembling hands, eyes locked anywhere but your wrecked face, and walked out, door slamming behind him so violently that the doorknob rattled and fell to the floor with a loud clang.

Toby left you there—raw, soaked, ruined, smiling through the mess like you’d just lived a dream.